Mark began to say his goodbye.
“So, are you sure you don’t want to come with me? Mark asked.
“Well, if you’re safe or able you need to come see me again. I got the food and the party pad,” James insisted.
Chapter 12 way of the undead
The gunshots stopped. Mark had reason to believe that the owner of the weapon was still around somewhere. Mark stepped out onto the sidewalk and began to step slowly as he began using every abandoned vehicle around as cover.
“Boom!” The gun echoed loudly.
The huge shotgun blast left a crater in the side of the abandoned vehicle nearest Mark’s location. Mark had never been more scared in his life, feeling quite uncertain of what to do next. He took a second to clear his thoughts, ducking down, looking under the car, watching as the gunman began to cross the street.
Mark pulled out his pistol, aiming it, dead-set on the area the stranger with the gun was due to appear. In fear of his life from an unknown assailant, Mark fired his revolver at first sight. “You shot me,” a seemingly recognizable voice called out in agony.
“Jesse, is that you?” Mark asked, rushing over to his fallen family friend.
“Mark! Is that you? I thought you was one of those creatures. Let’s get out of here,” Jesse pleaded, cringing in pain.
“Sorry, I thought you were trying to kill me.”
Mark picked up Jesse’s weapon and handed it back to him. The noise had begun to draw zombies from all over.
Jesse led Mark down an unoccupied alleyway. Mark followed closely behind, down the long back sidewalk beneath an overhanging canopy. The two jogged down what was no doubt a dangerous path—stepping on light brown and orange leaves blown up on to the path.
Jesse carried on through the pain of a non-serious gunshot wound to his leg. “The garage is close.”
Nearing their destination, out of nowhere, a wide-mouthed zombie appeared—dragging Jesse down onto the ground. Mark drew one of his pistols and shot the zombie dead. Jesse pushed the zombie off. The parking lot was now full of abandoned vehicles left lying.
Once back at the garage, Jesse went around clearing out a couple of stragglers that had wandered their way into his shop. “That should do it,” Jesse said, bashing the last over the head, closing the garage door behind, locking it tightly from within.
Upon entering the garage Mark looked around, noticing at least four more zombie corpses over by the stairs leading to the loft. With the sound of the door slamming, drawing even more zombies near, there was no time to relax due to the unrelenting banging coming from the thin metallic garage door.
“In here!” Jesse demanded, under the loud beating of the metal doors becoming more and more unsettling.
Mark followed the mechanic into his supply room, located near his small, cramped office. Once inside, Jesse poured a warm cup of coffee from the thermos he kept on a table near a couple of vending machines. After having offered Mark some, the mechanic assured that it was made with purified bottled water from a facility hundreds of miles away. Mark declined as he took a seat atop a large crate of motor oil canisters.
“What’s up with all of those dead bodies by the stairs?” Mark asked curiously.
Jesse took a sip of his coffee. “It was right when I noticed the outbreak. Those beasts came flooding in here after me one by one. I ran up to the loft and threw down crates of storage we kept up there to create a barricade. They climbed over and got close, I just bashed them over the head with an old air pump cylinder I had laying around.”
“They’re everywhere.”
“Yeah, well they messed with the wrong mechanic. I didn’t think those things would ever stop coming. They were crawling on top of their own dead trying to get to me,” Jesse said.
Jesse began to pace around the small storage room trying to catch his breath.
“How’s your dad?”
“I don’t know. I still haven’t talked to him… it’s been almost a week.”
“That’s not good to hear. There is one thing you need to know…I’ve been bitten,” Jesse said, remorseful.
“No! Damn it!” Mark shouted.
“Yeah’ it’s not good. That’s why I was acting somewhat fearless back there. Running around town hunting those things down like a madman. They bit me and I decided to take as many of those sons of bitches with me I could. I’ve killed almost two dozen by myself,” Jesse proclaimed, raising the sleeve of his flannel shirt, showing the bite mark.
“Well, once I’m bit, that’s how I want to go out—taking as many of those things with me as possible. What’s the quickest way to Pinehurst Street?” Mark asked.
“I’ll help you get there. You can have my dirt bike chained up around back. Assuming you know how to ride. It’s my pride and joy, but I can’t take it with me. Soon I’ll be dead,” Jesse said, with the sad reality starting to set in and his illness as well as fever worsening.
“I’d appreciate that,” Mark said given a sigh of relief.
Jesse led the way, stepping out back behind the garage in somewhat seclusion from being seen by the still increasing horde of zombies. Mark followed, sneaking quietly out back, leaving the furious zombies relentlessly pounding and clawing on the garage door. The back lot was Jesse’s very own private junkyard, but in some accounts it was an automobile graveyard. Vehicle parts of all kinds were scattered about—designated as projects that the mechanic just hadn’t gotten a chance to work on. All kinds of makes and models of old hot rods littered the small fenced in area. A rusted up old red Ford Mercury caught Mark’s eye upon stepping out back. The sky had become dimmer, with the air having gotten much cooler, thus, causing some discomfort.
“Here she is!” Jesse said, rolling out a jet-black dirt bike that he’d been working on the past few years. “It’s custom, and built mostly from spare parts.”
