Way of the Undead

by Boggess, Michael

  Even while dressed in an all-black ninja clan attire and crouching—creeping down the semi-bright theater—as a result of the movie playing, it seemed there was nowhere to hide. Within the many rows of seating, danger could be lurking, waiting. Nearing the end of the theater aisle, the movie could still be heard echoing loudly, and right as a shadowy figure was seen moving across the tiny window from within the projectionist’s room. Unsure if his cover was blown, it seemed possible that a gunfight could erupt at any moment. Giving Mark’s strangely heightened senses, he began to use his new gifts to his advantage, and right before exiting from under the archway out into the longer hallway: Mark used his ears for listening, listening for foot-steps or any other noises that might now be coming his way.

  “Come in… your brother… bitten!” a sketchy, distorted voice called out over the radio.

  Mark quickly jumped back into the dim-doorway next to a couple of large overflowing trash-cans, tuning down the volume of the radio. It only took a second to configure the jumbled mess of distorted words into a coherent sentence, even as the range or frequency had gone out now for a second time. Having turned off his walkie-talkie, behind the dead-aim of a revolver, Mark figured someone at the end of the long hallway surely had been alerted to the intrusion. Readying for a fight, time seemed to not be on Mark’s side. If the radio transmission resembled anything that was barely made out of it, his brother Tyler could be on the brink of death, battling infection or even on his way to becoming a zombie.

  Mark gathered his composure, once again putting it all to the back of his mind as he focused on the task at hand. The hallway remained empty and void of any movements even minutes after Mark’s near fatal mistake of leaving his radio on. Peeking around the doorway, very little indicated that it wasn’t time to make a move. In a slow jog, behind the sights of his revolvers, upon approach of the main lobby, at the end of the dim-hall he came to a stop resting on one knee. From his position, to the left, about forty feet away, a small unoccupied arcade area was lit up. Mark was reluctant to give away his mission. Mark pictured in his mind the ticket booth towards the front center of the mid-lobby, along with a large snack counter extending almost directly behind the section of wall he was now hiding behind.

  Hundreds of undead zombies in town continued to brush up against the glass in front of the theater: each a revolting mess, roaming the street, occupying the sidewalk as the light and noise from within continued to attract them to the area (like moths upon an open flame). Undead zombies beat and banged on the glass, pressing their blood covered and bruised faces against every available section of window as their eyes readily transfixed on any movement from within. As dangerous as Joe and his gang had become, Mark knew that it was only a matter of time before a deadly altercation was to take place.

  Mark tried his best to remain patient, even with revenge for the Sheriff’s death fresh on his mind, but with now having to worry whether or not Tyler was okay, it was decided a fine time to make an introduction. Before coming out shooting, with the use of his enhanced vision, having slightly moved around, it was realized that most of the front lobby was able to reflect by way of the glass windows. From the dim hallway, he crawled around a little, getting a picture of what was beyond the wall without blowing his cover.

  From behind the concession stand, an unsuspecting member of Joe’s Outlaw gang stood, dressed from head-to-toe in black and gold, the gangs’ colors. Unaware, he began to prepare the popcorn machine for popping, adding a large container of kernels into the open slot atop. Mark watched the reflection closely—waiting for his chance to strike. Mark’s all black ninja costume allowed him to stealthily blend in to the shadows surrounding him. Unaware that anyone was watching, the gang member was occupied. Given the opening needed, the dark-figure jetted out around the corner towards the counter, running swiftly with the Outlaw still unaware that anyone was approaching.

  Mark hurtled the counter—a powerful jump kick was brought crashing down upon the gangster’s head. Knocked to the ground and unconscious, Mark took him by the arm and dragged him towards the fountain machine—handcuffing him to an outstretched steel pipe.

