by Matt James
Yes, that’s a thing.
I spot an old steam engine parked next to the largest of the still standing buildings. And that’s it.
I think they’re stretching the meaning of the word ‘museum’ just a hair.
Then, more well-known business names start to appear. Subway, Dollar General, Pizza Hut, and well, never mind, that’s it. The only sign I see that peaks my interest at all is the one for gas. I glance down at the hulking vehicle’s gauge and am relieved to see that we still have half a tank left. That being said, it can’t hurt to top it off, especially not knowing what lies ahead of us.
As long as the place has power, I should be able to get it going just fine. It took me a couple of tries back in Central Florida, but I finally figured out how the computer software works. All I had to do was input how much I was paying in cash and then turn the pump on.
Dad stays outside with his shotgun at the ready to watch the Yukon. Plus, once he sees the pump clear and zero-out, he’ll start pumping gas.
“I’m going to stay with your father,” Mom says, “okay?”
I nod and head inside the small convenience store with Jill and Hope, but as soon as I open the door, I stop and snap my pistol up. It stinks like death. Someone was killed here.
I groan, not happy about the situation, but step inside anyway. We can’t pass up this opportunity.
But man, does it smell!
“Go ahead and grab a few things. Whatever you think we need.”
Holding Hope’s hand in hers, Jill draws her gun and heads down the center aisle of the store. The space isn’t big, by any means, but it’s large enough that I lose sight of them a few seconds later. I skirt around the desk but, unfortunately, find it impassable on the other side due to a man’s gutted torso. He’s been here a while too.
Ugh, I think, swallowing down my vomit.
Not only is he missing most of his entrails, but he’s also missing most of his neck. I go back around to the front of the counter and climb onto it.
“Wonderful…” I mumble, holstering my gun to steady myself.
The computer is on the rear counter and it isn't the counter that I'm teetering on top of at the moment. I’m forced to reach out over the gas-man and punch in the pump number and dollar amount.
My fingertips, tap the screen, waking it from its slumber. Luckily, there isn’t a lock code or anything, and I get to work immediately.
“Pump Two,” I say, edging forward another inch.
My eyes widen when I lose my balance and fall face first toward the gas-man. With my left hand, I find the back counter, arresting my head-first plunge into the dead station attendant. I take a deep breath and gag. The smell is ten-times worse as I find myself leaning directly over the guy’s remains.
With watering eyes, I tell the system that I’m paying fifty bucks and hit what passes for the ENTER button. I get the gift of confirmation and relax. I need to escape the stench and get some much-needed fresh air. It’s the first time I’ve yearned for the cold mountain climate in days.
“I’ll never badmouth you again,” I say, looking outside.
I shove away from the counter and almost get halfway up, but the push wasn’t enough, and I flail my arms wildly. I go to catch my fall again, but my knees slip, and my upper body takes a nose dive straight down instead.
“Ji—!”
Something snags the back of my jacket. “Got you!”
I sigh and reflexively inhale deeply, feeling the bile rise once more. But Jill yanks me up before I lose my lunch—not that I’ve eaten enough to constitute a meal of that size.
I turn and sit, sweating heavily from my disgusting ordeal.
“You okay?” Hope asks, arms full of food.
All I can do is nod and wipe the tears away from my eyes. Jill’s right eyebrow raises, but thankfully, she doesn’t ask. I just tip the back of my head in the other direction, nonverbally telling her to have a look for herself. She does, and reels back with a fit of coughs.
She hands me a Mountain Dew, and I chug the entire twenty-ounce bottle. It’s definitely been a treat to have one now and again. Plus, the caffeine will help keep me awake. I’ve only had that one front seat power nap since Lookout Mountain.
Not that the others have slept much either.
Jill holds up a bag with iced coffees and a couple more sodas, food too, and in her other hand is a twenty-four pack of beer. That’s my Jill… Always thinking of the essential things in life.
She grins. “To celebrate… For when we get to the cabin.”
