He Fed Me To Zombies Nineteen Times

Screams tore through the B2 level.

Martha and I bolted for the stairs. Marcus stumbled behind.

The smell of blood hit us like a wall.

In the makeshift chapel, Sister Catherine was on her knees before the cross. A bloody hole gaped in her neck.

A zombie was hunched over her, greedily tearing at her flesh.

It had crawled in through an air vent.

“Oh God…” Marcus retched.

I grabbed a nearby iron chalice and slammed it into the zombie’s head.

The crunch of bone.

Black blood splattered across my face.

The zombie collapsed, but Catherine was already gone. She was still clutching her rosary beads.

“It’s not safe anymore,” I said, wiping the blood from my cheek. “The vents are compromised. They can get in from anywhere.”

Marcus’s voice shook. “We need Ethan back… only he knows how to reboot the defense system’s manual mode…”

Just then, Martha’s wheelchair rolled up.

Her face was chalk white.

“Scarlett, I have bad news.”

“Can it get any worse?”

"Ethan cut power to the gondola."

I froze.

“What?”

"I just checked the control room. The lift is dead," Martha said, her voice shaking. "He said it was to make sure the party on the summit wasn't disturbed."

Marcus’s face went slack. “What does that mean?”

“It means we’re trapped,” I said with a cold sneer. “He cut off the only way up.”

“But… but how do we get the power back? The control panel for the backup generator is at the summit!”

I didn’t answer.

I was already thinking.

There was an old shortwave radio in the storage room, an emergency unit Martha kept from her days as a judge.

“Martha, does your shortwave still work?”

“It should, but why—”

I was already running for the storage room.

The radio was covered in dust, but the battery still had a charge.

I tuned the dial, searching for any government or military frequency.

Static.

More static.

Then—

“This is the Colorado National Guard, 142nd Brigade. Identify yourself.”

I almost cried with relief.

“This is the Aspen Sanctuary. I’m Dr. Scarlett. We are under zombie attack and require immediate extraction.”

A pause.

“Please repeat your location.”

“The Aspen ski resort, the converted sanctuary. Coordinates are—”

“Hold on.” The voice turned cold. “You mean the location we've marked as a Red Zone?”

“Red Zone? What does that mean?”

"According to our records, Colonel Ethan Carter filed a lockdown protocol two hours ago. The area is currently under 'Red Level Drill' and 'Internal Bio-Contamination Quarantine.'"

I was stunned. "What?"

"The Colonel's report claims internal riots and a potential influenza outbreak. He has requested full radio silence and a no-entry order. No outside forces are to intervene until he gives the all-clear."

The world spun.

Ethan was so certain of his defenses.

To keep us from bothering his little date night, to stop me from calling for help and ruining his fun, he had lied to the military and turned this place into a self-imposed prison.

"That's a lie! We have a real zombie outbreak! We need to evacuate!"

"Ma'am, please remain calm. The Colonel specifically noted in his report that rioters might attempt to use public channels to spread false panic to seek an outside breach. Please vacate this military channel immediately, or we will be forced to treat this as a hostile action."

Martha grabbed the mic. "This is Federal Judge Martha Carter! I order you to—"

"I'm sorry, Your Honor," the voice cut her off. "The Colonel's report also mentioned you were being held hostage by the rioters. For your own safety, we cannot risk entering the lockdown zone."

The line went dead.

I slammed my fist on the radio.

Marcus slid down the wall. “We’ve been abandoned…”

More screams echoed from the floor above.

More zombies were getting in.

Martha looked at me, a dangerous glint in her eyes.

“Scarlett. Follow me. To the back of the storage room.”

I followed her to a locked cabinet in the far corner.

She produced a key, opened the lock, and revealed an old hunting rifle and several boxes of shells.

“This was my husband’s.” She took the rifle, her movements practiced as she checked the ammunition. “We’re going up the mountain.”

“Martha, the cable line is out—”

“There's an old service trail,” she said, her voice like ice. “It's meant for snowmobiles. It's treacherous as hell, but it's our only way.”

I looked at the old woman in the wheelchair.

The determination in her eyes was stronger than any soldier’s.

“We’re going to take back control.”

More screams from upstairs.

We were out of time.

Martha was already checking the fuel on a sled.

“Scarlett, can you drive this?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go.”

The engine roared to life.

Martha sat behind me, cradling the rifle.

We shot out of the garage and into the black, blizzard-swept night.

The wild trail was nearly invisible, flanked by sheer rock faces and bottomless canyons.

But we had no choice.

The engine whined, a lonely sound swallowed by the howl of the wind.

Up. And up.

Rocks scraped against the undercarriage of the sled.

Martha held on tight, never once telling me to slow down.

Thirty minutes later, we neared the summit.

The warm lights of the cabin glowed ahead.

That damn, enormous Christmas tree was still flashing, burning the very power that was meant to protect innocent lives.

I killed the engine.

Just then, a flare exploded in front of us.