Mountain Sickness: A Zombie Novel

by Frank Martin

  Without waiting to hear the rest of the nurse’s report, Dr. Morris stepped forward and entered into the temporary infirmary she’d created. As she walked up and down the aisles of beds, Anna could visibly make out the ones who were starting to feel ill. Severe surges of chills randomly shot up through their bodies, physically shaking the beds off the floor. Beads of sweat formed around their foreheads as they clutched blankets tight to their chests. There were only a handful starting to show symptoms, but Anna didn’t have to physically examine them to realize what was happening.

  She could deny it all she wanted. That wouldn’t make it any less true. She could also try to contain the sickness like she did before, walk every one of them down to their respective classrooms and lock them away like lepers before they got worse. But the doctor wasn’t convinced it would help. Slowly but surely, they would all progressively get worse, until one by one her patients would burst into a whirlwind of violent rage.

  Anna knew she had to do something, but it was all happening so fast. One after another the weathered doctor was being hit by a series of crises without having a chance to think in between them. Her mind was running on overdrive trying to find a solution. All it could come up with, though, was a sludge of pity and desperation. She had hoped that Telluride’s troubles left with the storm which brought them. But as expected, that prayer was slowly being shattered.

  ***

  It was absolutely surreal for Peter walking back through Mountain Village. The route was one he'd taken a million times before, but he never experienced it quite like this. The blizzard had drenched every building with a fluffy buildup of powder. It almost seemed as if the whole village was made of snow, a replica of Santa Clause's North Pole workshop.

  One key luxury of Mountain Village was its heated sidewalks that quickly melted any snow that fell upon its surface. The clear path made the tranquil atmosphere that much more peaceful and majestic, like that of a fairytale gingerbread house. Tourists and locals alike could hardly resist the romantic urge to stroll about aimlessly. But now there was nothing. No pedestrians walking through the courtyard. No skiers zooming down the mountain. Not even a single member of the frantic mob that wreaked havoc up and down the village square.

  Besides a bright blue sky, the only thing Peter could see on the mountain was an ocean of white and the occasional limb that poked out through the snow from a body buried beneath it. It was almost a blissfully serene setting. Except for the reminders of blood and death that laid just underneath the surface.

  The heated walkway was a different story. Without any snow to cover them up, the bodies were clearly visible all throughout the village. Some mangled. Others mutilated. Most just bloody. Disturbing artifacts of a tragic massacre that was only hours old.

  Peter himself felt like a zombie, walking stupefied in a comatose state of shock. How could this happen? Why wasn't he prepared? And most importantly, what happens next?

  Only questions plagued Peter's mind, and he didn't bother thinking of the answers. For now, he was content to wander on through the village. No longer blocked by tumultuous storm clouds, the sun was free to warm the winter air to a comfortable coolness. And so Peter felt fine enough making the long walk down the road all the way back home.

  It was a journey he'd made once or twice before simply for the heck of it. He considered this mountain his and felt obligated to at least know what a walk home from work was like. It was tough, no doubt, as was any hike at nine thousand feet. But at least it was downhill.

  The sidewalks didn’t extend past the village properly, though, and so Peter was forced to trudge through the foot of snow covering the street. Of course, he would've preferred taking his car. But without a snowplow to clear the way, the blizzard's dump would make it difficult for even his SUV to get through.

  Not that Peter was fit enough to get behind the wheel anyway. As soon as he saw the storm break he left his office and walked straight outside as if in some sort of trance.

  The thought of survivors in the buildings nearby only briefly crossed his mind. He couldn't help them when it mattered. What could he possibly do now? They were probably safer where they were anyway. Either hiding in a closet or under some stranger's desk. Peter knew he should’ve followed suit. Going outside was probably going to get him killed. But then again, that was another thought which he didn't bother focusing on for more than a moment.

  Peter was being drawn back to his house like a beacon calling him home. Passed the gondola’s base, passed all the ski trails and the parking lot built behind the lowest lift on this side of the resort, Peter had continued on down the windy road that flowed in and out with the rolling hills of the mountainside. One by one, he passed by the million dollar log cabins and mansions that now looked like nothing more than giant igloos.

  It was a long and tiring trek that left Peter dying for a drink. Several times he dug his bare hands into the fresh snow and threw the cold powder into his mouth, but the frozen water was barely enough to quench his thirst. His fancy, expensive snow boots had become saturated and wet only minutes into the journey. And despite being so close to the sun, prolonged exposure to the chilly mountain air left his bare hands and face sensitive and rough.

  But when he finally made it over the last hill and his sprawling house came into view, every ounce of pain and discomfort vanished from his mind. Seeing his front door swung wide open made Peter eager to get inside. However, his body wasn't willing to increase its pace. So he kept on moving at the same speed, pushing his feet forward through the dense snow with all his might.

  The house was only a hundred yards away, but it seemed like it took longer to travel that short distance than the whole trip itself. As Peter approached the front stoop, he could see the sheet of snow covering the porch had continued on inside. With the front door open, the windy blizzard had ferociously blown snow into the house. Upon crossing the threshold inside, Peter could see the trail of snow lead into the kitchen and then slowly dissipate when it reached as far in as the wind could take it. He cautiously followed the white road through the house until it stopped, where his wife's desecrated body rested peacefully at the end of the snowy path.

