“Yes sir! Sergeant Sir!” The private readied his weapon. The young guardsman stepped up to the door, slyly taking a mirror out of his pocket—sticking it in through the half-unzipped doorway trying to scope out the room without exposing himself to any danger. As he reached out with the mirror, in an attempt at looking around the room—a disgusting blood-covered face appeared out of nowhere—instantly staring back at him.
The bloody and bruised zombie quickly grabbed the soldiers’ extended arm—powerfully biting all up and down—tearing off chunks of flesh. Blood spurted out in all directions. Without delay, Sergeant Harris called for his troops to move in and attack. Two of his soldiers reached in through the opening and began hitting the zombie in the head, trying their best to free the young guardsman’s arm from the clutches of the mangled-looking culprit.
Sergeant Harris pulled out his pistol—firing a couple of precise shots into the tent—hitting the crazed, undead zombie soldier twice in the chest and once in the head. Once the zombie dropped dead, the unit moved on into the decontamination room.
“The hell with formalities.”
Sergeant Harris, alongside the rest of his men went climbing into the chamber. “That soldier is one of ours. What would have ever possessed him to attack?” Sergeant Harris asked, checking the soldier’s name tag. “Dishonorable discharge my ass. Does anybody else want to betray this unit?”
By the looks of the attacker, bloody, bruised, and deathly pale, each soldier began to wonder why one of their own would attack. Having entered on in, out of nowhere—a zombie quickly came barreling right out of what had appeared to be a seemingly empty shower stall.
From out of the decontamination shower, this attacker was wearing medical scrubs, he was covered in blood, and missing both ears as well as half of his face.
Upon sight, only a few in the unit realized that something wasn’t right. Little did anyone suspect that the man they had just killed was some sort of undead creature, perhaps similar to the creatures running amuck in movies.
Before a single bullet was fired, the mangled zombie dove onto the crowd. Sergeant Harris and his unit fell backwards on top of one another. Undead from all around began to flock to the noises coming from the medical-lab. Slow but steadily moving zombies came bursting through the flimsy plastic medical door—each joining the chaos as the downed unit of guardsmen began to frantically fight to get back to their feet.
Each soldier, including the Sergeant did all that they could to fight off the blood-thirsty group of undead. In the end, the rage-fueled and undying nature of the beasts would prove too much. It was seeming the zombies were out-numbering the living. They were vicious in closed-off spaces. Standing toe-to-toe with the infected, the guardsmen had literally nowhere to go, nowhere to fall back. Each member of the unit was beat up, scratched up, and more than likely already infected. Just one bite or even the tiniest scratch from any of these beasts could spread the virus. Such an undead beast’s sheer presence was intimidating and would draw unimaginable fear. To be faced by one for the first time in a life or death situation would bring a huge psychological disadvantage into a fight, even for one of the most hardened soldiers.
The fight could be considered heinous. Sergeant Harris was an expert in close-quarters-combat, but there wasn’t a whole lot that even he could do in such a small room packed with such vicious killer zombies. Fighting alongside his men, he did the only thing possible, pulling the knife out of the holster in his boot. One by one, the Sergeant began slicing into any and all zombies’ throats, expecting each of his attackers to fall dead; unknowingly, the only thing accomplished was assuring that the virus had spread. After each cut, blood spurted out: all over the walls, all over his unit, and even all over himself. The undead zombies were relentless in their pursuit, spreading the infection everywhere.
“We’re already dead,” one of the newly infected soldiers screamed. “We’re infected!”
“You just hold on a minute, Private Phillips,” Sergeant Harris said, slashing, punching, and kicking the undead as they continued to bite and chomp at the group.
Private Phillips, to the displeasure of the group held up a grenade before pulling the pin. “I’d rather die than become one of them.”
Without warning, the whole medical facility was rocked by a massive explosion, one sending fire and debris to all parts of the quarantine. Oxygen cylinders in the next room began to spontaneously ignite, adding to the already fierce fires beginning to spread.