  Undead zombies continued to become more and more aggressive: the whole altercation seemed to cause greater angst and unrest, each zombie began to further scratch and pound at the glass. Mark thoroughly searched the gangster’s pockets for any weapons, finding none. Contemplating his next move, a roll of duct tape was taken out from under the register. A long strand of tape was wrapped a couple of times around covering the gangster’s mouth. Mark took off his ninja hood, and sighed in relief. Back out in the lobby, given the use of his powerful auditory sensory ability, by focusing, laughing could be heard if only from a distance coming towards him from down one of the dim hallways to his immediate left.

  Mark quickly ran and dived back behind the counter as two of the Outlaws spotted him while exiting out of a movie. The two gangsters drew their pistols—firing drunkenly and irresponsibly at the vicinity where Mark had ran for cover. There was no more need for subtlety. Mark hurried, placing on a small portable gas-mask he had kept in the pouch at his backside. Ducking behind the counter, next to the still unconscious gang member, a canister of tear-gas was readied for use. Each gangster continued the gun-fire, easing their way over to the middle of the lobby to take cover behind a couple of large painted stone pillars. The two began to empty entire clips—even shattering the glass case out of the concession stand that contained all the different types of snacks and candy. But before pulling the pin on a canister of tear-gas, glass and popcorn fell down around him as a few stray shot’s busted out the pane surrounding the popper as well. Mark continued to duck behind the counter. Mark pulled the pin—tossing it in the direction of the gun-fire. The lobby began to fill up with noxious gas, and after a small lapse in gun-fire, Mark stood up and fired a couple of shots at the gang members, assuring that they couldn’t retreat. As desperation began to set in—the two Outlaws began to step out from behind the pillars firing blindly as the gas began to take their eyesight.

  From inside the gas-mask—behind the might of one of his six-shooters—the first shot hit the gangster right between the eyes. Just as Mark pulled the trigger, firing another shot, a tug could be felt on his leg. As he pulled the trigger, he had been unaware that the burning fumes from the gas had revived the gang member hand-cuffed at his feet. The shot strayed a few inches to the left. The bullet missed wide shattering the front glass allowing zombies to flood angrily into the theater. Mark kicked away the gangster at his feet, just before fleeing to safety.

  Within the smoke filled confines of the main lobby—Mark frantically searched for the door up. Zombies ferociously blended in with the noxious fumes—shambling in through the shattered glass. In the blind, amongst the hazy fog, the undead began to devour the gangster left blinded and choking by the gaseous fumes. In search of the lobby for a flight of stairs, along with the projection room, the search had been trying. Through Mark’s gas-mask, as smoke rolled on past, the door was found to be only a few feet away. Nearing the door, cries for help sent chills. Somehow the undead had found the man handcuffed behind the concessions counter. Mark stopped, cautiously evaluating what could be waiting. Before entering in, preparing to journey up the stairs, a trashcan was picked up before the contents emptied onto the floor. Using the steel receptacle as a shield—he stormed through the flimsy wooden door and was met by immediate gunfire.

  Mark shielded himself, aiming his revolver up the stairwell. Given each shot by the assailant’s gun, bullets began to impact deep into the tin metal in hand. In an instance, Mark fired a precise shot right at the thug’s head, sending him falling down the long flight of stairs, nearly rolling atop of Mark’s feet. A sense of calm came over mark. No immediate danger was somehow sensed. Mark left the metal trashcan before proceeding up the set of stairs. Six closed doors were now visible down the hallway atop the stairs. Mark was for sure which rooms were used by the projectionists, just not so sure abo
ut the room coming up on the far left. (The room stood out and seemed one of a kind.) As Mark walked down the dimly lit hallway, each door to his right side he came to was powerfully kicked open—with the inside exposed, that of old, unoccupied projection rooms were visible.