“It’s yours now. Just make sure you don’t do anything stupid, like go and get yourself bitten. Make sure you see this thing through and don’t get yourself killed. And don’t forget to stay as far away from this town as you can—it’s a death-trap,” the mechanic warned.
“Thanks for everything. I just need to get back to my brother and hopefully find out what happened to my dad.”
Jesse pulled a large cutting tool out of the back of his pants. “Okay I’m going to use my wire cutter here to get you through this fence and send you on your way. Tell your family I send my regards. Once you’re out—there is a dirt trail that had been made from thieves that would come here periodically trying to sneak in to steal me blind. Just follow it on down.”
With minimal pressure, the wire cutter began to create an opening in the fence to slide the bike on through. Once on the other side, Mark got on the motorcycle and began to balance himself.
“Just stick to the trail and you’ll be to Pinehurst Street before those zombies even know anyone’s back here,” Jesse explained, starting to feel faint.
The motorcycle was now cranked and had begun to rev up: idling, just before Mark was to speed off down the long trail. Mark began looking around at the last minute, making sure that he had everything he was going to need. He looked over at Jesse and nodded as the loud roar of the dirt bikes engine was almost too much to talk over.
Mark took off down the trail—slinging rocks and kicking up dirt as he rounded the steep hills and narrow edges near the tainted creek that ran through and around Gatlinburg. Before heading home, through the woods and off to his destination, after an uneventful trip, from the looks of the place, no one had been by the seemingly abandoned ranger station in at least a week, this was evident due to the accumulating daily newspaper that had been piling up. Where is everyone? Mark put down the kickstand and left the bike parked hidden out of sight in some bushes before walking around to the left side of the shack near a group of tall pine trees. Without hesitating, he took the end of his pump-action shotgun and started smashing the window leading into his dad’s office. Before climbing in, Mark made sure that no glass was
left around the edges that might end up cutting him. “Hey! Anyone in there,” he yelled. “Any zombies.”
With glass crunching at his feet, the shack was seemingly abandoned. Mark walked cautiously after entering in—looking around for any and all clues on why he hadn’t heard anything from his dad in over a week. Mark flipped the light switch, checking to see if they had power. Further into the dim-shack, the back of the building was where a small gas-powered generator was kept. Upon cranking it up, the lights came on—providing plenty of opportunity to finally begin looking for clues.
The search began in his dad’s office, first going over every detail as if he was some sort of detective—noticing that a lot of his dad’s paperwork had been scattered about all over the office floor.
Strangely enough, no effort had been made to clean up the mess. Paperwork was lying carelessly on the floor next to ink pens seemingly thrown from across the room. Most of all, Mark noticed a picture of him and his brother had been knocked over. It all appeared to be some sort of a struggle, Mark feared. As he continued to search, he began to tear up, noticing that Mike’s computer was gone: the modem, and the monitor was all missing off of his desk.
Before exiting the office, a decision was made to press the answering machine that was now showing ten new messages, unsure as to what he might hear. Listening closely and forwarding through a few calls from himself and Tyler, a clue was found. The messages were from the Sheriff of Knoxville and the Police Chief, they each had called. They each had been trying to get ahold of Mike before they were both reported missing. Mark’s suspicion was now becoming a further reality. Mark tried putting everything into perspective, getting times, dates, and possibilities in some logical order. Nothing really came together, and nothing started to fall into place, just more unanswered questions that seemed to loom heavily. After giving the office a thorough search, he exited out, stepping into the wide-opened medical-control room. He then walked on over to the fax machine and picked up a couple of letters that had been sent to the station of recent.
One was from an unknown sender, with no return address and by the looks of it had wished to remain anonymous. The letter told of a viral plague that turned anyone catching it into a zombie. The letter demanded that the water be more thoroughly tested as the source—especially down in the park that Mike resided over. The second letter sent via the fax machine looked to be in some kind of encrypted code or just a page full of errors, Mark couldn’t really tell.
Although ironclad evidence was still lacking of a so called “men in black group’s” involvement, Mark looked over the notes before folding them up and placing them in his pocket for future reference.
Mark walked up to the television and cut it on, flipping through the channels for a minute till it came to one of the only working local stations. For some reason the Department of Civil Defense had an emergency broadcast warning airing on the television from 1985, which alerted that “This is not a test.” The warning advised all residents to stay indoors due to severe climatic weather in the area. As Mark watched the old broadcast, remembering back to stories of the big snow storm that hit the area back in 1985, it was figured to be airing due to being the only thing available.
Static began to interrupt. “Hello! Hello! Anybody read me—over! Mike Smith, did you get my message?” a strange, but familiar voice asked, muffled in static.
Mark stepped over to an old CB/band radio used to communicate back and forth with campers, businesses, and even trucker’s.
Mark picked up the microphone. “Go ahead! This is Mark Smith. How do you know my father? Who is this?”
“Let me just tell you that we go way back. My name isn’t important at this time. When’s the last time you talked to your father?” the strange, but familiar voice asked.
Mark picked up the microphone. “I haven’t heard from him in almost a week… since this whole mess started. I’m here right now looking for him. What can you tell me about why he’s missing?”
