by Matt James
Jill and Dad talk amongst themselves for a few, while I stare off into the scenery. Closing my eyes, I take them off of the sloping drive for thirty seconds. It’s long enough not to notice the horde of people marching their way towards us. It reminds me of the mob of hunters going after Frankenstein’s monster, or even the ones that went after Beauty’s beast.
The echo of a rifle going off spurs us into motion, and instead of firing back, Jill, Dad, and I hightail it back to the awaiting Yukon. I throw it into drive just as another round pings off the door frame above my head. Luckily, the police-issue SUV is tough. The bullet sails into who-knows-where—but I do know where we’re going.
Anywhere but here!
“I…” Dad starts to say, but he’s thrown back into his seat, with a grunt, “I take back everything I said.” He sticks a thumb out over his shoulder. “Those are some crazy SOBs.”
* * *
We happily put the Happy Valley psycho squad behind us and with every mile further down the road we get, I relax more and more. I’m not thrilled about leaving the innocent people back there to die, but I have to assume that they aren’t just blindly killing anyone they come across.
Doesn’t explain why they fired on us, though.
My internal feud is lessened some by a sign that reads, “Happy Valley Gap.” My already widening grin turns into a full-on smile when Dad cups his hands around his mouth and says, “Mind the gap.”
The road twists and turns revealing a collection of burned-out homes and small businesses. I think I see another church too. It’s likewise charred and in pieces. Something terrible happened to all the structures in this quaint neighborhood. We’re definitely getting deeper into burner territory. We’re also getting closer to Gatlinburg.
Not good.
I curse under my breath when Happy Valley Road turns a hard right and starts taking us dead east.
“Stop here,” Jill says, and I do so.
Foot on the brake, I have us sitting at the foot of a sideways “Y” juncture. If we go right, we’ll continue onto the not-so-Happy-Valley Road. The look on Jill’s face is one of deep thought. I can tell she’s second-guessing what do to or we wouldn’t have stopped at all.
“Flats Road,” I say, hoping the words will help jog Jill’s incredibly detailed memory. It’s one of the reasons she was such a good trial lawyer.
A professional at arguing.
“I think I got lost here once.”
That wasn’t what I wanted to hear.
Mom shares my worry. “Is that a good thing?”
Jill smiles. “It is.” She turns around and faces my mother. “I’m pretty sure Happy Valley isn’t the right way. I think it keeps going east whereas we want to go north.”
“Flats Road it is,” I say, veering left—to the north.
At this point, I would’ve been fine with eenie, meenie, miney, mo. I’m completely turned around right now. Everything here looks the same and good luck figuring out which way is actually north, south, east, or west. The sun is hidden behind the mountains and trees, forever casting the road in an infinite shadow.
Like Happy Valley Road, Flats Road is nothing but banking turns, vegetation, and cliffs. The houses here are just as sparse too. The major difference is the roadway itself. It’s tight as shit. I can’t imagine two big pickups being able to fit next to each other without one of them having to pull over first.
We approach the second home since merging onto Flats Road. It seems that the homeowner was backing out of his, or her, driveway when they were attacked. The car, a beat-up station wagon, is sideways across the narrow street, blocking us from continuing any further.
“Damn,” I mumble, banging the steering wheel.
“Hang on, Frank,” Jill says, peering deeper into the property. I was focused on the wreck. “I think they have a double driveway. You might be able to sneak past the wagon and get back onto Flats that way.”
I shrug. “Worth a shot.” I turn the wheel. “Just be ready, okay?”
“For what?” Hope asks.
“For anything.”
Our Yukon is big, but we fit into the driveway just fine. We’ve got more than a few inches on either side of us, and from here, I don’t see anything in the way of us getting back onto Flats Road. Jill’s plan is gonna work unless—
Even from inside the tank-like vehicle we hear the shriek of what I know to be a burner. It’s the same thing I heard outside of the Chattanooga Zoo before the creature detonated. We’re halfway home, and right in front of this residence’s door. Suddenly, a man crashes through the front window, running from something that has him scared. He doesn’t look any different than any of us, so I don’t think it's him that spooked us. Plus, the ear-piercing shrieks are still resonating around us.
