November 8, 8:30 p.m.
Stumbling through the dark, Barry Ponder continued along a game trail of some kind. He had no idea how long he’d been walking this path and his legs burned now with the labor of his travels. Barry knew he needed to cry, but tears didn’t come. He’d crushed the pain into a tiny, bitter pill and swallowed it deep inside of him. He’d done so when his mother died, and he had done it again now, with the passing of his father. Not expressing the sorrow that comes with the enormous loss of a loved one has made many a man a bitter, angry soul, but that was just the way of it. This coping mechanism isn’t a choice one can make; it’s embedded deep inside of who you are, and Barry was an old soul at twelve years of age.
Branches scraped against him as he felt his way along through the thick, unforgiving terrain. The smoke dissipated as he made ground away from the fire below him and eventually, the trail began to narrow and his path became smaller, more condensed, as he traveled.
The moon guided his way. Faint and ghostly as the pale light was, it made travel possible, and Barry stayed the course of the moonlit path as he plunged ahead, hoping to find the gravel road that wound to the top of Glassy Mountain. Ascending the mountain was all he could think to do, if you could call it thinking; his mind felt numb, fuzzy and blank. The narrow, inclining path seemed to Barry as if it was somehow steering him towards the moon itself.
The horrible image of those things taking down his father seamed seared into the backs of his eyelids. He dreaded the night now, knowing sleep would again be a living hell, as it had been for so long after his mother’s passing. Strangely, a thought crossed his numb mind: I’m an orphan now. If he managed to survive this hellish night and get off the mountain alive, where would he go? What would become of him? He decided he didn’t care either way, because he had to make it out of this situation to find out, and that was all that mattered to him. “I will survive this,” he said to himself, gazing up the trail at the stars through the forest canopy. “I have to.”
The trail became steeper and his legs burned more and more with each step. Then, over his labored breathing, Barry heard a faint noise and stopped, listening hard to recognize it. As his mind slowly began to unclutter, it finally dawned on him: the sound was the white noise of a river tumbling and churning somewhere over the grade of the ridge. He remembered the river. He’d seen people wading and fishing in it earlier, some carrying stringers of rainbow and brown trout as he and his dad drove around the mountain sightseeing the day before. The road!
Moving with renewed vigor, Barry quickened his pace, plowing through the briars, laurel thickets and blackberry bushes that tore at his flesh as he made his way through the thick terrain, his heart pounding with each step. The noise of the churning river grew louder, the brush and trees began to thin out, and as Barry topped the ridge, he found himself looking over a vast, dark mountainside with a clear view for what seemed to be eternity. As far as the eye could see, moonlit pines ran slantwise, heaven to earth. Barry stood atop a granite ledge; the moonlit hue of the granite glowed in contrast to the dark forest behind him.
When he looked down at the river, a hundred feet below, the moonlight gleamed from the ripples and whitewash of the rapids, which gave way to the deep, calm water of the plunge pools. Across the river, and clear to the horizon to the north and east of him, were huge stands of pine and timber. Knobs of craggy rock thrust up from the land below. A fallen star grew bright and died, and Barry marveled at the silence of it as he scanned the night sky.
Far away, a huge rock wall rose from the hills and he saw the glimmer of the wet cliff face that the mountain was named after. As he stared at the towering granite wall, he knew that that was his destination, his chance to live, to survive.
He studied the steep drop-off, looking for a feasible route to get to the river. He spotted something of a trail where water runoff had etched a steep, jagged path down to the bottom, and, seeing no other option, he reluctantly decided to take it. He carefully scaled the granite ledge and settled on a sloping shelf of rock. If he hopped down, he would land on his intended path.
Barry carefully placed a foot on the slope, and put his weight on it to test it out. Although the path was mostly slick red clay and steep, very steep, he thought if he was extremely careful, he could make it down to the river. He saw no other option as he gazed again at the churning river below. Don’t look down, he told himself. He went to place his other foot on the rugged ravine.
