by Matt James
With one last desperate swipe of his hand, Dad snags the rope and slows himself just enough to keep himself from landing on top of me with the force of a wrecking ball. We hit the street hard, yes, but we’re both alive. Tiny hands find my shoulder, and in my dazed state, I think it’s one of the gremlins.
“Get up!” Hope urges, once again pulling on my jacket.
My wife and mother appear overhead, and they help Dad and me up. Woozy, I stumble into Jill’s arms and shake my head hard. I blink away the spots and notice that we’re alone. No Unseen at all.
I look up and see why. The gremlins are still there—dozens of them—but they’re not following us down the side of the cliff. We must’ve left their territory by scaling its natural border. This is the first time that I’ve thought of the Unseen as being territorial. There’s a distinct hierarchy within their species for sure, but until now, I only thought of them as nomadic beasts.
Interesting, I think, rubbing my head, I’ll need to remember that.
Unfortunately, I will remember it—all of it. The snarling, drooling faces of so many mutated children will stay with me for the rest of my life.
“Give me a second,” I say, going to one knee, catching my breath. The first person to check on me is Hope and I wrap the girl up in my arms and squeeze her tight.
“Are you okay?” she asks, sniffing.
I nod and release her, getting to my feet.
“How’s Dad?” I ask, looking at my mother. Somehow, both are still on their feet.
I need to stop underestimating them.
“Alive,” she says, staring up at the shaking treetops. “Bleeding—probably has a concussion too.”
“I’m fine,” he says, shoving out of her arms. As soon as he’s on his own, he almost collapses in on himself. “Ugh… Maybe not.”
I double check the road in both directions and confirm, once more, that we’re alone. I cross the street and lean out over the guardrail of the westbound lane. There’s another cliff, but this one is much too high to scale. Looking northeast, all I see is water and green—the Tennessee River and the peninsula of Moccasin Bend, respectively.
But a little further to the east is a city.
Chattanooga.
From here, the main road into Chattanooga is I-24, a route we can’t quite get to from where we currently stand. After taking a minute to compose ourselves, we plod down 64 for a half a mile. My “plan” was to keep going this way for as long as we were forced to, but we found a break in the tree line bordering the roadway.
There, on the other side of the guardrail is a somewhat-smooth, yet rocky slope, and at the bottom of that slop are train tracks. But it's not the train tracks that have my attention, it’s the interstate wedged between them and the river.
And if we can get to it…
“Alright everyone,” I say, “on your butts.”
No one says a word. We all climb over the rail, sit down on the gravely ground and let go. After a few feet, my ass is already killing me. The stones beneath my cheeks are more prominent than they appeared from above. Forty feet later, we come to a jarring, painful stop. Hope seems fine, however. Then, I see why. She was sitting comfortably on Jill’s lap.
The girl pops up like it was no big deal, smiling wide.
“Fun?” I ask, rubbing my ass.
She shrugs.
“Hey,” I say. She looks up at me. “You’re still allowed to have fun.” She smiles when I reach down and tickle her ear. “Just pick your moments.”
We follow the tracks northeast for a quarter of a mile until we reach a train yard that appears to be abandoned. Besides a few random structures and a perimeter of barbed-wire fencing, the only other things on the property are nine, steel petroleum trailers.
“Over there,” Jill says.
She’s pointing further down the fence line. I spot the gate to the yard and quickly make my way toward it. We enter with no issues and cross the empty expanse quietly. Just on the other side of the yard is I-24.
“Cars,” I say, sighing.
The interstate isn’t backed up too bad either. From here, I see only a couple of stoppages, nothing too serious. With any luck, we’ll find one with keys and get moving.
“Um, Frank?” Mom asks, looking around. “How do we get through?”
I was thinking the same thing. There doesn’t seem to be an entrance to the interstate from here—and why would there be! No shit, Frank, it’s a fucking interstate! Like all major highways, the only way on or off is by entrance and exit ramps.
