by Matt James
“Are those Christmas lights?”
I see what Hope sees. There are a couple of places that do, indeed, have Christmas decorations—lights included—up.
“Winterfest,” Jill explains. “Some places look like they started decorating early.” She looks up through the windshield. “I bet they wanted to beat the early flurry.”
Even a few of the hotel’s surviving balconies have lights. The people staying in the hotel room decorated for the holiday. We’ve done the same in Disney World when I was younger. My family decked-out our Fort Wilderness trailer once. It was awesome, but took forever to do.
Ober Gatlinburg is on fire as well. It houses a tram that takes you three miles west, deeper into the Smokies. There you’ll find all kinds of stuff to do. It’s a touristy ski resort and a place I’ve been to twice in my life—once with Jill and once with my own family as a kid. The black bear habitat is what I’m most worried about, as well as the other animals in the area. Otters, bobcats, raccoons…
Carlos.
The memory of the mutated bear is all-too fresh. If there’s one Carlos, there’s bound to be more like him. Rocket Raccoon might not be the oddest of his kind anymore either.
“Frank,” Jill says, pointing to our left, “look.”
I do, and I dread what’s there. One of the trams is still half-attached to its cable, burnt and busted open like a tin can. Looks like a burner was aboard and blew up.
Damn. Those people didn’t stand a chance. Had nowhere to go. I close my eyes and breathe, recalling the horrors from September 11th. Thankfully, I wasn’t in New York yet when it happened, but the scenes of people leaping from the burning towers could be seen all over the news.
That's what they probably did here too.
Like a gunshot, the cable snaps as we pass, returning the tram back to Earth. We’re only fifty feet away from where it smashes into the roof of someone’s home. The steel cable whips by us, barely missing our windshield by inches. As a result, everyone reflexively ducks as it passes overhead. The only damage we sustain is to our vehicle. The Yukon gets its tip nipped, losing the useless roof-mounted radio antenna.
It’s not like anyone is broadcasting anything worth listening to. The only thing we’ve picked up on recently is White Noise’s greatest hits.
Shrieks resonate all around us. The commotion has stirred up a hornet’s nest of Unseen—burners, most likely. Then again, it would be foolhardy to think that they’re the only kind of creature here.
Dad grabs the back of my seat. “How do we have this kind of luck?”
I hit the gas and bump-bump over the cable which is now stretched across the road. I know my father’s question is rhetorical and not meant to be answered, but I answer him.
“If we didn’t, we’d probably be dead.”
I see him sit back and look out his window. Then, he shrugs as if my reply is the gospel on all things luck. It’s not either. If anything, we’ve had exceptional luck so far. I can literally think of a hundred situations in which one, or all, of us, should’ve died, and yet, here we are, not pushing up daisies.
We’re forced to turn left onto Leconte Street instead of continuing along 441/Parkway. The latter is the easiest route to the D’Angelo cabin.
Oh, well, I think, turning the wheel.
Turning, we head right onto River Road, where most of the block to my right is nothing but a crater. The only thing that’s left is a listing sign for the Ole Smoky Distillery. Looks like something exploded within the highly flammable building, turning the place into a bomb.
The next intersection is also a disaster, and we’re “guided” right onto Maples Lane by a gaggle of goblins. The spirited bunch comes flying out of the Christ in the Smokies Museum and Gardens. I’ve been there once, and it was actually pretty impressive considering it’s mostly educational.
“Is that a church?” Hope asks.
“No,” Jill replies, “it’s an attraction based on the Bible.”
“Beautiful garden,” Mom says. Her longing is evident in her voice. Mom doesn’t want to go there now, but she is remembering when we were there at a time when the world was a better place. Weird, but better.
Man, I’d give anything for “weird” right about now.
On the corner of Maples and Parkway are the famed Sugarlands distillery and everyone’s favorite odditorium, Ripley’s Believe It or Not. And just down the street from Ripley’s is—the sound of the world coming apart around us shakes loose one of my fillings and it’s plain to see what’s causing all the kerfuffle.
