by Black, D. S.
“Who are you? Where are your friends?” The gray-bearded black man asked.
“Go to hell!” Jack said.
He punched Jack in the solar plexus and again on his temple. A harsh cough exploded from Jack. He gasped for air and saw speckles of white, black, and blue dots.
“Are you the swamp rats we’ve seen before? or are you with the tree folk? Answer me!” he said, and slapped Jack hard across the face.
Sweat from Jack's brow dripped into his eye, and the vision of the man standing before him came and went like a fast cut on a movie reel.
Finally, Jack caught his breath, steadied his head, and stared up at him. “Answer me this: are you the Godly Knights? Are you the ones I watched massacre so many women and children in the early days of this new hell?” He asked
The scratches were getting louder and the doors creaked and begged to fall open. The short stubby man stared out through the corner of a boarded window, “Oh man. They’re gonna come in here!”
Graybeard ignored the man and glared down at Jack. “That’s right boy! We are here to answer his will,” he said.
“His will is to slaughter innocents? To rape defenseless women? No! I question with boldness the existence of your god! I will fight you with my dying breath!” he said.
“They’re breaking through!”
Loud gunshots sounded from outside the building as the doors caved in. Jack was knocked backward. The screams of the men sounded off while the zombies ripped their flesh apart. Jack struggled to scoot away; he saw them coming, jerking their way toward him.
One walked right up to him and dove his way. He could smell dank breath and see jagged teeth as an arrow penetrated the grimy head and covered Jack's face with brain matter. He saw his captors being eaten on the floor, but he saw other men and women; people he didn’t recognize. They brandished guns, swords, and bows—like a modern medieval team of bandits.
Then he saw Candy’s red hair, Andrew’s thin shoulders, and Jody’s bulky frame. Their guns were drawn, destroying any dead creature that came near him. In a matter of moments, his captors were killed, the zombies met their final death, and Candy cut him free from the ropes.
A man stood above him, "Now you owe us. My name is Okona.” Jack reached out and shook his hand.
“Okona, and his boys saved us in return for our help saving his people,” Candy said.
“Beats dying, I suppose. What are the details?” Jack said as they helped him to his feet and gave him his glasses and rifle.
“They’re being held inside the fortress. They call it The City of God, but we’ve got people on the inside and now with your help, we have the numbers.”
“When do we go to work?” Jack asked. He was starting to think he was right; not everyone was bad after all. Here was a band of decent people, at least that's the vibe he got from them.
“We have a base of operations not far from here, we can hold up there until tonight. That’s when we strike. We have to get out of here now though, they’ll see us soon enough if we don’t hurry.” Okona's face was brazen, and his eyes bore the resemblance of a troubled soldier.
Jack and his cousins followed Okona out of the bar, through the streets, and into a dense wilderness.
9
Walking into their camp was surreal. A barricade of cypress trees jolted from earth at a sharp angle, meant to stab any walkers that happened to wander close. The barricade’s two ends connected to a metal gate, something that looked as though it was torn from a castle. It was protected on all sides by thick oak, and pine trees.
Inside, the marvels continued. A network of tree houses built high in the oak, hung above him. Hemp ropes created bridges with planks, it was as though Jack had been transported to some other time in history. He felt like he'd stepped in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. The sun shined through the tree tops and brightened the faces of all those around him. It seemed they’d lived there forever.
Up top, within the labyrinth of connected rope, and unstable swinging bridges; rich saturated greens, deep crimson, and golden ambers radiated all about like a heavenly glow, and a warm breeze rustled the leafy canopy.
The names of Okona's comrades were Tasha, Chris, and Andre. They were kind, offering food; they had rugged, yet compassionate faces. Tasha was a healthy young woman of twenty, her long blonde hair fell down her petite and athletic body. Chris and Andre were African American, and brothers.
As Jack waited for nightfall, he talked with them all. Sitting high above the ground on an open platform, peering out into the green thickness of it all, he listened to Okona regale those around with his story. Jody rude as ever, had prodded them for personal information. They didn't seem to mind.
