Sheriff Houser thought it over for a moment before joining the conversation. “I think I know where that place is. It’s up there on Millionaires Row. Well that’s what they use to call it. They tore down a lot of the log cabins and old cottages, but the hotel from what I was told still stands. I don’t know how well the upkeep on it has been, but my friend at city council said that at one time they were thinking about adding it to the area’s historic places registry.”
“It says here that it’s called the Pine View Hotel of Gatlinburg,” Mark pointed out as he looked over the piece of paper he’d received from Frank.
“It might get dangerous, but we can do it. Gather up some supplies and try to head up the mountain,” Sheriff Houser said, discerningly with little fear.
“I feel it’s our only chance,” Mark said. “The only downside is the upkeep. Also, it might be difficult getting equipment and supplies up there if it’s bad. I was told the hotel and the large side of the mountain it rests on is separated by a large divide, making it only accessible at one point of land. Now if we took control of that point of land, we’d have about two-hundred acres of mountain land at our disposal. Also, if we do head up there, Frank will know right where to find us once he’s able to send help back,” Mark explained, trying to convince the group of survivors.
“We can begin packing tonight. I just hate that we have to leave behind so much stuff. We have it made here,” Sheriff Houser said sadly, looking around the cozy confines of the restaurant.
Mark quickly thought it over as he looked around the room. “All I have to do is find us a trailer or something to haul with. But, if we can get the soldiers here cargo truck unstuck, we might can use it to load up supplies. That and we can make as many trips as we need. I wouldn’t want us to have to leave behind anything of use, food or medicine, also anything that’s helped us keep our sanity.”
“All we need is a tow truck!” Private Samples yelled loudly from within the kitchen.
“We’ll eventually get something done—but we need to get it done fast,” Mark said, starting to feel a little pressed for time.
The survivors all went their separate ways, beginning to pack their things. Mark however stayed seated at a large, cushiony booth within the dimness of Luigi’s dining room, trying to decide what to do about finding a trailer.
As he set amongst candlelight thinking about the trip and the many dangers it would pose, Stephanie set down.
“So, why you sitting alone?” Stephanie asked, squeezing in closer.
“Just thinking of where I could find a truck with a trailer or even a way to haul all of our supplies up the mountain.”
“I missed you last night,” Stephanie said as she began to run her fingers through Mark’s dark brown head of hair.
“What are you doing?” Mark asked, remembering back to such affectionate moments in their past.
“I don’t know… I’ve just been kind of lonely lately.”
“You know that I could still be infected. If I was to even kiss you… you might die, or worse, become a zombie.”
“Well I’m already a zombie when it comes to loving you,” Stephanie said jokingly.
“No, I’m serious. I don’t want anything to happen to you. I promise if you wait this out with me, I’ll have a doctor take a look and tell me if I’m contagious or not. Just until then….”
“Well, you are very contagious, Mark Smith,” Stephanie said, placing her arms around his neck in a warm embrace.
“Stephanie, can’t you ever be serious,” Mark said, returning the affectionate hug.
Once most of the personal items were packed, the survivors began placing stores of supplies near one of the loading dock bays outback for a return trip.
With the ever increasing hordes of zombies in town, Mark felt the need to replace his old-western style six-shooters with newer models. Gathering his things, he placed the older guns with the rest of his belongings.
“Here, take these,” Sheriff Houser insisted, handing Mark a pair of 9mm law enforcement issued handguns. To Mark, the sentimental value was gone, but each new pistol could hold thirty-three rounds per clip, and each had its very own built in laser sight. Along with the handguns, the Sheriff proudly provided Mark with an officer’s utility belt, and a couple of new holster attachments to hold extra equipment on the field.
Mark tried on the belt, complete with various compartments for extra ammo and supplies. He then placed his two new pistols snuggly into their holsters, loading up on extra clips of ammo.