It was a move he never completed. He felt his feet fly out from under him, and the next thing Barry knew, he was falling.
Fear clawed at his throat and he heard an ugly cry…his own.
His shoulder slammed into a rotten log and the thing went to pieces on impact. Again, he was falling; he struck again, fell again, this time feet first, facing a gravely slope that threw him off into the air once more. He landed, then slid on a sheer rock face that rounded inward and let him fall again, screaming and flailing.
Brush growing out from the side of the mountain caught him for just a moment, but he ripped through it, clawing desperately for a grip, but to no avail; then he plunged feet-first into a deep pool in the churning waters of the river below.
It took him a moment to realize he was underwater, then he struck out trying to swim. Something grabbed his pants leg and pure terror came over him as he kicked wildly to shake loose. Something gave way under the water, and he heard a snapping sound.
Barry shot to the surface, emerging at the spillway of the pool. He gasped for air and a wave hit him full in the mouth, almost strangling him, while the force of the water swept him between the rocks and over a six-foot fall, screaming all the while.
The current pushed him forward, and he went down another spillway before his feet finally found purchase in the shallow water. Even then, stepping on a slippery, moss-covered rock, he fell again. The current washed him down the river into another pool, this one covered by arching trees. Kicking and flailing, he finally caught hold of a root and tugged himself out of the water.
There was a dark hole under the roots of a huge old sycamore that leaned over the water, and instinct made him crawl into it before he collapsed. Exhausted and scared, he sucked in air, finally catching his breath as his lungs burned with the struggle. For a long time, he felt nothing, heard nothing.
Shivering, shaking, he balled up in that hole under the roots of the sycamore. His shoulder throbbed, but he could still move it. He knew it wasn’t broken. As the shock of it all began to clear, he realized that he wasn’t badly hurt. Using his elbows, he worked his way out of the hole and pulled himself up by clinging to the sycamore.
The forest along the river was open, empty of underbrush, but the huge old sycamore made almost a solid roof overhead. Looking up, he could see no stars or moon through the massive canopy. His teeth rattled from the cold, for his shirt was torn to shreds, his pants were ragged and he was wet clean through.
His shoulder throbbed with a dull, heavy beat, and he squinted against the pain, then looked at his hands and winced. When he had hit the face of the granite cliff, he’d torn nearly all the skin off his left hand while desperately grabbing for a hold. One fingernail was missing and it sent jolts of hot pain down the length of his arm as he crawled up the bank and into the dark forest. Even though he was just a boy, he knew that to stop here was to die.
He had to keep moving. He had to live.
November 8th, 8:00 p.m.
There were more of the undead than he had bullets. They had managed to reach the helicopter, only to find it overrun with the walking corpses from Camp Ole Indian. Gary shot his way through the corpses attempting to reach the bird, but now found himself engulfed by a crowd of stomachs that knew only an endless hunger. There was no way out for him now, but Frank could still make it to the Fish and Game office.
“Frank!” Gary yelled as he flung his service pistol over the crowd of undead closing in on him. The pistol landed at Frank’s feet and he snatched it up. Shooting with both
guns now, he made for the building, but stopped as he looked back desperately at Gary, not wanting to leave him to his grisly fate.
“Run, Frank! I’m done for. Get the hell out of here while you still can and radio for help!” Gary called out in a determined but pain-wracked voice as the undead closed in on him. One of them bit into his forearm and Gary turned and punched the thing in the temple, pushed backwards with all he had and dragged the damn thing with him toward the overlook railing, deciding that taking his own life by falling to his death was a better option than being eaten alive.
If I’m going down, I’m taking one of these sons of bitches with me.
He punched feverishly at the thing’s head. A chunk of his flesh gave way, and the thing momentarily lost its grip. Gary backpedaled and almost fell. The thing immediately lunged again, but Gary ducked under its outstretched arms, grabbed hold of the back of its shirt and slung it to the ground.
