With all of the supplies and anything of use now aboard, the Army began to band together in their fight to keep the zombies from further entering in. A steady stream of heavy gunfire continued to rip through the slow moving waves of zombies and their weak rotting flesh. Given row upon row of M-16’s aligned at various perimeter breaches, amongst hundreds of newly vaccinated soldiers, the undead seemed to be faltering. Conversely, with everything on high-alert, and while the majority of soldiers were now helping fortify the gates prior to take off, it made for a perfect opportunity to escape. The C5’s that had been flown in and prepared by the Air Force for evacuation, they were to be the soldiers and supplies only means of departure. The team of doctors and scientists were prepared to leave much sooner, with awaiting Blackhawk Helicopters prepared to air-lift them out earlier due to their civilian status, also their importance to the President’s infection control efforts later on down the road.
Along with the team, Sergeant Haddock began to blend in. The ten-year Army Sergeant had lots of tenure with none of the precautions attached that Andres had dealt with due to being a captive prisoner. The once patriotic Sergeant had been struggling with his visions over the past few days, trying his best to get a grip on reality. Since the near death experience with the Mclelre-virus—then the miraculous immunological response from the Anti-virus—the Sergeant envisioned much corruption amongst his once beloved military: enough corruption that even he was now about to abandon his lifelong endeavor, and even if that meant becoming the one thing he truly despised, a deserter. The Sergeant quietly slipped away, making his way through various security check points requiring military clearance.
Many miles away, with minimal daylight left, the group of survivors continued to mourn the Sheriff’s death. The group tried their best to save the man who had been more like a big brother then a Sheriff. In the end, uncertainty as to the Sheriff’s blood type was the main reason that he was now gone. Mark declined the company of others. Out of all the death, it had been the Sheriff’s death that had affected him the most. Mark, being the Sheriff’s right hand man, just before placing the Sheriff in a homemade coffin, took the unique six-point badge specifically made for the Sheriff as his own. He placed his old badge in his pocket, then without a swearing in ceremony and with no dispute from any of the other deputies, he fastened the Sheriff’s badge onto his shirt, preserving a two-hundred year tradition around the town. And from atop the mountain, all the way to the valley below, Mark was intent on upholding the laws of the land as he took over the mantle of Sheriff.
With the survivors in mourning, preparing for the burial, the perfect burial spot was picked on the mountain, right under a large shade tree away from the hotel.
Mark took a deep breath. “It’s the most perfect place to bury such a great man,” Mark said. “May I say a few words?”
The survivors sadly gathered around. “Here lies a great man. From the short time I’ve known him—I’ve felt like I’ve known him forever. Few people in this life are like that. Sheriff Houser was a kind, and courageous man, one who’d give his life at any given moment to help save a complete stranger. Sadly, on this day he lost his life… it was the way he would have wanted to go, helping others. The Sheriff once told me: ‘we shouldn’t expect the future to be a happy place, without preparation.’”
Mark took a second to pause, saying, “He will be greatly missed.”
Dirt began to be placed over the coffin. Some of the survivors wept, while some told stories of days of old, but they all mourned respectively in their own way. While the group of survivors began to go their separate way, heading back towards the hotel, Mark took his old badge over to Larry Williams, deputizing his friend and martial arts instructor.
“You deserve this. And we could always use good help,” Mark said bowing his head.
Larry Williams readily accepted the badge. “Thanks! It would be my honor. Just don’t think this will get you out of your training you owe me.”
A smile came over Mark’s face as he patted his Sensei on the shoulder. The sun continued to descend. Later on in the darkness of the Great Smokey Mountains, most of the group turned in for the night. Mark left Stephanie in a peaceful slumber. A kerosene lantern in hand, he walked into the spacious hotel lobby and sat down on an old-dusty couch. Picking up a book, supplies of all sorts remained stacked atop of one another: the group, even after exhaustion had left most things lying around after unpacking earlier. Mark now felt wide-awake, sitting within the dim-flicker of the lantern. From that, it was decided time to do a little reading. A still large stack of books sat in stacks variably around at his feet. As Mark began to read, it was found that his capacity to retain information was nearly unlimited. Everything useful that was read intern was being instilled deep within his super-enhanced mind. At this rate, it was figured given a little hard work, he could be one of the most knowledgeable men alive, given any subject read.
