Mountain Sickness: A Zombie Novel

by Frank Martin

  9

  It was supposed to be an epic day. Storm of the century, they said. Kenny Parker didn't believe it though. He heard weathermen predict the snow-pocalypse before when it was really nothing more than a few flurries. But his friends bought into the hype and wanted to ditch class to go boarding. So with the bribe of smoking a blunt on the way, his friends threw Kenny in the car and took the long drive from Montrose to Telluride. That was four hours ago.

  Now Kenny was sitting alone at the top of the last run before the trails emptied out at the base of Mountain Village's gondola. He wore his usual waterproof snowboarding shell, hat and goggles, but not the thermal underwear most people on the mountain considered a must. He just never felt the need to. Kenny had never been cold before, even in almost zero degree weather.

  But now, as he sat looking down at the merging area where all the trails came together, Kenny's body was crumpled into a ball to keep itself from freezing. The whirling snow completely encompassed him, chilling his arms and legs into icicles. He'd only been sitting for a minute, but his board already had a solid layer of frost covering up to his boots.

  The situation wouldn't be as bad if Kenny had his friends sitting alongside him. But somewhere amidst the heavy snowfall they all got split up. He turned left. They turned right. And now here he was, alone and cold in a blizzard trying to figure out what was going on inside Mountain Village.

  Normally he would've just boarded to the bottom and waited for his friends at the lift line. But as Kenny got further down the hill, he noticed something off about the crowd of people gathered around the base. The area was usually a meeting ground for ski school and guests wanting to head up the mountain together. The falling snow did make it hard to see, but it looked as if people were running all around, chasing each other back and forth. Almost like a panic.

  The whole scene was strange. So despite nearly freezing to death, Kenny plopped himself down on top of the run to figure out what was going on. He was too far away to hear anything, and the roar of the wind didn't make it any easier. All the while, other skiers and boarders whizzed past him on their way down the mountain. They didn't seem too concerned about the activity down below. Or maybe they just didn't see it.

  After a few more minutes of uncontrollable shivering, Kenny convinced himself he was just being paranoid. He must've still been high. Damn that was some good weed.

  Kenny summoned up the strength to force his frozen ass off of the snow. But as he rose to a standing position, a small break in the endless snowfall finally allowed him to clearly peer down to the bottom of the run. For a brief moment, the entire Mountain Village courtyard was revealed, and Kenny realized his fears were justified. Behind the ironically placed "caution" and "slow" signs, Mountain Village base was nothing short of a warzone. A portion of the crowd had turned into a mob, rioting and attacking anything in sight. Bodies, some moving and some not, littered streets and lift lines like garbage tossed to the ground. Streaks of blood painted the snow, radiating out amongst the crisp whiteness. It was an ongoing massacre, and Kenny had no desire to join it.

  It also seemed he wasn't the only one. As soon as the break in the snow displayed the carnage for all to see, the skiers and boarders that had been blindly charging straight into it stopped dead in their tracks. Together with Kenny, they all stood on the side of the mountain, utterly speechless as to what they were witnessing.

  But Kenny’s stoned mind didn't stay harrowing on the grimly sight for long. The rapid snowfall picked up again, and he immediately began wondering, thinking, planning as to what he should do next. He couldn't go down there. He would just become another victim to the chaos. But where then? Try and traverse over to the other side of the mountain? Bypass the village and hope the town was any better? Maybe he could take off his board and hike up to the gondola's mid-mountain station. His friends weren’t feeling well so that’s probably where they went anyway. He could just wait out whatever this craziness was in there with them.

  Kenny turned his head, hoping to see the gondola’s path up to the station, when a lady skier tumbling down the mountain suddenly slammed into his legs. The collision violently locked all their limbs and equipment as one while the skier's momentum brought them over and down the mountain together. In a tangled ball, Kenny and the strange skier tumbled and spun all the way down the run, twisting and contorting each other's bodies as they fell.

  When the entwined couple finally came to a stop, Kenny moaned and opened his eyes in a massive amount of pain. He was sure something was broken, but couldn't locate exactly where on his body the excruciating agony was coming from. He was lying on his back with his face covered in snow, but he still managed to look over and catch a glimpse of the skier, whose legs were still latched onto his own.

  Kenny wanted to say something, but didn't know whether to curse her off or ask if she was all right. Either way, he soon realized she probably didn't have the strength for any kind of response. She was barely moving in a kind of weak twitch. Kenny wanted to push her off and start running before the crazies smelled fresh meat, but his arms were too bruised to move.

  The woman then started rolling over with her head down, slowly reaching her arms up and onto Kenny’s chest. Like talons, her gloveless, bare hands latched onto his jacket as the woman clawed her way up on top of him. While she slowly inched her way up his body, Kenny wondered how she was even still moving her frostbitten, mangled fingers. But somehow they continued to grasp onto him and pull the woman's head closer to his face.

  Kenny curiously watched on, but remained worried as to what the skier was actually doing. She didn't say a word. No moans or groans of pain. Just continued to inch closer to him with her head down and her icicle fingers scratching up his jacket.