“Let’s just say that I was in contact with your dad from the first day of this plague. I informed him of some missing government officials and how a disbanded and defunct group of CIA was out to tie up all loose ends concerning the outbreak. Have you heard anything about the missing Sheriff and Police Chief?” the mystery man asked.
“Yeah! I heard a radio broadcaster, adamant that “men in black” were silencing the local heads of these agencies.”
“Right—Mr. Smith. I’m that broadcaster and that group is real. After I contacted your dad to watch his back, he was supposed to check in with me—but never did. I was accosted by that group of “suits,” narrowly escaping with what I feel was my life. They shut down my radio station and all broadcasting was halted. I personally am sorry to say this—but I feel your dad was met with foul play for being over that areas National Park,” the mystery man announced sadly.
“You’re Wild Bill,” Mark said, having recognized the voice.
“The one and only. Now look kid, your father was a great man, he and the others didn’t deserve what has happened to them. Have you noticed the government trying to keep everything quiet? Well it’s in main part due to this disbanded and defunct group of the CIA I was telling you about. They’re going out of their way to see that other countries don’t catch wind of just how severe the problem is down here. From what I was told, they’re afraid that other countries such as China or Russia might jump all over the chance of firing a big old nuke our way to stop the spread,” Wild Bill said adamantly.
“So, that’s why the world news isn’t talking about it.”
“Exactly! That’s also why we’ve lost all cell-phone, land-line, and even broad-band connections. It’s impossible without human interference. Cell-phones should be working at least and they’re not. Let’s just say, from my informant’s—it’s a disbanded, terroristic group of the CIA. They were given authority and total amnesty by some higher up agency of the United States Government to do whatever they feel is in the best interest of our government and for our sole survival against all threats. Whether our President is aware of this group, that is completely unknown, but under good authority I was told that they are acting alone,” Wild Bill explained.
“I don’t know what to say… what do I need to do?” Mark asked curiously.
“Well this thing is bigger than you and me. That terroristic group of the CIA, from what I was told by my informant, is planning on sneaking this bio-logical agent into the water supplies of other countries in an attempt to eliminate the threat of nuclear war. With other countries infected, the need to wait out a cure would theoretically occur. But, this zombie plague has spread considerably in only a week. What you need to do is stock up on supplies and wait it out. That’s all we can do. My only form of communication now is my band radio here, they’ve done tracked me to the last place I was staying right before I fled. If you get the chance—spread the word my friend,” Wild Bill said, vengefully.
“Okay! Can I keep in contact with you on here?” Mark asked, checking to see if the radio was somehow bolted to the desk.
Wild Bill held down the key to the microphone briefly before speaking. “Yeah, you can get ahold of me on here—barring those “suits” don’t catch up with me first and that you stay in range. I’m truly sorry about your father. Just lay low and wait this thing out, don’t get bit—and stay away from all sources of tainted water. Good bye, Mr. Smith!”
It was now getting late. Mark looked about the tiny shack, checking to see if there was anything he might have missed. Aside from Mike Smith’s office looking to have been ransacked, the rest of the place looked the same as it always had. The generator was beginning to sputter and die out due to lack of fuel.
Over at the side of the shack, Mark pulled out his duffel bag, unzipping it before placing the CB-Radio inside. With his katana, shotgun and pistol, as well as two new revolvers, not to mention the surprise he had waiting for anyone that tests him strapped to his thigh, Mark felt he was ready for war.
&
nbsp; Readying to leave out, to Mark’s surprise, the sight of a badly bloodied and mangled face appeared, almost peeking out from out of a coat closet.
The body dropped, almost at Mark’s feet as the closet door slowly opened. Thoroughly checking the deceased’s pockets, a letter was found addressed to his dad. The letter was typed, from John, addressed to Mike Smith, asking if he had noticed anyone strange following him or lurking around his house.
As Mark read over the letter, John went on to tell of his contact. “A couple of days ago, I was contacted by a former CIA agent, who’d got ahold of me saying that ‘we’re being watched closely.”’ I was told of a disbanded branch of the CIA that’s operating under their own authority, in an attempt to silence local government officials due to the crisis in the area. Do you feel like you’re being watched? Anyway, you need to lay low. My informant said that our very lives are in danger. I wrote this letter in case I don’t get to talk to you in person, but my new friend, wanted me to give you this address where you could find him.”
“My informant, we’ll just call him Luther for now, told me that over the next few days the power would be shutoff. Aside from the quarantine—we will all be without any kind of working phone connections. From what I was told, it has all been intentionally done to keep quiet about the out-break. All of which has come to be true. No means of communications and the world-wide lack of info given to the media has been intentional. Be careful! We feel that even the President is being misinformed of the dangers this outbreak poses.” Mark looked over the letter.
Chapter 13 way of the undead
The Professor and Dr. Scott arrived back into the lab after only a few hours of sleep—wide awake—energized with the excitement of learning the outcome of their experiment.
“What happened?” asked the Professor.
One of the young Doctors began rolling back the footage. “The first test subject is dead.”
Way of the Undead Page 10