“Ummm,” Dad says, wide-eyed, pointing a finger forward between Jill and me.
“Yes, Dad,” I reply equally as shocked, seeing what's got him anxious, “the Gatlinburg Space Needle is falling toward us.”
15
A flash of light and a plume of smoke ignite as the enormous structure continues to fall toward us. A burner has met its demise somewhere near one of the observation tower’s supports. The 407-foot-tall needle is just big enough, and we’re just close enough, that it’ll turn us to paste in a matter of seconds.
I’m about to throw the Yukon into reverse and head back down Maples, but I’m stopped by what I see in my mirror. Dozens of Unseen are rushing our position. They’re no doubt still following us from the Christ museum.
“Jesus Christ…” I say, frustrated.
“What?” Dad asks.
He hates blasphemous talk, and usually so do I, but my mind isn’t firing on all cylinders right now. At this moment, I’m trying to figure out where we’re going, and my brain is on an extended lunch break.
So, my instincts take over, and I keep the SUV in drive and stomp my foot on the gas pedal. Everyone inside the vehicle protests my decision to move us closer to the falling tower, but I don’t listen. I just drive—and pray that I chose wisely.
Another support snaps, and this time, the needle doesn’t wait for an invitation. It drops like, well, what I’m hoping it’ll act like, a bomb. I eye the oncoming horde behind us and am happy that they’re focused on our attempt at escape and not the forty-story-tall object about to flatten them.
And us!
I give the Yukon more gas and sideswipe a mini-van in the process. We fishtail a bit after hitting a slick of roadblood and careen onto the sidewalk, taking out six sets of tables and chairs. I’m not sure what eatery they belong to but—a goblin leaps atop our windshield from out of nowhere, quickly loses his balance when he grabs ahold of the passenger side windshield wiper. As he tips backward, I run him over without a second thought.
Our rear tires leave the road, and my hands depart from the steering wheel. Luckily for us, we were pointed back out onto the street when my grip was jarred loose.
I slide us to a stop, spinning us around just as the tower slams into the town of Gatlinburg, flattening everything in its path. Ripley’s disintegrates under the immense weight of the observatory, and so does the Sugarlands distillery. The last thing to disappear is the twenty-plus Unseen. They vanish into thin air amongst the ball of fire and smoke.
Multiple explosions rock the wreckage, all coming from within the mangled metal of the space needle’s corpse. My mind returns to the burners. It’s possible that a few of the Unseen running toward us were burners, or maybe there were a couple of them in the needle? Either way, when it hit, they went kaboom!
White-knuckling the steering wheel, I just sit and stare. That was one of the most insane experiences of my life. I know I’ve been through a lot lately, but I have yet to have a building fall on me.
Oh, wait, never mind.
Jill and I were crushed beneath a building in Manhattan… Yadda, yadda, yadda…
It would’ve been the first observation tower to fall on me. That’s for damn sure!
“This…” I say, breathing hard, “is definitely ground zero for the burner virus.”
“Oh, yeah,” Jill says, mockingly, “what made you think that?”
“Agreed,” Dad says.
Mom nods, s
taying silent. She’s holding her chest in shock, but I don't think we need to worry about her having a heart attack.
For now.
“I blame Dolly,” I say, turning us around.
“Who’s Dolly?” Hope asks.
“Ms. Wood,” I reply. “You’ve never heard of her?”
Hope shakes her head.
“Frank,” Dad says, “that’s not her last name.”
“What is it?” Hope asks.
I look at my father in my mirror just as he realizes that he stepped in the mud puddle.
“Oh, no,” he says, giving her a fake smile, “my mistake. Her name really is Dolly Wood.” He glances at me. “I was thinking of someone else.”
Hope leans forward, eyebrows knit in anger. “We need to find Dolly Wood and stop her!”
