Blood In the Stands I

Posted on Fri Aug 1st, 2025 @ 12:34am by Survivor Harley Bell

1,668 words; about a 8 minute read

Mission: Winter's hope
Location: Lambeau Field, Green Bay, Wisconsin
Timeline: 25 August, 2010

Matt
The smell of bratwurst and spilled beer hung heavy in the humid August air of Lambeau Field in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Matt, a stocky man in a faded Packers jersey, leaned over the railing of his row, his face slick with sweat, his eyes bloodshot. He’d been feeling like crap since noon – a cough he couldn’t shake, a headache that pounded behind his eyes, and a nauseous churn in his gut. His wife, Sarah, sat beside him, meticulously wiping down her seat.

“You’re just trying to ruin this for me, aren’t you, Sarah?” Matt rasped, his voice rough. “Can’t you just enjoy the game?”

Sarah sighed, not looking up. “Matt, you look terrible. I told you, you shouldn’t have come. You’re burning up. You probably have that flu going around. You should be home in bed.”

“It’s the Colts, Sarah! The Colts! And I’ve waited all year for this. I’m fine.” He tried to take a swig of his beer, but his hand trembled, spilling foam down the front of his shirt. A wave of dizziness washed over him, making the vibrant green field below tilt precariously.

“You’re really not,” Sarah said, her voice laced with exasperation. “You’re swaying. People are staring.”

That was it. The last straw. Matt felt a surge of irrational fury, turning to his wife.

“I don’t care what people think! I’m here! I’m going to watch this game whether you like it or not!” He lunged forward, trying to emphasize his point, but his legs betrayed him. He stumbled and lost his footing, falling forward fast until his forehead slamming against the metal railing with a dull thud.

The impact, or perhaps the fever, sent a searing pain through his skull. His vision swam, then went black. Sarah cried out, reaching for him, but she could tell somehow that her husband was already gone. His body slumped back into the seat, completely still.

A few agonizing seconds passed. A nearby fan, concerned, asked, "Is he alright?" Sarah, tears welling, whispered, "Oh God, Matt? Matt, please..."

Then, with a sickening lurch, Matt's head snapped up. His eyes, though unfocused and milky, burned with a new, terrifying hunger. A guttural groan tore from his throat – not a human sound, but something primal and ravenous. Sarah shrieked as he lunged, his jaw unhinging to bite down on her arm.

Panic erupted in their section. "He's biting her!" "What the hell is wrong with him?!" People scrambled backwards over seats, tripping over coolers and discarded hot dog wrappers. Matt, now fully reanimated, tore at Sarah, a bloody mess forming on her jacket as she screamed at the top of her lungs.. He snarled, his unnatural strength allowing him to throw her aside as he fixed on the next screaming fan.

The commotion, the frantic shouts and terrified screams, rippled through the stands. Below, on the concourse level, two stadium security guards, big men in bright yellow jackets, looked up.

"Sounds like we got a real lively one up in Section 123," one grumbled into his radio, adjusting his earpiece. "Probably too many brats and beers. Let's go calm him down before he gets himself thrown out."

They started making their way up the stairs, pushing through the bewildered fans who were just starting to realize that this wasn't just a "rowdy fan" incident. This was something far, far worse.

Harley
The roar of the crowd was a tangible thing, vibrating through Harley’s chest, a living entity that she’d always loved. But today, the feeling was off. Beside her, Patrick, ever the perpetual motion machine, bounced in his seat, a half-eaten nacho balanced precariously on his knee.

“Connor, check it out!” Patrick leaned across Harley, nearly knocking her beer over. “I bet I can chug this entire thing before they even kick off.” He held up a giant cup of soda, already halfway gone.

Connor, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scrolled through stats on his phone, barely grunted in response. “Patrick, don’t be an idiot. You’ll be sick. Plus, you literally just ate two hot dogs.”

“Minor details, Con-man!” Patrick grinned, nudging Harley with his elbow. “Right, Harls? Live a little!”

Harley chuckled, shaking her head. “He’s got a point, Pat. You’re gonna regret that. And try not to spill anything on me, please. This is my lucky jersey.” She loved her brothers dearly, but their contrasting personalities often made outings an adventure. Patrick, with his infectious, goofy energy, was always looking for the next laugh or dare. Connor, the elder twin by five minutes, was the quiet, observant one, already planning his engineering degree and perpetually worried about the consequences of Patrick’s antics.