Morning finally arrived; Mark was up unusually early for someone up late. By use of his newfound cooking skills, learned from his prior night of restlessness, a large feast was prepared for all of the survivors. At breakfast, with everyone gathered around, Mark interrupted. “Just as soon as everyone gets done eating, we need to make our first patrol up here on the mountain. It might be dangerous, but there’s supplies to get, and survivors out there that need our help.”
“So, we’re only doing a patrol on the mountain?” Sensei Williams asked.
“Yes! I believe it will be the best course of action at this time,” Mark said. “I believe it would have been exactly what Sheriff Houser would have wanted.”
Stephanie waved her hands anxiously. “Just promise you you’ll be careful. I don’t know what any of us would do without you.”
“We’ll be fine… I promise.”
Chapter 31 way of the undead
“I’m going to confront Joe,” Mark said.
The “War Room,” a large suite once used for conferences back in the early days of the hotel, a final act of Sheriff Houser before his untimely death was to remake the large conference room into his new Sheriff’s department headquarters. Around the time of the Sheriff’s death, renovations around the Pine View Hotel were taken a bit further: some of the equipment from the command post was moved, along with desks, tables, and chairs. A the corner of the room, on a small folding table, a working CB radio was to be constantly monitored, keeping an open channel for possible distressed broadcasts from any nearby survivors.
Mark slid in and pulled up a folding chair. “Just before dark tonight I need everyone’s help. I’ll be going into town alone.” Mark stood up and placed a sheet of corkboard on the wall as he continued to decorate the headquarters.
Tyler wiped his nose. “Mark, you can’t go alone. What if something happens to you?”
“Only I can finish this. I’m the only one who can infiltrate town and bring down Joe and the Outlaws. I’ve survived out there before.”
A few rooms down, through an empty hallway, Stephanie led a small group of survivors in starting some much needed painting and renovating. Using recently salvaged supplies, Stephanie began to put a fresh coat of shiny white paint on the walls of her and Mark’s very own bedroom. With every stroke, she dreamt about the day a cure could be found, knowing only at that point they would truly be together forever, perhaps even eventually getting married and able to live a normal, affectionate life together. Despite of what his men thought about going after Joe alone, Mark felt that strategy, preparation, as well as implementation, along with a great follow through were all going to be the key to his success. Dressed from head-to-toe in his all black ninja outfit, Mark picked up the old dusty belt with its .40-caliber ammo and twin revolvers from an old trunk where it had been stored away. Mark looked it over briefly, fastening the belt buckle tightly around his waist.
In light of adding the MP7 sub-machinegun to his arsenal, the old-western style six-shooters were brought back, replacing the newer models, this was due to a crucial point in
the fighting back in town where his handgun jammed. To Mark that unexpected break in the fighting could have been more dangerous than having to constantly reload a weapon, besides Mark loved the nostalgia and appeal of the two old-timey revolvers.
Mark looked back once more, emotionless, viewing the sad expressions that’d come over his closest friends faces. “I will keep in touch. I will be back.”
As darkness crept over the horizon, a cold yet strong wind began to steadily sweep across the mountain, and then the valley below. Having tied himself off, Mark was now off the mountain, having steadily repelled down the most direct, and accurate path down the most steep, dangerous terrain. Mark was standing directly atop a small, narrow ledge. Mark dropped his feet down atop a nearby rooftop—powerfully coming to a firm stance.
In complete darkness, taking out his walkie-talkie, Mark glanced back atop the mountain where his team of deputies awaited their instructions. “Alright… you all pay attention up there,” Mark said. “I made it down.”