  Just as her head was about to reach his, Kenny finally decided he wanted her off. He prepared himself to move when, in a sudden rush of energy, the woman quickly looked up, springing herself towards him. The lunge happened so fast, but in that moment Kenny caught a glimpse of the woman's pale, horrifying face. Her eyes were a dark, veiny red and her mouth was spread wide open like that of a savage creature.

  Kenny had neither the time nor the readiness to act, and the woman sunk her ravenous teeth straight into the center of his face. The unsuspecting snowboarder let out a scream as his attacker chomped down even harder into his cold skin. The skier's teeth easily pierced through the flesh, digging deeper and deeper with every thrust of her jaw. Kenny continued to shrill and shout while flailing about, trying to push the woman off. But she continued to hold a firm bite onto his face, even as the blood oozed out from the wound and dripped down between her lips.

  ***

  The time for simply listening to the radio had long since passed, and Peter was now pacing around his office with a cell phone all but glued to his ear. From the sanitation department to the fire station and everywhere in between, there were very few people who didn't get at least one phone call from Peter within the past hour.

  For the most part, Telluride and Mountain Village respected and enjoyed their own autonomy. But while one could certainly function without the other, the different communities understood that they had to work together if they were to flourish. And during a crisis, which they were both finding out together, it was essential to pool their resources if they were to even survive.

  So for the first time since establishing Mountain Village, Peter had taken direct command over many aspects of Telluride's emergency services. The region's personnel was just stretched too thin to handle every situation at once. At first he took the responsibility as a badge of honor, but that pride quickly evaporated as the job proved more overwhelming than he possibly imagined.

  Peter removed the phone from his ear and ended the call with Marshal Walker, who just informed him that in the past hour Telluride's nine-one-one center received more calls for violent crimes than they had in the past year. It was a statistic Peter just didn't know how to comprehend, let alone react to. He was in complete and utt
er shock. In less than a morning his small town had literally dove into chaos.

  Like a stupefied zombie, Peter strolled over to the chair behind his desk and fell back into the seat defeated. The marshal told him that he would continue to do everything he could to maintain some semblance of order, but he just didn't have enough manpower to deal with every act of violence being reported. It was hard for Walker to admit, but the small force charged with safeguarding the community would ultimately fail at their job. They were being overrun.

  What started out as a serious health problem had somehow devolved into an all out attack. The amount of patients pouring into the health centers was enough cause for concern. But now a mob of violence had stretched every resource to the brink of collapse. Even the mountain's ski patrol was being swamped by turmoil. Throw in the intense blizzard that continued to pound the valley for hours and Peter was literally experiencing a perfect storm of disaster. He didn't know if it was the weather or what, but something was making people crazy. And it actually scared him.

  For almost a full minute, Peter just sat in his seat, completely paralyzed by indecisive fear. What was he supposed to do? What could he do? Call in for help from Denver? Homeland Security? The National Guard? Telluride was a small town almost completely isolated from the rest of the country. How soon could they possibly get here to stop the downward spiral of anarchy?

  Peter spun around in his seat to face the large window behind him. Weather forecasts indicated the rate of snowfall had actually increased in the past hour, but if that was true Peter didn't notice. All he could tell was that it was snowing like hell outside, and he couldn't see a damn thing through the glass.

  Normally from his office he could see the top peak of the ski resort and a small portion of Mountain Village's shops. But now he was almost grateful that he couldn't make out the rows of buildings below. Reports coming in didn't paint a pretty picture of what the Village's courtyard had become. And a small, shameful part of Peter was glad the storm obscured the violence from his view. Otherwise, he'd have to witness firsthand his failure to save what he worked so hard to create.

  And that's when the dreadful reality of the situation finally sunk in. That's when Peter Hayden remembered that he had more than just Mountain Village to watch over. He also had a family.

  In a frantic panic, Peter fumbled the phone as he quickly tried to dial his wife's number. Ryan's ski school should’ve been over soon, and given the situation all Peter could hope for was that Sarah somehow found a safe place to hide the children until everything was over. There was nothing else he could do. But Cheryl was still at home and he needed to know she was all right.

  The phone started ringing and Peter could consciously feel his heartbeat grow more intense with every second. The phone rang again. And again. And again. And Peter's rapid, intense breaths quieted down to a whisper, hoping and praying that she would answer.

  A soft voice, harsh from crying, finally emerged through the speaker. "Hello?"

  Peter released an exhausted sigh, and it was only then that he realized he had been holding his breath. "Cheryl honey, are you safe? Is everything all right there?"

  An outburst of relief poured out of the phone. "Peter? Thank God! There's someone at our door. I don't know who it is."

  And as quickly as Peter was relieved to hear his wife's voice, his entire being was overcome by fear. "What do they want?"

  "I don't know. It's a man, but he hasn't said anything. He just keeps pounding on it over and over again."

  Peter then started to notice a subtle noise in the background of the phone call. Almost like the random beating of a drum. "Cheryl, whatever you do, don't answer the door. Don't even try to talk to him. Just go upstairs and hide."