  Rachel's skin was half way between its natural flush pink and the dull blankness of a white sheet. Her eyes were still wide open, stuck staring off at nothing in particular. Her clothes were ripped, tattered, and torn, but aside from a large supply of ravishing scratch marks, there were no signs her body was sexually violated. In between several large gashes, her arms, legs and torso were covered in random cuts and scrapes. It was obvious she had suffered by the dried blood covering her clothes and skin, but the multitude of wounds were now frozen over by the icy chill running through the house.

  Peter stood over the body and stared at her lifeless face. Even under such horrific conditions, he was still captivated by her beauty. Her lush hair lay scattered and spread out over her head. Memories of its smell and touch flooded Peter's mind, and the euphoric fantasy took him away from the nightmare around him. The pleasant daydream distorted any perception of time, and Peter was all too willing to succumb to the delusion. He closed his eyes, completely unaware if minutes or hours were passing him by.

  But the sweet hallucination ended abruptly when a voice called out to him from behind. "Hello? Anybody home?"

  Peter's adrenaline suddenly spiked. He turned around ready to be assaulted but quickly realized that a raving lunatic wouldn't announce his presence. The sound of slow footsteps squishing into the snow grew louder until an oddly familiar man came into view.

  His eyes immediately shot down to the body on the floor as a mixture of shock and sympathy grew across his face. "Oh, God. I'm so sorry."

  Peter didn't respond. He simply walked around Rachel and went deeper into the kitchen while the man continued on. "When I saw you walking by I thought maybe you could use some help. I live next door and never got a chance to introduce myself."

  Before the man had a chance to go on, Peter chimed in as he pro
ceeded to search through the cabinets. "I know who you are: the world famous Austin Cage. My son loves your movies."

  Upon hearing that his neighbor was a fan, Austin's face slightly lifted from its depressing look. "That's great. Maybe I can get him an autograph or some free stuff."

  After finally finding what he was looking for, Peter pulled out and examined a large serrated knife from the cabinet. "That would be nice. If he's even still alive."

  He didn't know how the actor would react upon seeing the blade, but Peter wasn't surprised when the large movie star gulped in fear. "What... what are going to do with that?"

  "I'm sure you're aware of the mayhem that's erupting throughout the town, Mr. Cage."

  "Yeah. Of course. But what does that..?"

  Peter then moved through the open kitchen back to his wife's body. "I haven't seen all your movies, so forgive me if I'm wrong, but I don't think you've ever starred in a zombie film."

  Austin remained silent as Peter approached his wife and knelt down by her side. "Well, Ryan, that's my boy, he makes me watch them all the time. So while I really don't know what the hell is going on around here, the word ‘zombie’ certainly comes to mind."

  Tears began to build under the lids of Peter's eyes, and Austin could see him clutching the knife at his side tighter than an emotional man should be. "And if there's one thing I know about zombies, Mr. Cage, it's that they come back to life."

  In a fluid wave of motion, Peter lifted the knife in the air and repeatedly slammed it down and into his wife's body. Although consistent, the stabbing action was sporadic and random, dropping the sharp tip all throughout her neck, stomach and chest. Over and over again, the blade alternated between making a squishy and crunching noise when bloodlessly sliding through the dead woman's frozen flesh.

  Austin stood by speechless and unable to move as he watched tears burst from Peter's eyes. But he didn't cry or weep. He didn't even make a sound as he continually jabbed the knife into his wife's corpse for a full minute.

  Finally, Peter raised the weapon up and moved it forward, thrusting the knife one last time directly into the center of her head. Once it was secure into Rachel's skull, Peter released the handle and let out a long breath that he'd been holding in.

  For a moment, Peter remained in that position until his shoulders and body eventually relaxed back onto his knees. He then took several more deep and much needed sighs before turning to Austin with a blank, emotionless expression on his tear-ridden face. "I'm Peter, by the way."

  15

  People will do just about anything for money. That was the premise for which Scott Brooks had built his fortune. Over the years that notion had been refined. Now he believed there to be a direct correlation between what people would do for money and how much they currently had. And it was a well-known fact that a pilot’s bank account was usually bare.

  Scott always found it interesting that a profession which was once so highly revered could have fallen so far. Pilots used to be treated like rock stars. Now most of them barely made a living. Except for his, of course.

  Scott understood just how important air travel (or more precisely, private air travel) was to his operation. The ability to not only travel large distances in a short amount of time but to do it at the drop of a hat was invaluable. And he rewarded his employees handsomely for providing that luxury. Captain Hitchens was one of the most well paid pilots in the country. And his protégé, Janet Thorn, made more than enough money for someone her age.

  So it hardly came as a surprise to Scott when they didn't take him up on the offer he made to the others. Why would they want to shovel out the runway when they could sit comfortably in the cockpit doing their pre-flight checks? They left that job to the other grounded pilots and airport workers who were seeing their opportunities for employment dwindle before their eyes.