Hmmm…
“What about that?”
I turn and find Jill looking straight up while shielding her eyes against the rising sun. The sky is void of all cloud cover. If it weren’t for the looming threat of the Unseen, it would be a perfect day for a family outing.
“A billboard?” Mom asks.
The metal support post is inside the rail yard’s property line, but the frame holding the Subway advertisement hangs out over the road—the trees bordering the road, really. If we can scale the sign and climb down into the trees…
I smile. This could actually work.
And the echoes of screams behind us gets everyone moving.
I turn and look back the way we came and see movement in the trees on the opposite side of 64. The gremlins didn’t lose interest in us back at the cliff face, or reach the edge of their territory, for that matter. They were merely delayed in finding a way to us.
My parents are first this time. Then, Jill and Hope. The initial wave of Unseen-children enters the yard just as I get my foot up on the billboard’s ladder. It’s an awful sight too. Every pre-teen age group is accounted for. The only range I don’t see is anyone younger than Hope—around four or five.
“Faster!” I shout, scurrying higher.
Halfway there, I watch as Jill and my mother help my dad down into the branches situated inches below the sign’s catwalk. With their backs turned, the only person with their eyes on me is Hope. But as I hustle further up the ladder, I notice that her eyes aren’t actually on me.
They’re fixated on something beneath me.
Seconds later, I finish my ascent and practically flop onto the catwalk with a loud bong. On my back, I go to sit up, but am ensnared by multiple sets of tiny hands. I thrash at their tiny, clawed fingers, successfully knocking them loose before they inflict any damage.
I struggle to get to my feet, almost careening off the twenty-foot-tall walkway when I do. Twin sets of screeches respond to my escape, and I promptly spin and lash out with a backhanded fist, catching two little boys mid-air. The kiddies are knocked back and drop into the swarm of bodies below.
Oh. My. God.
It’s precisely what I saw inside the elevator shaft. The gremlins crawl over each other as if they are a mass of serpents. More take the places of the two I dispatched, scaling the ladder to the catwalk. I back away and swiftly draw my machete. Using my bow would be a complete waste of time and ammo.
I wish I were John McClane right about now.
Now, I have a machine gun. Ho. Ho. Ho.
“Let’s go, Frank!”
I turn and see that I’m the only one still here. Jill and the others have already made it into the trees. Mom and Dad are on the ground aiming their weapons up my way. Neither has fired and for a good reason. A) I’m in the way, and B) the catwalk is too. Plus, their line of sight isn’t right either. They don’t have a clear shot. And honestly, how many of them are they realistically going to kill?
Again, another example of wasting of ammo.
I judge the distance between the edge of the catwalk and the topmost tree limb, and with the billboard entirely overtaken by wriggling bodies, I make the choice to jump. Now, this isn’t a great idea for a number of reasons—mainly because I’m still holding my machete. If I hit wrong, I could impale myself.
I’m going to need both of my hands free.
So, I toss the weapon aside with the intention of finding it when I land. And boy do I
land!
The limb I picked immediately snaps beneath my weight. The next one doesn’t, however. Instead of breaking, I take it across the back of my thighs and flip ass over tea kettle. I’m not sure how many times I’m spun, nor the time it takes for me to hit the ground.
The only thing I recall is a twinge in my side and darkness.
5
Oh, where oh where can my baby be?
The Lord took her away from me.
She's gone to heaven, so I got to be good.
So I can see my baby when I leave this world.
We were out on a date in my daddy's car.
We hadn't driven very far.
There in the road, up straight ahead.
A car was stalled, the engine was dead.
I couldn't stop, so I swerved to the right.
I'll never forget the sound that night.
The screamin' tires, the bustin' glass.
The painful scream that I heard last.