Mark gathered the rest of his things, stepping out into the increasingly colder weather. Over the past day, the temperature had dropped more than thirty-degrees, making the thought of the survivors finding their way up the mountain a risky one, especially in the event of a possible snow storm coming. As Mark went out into the darkness, he could almost feel the moisture in the cold air around him. Mark pulled his hood down snuggly over his face. Dressed in his all black ninja suit, the stealth the suit provides was thought to more than help blend into the environment around him. With no streetlights on, and town’s power back off, Mark had all the cover he needed to get the job done. Mark quickly drew his katana—keeping a calm and level head. And as he set out, areas of small fires scattered throughout town, still burning from various, mysterious explosions over the past few nights were outright avoided. From the shadows, town appeared as a ghost town. Readily, Mark’s katana swept through the darkness—swiftly destroying any zombie to cross his path.
Momentarily surrounded—a swift slash and heavy cut took out a gathering group of undead attackers. Falling back on his training, keeping his feet positioned correctly, with his body balanced, ensured his strikes would remain at their most powerful. Unfazed by the non-stop fighting, Mark continued to fight his way through the most dangerous part of town. As ferocious zombies approached with intensifying rage—one killing stroke was utilized before moving on to the next. Weaving his way around destruction and flaming debris—the jam-packed streets of Gatlinburg seemed at its worst. As he fought—his concentration, speed and strength was becoming unparalleled; his blade was seemingly generating more power than anyone in the history of sword fighting. Wielding such a long blade called for a certain amount of distance kept for more efficient and powerful strikes.
Given a moment of hesitation, immersed in battle, if by some chance a blood-thirsty zombie invaded his space, Mark would not hesitate on falling back to his martial arts training—delivering a fierce concussive punch or kick—creating enough distance to continue his onslaught with his sword. Mark’s precision in dealing with the blood-thirsty zombies was more than overwhelming to the hordes, just as he’d began seeing their demise three to four moves in advance. Blood flew; drool poured down from each of the zombie’s mouths as they pressed in for the kill. Having analyzed each of their movements, staying alert and prepared—stealth-laden attacks were dealt from out of the darkness of his surrounding environment. As he fought off the hordes, he continued to cleverly take all environmental conditions into consideration; he began to use his agility, incorporating flips and subtle escape techniques into the fight, trying his best not to get trapped with no way out.
As soon as a zombie’s head was quickly detached from its body, the death of one zombie meant the quick and inevitable death of another. Mark continued slashing and cutting his way into prime position—setting himself up for a next flurry of deadly katana strikes. Through the streets, and from the sidewalks to alleyways, unaffected by fatigue and the rigors of fighting, battling his way up the street, he took out his grappling hook from within the small pouch he kept near his utility belt. Mark hurled the hook atop the nearest building, waiting for it to latch. Hurrying up the rope, vicious zombies blood-covered teeth were nipping at his heels. Scaling the side of the building, from the ground up, a brief swing carried him over, having come to a rest on an overhanging window ledge.
Grunts and growls seemed to echo from the dark-smoke-covered streets. He recoiled his rope and
put it in his pouch. Shattering the glass, Mark quietly entered into the loft unsure of what he might find, supplies, survivors. He cautiously drew each of his new handguns, and from behind their red laser sights, he waited for even the slightest hint of danger. He waited cautiously for movement, listening for sounds, and preparing for any type of attack that might come at him from any direction. From behind his twin pistols, and with his eyes already adjusted to the darkness, he slowly walked around in the large upstairs clothing showroom. Standing next to an old sewing machine, the sound of something hitting the floor down stairs alerted him to the area.
Stepping softly in the manner of a ninja—stepping while distributing weight properly and evenly—one foot crossed slowly in front of the next. Outlines of mannequins stood out downstairs, but no visible signs of movement down below. Nearing the bottom step—given an unexpected and sudden movement from behind a rack of clothing—Mark was met by a violent swing of an axe. Having quickly moved out of the way, due to Mark’s heightened reflexes, he just watched as the weapon missed, lodging firmly into a wood step. Kicking the hand away from the axe—a forceful jump cleared the final two steps. A powerful sidekick was delivered—sending the unknown assailant flying into a rack of clothing. Stepping out into a readied position—another swing of someone’s fist came flying at Mark’s head as he stoutly blocked it—than redirected it before delivering a powerful punch of his own. Just when it seemed all attackers were subdued—a heavy blow hit him in the back.