My smile turns into a frown.
“What?” she asks as I hop down.
How am I going to say this?
“Um, Jill… What happens if, you know—”
Her smile fades as well. “If my parents are dead?”
I nod softly.
She holds up the beer. “Then we honor them with a drink and a toast.”
Jill goes to turn, but I grab her arm before she can. With her arms full she can’t fight me off when I pull her in and kiss her hard. But after two seconds, we both cough and gag at the smell that starts to suffocate us. We grin, head out, and find the others already inside the SUV, waiting on us.
“Coors Light?” Dad asks from the rear seat, window rolled down.
Jill laughs and pops the rear hatch. “Not much of a selection, but it’ll do.”
I see my father bobs his head in agreement. He’s more of a Heineken man. Jill will drink anything as long as it isn’t too hoppy or too heavy.
Me? Well, I’ll literally drink anything.
It’s a gift.
A half a mile up, the road splits in two. Whereas before, 321 and E. Lamar Alexander Parkway were the same street, now, they’re not. Jill leans forward, deep in thought, and before I can ask her what’s on her mind, she tells me.
“Go straight. Stay on Alexander.”
“You sure?”
She eyes me. “Unless you want to roll through Pigeon Forge?”
“Dollywood?” I shake my head. I can’t imagine what an Unseen-Dolly Parton would look like. Pigeon Forge is a fun place, depending on your interests, but it’s a resort town, nevertheless. There’s a ton to do, for sure, but that means loads of people too.
No thanks, Dolly.
“How much longer?” Hope asks, sounding antsy.
“Not much further, honey,” Jill replies. Then, she turns and gazes out of her window. “We’re really close.”
Like Hope, Jill is anxious to get there. Unlike Jill, I think Hope is twitchy because she has to pee. Come to think of it, so do I. I know there’s a “don’t eat the yellow snow” joke in there, but I leave it alone. Honestly, I’m too damn tired to come up with a good one.
The scenery around Alexander Parkway is the same as it’s been. There are tall hills, or are they small mountains? I’m not sure what to call them, honestly, but they border the landscape for as far as the eye can see.
Dozens of small businesses dot the roadside, adding to the already small-town feel of the area. But a lot of them have been torched. Burners? Regardless of the cause of their destruction, the surviving buildings look old and weathered, except for those that have a brick façade. The bricks are the only things left, in some cases.
It had to be burners that did this.
Alexander turns south, away from where we want to go, but knowing these twisting mountain roads, I expect it to turn back to the east. Jill wouldn’t have guided us this way unless she was sure of it. More than any of us, it's Jill that wants to see her parents the most. Delaying that, for any reason, isn’t an option. Luckily for us, the road does bank back to the east. We also find ourselves at a roundabout with a half-broken sign. The part that still exists, the part that wasn’t smashed to pieces by a car, states that “Gatlin” is to the left.
On the left-hand side of Little River Gorge Road follows what I assume is Little River. It looks shallow enough to walk across and has an inviting bank. In my mind’s eye, I can picture families picnicking
on its shore in the warmer months, kids splashing in the year-round chilled water. Mountain streams like this are always cold, even I know that.
My attention is taken off the pristine water and back onto the road when Jill’s breath catches in her throat. I snap my eyes forward and see something odd. There’s an Unseen in the middle of the road, a woman, a siren… I half-expect her to charge us and dismantle our ride, but she doesn’t. Instead, she stumbles to the asphalt and struggles to get back up. I roll to a stop and watch.
The siren is clothed in nothing more than a t-shirt and panties, and with the dipping temperature outside, I think she might be freezing to death.
“She’s wet,” Mom says from behind.
Mom’s right. The siren must’ve crossed the river to get to the road and is now paying for it with her life. Who knows how long she’s been wandering through the Smoky’s foothills?
Days? Weeks?
I don’t wait around to see her die. I give the vehicle a little gas and continue on our way. Deplorably, I smile on the inside. The creatures might just perish from the oncoming winter. We’ll have months of it up here, and once the weather begins to warm up in the spring, the Moons might just be able to start over in peace.