The lyrics to Last Kiss are terribly heartbreaking, but the tune itself—Pearl Jam’s version—is incredible. Is this my “song of sorrow?” Is it a premonition of what’s to come? Am I the guy driving? Is Jill the dead girl?
I figured that my soundtrack to the end of the world would feature a playlist from bands such as Kataklysm, Carnifex, Beneath the Massacre, and Slayer. Kataklysm’s Crippled and Broken is next to enter my brain as I open my eyes and realize that I’m in utter agony.
“Ow,” I say, barely being able to breathe.
“Stay still, Frank. You hurt yourself pretty bad.”
The voice is Jill’s, and she’s sitting right next to me. I feel her fingers interlaced with mine, along with another person’s smaller and similarly gentle hand too.
Hope.
Wait, I think, we’re sitting?
I feel us bank left. We’re moving too. Blinking hard, I see that we’re actually driving. This time, Mom is behind the wheel with Dad in the front passenger seat. We’re in an SUV of some kind—a Ford, an Explorer maybe—and have the Tennessee River on our left.
“I-24 to Chattanooga?” I ask, cringing when my ribs flex.
“Yep,” Jill replies.
She must see the pain I’m in because she explains what happened.
“You hit just about every single branch on the way down. You took most of them in the chest and back. Your vest must’ve absorbed it all.” She frowns. “But the last one…”
“Pow! Right in the…ribs,” I say, wincing as I try to lift my left arm.
I get it halfway into the air before my side protests the maneuver. While mostly effective, the Kevlar vest I wear beneath my coat doesn’t have a lot of protection below my armpit. At the moment, the vest is MIA, presumably in the trunk behind me. I’m not sure I could wear it right now, even if I wanted to—which I don’t. While useful, the thing was terribly cumbersome and uncomfortable.
“Um, Jill,” Mom says, “where do I go?”
Peering through the windshield, I see that we’re coming up on a network of crisscrossing overpasses. I look for a sign but don’t find one. The only thing I spot is the splintered post that had once held it.
“Get off and stay in the left lane,” Jill replies. “That’ll put us on U. S. 27 and keep us heading north.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Mom says. “Look…”
I do and see what she had already noticed. The left lane, the one we need to merge onto, is entirely impassable. Cars are pinned to one another and are blocking any chance we have of getting through. I think I even see a semi atop a few of the vehicles, and as we get closer, I see what happened.
The semi leaped the overpass and crashed down to the road below, crushing anything in its path. The broken and crumbling crossing sheds a little truth unto my theory.
We’re going to have to use the local roads.
I was hoping we could’ve avoided that.
The sign we need to follow reads “Downtown Chattanooga.” Instead, we take the one that says “Lookout Mt., Broad St.” Now, we head east, not north. Everyone is silent, wary of an attack as we enter the city. While technically a part of Chattanooga, the highway is much less nerve-wracking to be on. The local roads are usually filled with locals. That means the Unseen will be near too.
The southbound lane of 27 eventually merges into our lane, giving me an idea. Maybe we don’t have to use the city roads after all?
“Try and do a U-turn and go against traffic,” I say, carefully leaning forward between Mom and Dad. “Try to get us back headed north.”
Mom nods and slows. As she turns the wheel, a mob of Unseen flood onto the road in front of us. Before I can tell her to forget the plan, my mother yanks hard on the steering wheel and throws everyone the opposite way, stomping on the gas at the same time. We pick up speed but are slung forward when she’s forced to slam on the brakes.
Another mob greets us—this one of the human variety. Each of the twenty-plus people are holding guns of all sizes. They’re also holding something I thought I’d never see in person.
Molotov cocktails.
As one, they lob their homemade combustibles over our heads as we come to a screeching halt. I turn and watch, witnessing each of their payloads explode into fireballs upon impact. Then, half of the gunmen open fire and take down the survivors.
The other men point their weapons at us.
“Not good,” I say, nudging Jill with my knee. “Let me out.” I need to squelch their show of force before they make a terrible mistake and open fire on us too.