In the split second that I decide to help him, the house explodes. A wave of heat washes over us, but luckily, the heavy-duty vehicle keeps us from being harmed. The guy, well, he isn’t so lucky. The temperature must be intense because he literally bursts into flames as he’s thrown across our hood. Everyone inside the Yukon screams in fright, including yours truly.
The timing of our escape is perfect, except that I slam into the charred man harder when I reflexively stomped on the pedal. I would’ve hit him one way or the other, so I can’t really blame myself for that.
The front half of the house is gone. The rest is nothing more than a fireball. I once more recall seeing the flash and hearing the shriek and boom back in Chattanooga, but this was my first experience with a burner up close and personal.
More or less, but I still haven’t actually seen one.
Our tires find dusty pavement, and we take off before anything notices us. I seriously doubt anyone could’ve survived that blast, but I ain’t stickin’ around to find out. I’ve got places to be—hopefully not exploded places—and people to meet—also, hopefully not exploded.
The dust on the road is actually a light layer of snow, and it’s starting to come down pretty heavy. Now that we’re back on the road, where it looks semi-normal, it’s a beautiful sight to behold. It’s not every day that you get to witness snow falling in the woods. It’s peaceful even.
Peaceful. Yeah…right.
11
A few miles up ahead is another community of some kind. Roads of all shapes and sizes, paved and unpaved, break off of Flats and disappear, winding themselves into the trees. Each has a handmade, makeshift sign stating which path you’re about to turn onto if you so choose to. Jill hasn’t told me to do so, so I’m staying put.
“Deer Trot Trail?” I ask rhetorically. The street sign is wood and features a small family of deer mid-trot.
“Cute,” Mom replies, speaking up for only the second time in a while.
She’s been awfully quiet back there, Dad too, but I also remember that she doesn’t do very well in the backseat. The swerving mountain roads aren’t helping either. I know my stomach would be in knots right now if our roles were reversed.
“Top of the World?” This time, it’s Jill who is unsure of the name.
“Is that another road?” Dad asks, chuckling.
“No,” Jill replies, “it’s a town…”
“Any of this look familiar?” I ask, worried.
She shakes her head. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been through here. I don’t recognize any of it—just a couple of vague memories really. Plus, a lot of this is relatively new as people try to escape the busier resort areas.”
Busy, right. The busiest this area gets is when a community bonfire is put together. And, if you haven’t noticed, I have no clue what people in places like this do.
“Great,” I mumble. Jill’s eyes dart toward me, and I deflate her anger before it can erupt. “Still better than I could’ve done.”
The corner of her mouth curls into a smirk. She knows that I just dodged one hell of a bullet. She’s frustrated, and she wants to take it out on someone or something. I know the feeling all too well.
I feel it ever
y fucking day.
Less than a mile later, I roll to a stop at a unique five-way intersection. I’d love to see a combo of super-seniors and teenagers navigate this one without hitting one another. It’d be a show for the ages—literally!
“Any ideas?” I ask. No one answers. “Okay, then… Flats it is.”
I keep the speed slow. The street is narrow like the rest, but the amount of homes is what has me going easy. More people—and every adult I see is armed—men and women alike.
No bonfires.
It’s not a joke, and I know it isn’t fair for me to lump these people in with the crazies we've already met along the way, but that’s where my mind automatically went. For all I know, the township of Top of the World, Tennessee, is a polite one. We try to keep it that way and wave to everyone we make eye-contact with. No one smiles back, but they do at least acknowledge us with a courtesy wave of their own, albeit it an uncomfortable one.