A shrieking, blood-smeared woman slammed into Gary and staggered him sideways a few steps before they collided with the railing of the overlook. Gary managed to get a hand under her chin, forcing her snapping jaws away. With his back against the steel railing, and the crowd of undead closing in on him, Gary put his foot on her chest and kicked her backwards.
He pulled his work knife from its leather sheath as she lunged again. Gary drove the blade through her left eye in a spray of gore, caught hold of her slight frame and heaved the infected woman over the railing. Then he threw his head back and roared like a madman. “Come on, you sons of bitches! Is that all you’ve got?”
Gary then crossed over the rail onto the thin lip of cliff beyond it, glancing down at the forest and the boulders far below him at the bottom of the deep gorge just in time to see the woman slam through the burning forest canopy and disappear.
Taking a deep breath, he called out to the abominations that were following Frank as he made for the Fish and Game office. “Come on, you rotten bastards! Come and get it!” he yelled at them, holding his bleeding forearm. “Come on!”
The things veered his way now that Frank had closed the door and escaped into the building. Gary had their full attention, and they fell in with the crowd of corpses already coming for him. “That’s right, come on!” Gary taunted them, slapping the railing.
The closest of the three lurched at him, but instead of grabbing Gary, the thing toppled over the railing and fell over the ledge, his raspy howl fading as he plummeted toward the ground. Two other abominations proved more nimble, separating from the crowd and closing in quickly. At the last second, Gary dropped down and grabbed hold of their legs, clamping down hard for a good grip. An insane laugh erupted from him as he slid off the mountain, pulling the things along with him beneath the railing.
Chapter 5
November 8, 8:00 p.m.
As the bark of the shotgun faded away, Brayden James eyed the frantic woman in the wrecked truck. Through the glare of the big lights, he realized she was holding what appeared to be a bloody, naked infant. He counted three abominations lying near the truck, dead as hell, he thought, eyeing the brain matter and gore strewn across the truck, peppering the trees around the wreck. He wondered if the infected had gotten to her. Is she even worth saving? A small part of him wanted to get back in his truck and leave her there. She’ll only slow me down…
From inside the cab, the woman called out to him. “Are…are they dead?” Her frail voice was shaky and scared, the infant in her arms was squalling, and Brayden knew he had to help her if he could. Damn.
Against his better judgment, Brayden carefully approached the truck, keeping a wary eye on the three dead abominations lying across the hood and searching the edge of the road for any movement as he walked toward the truck. The gravel crunched underfoot with each cautious step, sounding as if he were walking in deep snow as he approached her window. “Move back.”
He raised the rifle and with the butt of the stock, he shattered what was left of the glass. He reached in to take the baby, but the woman drew back, her eyes darting with fear, and Brayden’s patience wore thin. “Look, lady, we don’t have time for this. Come on, we have to get out of here fast!”
Then he noticed the umbilical cord still attached to the thrashing infant in her arms. His eyes narrowed as they fell upon the blood and placenta on the seats and floorboard. He realized the woman had just given birth as one of those things was trying like hell to get to her. Astounded, he shook his head. “Jesus, lady! Come on, we have to get out of here, now.”
He drew a knife from his belt. “Here, let me help you.”
Brayden reached in and cut through the umbilical cord, pinching the loose end between his fingers. She reluctantly passed the baby to him as it squalled nonstop.
Wanda crawled out of the shattered window and fell to the gravel road. As the shock and adrenaline began to wear off, her legs felt like jelly. Her dress clung to her thighs and waist, sticky and smelling of blood. Her crotch pulsed with a steady white-hot pain as she tried to get back to her feet. Brayden wrapped an arm under her and assisted her to the truck. “We have to hurry,” he told her, scanning the forest around them as the baby’s raspy squalls called out to awaiting, hungry ears.