“Spoilsports, both of you,” Patrick mumbled good-naturedly, but he took a smaller sip, glancing around. “Man, this place is packed. You’d think it was the Super Bowl, not just preseason.”

“It’s the Packers,” Connor stated, not looking up. “And the Colts. It’s still a big draw. Plus, it’s August, people are itching for football.”

Suddenly, the festive din around them was pierced by a rough, hacking cough from a few rows back. Matt, the guy in the faded jersey, had been hacking away for a while, but this sounded… worse. It ended in a wet, rattling gasp.

Patrick, ever the one to notice everything, even when he pretended not to, paused his nacho consumption. “Woah, that guy sounds like he’s got a lung falling out. Maybe lay off the beer, buddy.” He chuckled, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes – concern, perhaps, or just curiosity.

Connor, however, finally looked up from his phone, his expression shifting. He didn’t say anything, but his gaze was fixed on Matt’s section, a frown deepening on his face. Harley followed his stare. The man looked terrible – too pale, too sweaty, and the way he was arguing with his wife felt… off. More than just a usual game-day spat.

A low murmur started to spread from that section, then a sharp, sudden shriek. It wasn’t a cheer. It was fear.

Patrick’s goofy grin vanished. “What was that?” he asked, his voice losing its usual lightness.

Before anyone could answer, the screams intensified. Not just one, but a chorus, building into a wave of pure terror that washed over their section. Harley felt a cold dread creep up her spine. This wasn’t a fight. This wasn’t a medical emergency. This was something else entirely. Connor’s eyes were wide, and for the first time, Patrick was utterly silent, the nacho forgotten.

“They’re turning! More of them!” Connor shrieked, pointing frantically towards the North End zone. Sure enough, a small cluster of bodies twitched and rose, their movements jerky and unnatural, immediately lunging at the terrified people trying to climb over seats to escape. The air filled with sickening, wet tearing sounds.

"Heads down! Move!" Harley barked, her voice cutting through the din. She grabbed Patrick by the back of his now nacho-stained jersey and yanked Connor by the arm. Her years of being the responsible older sister, the one who always had a plan, kicked in with an almost terrifying instinct. She’d always been the pragmatic one, the one who saw problems and found solutions. And the problem now was a stampede of screaming, panicked humans mixed with rapidly reanimating monsters.

"We need to get out! Where’s the closest gate?" Patrick stammered, his usual goofball demeanor completely gone, replaced by a wide-eyed terror. He was looking towards the roaring crush of people already surging towards the clearly marked main exits.

Harley’s mind raced, recalling every stadium map she’d ever seen. Lambeau Field was a fortress, but it was a fortress designed to keep people in for a game, not to evacuate them from a flesh-eating plague. The main entrance gates – the American Family Insurance Gate on the east, the Bellin Health Gate on the north, the Fleet Farm Gate and South Gate – they were designed for orderly flow, not this chaos. They’d be bottlenecks, death traps. People were already piling up, a wall of screaming, shoving humanity against turnstiles and blocked doorways.

"Not the main gates, not yet!" Harley decided instantly. "Everyone's heading there, it'll be a crush. We need to find something smaller, something less obvious. A service entrance."

She pulled her brothers towards the nearest ramp leading down to a lower concourse, fighting against the tide of fleeing fans. The air grew thick with screams, punctuated by more of those stomach-churning tearing noises. The pervasive smell of fear was overpowering.

"Think, Harley, think!" she muttered to herself, pushing through a knot of terrified fans. She remembered glimpses from an online stadium tour weeks ago, or maybe just seeing workers through an open door. The delivery entrances, the loading docks for supplies, the maintenance access points. They had to be less used by the general public, less likely to be choked with panicking bodies.

"Maintenance access! Or a delivery entrance!" she shouted to her brothers, her voice hoarse, almost lost in the din. "Follow me! Don't look back!"

They plunged into the chaotic stream of humanity, pushing, weaving, and dodging the flailing limbs of both the panicked and the recently turned. Harley kept her head swiveling, not just for the immediate threat, but for any sign of a less-used doorway, a fire exit, anything that wasn't designed to process seventy thousand people. The roar of the stadium crowd had been replaced by a deafening chorus of terror, the soundtrack to the end of the world. Her only thought was to find a way out, to get her brothers to safety. She could feel Connor’s hand clutching her arm, and Patrick, usually so independent, was sticking to her like glue. They were trusting her, and she wouldn't let them down.

TBC

 

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