Everyone in the car erupts in laughter. Everyone except Hope that is. She’s horribly confused, and unsure what to say next. Being the smart girl that she is, Hope keeps her mouth shut and sits back. She’s with it enough to know when someone is having fun at her expense.
It takes me some time to find another clear road. I’m forced to weave in and out, back and forth from one street to the next. I even leave the road a few times altogether and plow through people’s backyards, and once we smash through a privacy fence, we find ourselves on something called Baskins Creek Bypass. It’s a small, two-lane road that rewinds its way to the north. We even pass underneath a gondola, which is still occupied.
The rider has been picked clean by birds and is hanging over the ski lift-like lap bar, looking straight down at me as we pass. He’s just high enough that I can’t see the expression on his face.
Not that he has one.
We pop out onto East Parkway/321 and turn right. Even more of the local businesses are blackened and unrecognizable. The few I do recognize are only because their signs weren’t obliterated by fire, and/or explosion. There’s also a bunch of homes just off of this road as well. I can’t see many of them from here due to the tree line, but the ones I can spot, are gone, likewise destroyed by fire.
Some still burn now.
Knowing how close we are to Jill’s cabin, I push the rugged Yukon harder. Besides the Unseen, we seem to be the only living things in Gatlinburg. A few of them try and keep up with us but can’t, eventually falling back and returning to whatever mischief and mayhem they had been up to. We’re almost free until a siren falls in line behind us. She won’t be so easy to lose.
As casual as he can be, Dad puts down his window, sticks the barrel of his shotgun outside, and pulls the trigger. The shell doesn’t do much, but it’s enough damage to make the creature think twice about pursuing us. My experience tells me that a siren wouldn't have given up so easily, but with the dropping temperature and their emaciated appearances, the Unseen are either freezing to death or starving.
They’re picking their battles now.
I turn off the main road and onto one that dead ends at a place called Sanctuary. It’s the name of the D’Angelo’s neighborhood and one that is well off the beaten path, secluded from the less wealthy. The street is called Peace Creek, and it follows a creek of the same name to the northeast for a little under a mile. That creek just so happens to flow past the D’Angelo’s backyard. Other roads branch off of Peace Creek as we move, revealing smaller neighborhoods themselves.
But none are even close to Sanctuary, I think, picturing the two-story masterpiece in my head. The family cabin isn’t the only one of its kind within Sanctuary either. There are at least four or five others that are just as nice, if not more impressive.
The “cabin” isn’t really a cabin at all. It’s more of a mansion made of wood and stone. The construction is similar to what you’d expect in this area, but the inside is what wows the shit out of me every time I visit. It’s seriously that cool—pretentious—but cool.
A lot of the cabins are timeshares, but not the D’Angelos. No, they bought theirs outright when the market was good, and instead of selling it at its peak, they decided to keep the asset for themselves and invest in the home’s interior. Everything within the cabin is ultra-modern, exactly the opposite of how I would’ve done it.
When I think of a cabin in the woods of Tennessee, I think of something comfy and simple. What I don’t think of is giant flat-screen televisions and refrigerators that talk to you. I’m not kidding, their fridge is interactive.
Nothing around here has power, though.
The homes to my right and left are all dark, from the looks of it. There was only one working traffic signal back in town too.
Their back deck has a huge jacuzzi. Now, I’m not one to bitch and moan about a bad-ass hot tub, especially one that Jill and I have had sex in. Multiple times. Mic drop… The tub faces the river and is out of range for any, and all, looky-loos out there.
I hold my breath as I guide us around the last bend before we’re able to see Sanctuary. When I do, I’m actually filled with a little optimism. The closest of the homes to either side of the main road are burnt, but not all of them. Each cabin is on four acres of land, and none of them are set very far back into the property. They’re right on the road for all to see. A combination of privacy fences and dense foliage act as barriers from one residence to the next.