  Aside from the unusual noise that had been heard while standing outside the fifth and final door, it seemed that someone was inside. Taking out another canister of tear-gas—he pulled the pin—kicked open the door and tossed the canister in the room. He then stepped back down the hall—dropping down to one knee—aiming one of his Colt .45 revolvers at the entrance. Profuse coughing could be heard, someone or something was choking on the fumes. As the canister emptied, the room’s two occupants, a couple of Outlaws, dressed in black and gold ran out into the hall blinded. Many footsteps were now sounding, coming up the stairwell. At the furthest door on the left, it was the one area where Joe was figured to be held up in, cowered away, ignoring the pleas from his own men blindly banging on the door for help.

  In fear for his own life, Mark stepped into one of the projection rooms and closed the door behind him. Beyond the now closed door, it was no surprise to hear the grunts and groans as the starving undead passed by. Even with the flimsy wooden door closed tightly behind him, the thin wall surrounding seemed not much of barrier for the tortured screams coming from beyond.

  Alone, Mark felt trapped, listening as the undead zombies began to scratch and scrape their way past crowding the hallway. As more and more zombies began to crowd into the cramped hallway, the undead fought with one another, pushing their way through, attempting to make it into the middle of the feeding frenzy at the end of the hall.

  Quickly, Mark created a barricade, placing any and everything that could be found against the door; it still could be seen buckling. Tables and chairs began to shake. Seemingly held up in the projectionist’s room with nowhere to go, the search for Joe and now a way out was underway. Uncertainty as to how long the barrier was going to hold was a major concern. As Mark searched around the dim-tiny room for a way out—each table and chair shook more and more violently. Searching all over, as a small amount of light slowly began to enter in from the hall, the only way out became obvious. Mark pulled out his highly powerful MP-7 submachine gun—firing into the tiny projection window. The gunshots, along with the sound of the glass shattering only made the salivating undead zombies attempts at getting in more relentless. As zombies began to enter in—Mark turned and let loose a barrage of gunfire attempting to slow the first wave.

  Blinded by the glare from the projector, a brief glance down into the theater was made. Assured, no zombies were in wait. Before he could go effortlessly through the window, something aggressively grabbed ahold of one of his legs. Mark began to kick off the undead hands convening around his ankle. With their only source of food now plummeting nearly head-first to the stadium seating below, each grotesque zombie could only watch in anger. Mark painstakingly made his way towards one of the back exits. Unaware of Mark’s presence, Joe had awakened to the sound of a couple of his men pleading to get in, being eaten alive. Listening to the sounds of the undead, he stood by the door with his pistol in hand.

  Gnawing could be heard, chomping, and munching, directly beyond the door. “I’ll take care of it later,” Joe said aloud, feeling sick and hung-over.

  Joe was unaware that his entire gang was dead; however, at the moment he didn’t even really care to find out who might still be alive. He considered them all weak to begin with, a detriment to his new found strength.

  Joe’s studio apartment, atop the theater once seemed a great stronghold, almost a safe-house for his gang the Outlaws. What could have gone wrong? And why did the power just go out all of a sudden? Joe wondered.

  From atop of the theater, having cut Joe and his gang’s power supply, disabling that of around five high-powered generators, Mark repelled down outside the apartment, prepared to surmount an offensive assault against the man who killed his friend, the Sheriff.

  “I’m back!” Mark shouted as he burst through the window with his twin six-shooters drawn, kicking aside wood and glass at his feet. Using the cover of darkness, he stealthily stepped away from the window and out of the moonlight that was now shining through a mere quarter of the apartment. Cloaked in his all black ninja clan attire, the darkness of the surrounding room was his ally, allowing Mark the upper hand as the surprise disturbance left Joe reluctant to make a move.

  Mark was for certain that the gang leader, Joe was now held up in the apartment, but he was unsure of how to proceed to take out the super powered foe.

  With his six-shooters aimed towards the bedroom door, he waited patiently for a more then violent altercation.

  After less than a minute of waiting, Mark decided to speak: “Joe! Gang leader of the Outlaws… come out with your hands up!”

  At first the apartment seemed empty. Given the exception that someone could be hiding out in the back room, without warning, two figures stepped out from the pitch-black area.