  The background noise started to grow louder, and Peter could hear the fear in his wife's voice increase along with it. "I asked him what he wants but he didn't answer. Just keeps pounding the...no...now he's...he's kicking it, Peter! He's kicking the door!"

  The thought of his wife's imminent danger unleashed a floodgate of adrenaline inside Peter's head. His heart began jumping out of his chest, almost distracting him from trying to think. He had to do something. Anything! But he was helpless to do it himself behind his office desk. He couldn't get there in time. No one could. Trying to reach Marshal Walker again or calling nine-one-one would only waste time, and what could they do anyway? This attack was just one of hundreds they had to deal with.

  No. As much as he hated to admit it, there would be no one coming to save his wife. Her only chance was to run. "Cheryl, listen to me. I need you to get clothes on to go outside. A jacket. Hat. Gloves. Whatever."

  The fear in her words had become too much to hide and started to take over her voice. "I...I tried calling for help but..."

  "They can't do anything. You have to get out of there. Now."

  She tried to speak, but the pounding had grown so loud it moved up from the background to dominate the phone call. Cheryl's voice had become just a faint echo behind the repeated thud of the man's foot against the door. "OK. OK. I'll go out the back."

  The tension remained through his body, but with a planned course of action Peter at least felt more confident than he had. Cheryl's voice had left the phone and was replaced by the creaking of a closet door. Then a zipper. Good, Peter thought. She's ready to go. He heard a light tapping of feet, most likely as Cheryl moved towards the back door. Then her voice returned. "Have you heard from Ryan? I hope he's..."

  Her sentence was suddenly cut off by a loud and final bang, surely the sound of the door breaking off the hinges. Peter's heart sank into his chest as the explosive noise was immediately followed by his wife's cries of despair. "God, no! Please...stop!"

  He screamed her name, hoping to get a response. But the only sound on the other end was the quick rustling of a scuffle followed by a solid knock as her phone dropped to the floor. Then there was only silence and Peter's jaw fell in complete and utter disbelief.

  For a moment he still held the phone up to his ear, listening intently for any sound at all. But there was nothing. She was gone. Dead or otherwise. And given the circumstances he could only assume the worst.

  Peter clutched the phone at the side of his head, squeezing it with everything he had. And when that did nothing to dissolve his anger, he wound up and threw it against the wall, shattering the small device into a hundred pieces.

  The action was meant to subside his anger, but all it did was force Peter to drop his head into his hands and burst into tears. He cried like he'd never cried before, and it honestly surprised him. He didn't even know he was capable of such sadness.

  But the tears eventually stopped. Not because he ran out of them but because they had to. Peter was still in charge of fixing this mess and he had to take some action, any action, to make things right. That's when he realized it was time to declare a state of emergency. The next step after that was figuring out how.

  ***

  Malcolm was at the end of his rope. Currently he sat behind the desk in his tiny, cramped office listening to Georgia go on and on about people being sick and violence across the town. She hadn't played a song for a solid hour now and just continued to take a never-ending chain of complaining callers.

  Mal didn't see what the big deal was. People just get crazy in a crisis. Sure the storm was bad, working people into a frenzy, but sooner or later the weather would clear. Then the clean up would begin like nothing ever happened.

  All you had to do was stay inside and lock your doors. Let the crazies be crazy and nothing would happen to you. But people aren't that smart. They want to go outside and play in the snow. Then they wonder why they're sick and people are getting violent. It's a fucking blizzard for Christ sakes. Mother nature's the most violent one of all. Hell, Malcolm wasn't feeling well himself, but you wouldn't hear him complaining. What's the point? Just suck it up and get your job done.

  Which at the moment proved to be increasingly difficult for Malcolm. It would be great if
Georgia focused on cheering people up. Played some good time music or something. But no. She had to keep the people focused on the doom and gloom of the day. Thinks she's Barbara fucking Walters reporting the town news like it matters.

  Malcolm would’ve pulled her the first moment she started playing up to a scared caller. But he had no one to fall back on but himself. No other DJs. No call screeners. Not even a goddamn intern.

  So there he sat, huddled into his miniscule desk in his janitor's closet of an office, leaning over a hot cup of ramen. He wasn't eating it. In fact, his stomach was in shambles. But the steam from the soup helped clear his sinuses and soothe his throat. Which he would need if he were to take over for Georgia.

  He really didn't want to but damn! She's fucking killing the audience. Every caller had another pathetic sob story about being attacked. TORO had a worldwide audience now. Nobody wanted to hear about this petty local crime bullshit. What was he doing listening to her on the radio from his office anyway? He was the station's fucking manager. He should be in the sound booth controlling everything she did and everything she said. Why did she get to pick the callers? Why did she control the music? From the moment he met her Malcolm had given that hippie, punk bitch way too long a leash. And it was time to reel her in.

  Malcolm stood from his desk, throwing the thermal blanket curled around his shoulders to the floor, and stormed out of his office ready to take the station over for himself.

  10

  Stuck in disbelief, Chris raised the goggles to the top of his head but nothing changed. He was still witnessing the same onslaught of horror and carnage he did with them on. Once one of the best lunch stops in Telluride, Joseph's had been transformed into a human slaughterhouse.