I pull off the road a minute or two later and park the Yukon in front of a sign that reads, “Blount County Fire Department – Station 8.” I can’t imagine there isn’t anyone there that won’t give a guy some directions to a main road, especially one that carries around a badge.
Everyone exits the vehicle, but I’m the only one that makes his way toward what I believe is the garage. It’s a large, tan building with a pair of dark green, vertical rising doors. One of them is rolled down, but the other is up, and I think I can just make out a smallish fire truck inside. It’s not the same size as the classic version you see everywhere else. It’s shorter in length and sports a set of tires that can handle the local terrain.
I’m twenty feet from the open door, about a quarter of the way there, when a sturdy man with a shaved head saunters out into the sun…carrying a shotgun on his shoulder. He’s built for the job of fighting fires, which I hope he is, instead of a nut who just took over the building and now wants to shoot the annoying intruder: Me.
I slowly raise my hands.
“Morning,” I say, smiling. He doesn’t react, verbally or otherwise. “My name is Frank Moon and that there is my family.” I motion to the group huddled around the front of the SUV.
The firefighter/gunman, I haven’t decided which one he is yet, removes the weapon from his shoulder and points it non-threatening at the ground. Still, he doesn’t say a word.
“We’re just passing through and could use some help getting back to the main road.”
Finally, he speaks. “What are you doing here, Mr. Moon.”
“I just said that—”
“Not that. I mean what are you really doing here.”
It takes me a second, but I think I know what he means.
“We’re just trying to survive, same as you.”
“And that?” I notice that he’s not looking at me, but at the gun beneath my coat.
Shit.
“If it helps any, I’m a cop.”
“Got any credentials, or am I gonna have to take your word on that?”
I grin. I kind of like this guy. No nonsense. Straight to the point.
“Sure do, and I’d be happy to show you as long as I don’t get shot for reaching into my pocket.”
He shrugs. “Go for it. I’d rather not have to kill anyone today.”
Today…
I swallow hard and procure my badge and toss it over to the hulking man. He catches it easily and nods, tossing it back.
“A little far from New York, aren’t you?”
“Haven’t you seen the news, New York is gone—well, New York City.”
His eyes open wide. “You were there?”
I nod. “Yep. Barely made it out too.”
“So, it’s true then?”
I nod again. “Monsters. See any around here?”
Now it’s his turn to nod. “We’ve come across a few of them here and there. Luckily, we’re pretty secluded.”
“At the top of the world.”
He smiles wide. “The name’s Dwayne, by the way.”
“You in charge around here?”
He shrugs. “I am now. The few people that policed this area took off a few weeks ago. Just me and the other Section Eighters left to look after things. Most of ’em who left lived over in Walland anyways. No reason to stick around here.”
Like I’m supposed to know where Walland is.
“So,” I say, trying not to sound rude, “about my directions?”
A car comes screaming down the road and slides to a stop a few feet away. A boy in his teens leaps out of the vehicle and starts shouting at Dwayne.
“We got a problem over on Hilltop!” the kid yells.
“What kind of problem?” Dwayne asks, lifting his shotgun.
“A big one! Dang black bear is ransackin’ Old Thomas’ place.”
“Great…” Dwayne says, rubbing his glistening head. “Thing must be starvin’.” Even in the cold breeze, he seems to be sweating. Then again, some people are like that. No matter the temperature, there’s always a part of them that’s warm and seeping.
My armpits do that. They seriously never stop.
Dwayne looks at me, and I know what he’s about to ask. “Tell you what Detective. You help me get rid of this bear, and I’ll personally guide you to the road you seek.”
I’m about to argue, but don’t even bother. I know the type. Even if I do win the battle of words, the person with the bear problem will probably get hurt, or worse, and I’ll feel like shit for not doing anything. This shouldn’t be that big of a problem either. Fire off a couple of shots, spook Baloo, then, back on the road.