  Mark’s eyes further adjusted to the darkness, Joe could be seen entering the room hiding behind a hostage. “Let the hostage go! Surrender!” Mark said. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

  With a pillowcase draped over her head—covering the hostage’s entire face and tied tightly around her throat—the twin Colt .45’s drawn continued to be trained on Joe’s head as he held a switchblade firmly to her throat.

  As Joe clutched his hostage tightly, one arm extended up under her arm-pit as his hand wrapped around the back of her neck. The female hostage flailed her arms loosely.

  “Put down your weapons or I’ll kill her,” Joe shouted angrily pressing the knife closer to his hostage’s throat.

  Without saying a word, Mark complied, placing his two six-shooters on the ground at his feet just before setting down the submachine gun that had been strapped to his backside.

  Seconds after placing his guns on the ground before setting his katana all the way down, from across the room, the gang leader’s intentions could be seen. Joe was now easing his way over to a pistol sitting on an old wooden table. Mark had to make a decision; he knew that if Joe reached the gun he would immediately be killed, perhaps eventually alongside the hostage. Just as Joe reached for the pistol—Mark threw one of his knives—slicing the gang leaders hand at the knuckle.

  “Don’t even try it,” Mark said.

  Joe tossed the hostage hard to the ground, continuing towards the gun. In danger, another knife was tossed—this time just barely missing as Joe stepped back from the table and out of harm’s way. Mark drew his katana sword—charging the full length of the room in mere seconds. Just as Mark neared, Joe jumped out of the way, placing the hostage back in his adversary’s path. Joe retreated slightly. He picked up his crowbar, the exact same one that he’d used numerous occasions around town to create havoc. Gripped firmly and raised high-above his head, the weapon was prepared for use.

  Mark took the fight to Joe, delivering a powerful overhand strike. The sword’s long blade caused Joe to stagger to keep his footing. Joe frantically parried the strike with use of his crowbar. As Joe backed away, anything he could find was used as a weapon: a glass vase off the nightstand was slung, and an old sculpture sitting around in the apartment was thrown; anything of use to injure the mysterious man in black was a potential weapon.

  But as Mark intricately extended his blade out front—the glass began to shatter and fall to the floor as he precisely blocked every object tossed.

  “What do you want?” Joe shouted, cornered with nowhere to go.

  “You and your men killed my best friend, the Sheriff. I want nothing more than to see you hang,” Mark said, delivering another powerful strike from his sword.

  Within the darkness, the fighting commenced. Sparks began to flicker as the force of steel upon steel—blade upon crowbar ignited. With every strike from Mark’s katana—Joe somehow at the last second managed to block (swinging wildly in counter). Mark could tell, even with
Joe off his guard, he was just as dangerous as ever. Joe was the only other survivor he knew of to be enhanced on account of the zombie plague. As anger-fueled as Mark’s onslaught had become, at the opportune moment, Joe was able to take the fight to the ground, somehow tackling the mysterious man in black, taking away his highly effective arsenal of martial arts kicks.

  Falling hard to the ground, rolling around on the floor, Mark tossed his katana to the side. Atop of the masked man—Joe angrily dropped his head down—delivering a powerful head-but. Having partially absorbed the impact, Mark rolled around trying to free himself. As Mark started to reach for one of his knives, his own blood could be felt beginning to trickle down his forehead from underneath his mask. But as the two struggled to get the upper hand, and as the knife strapped to Mark’s thigh was almost in reach—Joe landed a powerful straight punch with the use of his freehand.

  The punch caused Mark to forget for a second what was happening—almost causing him to lose the will to fight. At the last second before Joe could throw another punch—Mark forced him away by use of a well-placed elbow to his jaw. The slightest break in the struggle now gave Mark enough of an opening to get his knee up as Joe continued to force himself back down atop. As Joe began to swing his arms violently, trying his best to land anything that might connect, Mark used his other leg to deliver a quick kick to Joe’s jaw.