At first glance, having scanned the area, a cantankerous suit of armor standing in the corner was scoffed at, having first appeared as a possible threat, yet only briefly.
“James!” Mark began to yell, taking a defensive position in the room behind a heavy, stone Incan statue. “James, it’s me, Mark!”
Slowly, the upstairs door began to open. “Who’s in here?”
“It’s me James… Mark!
“I told you I’d come back,” Mark spoke loudly.
“Mark, is that you?” James questioned peeking into the room, barely able to recognize him in the all black clothing.
“Yeah, it’s me. I came to get you out of here,” Mark said, lowering his defenses, stepping out from behind the statue.
“Come on down. We can talk about it for a minute,” James urged as he turned and began to walk towards the stairs.
Briefly the two began to tell of all that had been transpiring over the past few weeks. “I was on the brink of insanity with no one around…nothing but oddities.”
“We have food, we have shelter. We have fun and entertainment.”
Mark set his katana down on the glass display case. “You’ve got to come back with me. I can’t let you stay here any longer,” Mark demanded.
James looked around the strange and darkened room. “What about the museum? Who will take care of all this stuff?”
“Take whatever you can carry. We can come back for whatever else you need later. We’ll also lock up when we leave.”
Hidden amongst the strange and odd, many items could be found of some use. Mark thoroughly looked over the collection of strange artifacts and antiquities, coming to an old, intact fifteenth century Ninja clan outfit.
“I have a heart for nostalgia,” Mark said, taking the all black costume from out of the display, figuring it might help provide stealth when entering in and out on one of his vigilante crusades.
“Take what you need,” James said. “It’s worthless if you ask me.”
Mark then took all artifacts out of the glass case: an actual set of throwing stars, a fully functional grappling hook, Japanese climbing cleats, a set of ninja throwing knives, and a set of old ninja swords. With a bag full, he took all that was left from the collection, leaving only the items too rusted or unusable by today’s standards. The two then stepped out of the museum into the dead of night, protected solely by Mark’s fearsome blade.
Back at the lab, Dr. Scott paced around a small operating table, waiting for the test results to come back on his new attempt at a vaccine. As the rest of the team labored around the feats of their new super-soldier, the newest soldier to survive the strange Anti-virus injection, Dr. Scott’s interest in the powerful effects of the Anti-virus formula were put on hold due to wanting to ensure the remaining populations of the world were safe from the virus. With the young doctor’s new vaccine administered—he prayed that it protected to fend off the virus—fearing healthy and willing test subjects were becoming harder and harder to find.
Professor McClellan stood tall, intent on knowing the findings. “Everyone quiet down. Let’s hear him out.”
“You all know that my first test subject didn’t make it,” Dr. Scott said, poised. “I feel that the vaccine had done its job. The subject never changed into a bloodthirsty zombie. I did tweak the formula however, but for the most part, I feel that perhaps testing had failed due to my test subject being too weak to survive. I feel that the vaccine put up an amazing fight, and now we’re about to witness the beginning of the end.
Dr. Scott began to go over some of the variations in his newest test subjects vitals. “Private Jim Edwards was chosen due to being in great physical condition; his vitals have remained considerably more stable than my first test subject.”
Dr. Templeton quickly raised his hand. “Where are we at with testing? I need to get back to work.”
“Well Private Edwards is almost an hour past the twenty-four-hour mark, and I expect him to stay as stable. I haven’t seen any cause for concern, or any reason to believe that he isn’t immune to the zombie virus due to my vaccine,” Dr. Scott announced, excitingly. “Group adjourned!”
Doctor Templeton was back at his lab, hard at work. Sergeant Ken Haddock—the only man whom had survived the Anti-virus injection. The Sergeant had agreed to test, and since being the first and only American soldier to survive, along with his rank, this allowed him to roam freely about in his own quarters, which was a far cry from the treatment that Andres had received.
Dr. Templeton had more confidence in Sergeant Haddock’s abilities, feeling that in combat skills, strength, stamina, and mental prowess, he was far more superior to Andres. Of all of Dr. Templeton’s efforts to understand why the Anti-virus only affected a certain few in such a profound way had continually come to a frustrating end. After weeks of testing, Dr. Templeton’s goal, considering the Anti-virus had changed: his ambition was now to learn how to procure and refine the formula enough to make an army of nearly invincible super soldiers to fight the zombie invasion. But, for testing to be a success, the doctor needed to find and map the exact genes involved in the process; thus, finding the genetic traits beforehand, ensuring successful results every time.
As daylight was setting in, and with every single one of his men present and accounted for—the Sheriff decided to have an official meeting to discuss his new department. Casually sitting around “Gracie,” the mobile command post, Sheriff Houser and his deputies began trying to pick up radio signals.
Parked out back, flipping through the channels on the radio, any sign of life would be encouraging.
Sadly, nothing but static filled the airspace. Not even a single channel was working. “It’s hopeless,” Sheriff Houser said. “Well, that’s that.”
“What now?” Steven asked.