Jill doesn’t argue. She pops open her door and lets me out. Then, she hops back in and shuts it—but not before drawing her revolver first. If there is a shootout, she’ll be a part of it.
Can’t let that happen.
I dig into my pocket and produce my badge, holding it out in front of me. Of the ten men pointing their guns at us, five of them shift their aim to me. It’s an impressive show of organization. They’ve been training for encounters like this.
“Detective Frank Moon, NYPD. We come in peace.”
We come in peace? Really?
The Unseen that survived the firebombs are put out of their misery one by one behind me. I don’t look. Instead, I meet the eyes of the militia’s leader. He’s a man of my size and age but is a few inches crazier than me. Seriously, this guy’s eyes are like saucers, and he’s got the classic “whack job” look plastered all over his face.
“Are you one of them?” he asks.
“Uh,” I reply, “one of what?”
His eyes narrow and he points to the road. “One of them.”
I look at what he’s pointing to, and I’m confused. The only thing I see is a black burn mark in the asphalt. But upon further inspection, it isn’t a burn mark caused by anything like the Molotov cocktails. It’s a mark caused by an ultra-hot explosion of some kind.
“I don’t follow.”
He raises his pistol and shouts, “Are you infected?”
Infected?
I raise both my hands. “What infection?” He squeezes the grip of his gun harder. “And whatever it is, no, none of us are infected!” He relaxes some. “We’re just passing through, okay? We’re on our way to Gatlinburg.”
CrazyEyes doesn’t lower his aim. If anything, I think I’ve somehow pissed him off even more. This guy’s paranoia makes him a candidate for a lifelong stay in a padded room. The men with him haven’t said a word. Their body language isn’t as rigid as CrazyEyes’ either. They either trust his judgment or are scared to death of his wrath.
The latter is what I’m going with.
Finally, he lowers his aim from my face to my chest.
Awfully nice of him…
“I believe you—for now.”
“For now?” I ask. I don’t like the sound of that. Usually, that means there will be an extended amount of time under a person’s supervision—time we don’t have—and I certainly don’t want to spend it with the mayor of Crazytown, USA.
He nods. “I’m
sorry, but you aren’t going to Gatlinburg until I deem it safe.”
“Safe?” I ask. “Safe for who?”
“Everyone.”
“I told you, no one is infected!”
My outburst earns me a barrel to the face, and as soon as CrazyEyes’ aim raises, I hear a door open behind me. The only person stupid enough to join me is Jill. She isn’t stupid in an idiotic way either. She’s stupid in a loving and protective way.
“What’s going on here?” she asks, stepping right up next to me.
“This…gentleman…says we can’t leave until he’s sure that we’re not infected.”
“Three days is all it’ll take to prove it.”
“The hell it will!” Jill steps forward and aims her revolver at the group leader. “You’ll let us pass, or you’ll die here and now.”
He shrugs, indifferent, but for just a second, his hard stare wavers. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m already dead.”
Hmmm… I think. Something terrible has happened to this guy.
The odds of us shooting our way out of this is at zero. We need to play ball with him until we can figure something else out. Worse case, we’re delayed in getting to Gatlinburg. Best case, we get to befriend a well-organized militia leader.
“Jill,” I say softly. She looks at me, and I shake my head.
Begrudgingly, she lowers her weapon and holsters it on her hip.
“Fine,” I say, looking back at CrazyEyes, “we’ll play your little game.”
“This isn’t a game.”
Geez, this guy is even more wound up than me.
“What’s your name?”
He likewise holsters his gun and steps forward. “My name is Lieutenant Tyson Daniel, CPD.”
“Chattanooga police?” Jill asks. “You’re a cop?”
Tyson’s jaw clenches. “I used to be.”
I nod. “I understand the feeling.”
He shakes his head. “Seeing that you have, who'd I guess is, your family with you...no you don't.”