As part of the camp was now inflamed, anyone remaining was now under attack. A large gathering of vicious zombies had begun coming out from under the smoldering, inflamed camp.
Anyone of the remaining National Guard unit was now surrounded. Smoke and noxious fumes continued to billow out in their direction. Each soldier was already in a gunfight when more undead somehow found their way out from under one of the nearby crawlspaces. In a war, M-16’s are considered a lethal killing machine, but with only a small percent of shots actually hitting the partially inflamed undead, targets directly in the head, the soldiers were beginning to give up ground as the zombies continued to inch closer and closer.
Just as a couple of soldiers began to reload, a few inflamed zombies rushed the spurt of the moment barricade they were held up. Any remaining zombies moved in for the kill.
Later on that day, far from the destruction of the makeshift, quarantined off camp, as Mark was driving up to the mountain to pick up Steven, he turned on the radio.
“This is Wild Bill in the evening—coming to you live from the middle of the Knoxville quarantine. Everything I’d been saying about the quarantine has now come to pass. I said that in a few days the city—not just the area surrounding Lake Ocoee would be under a strict quarantine and sure enough it is. I said that the public wasn’t being notified fast enough and in a timely manner about the dangers of using tap water for drinking or bathing. I also said that the sickness was already spreading to other areas of the south—and it has.”
“We are now looking at a definite epidemic and what looks like the start of a possible global pandemic. We have received reports of a woman who had just arrived in Italy before the quarantine. She had to be placed in intensive care, and also there was an entire family in China having to be placed in the ICU unit upon arrival directly from the Knoxville airport.”
Mark continued to listen as Wild Bill sounded saddened. “One of my good friends and a world renowned and respected doctor over at the Memorial Hospital in Knoxville has giving the virus a timeline. I was told, and it is suspected that the people infected with the virus have right around twenty-four hours to live. Although, we have no reports yet of anyone having died from the infection as it is still initially early in the outbreak, I have been told that the virus could take twenty-four hours to run its course.”
Mark slowly arrived at his destination, feeling a bit concerned for not just his family, but his town. Mark honked his horn and waited briefly for Steven.
“What took you so long,” Steven said.
Mark thought it over. “I had some things to take care of. I had to get my truck serviced. Have you heard anything new about the quarantine?”
Mark and Steven began to drive down the mountain—slowly coming to what appeared to be a bad car accident. By the looks of it, a car had crashed into a guard rail and then swerved into another lane before hitting the passenger-side door of another vehicle. Both cars set motionless in the road, with debris scattered everywhere nearly taking up both lanes. Mark turned on his hazard lights, in case a car was to come flying around the curvy mountain road behind him. Mark pulled up close to the wreckage and looked around to see if he could offer any assistance.
Steven looked around for any of the motorists, finding that someone was sitting at the edge of the road with both hands over their head bleeding, and looking to be nursing their wounds. Another appeared to be setting still in the car’s passenger seat.
Immediately, the driver of the sports car limped from the wre
ckage and put his phone up to his ear. Mark and Steven watched as the motorist, who had clearly been the victim of bad driving began to check out the damage to his car before stepping over to offer assistance to anyone in need. After a brief discussion with one of the injured motorists, they began to work together. In an attempt at checking on the condition of the individual slumped over in the passenger seat of the mangled car. Each motorist barely got the smashed up door open. From Mark and Steven’s vantage point, the apparently, severely injured man staggered out from the car—immediately grabbing the tie of the driver of the sports car.
Steven looked on in disbelief. The passenger had been badly mangled and even appeared to have had his face crushed on impact. From what Mark and Steven could tell, it looked as if the injured man was furious—trying to attack anyone who came near. The two men began to almost wrestle.
Steven stared at the commotion for a moment before shouting out his window, “Look at that drunk-redneck jerk!”
Mark laughed, unsure if the crazed passenger heard. “Maybe they are both drunk and that’s why they crashed in the first place.”