Staring up at the Pine View Hotel for what could possibly be the last time, the tiniest flicker of light seemed to be coming from his and Stephanie’s bedroom window. Although Stephanie was safe and comfortable high-atop the mountain, the thought of being defeated by Joe or even losing his life due to some other unexpected occurrence, this sent chills down Mark’s spine. With so much on the line, he knew that he had to remain at his best—knowing that even the slightest mistake could cost him his life. As he thought it through, Mark pulled out his katana, walking over to the tall buildings ledge. At a distance more than thirty feet above the zombie infested street, Mark lunged down blade first—coming dropping hard atop a small gathering of zombies as his blade slammed through ones skull. The zombie, along with the pile of rotting corpses collapsed under the weight of his blade. The jump from the roof would have been enough to kill a normal man, but as Mark’s feet hit the ground, aside from his immense physical prowess, the zombies had absorbed the real impact of the fall. Immediately, from the instant Mark’s feet hit the ground, and by the light of the moon, hordes more of zombies began to draw near.
Extending the katana frontward—the blade began to forcefully spin in a circular motion—cutting air sharply at every twist and turn. Once the first zombie drew near, amongst an approaching, festering horde, Mark’s blade cut it down with the next zombie falling in line to be targeted. He then cut and slashed his way through the zombie packed streets, right before escaping into a very dark and unoccupied area next to some old businesses directly across the street. Off into the night next to “The Grand Stage,” a concert hall, a stealthy escape had eluded the sight of the snarling zombie horde. Mark slipped away unnoticed. Unsure as to where exactly Joe and his gang, the Outlaws, were hiding, he began to focus, trying his best to use his heightened senses: listening for strange sounds, watching for even the slightest inkling of movement. Even the strange migratory patter of the undead seemed useful. In avoidance of being detected, before scaling a fence, the investigation of nearby businesses was underway. Having quickly decapitated an unsuspecting zombie, as it’s head dropped to the ground, Mark walked up to the closest buildings entrance—finding that it had been pried open with a crowbar.
Mark began to quietly back away from the door, having found that the entrance to the backwoods themed mini-golf courses ticket desk area was now resembling the eighteen hole golf course around back—heavily overrun with zombies that had wandered in from off of the crowded street, unabated. Strangely nothing was keeping the zombies from entering. As he went from one building to the next in search of his nemesis, Joe, it seemed the only thing found was that each door was now standing wide open, busted off their hinges. Joe was long gone, and anyone formerly occupying, or taking refuge was feared dead. It was obvious that a crowbar had forced its way through each formerly sealed tight door. Sneaking stealthily, Mark clung to the nearest buildings brick wall as zombies beneath walked unknowingly on by, foaming at the mouth and drooling. Coming to a crouch behind a bench, a pattern was starting to emerge, one that could have left every potential survivor in town in danger. Joe’s crowbar pry marks were everywhere.
Safely atop of an old arts and crafts store, the climb from the fire escape had left Mark feeling anxious. From up above the alleyway, he peered below as the grunts and growls from the wandering zombies had become louder with frustration.
“Jake to Sheriff Smith… do you read me, over,” Jake called out via his radio in an almost panic.
Mark quickly took out his walkie-talkie, turning down the volume a bit to keep from blowing his cover. “Go ahead for Sheriff Smith.”
“One of the newbies, one of the new survivors from the hardware store had secretly been bit—and started to run amuck through the hotel,” Jake warned in a panic. “Nobody knew he was sick.”
“Is everyone okay? How is everybody?” Mark asked as fear and concern seemed to tug at his will to fight amongst the zombie-plagued streets.
Static began to fill the airwaves. Over by the building’s edge, transmissions continued to fail.
“Static,” mark said angrily keying down on the mic once more. “Sheriff Smith to Deputy Jake… are you there…? I couldn’t copy that last transmission.”
Barring no response, not even the same static signal he’d heard minutes prior, the importance of the mission became tryingly important. With everyone Mark cared about potentially in danger, it was a struggle to not abandon the current mission.