“Fine, whatever.” I look over my shoulder and see that Jill isn’t happy with my decision. I face Dwayne and say, “Let’s get this over with.”
* * *
“That ain’t no bear… That’s a…a…”
“A monster, I know, I know…”
Man, my luck sucks.
All I wanted was some poor, hungry animal to scare away, but nooo, I get a demon-bear-hybrid instead. Seriously, the mutations are getting weirder and weirder as we continue to move about the U.S.
Baloo—wait, didn’t I name one of the polar bears in Manhattan that, I can’t remember? You know what, fuck it! I’m calling him Carlos. I don’t give a shit anymore! His name. Is fucking. Carlos!
And boy is Carlos perturbed.
The owner of the house has got to be in his eighties, and he’s currently bleeding and being dragged away by the kid who came and got Dwayne and me. For his part, Carlos is currently dismantling the old man’s front porch. The black bear, if that’s what it used to be, is unlike anything I’ve seen so far.
He’s still covered in hair, but his arms and legs are much longer than they should be. His head is big and thick, per usual, but his snout is elongated, and his teeth are enormous. At least the polar bear back in New York retained most of his bearish qualities. This thing fully morphed into something else altogether.
Not quite bear, not quite classic grey alien.
The house is near the bottom of the gentle, sloping front yard. Dwayne and I are at the top of it, standing on the edge of the road next to where Thomas’ mailbox used to be. Part of the wooden post is still there, splintered and pointing up to the heavens. The actual mailbox is nowhere to be found.
“What do we do?” Dwayne asks.
I draw my pistol and laugh. “You’re kidding me, right? Shoot it!”
I pull the trigger of my Glock twice and am happy to see that my aim is still on point after so much time between trigger pulls. The bullets fly straight and true and do nothing—less than that, really—except piss off Carlos more as they uselessly impact his back.
As the bullets hit, he swipes his right paw into, and through, the last support beam holding up Thomas’ covered porch. As the creature steps down from the raised level, one stair at a time, it caves in on itself.
Carlos moves very human-like.
This oughta be interesting.
Both Dwayne and I backpedal some, taking pot s
hots as we do. I don’t have anything harder-hitting than my pistol. Even if I had my bow—you know what, never mind, it was an adorable thought.
“Hey, Moon,” Dwayne says, “don’t suppose you have an idea cookin’?”
I don’t answer him. I keep my eyes on the eyeless, altered black bear. It wobbles with every step it takes. While some bears walk very well on their hind legs, most can’t, and don’t, do it for long. You can thank Animal Planet for that insight. They’ve helped me a lot along the way. Carlos looks unsure of his newfound body, which means we might have an advantage on it out in the open.
I relay my thoughts to Dwayne and get a shrug. “Makes sense, I guess.”
“Just follow my lead, okay? Go wide and get a better angle—confuse it. Also, don’t get too close.”
He laughs nervously. “You ain’t got to worry about that.”
I step down into the yard and move to the left. Dwayne does the same but heads right. We stop halfway between the house and the road. Carlos is in our sights at the top of our triangle. He sneers and bellows in anger, hyperextending his jaw as he does. I’m about to put a bullet in his open maw but am interrupted by the sound of an oncoming vehicle.
No!
I glance behind me and see Jill behind the wheel of the Yukon. She and Dad quickly jump out of the front seats, leaving Mom and Hope in the backseat. I can barely make out the two women’s silhouettes behind dark window tint.
They must’ve panicked when they heard the gunshots.
They got here quick too, but it’s not like Top of the World is hard to navigate. It only took Dwayne three streets to get to South Hilltop Drive. Wouldn’t have been too hard for Jill to follow.
Carlos isn’t happy with the newest visitors.
In a move that I should’ve seen coming, but didn’t, he drops onto all fours and gallops towards them like a razor-blade horse. Dwayne and I are forced to hold our fire, as it passes between us. The last thing we need to do is shoot each other instead of the bear.