Now, I’m even more ready—or is it readier?—to find that cabin. Not only are Jill’s folks there, hopefully, but so is the best chance at a somewhat normal life.
14
Little River Gorge Road is pretty incredible—on an ordinary day, I mean! We’ve passed at least a dozen cars that pulled over just to go for a swim or a relaxing tubing adventure. I know this because of the bodies interlaced with their deflated innertubes. There’s just enough room on the river-side of the road to park your vehicle and get out and explore. Even in the dead of fall, a month ago, people were braving the declining conditions and splashing around in the cold, mountain water.
As fun as that sounds, I’m a hot tub kind of guy. I’m really ticklish, and enduring low-temperature water around my ribcage area isn’t fun for me. I’m the type that can’t get in cool water unless I say, “fuck it!” and jump in. If I were to take it easy and slowly lower myself into the water, I’d never make it in before I likewise say, “fuck it!” and get out and grab a beer instead.
Little River, the road and the tributary, bank back and forth as one. While I steer us along, I imagine an Unseen version of the Little River Band playing on the radio, screaming and hollering while picking on an accustic guitar.
Eventually, the street turns into Flying Creek Gap Road. Under Jill’s navigation, we continue along this one, happy to see another sign advertising that Gatlinburg is just two miles away. She even called it the “home stretch” of our trip.
“This is it,” she whispered to herself. “Any minute now.”
“You really know your way around here, huh?” Dad asks, sounding very impressed.
Jill shrugs. “Sometimes my uncle would come to stay with us and take me hiking around here. It’s close enough to the city, but just far enough into the trees that it doesn’t seem that way.” Her voice softens, sounding like she’s lost in thought. “It’s been a while since I’ve been out here, but as I’m sure you can imagine, it hasn’t changed much.”
An area called Sugarlands comes next, and so does the other 441 that I mentioned earlier. We ended up on it after all. As far as Sugarlands is concerned, not only is it a popular access point for the park, but it also shares a name with a famous distillery, Sugarlands Distilling Company. They make an incredible “sipping cream” that features a delicious butter pecan flavor.
Yum. My eyebrows raise. I wonder if there’s any lying around? Once we power through the case of Coors Light, I think I’m going to take a look around for some. And more beer for that matter. If the thickening snowfall is any indication, we’re in for a long, cold winter up here in the Smokies. That means a lot of downtime, which means we’re going to need a LOT of alcohol to keep us sane.
I shiver at my next thought.
Especially if we’re locked indoors with the D’Angelos the entire time and have little else to do to pass the time. I grin. We also have Cards Against Humanity. The game had just bec0me a thing the last time Jill and I had been to the cabin, and with our families around, it should be terribly awkward. Perfect!
We zip past the Sugarlands Welcome Center, and the handful of cars still parked there. All we can really see from the road is a lot of trees and the parking lot. Whatever the welcome center is, we can’t see it—which is fine with me. The last thing we need is another distraction now that we’re so close to the Gatlinburg city limits.
“441,” I say aloud, thinking of home.
“Again?” Hope asks, eyebrow raised.
“Not the same 441,” Jill explains. “Lots of places have roads with the same names.”
Hope laughs. “That’s so confusing!”
Jill and I smile.
“Yes, it is,” I reply, turning left onto the Tennessee 441.
As we start our next leg of the journey, we swing around and see the back of the welcome center. It’s just a few stone buildings and more parking lot, but I don’t pay it much attention. We are literally within reaching distance of our destination.
I can see more pull offs and hiking trails along 441, as well as movement on the paths themselves. The shadows beneath the trees make it hard to identify who the people are—Unseen or not. I got enough of a glimpse at one form and the body language made me automatically think of the Unseen. It was hunched and huddled together with other living things.
Goblins freezing to death?