Near superhuman strength and resiliency couldn’t protect Mark from the strike. The force from the hit was like being hit by a small car. Mark collapsed to the floor—writhing in pain. In an instant of clarity, Mark gathered his composure—rolling swiftly to his side as another powerful swing from the now visible crowbar wielding attacker began to strike down upon him. The crowbar missed as he swiftly rolled out of the way and sprang back to his feet nursing his wound. The force of the crowbar shattered the tiled floor—busting a whole almost two feet down into the ground below it. Mark rushed quickly over to the attacker—laying into the seemingly familiar face with a couple of well-placed kicks. The kicks were readily dodged and avoided. Mark relentlessly continued his attack, finding that the assailant was quick, as well as powerful.
Fighting through the pain, Mark delivered a jumping roundhouse kick that was caught to his surprise with superb timing, and with the assailant slamming him to the ground before falling atop. The pair wrestled. As Mark struggled with the powerful foe, he came close enough to his attacker to realize it was Joe. The murderer. Since gaining his powers, no contact had been made with anyone nearly as strong as Joe. At no time did he ever think that there would be. Joe ruthlessly clutched Mark’s wrists—viscously head-butting and hitting any chance he got.
As the two rolled around on the ground, through the struggle, some more of Joe’s gang members came running in from the back stockroom. Trusting his instincts, Mark’s adrenaline kicked in as he sensed his own demise. With almost five henchmen approaching, and with Joe now displaying superhuman abilities, time was of the essence. Mark somehow took out his bowie knife from the holster attached to his leg, and just as Joe began delivering short, but powerful punches to his exposed ribcage.
The gang members finally arrived and gathered around the brawl. They began throwing in kicks any chance they got. As one of the henchmen pulled out a small handgun and began aiming, Mark felt that the time to act was now—jabbing the large bowie knife into Joe’s thigh—forcing the thug to relinquish his hold. Joe rolled to his side clutching his wound. Mark quickly spun around and swept the legs of the gunmen out from under him—swiftly kipping up to his feet in almost the same instance. Mark took off running as fast as he could as the other gang members began to draw their guns. Coming to a large display window—Mark forcefully dived through the glass—shattering it as he flew painfully through to the outer zombie covered sidewalk. Back up to his feet, to avoid being shot—Mark sprinted to the alleyway across the street—diving behind a dumpster just as M-16 fire began to light up the darkened streets and path directly behind him. The sounds of machinegun fire began to riddle the metal dumpster and all areas of the alleyway surrounding him. While continuing to duck for cover, bits of brick and wood began ricocheting around at his feet. Mark drew his pistols waiting on an opening in the gunfire.
Zombies began to slowly shamble down towards the dumpster from the deepest, darkest recess of alleyway. From his position against the dumpster, Mark aimed his red-dot sight at the first zombie—unloading a quick shot between its eyes—dropping it to the ground before it could even approach. In a crouched position—a couple more shots were fired, dropping two faster approaching zombies as they scrambled towards him, knocking over trash cans and tripping over old cardboard boxes along with empty glass bottles and cans. Approaching from his side and from around the corner of the dumpster, a zombie accidentally got hit by a stray shot to the back of its skull as the gunmen steadily unloaded down into the alley. With no end to the barrage of gunfire, and with zombies collapsing dead at his feet—Mark crept along the expanse of wall staying shielded while searching for an escape route.
Finally reaching the darkest and furthest end of the alleyway, the bullets began to subside. After only a brief instance and pause in the action, the sound of gunfire could be heard once again just as fierce as before; however, the sound was now being redirected somewhere other than the alley. Zombies were now on their trail.
In front of the clothing store, a voice cried out. “Let’s get out of here!”
Chapter 26 way of the undead
“The alarm won’t quit sounding,” Professor McClellan stated. “Zombies have breached the perimeter fencing.”