  Scott's excitement erupted when the storm finally let up and the sun burst through the clouds. He was ready to leave that moment. Then his captain reminded him that the airport was still covered in snow, preventing them from taking off. The series of loud curse words and expletives that followed had left the entire airport speechless.

  When his pointless and vulgar rant finally ended, Scott collected himself enough to formulate some sort of a plan to get in the air before nightfall. By applying his philosophy on life, Scott took advantage of the financial troubles of the people around him. He lifted his arms in the air and offered a year's salary to anyone who helped get his plane off the ground in the next hour. Most of the onlookers immediately grabbed every shovel they could find and ran outside. The few who didn't, waited a minute before realizing that their odds of success increased with the amount of people who were helping. They soon joined in and before he knew it, Scott Brooks had a snow shoveling army at his disposal.

  Those who could operate the airport's small snowplows were busy clearing off the runway while the rest worked on shoveling a path out of the hangar. It was an impressive and captivating swarm of activity. So much so that an hour had come and gone without Scott even realizing.

  He was leisurely finishing up a stale donut and coffee when he finally looked outside and noticed the storm clouds had completely vanished from the clear blue sky. Below it, his peons were still frantically working away to meet their deadline. Their job was rough, sloppy and by no means presentable, but it seemed as if enough snow had been cleared to make the plane's takeoff possible. And that was all Scott Brooks needed to know.

  The whole time this was happening, Charlie had been resting peacefully on the couch, and Scott had no qualms about waking him up. "Come on, big boy. Time to go."

  Scott tried pulling his bodyguard up but realistically had no chance of lifting the large man to his feet. Instead, the incessant nagging was effective at waking him up. "We ready?"

  "Yeah. The champagne and caviar are waiting. Let's go."

  Charlie took his time rolling up and off the couch before stumbling to his feet. Scott positioned himself under his bodyguard’s arm, and together they began the long trek outside and towards the plane already parked just outside the hangar.

  When they emerged from the building, all the workers stopped simultaneously and turned in anticipation. Scott knew they had been nervously watching the clock and were aware of the passed deadline. Whether or not they would still be getting paid was at the mercy of their temporary employer.

  With Charlie’s arm wrapped around his shoulder, Scott was struggling to support his bodyguard. None of the onlookers said anything, though. They simply watched as the two men slowly made their way down the path that had been shoveled and salted for them.

  It wasn't until they were about half way to their destination that Scott finally spoke out loud enough to project his voice across the runway. "Sorry, everybody. Time’s up. Looks like this pizza's free. Thanks for the help, though."

  Nobody moved. They all remained still. And as he continued on his way, Scott wondered whether the crowd would soon turn ugly. He was especially concerned about a line worker who stood next to the private plane's open door.

  The man was holding a shovel and didn't appear too appreciative of the fact that he wasn't getting paid. Being that he was the closest person out of everyone to the action, the disgruntled man become the group's de facto union leader, and his reaction would dictate how the situation would end.

  Scott assumed it was a fifty-fifty chance that his face would soon be meeting the flat side of that shovel. But he caught the man off guard when he stopped at the first step up to the plane and winked at him with a large, unimposing smile. "I'm just kidding. Call my office. They'll take care of each and every one of ya."

  He then reached into his jacket, pulled out a business card and tucked it up into the man's hat, who stood there bewildered and confused by what just happened. Before the man had a chance to respond, Scott continued on up into the plane where Captain Hitchens shut the door behind him, sealing them off from the outside world.

  After plopping Charlie do
wn in a rear-facing seat, Scott turned and followed the captain into the jet's small cockpit. "All right! Let's fire this puppy up and get outta here."

  Captain Hitchens sat down in his left seat and worked in sync with his co-pilot, Janet, who was finishing her pre-flight checks. "I want to state for the record, Mr. Brooks, that what we're doing here isn't exactly legal."

  "Yeah. I'll tell them to put the handcuffs on me as soon as we land."

  In the middle of fixing a dial, Janet's head suddenly reared back and unleashed a giant sneeze into her forearm. Scott's arms instinctively shot up, and he looked on disgusted as the girl recovered from the sneeze. "What the hell was that?"

  She sniffled while reaching for a tissue under her seat. "Sorry. This cold came out of nowhere."

  Scott rolled his eyes as he turned around and left the cockpit. "Well, if you're going to hurl at least make it to the bathroom. Jet fuel's expensive enough. Don't need to pay to have this thing disinfected, too."

  He sat down in the seat opposite Charlie just in time to hear the plane's loud engines roar on either side of them. The fatigued bodyguard sat reclined with his buttoned up shirt drenched from sweat profusely dripping off his face.

  Scott failed to notice that, though, as he relaxed back and sighed deeply. "Damn, I forgot to order catering. Think I can get that guy with the shovel to make us some sandwiches real quick?"

  Charlie declined to look amused from his slouched position. "Everything has to be a joke to you, doesn't it?"

  The rumble of the engines grew louder, and Scott's body shook with the motion of the plane beginning to roll forward onto the runway. "If I didn't laugh then I'd have to cry."