Wanda crawled into to the passenger seat, wincing in pain. Brayden carefully passed the baby over to her, then slammed the door shut. He circled the truck with his shotgun ready and climbed in on the driver’s side. When he turned the key in the ignition, the big truck growled to life. He scanned the edges of the road and the forest, and glanced down at the body sprawled out in the road. The man’s abdomen was torn open and his entrails had been pulled out. Sneering, Brayden threw the truck in gear, spinning the tires in the loose gravel as he took off down the mountain. He asked her, “What’s your name, ma’am?”
She whimpered a response. “Wanda. That was my husband back there. Harvey.”
Wanda felt the baby shiver, and drew her dress around him. Holding him close to her body, she kissed the tuft of black hair on his egg-shaped head. “Your daddy loved you, little one,” she whispered as hot tears rolled down her cheeks. “He loved us both.”
Brayden drove, constantly on alert, scanning back and forth at the sides of the road. “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am, I really am. I’m Brayden James, with the Fish and Game Department.”
Wanda was quiet, staring down at the baby. Then she said, “We were going to name him Joseph…but, I think… I think I’ll call him Harvey.”
“Harvey is a fine name, ma’am,” Brayden responded, not really knowing what else to say as he scanned the road ahead of them. He glanced at the rearview mirror and noticed for the first time the white billowing smoke against the purple sky. The smoke was coming from the direction of Camp Ole Indian, and he hoped it was confined to the park. What the hell is happening?
Watching the surrounding forest as he drove, he asked, “Did one of those things manage to scratch or bite you? I mean, did it get to you at all?”
Sobbing, Wanda managed a whispered response. “No, it only got… Harvey. I think he was already dead, though, from the wreck.”
“Look, I don’t know what’s happening, but these things are coming back from the dead. I saw it with my own eyes!”
Wanda just looked at him, her eyes showing no emotion at all. The woman was in shock, he knew. The bloody infant shivered in her arms and Brayden reached behind his seat, searching for a towel he kept back there until he found it. He handed it to her and said, “Wrap him up in it. It’s clean.”
The truck pitched and bounced over the rough gravel road as they barreled down the mountain. Neither of them could find words to say. Brayden didn’t think there were words to describe what he had seen today. Is this the end times? he wondered.
As the truck rounded another curve, he slammed on the brakes; the truck fishtailed and ground to a stop in a cloud of gray dust. Wanda and the baby had slid down to the floorboard and she climbed back up on her seat, scowling at him.
Brayden nodded toward the road and flicked
the toggle that ignited the big fog lights.
Wanda’s gaze fell upon a minivan that lay on its side, blocking off the narrow gravel road. Several half-devoured bodies lay strewn along the road near the overturned van, and a group of the infected was feasting on a body in the ditch.
“Oh my God!” Wanda shouted, holding the baby close to her chest and looking at the four people crouched around the man lying in the road.
The abominations looked up, their blood-smeared faces shining like grotesque beacons in the truck’s bright halogen lights. The things squealed in unison and began ambling toward the truck, their raspy howls ringing like distorted sirens.
Wanda screamed as Brayden threw the truck in reverse, spinning the tires. He jerked the steering wheel to the right as he simultaneously threw the truck back in gear, turning it around in a spray of rock and dust as they sped back up the winding mountain road. The howls of the hungry things faded as the truck labored along the road putting distance behind them. Brayden’s mind raced as the engine roared.
He considered going it on foot, slipping along the logging trails and escaping off the mountain that way. But what if there’s no escape? What if it’s worse farther down? he wondered. He thought of the plume of smoke rising from Camp Ole Indian and made his decision. They would never make it that way.
Wanda held the bloody infant close, repeating, “This is not happening, this is not happening, this is NOT happening!”
“Snap out of it and listen to me!” Brayden shouted.
Wanda jerked her head in his direction, startled by his yelling at her.
“Now, where were you and your husband coming from when you wrecked? Was it somewhere nearby?”
Wanda blinked her eyes a few times, clearing her mind, and answered him. “A cabin. We were coming from a cabin Harvey rented. It’s the one on the very top of the mountain, the Pittmon cabin.”
Dead Ascent (The Zombie Apocalypse Book 1) Page 4