Dr. Scott entered the lab. “We’ve been compromised. This is supposed to be the safest facility in all of the quarantined-off zones. What happened? Is number 8 doing okay?”
Seven hours had passed; Private Jim Edwards continued to lay unaffected by the virus, immune to the ill-effects thanks to the vaccine. “I believe this one’s going to pull through,” said the Professor. “Now if we could just get that infernal alarm to stop sounding.”
Providing a glimmer of hope, Private Edwards vitals continued to stabilize. The soldier and his remarkable strength, on behalf, began to offer hope to every healthy non-infected person world-wide.
Dr. Scott looked over the vitals. “We need to go ahead and crank up production. I’m positive that my vaccine will work on just about anyone—I’ll take it myself just to prove it.”
The Professor began rummaging through a nearby cabinet. “We need to hurry and inform the Major about the success, then check to see if it’s alright to go ahead and inform other countries of the vaccines potential.”
Dr. Scott thought it over. “We need to do something before it gets too late.”
“What’s everyone standing around for?” Dr. Templeton asked jokingly as he walked into the lab.
“How’s Sergeant Haddock?” Professor McClellan asked.
“He’s absolutely amazing to watch. I’m just afraid to turn him loose on the battlefield—yet am excited at the same time to see what he’s capable of. He’s such a valuable asset and definitely one of a kind. I don’t know what we’d do if we lost him. It’s a shame we don’t have more like him.”
“What about the gene-mapping?” Dr. Scott asked as he pulled out his own personal notes.
Dr. Templeton thought about the question for a brief moment. “Until I get more test subjects, there’s not much I can learn.”
Dr. Scott stayed focused on his work, continuing to splice the mutant virus into non-reproductive bits to mix into another batch of his vaccine. The young Doctor ignored the conversing and idealistic pleasantries taking place.
Back in the town of Gatlinburg, Mark stood quietly in front of Jesse’s garage. The trip took nearly twenty-minutes as he crept through town avoiding all altercations with the undead—keeping an extremely low-profile.
After tossing a couple of
floor mats evenly atop of the barbed wire surrounding the high fence at the junkyard, a quick jump scaled the chain-link-fence allowing him to cross safely over without even getting a scratch. In the cover of darkness, safely behind the fence, a couple of unaware and unsuspecting zombies now stood less than ten feet away. The seemingly dazed zombies were brushing up against the outer fence as if they were unsure what was stopping their movement. The moon was glowing bright. The lot was safe and secure. Mark looked around the area checking under a few tarps, finding nothing but old cars that the mechanic had been working on. Where could he keep his wrecker? Mark wondered.
Walking amongst the cars, a small parking garage in the back of the dark lot revealed what the search had been about. The sign hanging on the garage wall reminded Mark of countless times before seeing the garage advertised around town, and the hours of operation, 24/7. Mark began to cling to the nearest overcast shadow, formed by the garage. A zombie was spotted wandering aimlessly around the dusty lot, but it was no ordinary zombie, it was his longtime family friend Jesse, this was made even more evident due to the name stitched into his overalls. The bright lit moon reflected heavily off the knifes blade just moments before it left Mark’s hand sailing through the air at an intense rate of speed—hitting its intended target right between the eyes. Jesse was reluctantly checked for keys or anything of use. Mark had to remind himself that this was not the man he use to know. The centuries-old ninja throwing knife was left embedded in his fallen friend’s skull as he walked over to find the tow-truck. Out of sight and out of mind; Mark tried not to think of what had just happened, trying not to regret his lack of time to give his friend a proper burial.
With truck keys in hand, Mark pulled out his katana and smashed the heavy-duty-lock off the garage door. As the door slowly rose, the tow-truck’s features became perfectly visible as the moonlight hit it. The bright-red wrecker was a sight for sore eyes. Having climbed up into the tow-truck’s cab, in a hurry, Mark set the CB-radio to channel-nine, the exact frequency the Sheriff would normally use. Mark keyed up the radio’s mic. “Sheriff Houser—are you there? Can you hear me—over?” Mark waited for a moment, repeating his transmission.
Way of the Undead Page 21