Mark began to ease around the jumbled mess of broken glass along with pieces of car fragments tossed about. “Let’s go, the cops will be here any minute to sort this out. They always sort this stuff out.”
As Mark and Steven got near the wreckage, easing their way around—the crazed mangled passenger arose up from his knee and rushed over to Mark’s truck and began beating on the hood.
“Get the hell away from my truck,” Mark yelled.
The badly mangled man stopped and stood there as Mark carefully began to drive around debris and wreckage. The mangled man reached out at Mark’s truck for one last swipe—smearing a long bloody hand print all the way down the side of the passenger-side-window as it passed by.
Chapter 6 Way of the undead
The whole trip down the mountain, Steven was uncomfortable: looking around, taking in all the scenery he could without having to look directly at the blood smear covering his passenger-side window.
Steven began to contemplate about what had just happened. “You’ve seen that movie, ‘Zombie Plague,”’ did that crazy mangled mess seem a little like a walking corpse to you?”
Mark chuckled, having thought the same thing. “He was either a zombie or really drunk. I’m going to assume he was drunk.”
Mark pulled around into an automatic carwash and put three dollars’ worth of quarters into the coin slot. Following the directions, he pulled the truck on up as the sprayers began spraying the blood trail off the side. From the parking lot down the road, town was visibly packed, more than evident when merging into a very large crowd at a crosswalk.
Steven looked around at all the possibly virus infected people. “Thanks for letting me stay the night. My roommate’s been sick. I hope he don’t have that virus that’s been going around. It’s got me worried. It seems like any of these people could be infected.”
The two watched as the crosswalk changed, giving the okay to walk. “It shouldn’t be a problem,” Mark said. “I would have asked my dad, but I haven’t talked to him in almost two days now. It’s not like him, but I’m sure he would say it was okay. Anyhow, Jeff should’ve went to the hospital.”
“You’re right… he wouldn’t listen to me and we’ve been roommates for almost a year now.”
Mark nodded. “Also I guess eventually we’ll find out for sure in less than twenty-four hours. He might not have it, but I wouldn’t hang around and find out. It’s a strange coincidence having flu-like symptoms at a time like this and if he does have the virus he should be in a quarantine... not hanging out in your apartment playing video-games,” Mark said jokingly.
“Exactly! So, where’s your dad?” Steven asked.
“Honestly, I’m not sure… he went into work the other day and I haven’t seen or heard from him since. I thought he was probably just staying with his girlfriend, but it’s not like him to not call. Now I’m just waiting to check with Tyler when I get home to see if he might have heard from him.”
As Mark and Steven walked down the overcrowded sidewalk, the streetlights began to automatically turn on. The sky was becoming a dimmer color of blue. The smell of caramel apples and funnel cakes filled the streets. The sounds of slow-moving automobiles echoed alongside the storefront as the overcrowded parkway brought their vehicles to a near standstill. Mark could tell that there seemed to be more tourists than usual.
“Look at this,” Mark said. “I bet all of these people came down to avoid the quarantine. I bet all of the motels are booked up.”
The two stood casually outside of the restaurant, watching the chairlift from across the street as it carried tourists up the mountain.
“I haven’t got to ride that in a while,” Mark said.
Down the crowded sidewalk, it had become evident within the darkening of night that the temperature had been dropping. Having arrived at the Haunted Mansion, a menacing Jester and a spooky Witch each signaled for all who dare to enter into the eerie mansion.
Smoke began to pour out of the entrance as an electronic fog machine attempted to make the environment spookier. An occasional screech or cackle from a large set of overhead speakers added to the whole appeal.
Steven began looking around, taking it all in. “If it’s as cool on the inside as it is out here waiting to pay, than I’m sold.”
From outside of the old-house, Mark couldn’t hide his excitement. “I got to come last year and it was one of the best Haunted Houses I’d ever seen. Stephanie told me they’ve built on and it’s longer and scarier than last year.”
Upon entering, the signage posted helped to paint a story of the houses rich history as well as murderous past.