I focus on the road, but not entirely. The creatures are more resourceful than I figured they’d be. Body heat is the easiest, and most readily available source of warmth in the wild. The fact that monsters, as mindless as the goblins, can understand that is mind-blowing to me.
Other than an occasional glimpse of something moving in the trees around us, the rest of the drive was pleasantly uneventful. The road has its share of obstacles but nothing I can’t successfully navigate. I only got out of the vehicle once to push an abandoned, bloodstained car out of our way. Dad helped, making the chore quick and painless.
The driver of the car, the part of the body which was still inside, was the only real complication. Luckily, he/she, it was hard to tell with its top-half missing, was still buckled in and out of the way. I did good by averting my eyes from the person's open waist. Dad stayed out of range, happily gluing himself to the rear of the victim’s car instead.
I stay right, buzzing by the sign for the Gatlinburg Bypass. Circumventing Gatlinburg would’ve been a very bad thing. A small river appears on our left, and so do a pair of cars that seemed to have jumped the small stone curb, landing upside-down in its frigid waters.
A motorcycle is smashed up against the cliff face to our right, but its rider is nowhere to be seen. Interesting that the bike looks like it may have been gently parked. At first glance, it looks like the bike has crashed, but after getting a closer look, I realize that the more likely story is that the rider got off under his own power and may not have been thrown.
Nevertheless, there’s no one around, and we move on.
“Almost there,” Jill says, legs bouncing.
I reach a hand over and grip her thigh. “Hey.” She looks at me. “We’ll get there.”
She nods. “It’s not us I’m worried about, Frank.”
Right, I think, duh… It’s her parents.
We approach a sign, but it's facing the other way, and I have to look in my drivers-side mirror to see what it says.
“Great Smoky Mountains National Park,” I say.
“Wait,” Hope says, leaning forward. “We’ve been in the park the whole time?”
I shrug. “I guess so—at least, on the outskirts. Probably missed the sign that said we had entered them.”
Jill shakes her head. “Not all access roads are created equal. Only the main roads, like this, have them.”
“That’s lame…” Hope mum
bles, sitting back and crossing her arms.
Lame?
I laugh a little. The more we’re around her, the more and more she reveals herself to us. Yet, Hope is still getting over losing her family. I have to remember that it’s only been a month since her parents died saving her.
I can’t believe it’s only been three-plus weeks since we found her in the Winnebago.
Jill must see my stunned expression because she questions me about it.
“What?”
I glance at her and softly shake my head. “Nothing… Still trying to take it all in, you know?”
Jill nods. “Unfortunately, I do.”
Minutes later, we stop at an intersection—the first real one we’ve seen in a long time. It even comes complete with a blinking traffic signal and a crosswalk. But it's not the roadway that has our attention, it’s the sign to the right of it.
Gatlinburg. I relax a little. We’re finally here.
“My god…” Jill says, looking further into the city.
My eyes have been on the sign the entire time, not the city itself. What’s there is deflating, to say the least.
Gatlinburg is on fire.
* * *
Now, when I say that everything is on fire, I really do mean that everything is on fire. Even with the steady, though still-light snowfall, every significant structure I can see is alight. A couple of buildings are just charred husks of their former selves, like the Crockett’s Breakfast Camp and Texas Roadhouse restaurants.
The Clarion Hotel appears to have sustained multiple explosions within the different rooms. I count at least nine or ten missing road-facing balconies, all of which are now just blackened holes. I seriously doubt it was a terrorist attack either. From what I can gather, as we’ve been moving closer and closer to Gatlinburg, we may have been moving closer and closer to the origins of the burner virus.
Almost all of the burnt buildings have evidence of some sort of explosion. The ones that don’t probably caught fire because of a neighbor structure. I can picture flaming debris traveling across the road and igniting wooden roofs pre-snowfall. Smoke billows into the air all around us. Stupid, Frank… I should’ve been able to spot it from a distance but decide to give myself a little credit and relax. We were nestled deep into the mountains for quite a long time.