Sheriff Houser looked at the equipment. “Trust me, it’s useless. My last contact on it was over two weeks ago. The only people around to hear it then was some firemen, and medics, but they’re all dead now I suspect. Seeing how all cellphones, and forms of communication mysteriously died on us, our radio’s systems towers only cover the surrounding area and definitely want extend beyond those mountains.”
Mark kicked his feet up. “Well… It doesn’t seem to be a good thing to me that we haven’t heard or seen any more troops entering into town. It’s as if they just gave up. My theory is that once the infection went beyond the quarantine, our little town was yesterday’s news.”
“I agree with that,” Sheriff Houser said.
“I can’t really make my guess about what’s going on in the world right now, but I think I might know how we could find out,” Mark explained.
A few of the deputies began to check out the view of town from the roof, adding it to their daily patrol, looking out for any new signs of danger, anyone in distress, and also for help from any unseen and unheard from National Guard still in the area. James, with Cheryl and Tyler began to browse the pharmacy’s book section for any new books to read. Mark, having spent most of the day with Stephanie, left to go to the dojo with Larry to train.
While training with his katana, although Sensei Williams was the teacher—most of the time Mark had to hold back to keep the action going. Given the Sensei’s wisdom and over twenty-five years of knowledge, the practice was well worth it to Mark’s patience. Sensei Williams began to enact devastating offensive slashes, offensive stances and forms, defensive stances along with proper positioning.
“Your swordsmanship is to be admired,” said Mark.
“Your aptitude for learning and your desire for betterment is astounding,” Sensei Williams replied, quickly deflecting a blade attack. “You’re becoming one of the deadliest warriors of all-time.”
Even after all of the day’s training and extra time in the gym, Mark was now the last to leave the dojo.
Through the heavy rigors of training, Mark began to finally break a sweat. Moving from one devastating sword training stance to the next, the desire for betterment wa
s all that drove him, practicing till all that had been taught was instilled deep into his memory and could be recalled upon in combat as if it was second nature.
All of the combat skills that had been acquired from his teacher wasn’t even enough to quench his insatiable appetite for learning and knowledge. Mark craved that which was not known: Mark craved to fill the void that his new abilities had left within his mind and the betterment of a mind with almost unlimited learning potential. Listening to the advice and teachings of Sensei Williams, Mark continued to progress in his new abilities. Since Mark had awakened from a coma, finding the Anti-virus had mutated his internal processes, the need to unlock his body’s full potential had resulted in the improvement of his mind, body, and soul.
With everyone he cared about safe and provided for, having said his goodbye, Mark placed on a pair of black thermal long johns under his centuries old, all black, feudal-Japan, ninja clan outfit. Weapons and supplies were then gathered in preparation. Fastening his belt, each six-shooter was loaded before being placed in their holster. He then placed on his black ninja hood, stepping out into the cold dark of night.
This wasn’t just any old vigilante mission through town. Even with all expectations of finding his dad alive and well had faded, it was felt that the need for closure was upon him.
In to the night, having left a trail of dead zombies in his wake, and after finding his motorcycle where he had left it weeks prior, Mark continued down the formerly abandoned back road where many zombies began to unusually appear: upon sight the bike never slowed down, making its way quickly around multiple attempts at reaching for it. From the headlight of his motorcycle—the angry expressions of zombies could also be seen off in the fields as they began exiting out from the woods at the loud sound of the bikes engine. Passing through the area, on the outskirts of town, many bloodshot eyes could be seen reflecting heavily off in the distance. Many of the undead were easily worked up into a crazed frenzy.
Coming up to an old farmhouse, Mark began to slow down as his motorcycle began to shake a little before running out of fuel. In the darkness of night, Mark killed the headlight and hoped off the bike—rolling it off to the side of the road. Staying on guard, he then placed the motorcycle behind a large row of bushes, hiding the bike deep within some green shrubbery. It was then covered with a few extra branches, just for safe measures. As he made his way to a possibly abandoned farmhouse, he began looking around for zombies, staying on his toes.
The night seemed at its darkest within the darkness cast under a large willow tree resting in the middle of a small wood and brick house’s front yard. As Mark stepped under the willow, an old tire swing was pushed to the side, swaying softly in the moonlight. Everything seemed quiet and calm—leaves could be heard rustling from within the darkened surrounding woods. Out of the corner of his eye, in the home, an upstairs light came on. Starring up at the window, a shadowy figure behind an all-white curtain walked into sight. Once at the house’s toolshed, remaining cautious, it was noticed that the upstairs light was off and the shadowy figure was gone.
Mark walked over and knocked firmly on the front door then took cover off to the side of the house near some bushes. “Hey, is anyone in there? I need to borrow some of your gasoline.”
Mark took off his hood, and drew one of his revolvers in case of a gunfight was to ensue. “Sheriff’s Department!”
Using his upper body strength to climb atop of the overhanging section of roof, Mark began to slowly make his way up near the window that the shadowy figure was now standing back in front of. Once atop, the window was tapped twice, before waiting for a response.
In only an instant, a bloodied—vicious figure quickly appeared from behind the long white curtain—ferociously clawing at the slick glass. The zombie, being triggered by the noise—beat ferociously on the window before him.
Mark pulled out his katana—swiftly impelling the zombie through the glass.