The different signs that were hanging abroad over the old-style and partially dilapidated walls told of the houses occupants, telling of how they were wealthy early citizens of Gatlinburg. And with the line beginning to creep on up to the pay window, old newspaper clippings could be seen posted, warning of the house, while explaining of the wealthy former occupants whom were local business owners and were also possibly mad. The clippings told of how the wealthy family would invite people over with guests of the house never to be seen or heard from again. The newspaper clippings warned of an investigation of old man Thompson, whom was accused of setting his own business ablaze, killing all of his miners within the foundry. The legend goes on to tell that old man Thompson then built his family’s dream house on the same site as the fatal fire. The hundreds of dead spirits were supposedly trapped within the Haunted Mansion, ready to exact revenge on anyone entering onto the property.
The warnings to keep out became more numerous—springing up quite frequently. The signs to beware made an attempt to persuade everyone away as entering into the house was said to be like entering into the gates of hell. Mark and Steven stepped up to the ticket window to consult with an old dusty-looking caretaker, a former family friend of the Thompson’s whom was all about selling the show. Entering into the front of the house, a crowd immediately split into two groups of four with the tour readying to begin. The group of four, including Mark and Steven, each waited in an old-timey carport. The room filled with fog alongside the family’s horse drawn carriage which eerily resembled a mid-evil hearse. The room was a testament to the houses appeal. Slowly walking up a ramp into the house, more signs could be seen, warning of the houses curse.
As the group reached the top of the wooden ramp, the music began to get spookier with screams coming from within the house as the prior terrified group made their way about. The sounds of doors electronically being opened and closed could be heard slamming—making the group feel a little uneasy.
Once it was time for the group to enter into the mansion, the Caretaker appeared. The Caretaker immediately began to go over the rules. “Do not touch any of the performers and stay with your group and assigned guide,” he said in a sinister sounding voice.
The Caretaker then opened the curtain th
at led into a long drawn out hall with many locked doors. The hall led to the den, at which a tall, pale, ghostly looking man was sitting with his back turned to the group.
As the group entered—the tall man jumped up and took his hat off and bowed at the group before stating, “There is a secret passage in this room…as a team you must try to find it.”
The Guide was an intimidating figure, who offered no clues. Mark and Steven spread out amongst the room searching for a candlestick or book that might open a secret passage. In search of a way out, and through the dim-flicker of candlelight, Mark noticed that the huge painting of old man Thompson seemed strange. The eyes seemed to be following him, watching his every move. Mark stopped what he was doing, calmly pointing-out the pair of peering eyes to Steven. The mysterious pair of eyes continued to watch over the study. Steven searched around the bookshelf and found a certain book that seemed to be stuck. As he pulled on the book it slid forward—popping a latch from behind the fireplace.
“Much praise to the for finding the way,” said the Guide as the group then moved through a darkened secret passage.
As the group walked down the long, pitch-black passage—ghostly illuminated arms began to reach out from within the walls—grabbing at the group before disappearing back from which they came.
The group was scared as horror could appear from any direction, and at any moment. They slowly crept further down the long, dark passageway with only a couple of dim candles flickering, given the only source of light. Suddenly, from nowhere, large harry spiders began dropping down on top of the group, dangling with what seemed to be ghosts barreling towards them from out of the walls accompanied by loud bangs. The group was startled and began to hurry past as they continued down the passage. The Guide, coming to a wall turned down an almost unseen route as a man dressed as a butcher with a sharp cleaver appeared out of nowhere and began to viciously growl. The group clutched one another as they took small steps, turning the corner as they followed closely towards the Guide beyond a secret curtain that led into a brightly lit up storage room. Behind an opened door—the group left the crazed man with the cleaver behind. The room was like an old-style pantry with glass jars and storage containers. Human body parts occupied the jars. Slabs of what appeared to be human carcasses were wrapped in plastic and hanging on meat hooks.
Way of the Undead Page 4