The town, partially forged between both Lookout and Big Rock Mountain was becoming a deathtrap. Gravity was considerably taking its toll as zombies from atop of each surrounding mountain found it easier to venture down then up. From both mountains, down the rocky slopes and through the pines, the zombies easily found their way into the streets of Gatlinburg to run amuck.
Before the outbreak, town square use to be the former center of happiness in the once peaceful resort town, but now zombies encumbered all that could be seen. From the shadows, and carefully from off in the distance, the only thing one really could do was watch, waiting for the right time before making a move without alerting the horde.
Out from the shadows, as the zombies continued to wander aimlessly about, given the advantage of stealth near any one of five surrounding buildings at town square—Mark meticulously killed each and every unsuspecting zombie that was near with a powerful silent-but-deadly strike from his sword.
The term (mega-horde) popped into Mark’s head. Town square was far from overrun, and far from the place to be. In the shadows, many zombie corpses were left to rot. The monstrous mob of undead was now overpowering town, and they just seemed to continually be growing. Mark watched stealthily, laying low from the blood-thirsty horde that was almost shoulder length apart generating enough destructive force to tear town apart.
Judging only by moonlight, town was far too overrun with zombies for anyone to successfully journey through—even him. Mark’s only option to get to the movie theater was by roof-top. Mark readily pulled out his ninja grappling hook from the small pouch at his waist, briefly measuring distances by sight before tossing it high into the air with the metal hook coming to a rest on a nearby roof’s ledge. Mark climbed up the tall building—letting his metallic ninja climbing cleats at his feet dig well into the buildings wooden siding as he clutched the rope tightly. Once to the small cabin-like building’s roof, he decided that rooftop to rooftop was going to be the only way to get anywhere, fearing that even the massive zombie horde occupying the streets were now even too large for himself to survive head on. When at all possible, large running leaps were taken from one roof to another; however, if the jump seemed too much for even him to handle, his grappling hook would suffice enough to pick up the slack, allowing him to swing from one building to the next while he felt the increasing numbers of zombies continued to chomp at his near heel. Nearing the theater, high-above the streets, Mark’s adrenaline began to pump.
Some would say it was nervousness, but as adrenaline began to course
through his veins with every beat of his heart—supplying his muscles with explosive energy—he turned what some would consider fear to his advantage. The theater was close.
As he scoped out his target, light could be seen emanating from inside the large complex, illuminating the massive horde of zombie’s and their nasty features from out front. Mark wondered why this was the only building with a working power supply.
Mark climbed down to the back of the building he was on, letting the dark of night aide him in his mission as he snuck around the back of the lot to the theater. The small lot, contained a few straggling zombies, but it had been fairly well blocked off by well-positioned old automobiles and debris. Once into the lot, strangely, the sight of an old Army Tank could be seen taking up almost three parking spots along with the delivery truck full of supplies that was abandoned during the ambush. Further on down, trailers upon trailers, and storage-type trucks and vans full of all of towns looted supplies and goods from what could be told had been accumulating and brought back yet to be sorted.
Having become almost positive that Joe and his gang were somewhere within the old movie theater, the front of the building was far too crowded by the undead to enter in through safely.
Chapter 32 way of the undead
Entering into the movie theater was going to be a risk. What exactly could be lying in wait beyond that back door? Face to face, nearing the emergency exit, the remains of a blood-soaked zombie hung from the door with a pitchfork stuck through its head. Mark grabbed ahold of the splintered wooden handle—jerking the pitchfork out from which it had been lodged deep. The cold lifeless remains of the once undead zombie fell down to the ground. Along with immense strength and being led only by intuition, the sharp metal ends of the pitchfork were used to pry open the sealed metal door. The locking mechanism was broken clear off. Mark proceeded with caution for fear that an alarm might be triggered. Entering in slowly, given an air of uneasiness, Mark drew his twin six-shooters. No alarm, strange! Mark considered the possibilities. And it was soon realized that the door’s alarm system more than likely had already been tampered with by Joe upon breaking in. Directly from behind Mark’s revolvers, he entered into the theater—pulling the door closed while covering his tracks.
Way of the Undead Page 26