The D’Angelo’s place is at the back of the neighborhood, just out of sight from where we are now. Side streets branch off chaotically to the left and right, flowing with the natural grade of the landscape. Our destination just so happens to butt up against the river when it cuts east across northern Gatlinburg.
I count the ruined homes as we drive, stopping when I reach six—and that’s just on the main road of Sanctuary Way. Who knows how many more are done for that are out of sight? Another ten? Another twenty? As for the neighborhood itself, there are around fifty homes in total here. If the pattern holds, I’d guess that at least a third of them, maybe half, are gone.
We reach the halfway point and follow the asphalt around to the right, circumventing a cute central communal area. The half dozen gazebos are separated intermittently by picnic tables and children’s playground equipment. Slides, teetertotters, and whatnot… I spot Hope eyeing the park as we pass and decide that I’ll have her play there in the near future.
Now, on the opposite side of the commons, I can just barely see the Chateau de Angelo. Sanctuary Way dead ends there, making the cabin stand out more than the rest. Well, to be fair, it actually ends at a cul-de-sac with two other homes in it. Nonetheless, I guarantee you that’s why Anthony wanted the place so bad. His flaunting personality wouldn’t have anything less. Anthony is one of the worst types of human beings: A wealthy showoff.
Then again, everyone that can afford to live in a place like Sanctuary has a little of the same trait. Even the smallest of homes are worth a million-plus—most much more. The D’Angelo cabin was worth roughly 2.5 million dollars last I checked. Now, it’s worth less than diddly poo.
I guess you could say it’s ‘worthless.’
The good news is, the family cabin is still in one piece.
The bad news is, a group of five Unseen are trying to get inside.
I slowly roll up to the base of the driveway and throw it into park. As of right now, three of the creatures, the goblins, are trying to claw their way in through the heavy, wood front door. There’s a siren poking around near the front windows, looking for a better way in, but she isn’t having much success since the shutters are up. Maybe the D’Angelos aren’t so helpless after all… The fifth and final member of the group is what concerns me the most. It’s the first time I’ve seen one for myself and what I see will stay with me forever.
It’s a burner, and he just stands there, fists clenched, hunched, and shaking. The weirdest and worst part of it all is his skin, or rather, the veins beneath it.
The blood that flows through his body is glowing, radiating some kind of hellish energy from within. Steam rolls off his body as well, caused by his sweltering internal temperature. Even if it wasn�
�t as cold as it is outside, I bet he’d be doing the exact same thing. I watch as a few snowflakes land on him and instantly turn to vapor. The guy is literally hot as hell.
Oh, and the burner is Jill’s father.
16
“Dad?” Jill asks, climbing out of the vehicle.
This isn’t what we needed. I’ve obviously been pretty pessimistic about her parents surviving a month on their own in the world we now live in, but I never once thought that Anthony D’Angelo would become a fucking burner!
“Jill!” I leap out of the driver’s side and hold a hand in front of her chest. “Stay back!”
“That’s my father!” she yells back, trying to push through me.
The burner turns toward us and growls, his mouth glowing bright red from within.
“No,” I say, “it's not. At least, not anymore it isn’t.”
Jill shoves me aside and addresses her Unseen father. “Dad?” He snarls again. “It’s me, Jill, your daughter.”
Twenty feet up the driveway, the burner that used to be her father, takes a step towards us. When his foot lands, the snow beneath it sizzles and turns to steam. Jill and I both take a step back, but I draw my gun. Jill tries to stop me, but I step forward and aim for Anthony’s chest.
I don’t shoot, though. Something about him isn’t right—besides the obvious. I’m not sure what will happen if I shoot him and all the heat, pressure, and energy escape his body at once. I look around and see the large char marks dotting the neighborhood. The burners are like living bombs. Andy back in Chattanooga said as much.
Shooting him is the wrong way to go about this. I glance at Jill. Well, shooting him right here and now. Eventually, I am going to have to kill Anthony D’Angelo. I’ll just have to time it right.