Mark jerked his blade away—and acrobatically allowed himself to roll back down the shingles. Once to the ledge of the overhanging roof he flipped off landing sturdily on his feet. Mark immediately walked over to the toolshed—kicking open the skinny-wooden door and began searching for some fuel. He began tossing tools to the side, climbing over lawn care equipment, rummaging through the left over junk till a canister of gasoline was found.
Chapter 24 way of the undead
In search of answers to many lingering questions, Mark walked across the marble tile, stepping onto shards of broken glass. A cool breeze was felt entering in, causing the curtain to sway. Across town and many miles from the mini-mall, the mansion was built for a king, but how could a measly former CIA agent afford such a place? Judging by the address on the letter found on the body back at the ranger’s station, someone in the mansion was aware of Mark’s father’s location.
“Sheriff’s Department—don’t move!”
Having searched cautiously through the house, all seemed normal. The confines initially seemed empty. A single fireplace flickering next to many books on various shelves in the study told otherwise. The thought that someone had just left crossed Mark’s mind, even after discovering that the logs burning weren’t real, but from a line of natural gas. Although the room seemed abandoned, the search was continued, just before finding all the proof that was needed, an uneaten plate of food, with a drink near it still on ice.
Someone’s been here and of recent, Mark thought. The room stunk of fancy cigars, even with no visible ashtrays. All of the usual places someone could be hiding had been searched: the closets, under beds, behind furniture. Peeking behind the corner of a large painting turned up no leads, no safe, no control button, nothing leading to some secret panic room; furthermore, on the fireplaces mantle was nothing of interest either. Just as he began to give up, an out of place book was spotted on the bookshelf.
Walking over to the book, it was found to be one of the only books of its kind, and also out of alphabetical order. Once Mark tried to pick up the book it was then realized that it was made of plastic. Once pulled, a latch popped.
Mark stepped over to the corner of an uneven bookshelf. During his search, there had been no signs of any former CIA operative living within the upscale home.
Mark stood beyond the bookshelf as it began to squeak loudly before opening wide. “I’m Mark Smith, with the Sheriff’s Department… I just need to talk.”
From within, in no time at all, a tall gray-haired man with a full gray beard stepped slowly out into sight. “So, you’re Mike Smith’s son, Mark.”
“Yeah, did you know him?” Mark asked curiously. “How do you know me?”
“Well… I knew of him. He was like all other great local area leaders, done wrong by an unjust act.”
“What do you mean? What do you know of my dad’s disappearance?”
The man thought the question over for a brief moment. “I know all about your dad’s disappearance. Come, join us.”
The two stepped into the panic-room. The room was occupied by another older couple.
With the door closing, two televisions, and various models of radios next to a large mainframe computer console caught Mark’s attention. Entering into the room, Mark courteously gave a slight nod to the rooms occupants.
“I’m Frank Weathers, and this is my wife Jane. That young couple over there is Alan and Judy Boston.”
Mark again gave a nod. “What do you know about my father?”
“Mark, as you probably know, I’m a former CIA agent. Fearing for my life, I was presumed dead in the line of duty. Now, from the outside, I’m trying to get the rest of the evidence I need to bring down a corrupt group of CIA operatives and their vast network of government officials. They call themselves the Statesman Society.”
“Mark, over the last five years I’ve been working to infiltrate the Defense Department and to expose the CIA’s and any other government official head’s involvement. My work has led to many answers, yet many dead-ends. For a man in hiding and s
upposed to be dead, the answers don’t come easy. But, like the Statesmen, I have my network of operatives and informants. My operation is nowhere near as powerful as theirs, but it has steadily grown. Before the outbreak, I predicted an eventual Civil War. One fought in the blind eye of our own President and Government. One relying solely on espionage—yet never ceasing till one side or the other was dead.”
Mark continued to listen, soaking in every detail, looking to understand the bigger picture.
“Mark, your father’s been killed.”
“How do you know for sure?”
“John Higdon told you how to find me. He’s now dead. The terroristic group called the Statesmen are to blame. When the major department heads all over the area began vanishing right around the start of the outbreak… that was their handy work, silencing the incident. From there, they began to target the media, silencing them, most usually by introducing misinformation from within the quarantine. After that, right when people started to die, coming back as zombies, they cut all lines of communications in the area. No phones, cell-phones, or internet.”
“Are you thirsty?” Jane Weathers asked, pouring an ice-cold glass of lemonade.
“No thanks!” Mark replied.
“What you don’t know Mark, Wild Bill was one of our purveyors of truth. Wild Bill, like so many other of our Soldiers of Truth, turned to the airways or to other forms of multimedia to help spread the word. If it wasn’t for so many of our soldiers working hard to influence the polls—another one of the Statesman Society’s members would be sitting in the Whitehouse right now.”
Frank took a drink of his lemonade. “Wild Bill informed us of your inquiries into your dad’s disappearance. It turns out that shortly after your last conversation with Bill—the Statesmen found his camper up in the foothills and took his life. Also, as you already know, the Statesman Society, in one of the worst cases of bioterrorism in history, just recently began the spread of the virus to other countries.”
Way of the Undead Page 19