“I had a wife. My wife was beautiful and intelligent; she painted marvelous landscape portraits,” Okona said.
Jack stared up, and noticed a portrait of something that looked very much like the network of tree houses.
“Like that one?” Jack asked.
“Indeed Jack. She painted that, and I felt duty-bound to honor her life by building it.”
“How did she die?” Jody asked
“Jesus Jody! I’m sorry, he isn’t the brightest bulb left on the planet.” Candy said.
“It’s Okay. My wife was the kind of person that respected honesty in both our words, and thoughts. She was a brunette made of pure artistic energy. She never judged, and always wanted to help people—a serious humanitarian that never shied from fear or danger.” Okona looked down for a moment and stared, his eyes burning with painful memory. “That’s what killed her; her love of humanity, and desire to help those in need when everything went bad; when the emergency services stopped responding, and people died in large numbers. Against my pleas, and at the sight of a neighborhood kid running from what used to be his mother; she marched out of the house one day carrying a hammer.”
“The boy’s mother turned?” Jack asked.
“Oh yes! What used to be a housewife and loving mom, a sweet woman by the name of Casandra was replaced by a snarling creature attempting to eat her own son. My wife didn’t make it to him in time. The boy’s flesh was ripped from his bones and his small ears torn off by his mother’s teeth. My wife had no idea how fast people could turn once bitten; she was able to bash the brains out of the horrid undead woman, but by the time she turned around, the boy was on her gnawing into her arm.
“She never had the chance to turn. Moments later a horde moved through, devouring anyone in their path including…” His words trailed off, he sniffed and wiped a single tear from his eye. “I swore from that moment on, I’d make it up to her. Make up for not running out there with her, maybe I could have stopped it.”
No one said anything for a solid five minutes. Everyone stared in their own direction, looking inward, remembering the dead and fallen; wishing for the Old World. Jack broke the silence.
“Can you tell me more about this Duras guy? What do you know about him?”
“A great deal actually. We were business rivals before the Fever came. His real name is Tommy Morrow; he's strong willed, and always eager for a good fight. Never underestimate him.”
If Jack knew how true those words were, maybe he wouldn't have said what he said next. “We can take him. Don't worry, we're the good guys.”
“Maybe so,” Okona said. “But good and bad is connected by a thin gray line of uncertainty. In the New World, that is truer than ever.”
10
The conversation eventually went to less serious topics, and Jack stopped listening to the rest of the stories told. He watched as the sun moved across the sky, he pondered the current context; where were they going? Did any of this matter? With so much death, was true heroism still possible? He forced himself to believe, to hold on to the philosophy he'd always loved—humanism and volunteerism. Okona might be right about morality's thin gray line, but sometimes good and bad are black and white. Rape and murder are easy enough to see as bad, at least that's how Jack saw things. He pushed his glasses
back against his face as he started to wonder if he was being too naïve; was he too eager to see the world through the old ways?
The night was hot and humid, and his glasses slid down his face again. He pushed them back into place.
He couldn't give up. Not yet! If hope was lost, then he didn't think he could keep going.
The sun had disappeared, leaving him in darkness. The bright colors turned to threatening shadow; the others had grown silent. The time had arrived for him to follow his new friends into that fierce fortress to save people he'd never known.
The night's darkness swallowed them as they plodded through the trees. Okona led from the front, Jack in the middle, and Candy in front; Jody behind—Tasha, Chris, and Andre worked the rear. They moved through the trees like ghosts in fog; softly, swiftly, and always sure to keep their voices low, because who knew where the undead may roam.
All around, the crack and pop of broken sticks warned of inevitable death, and the smell of rotting walking corpses lingered. The lights of the City of God came into view, and Okona motioned for them to follow closely as he led a path up to the gloomy metal fence line.
From above, a knotted rope fell. The rope was made of black nylon, and was easy to climb. At the top, they were led by another man, tall in stature with long black hair, and a dark mustache.
They stood on a scaffold. Torches burned at least one hundred feet in either direction, marking the points where other guards stood watch. The man with the mustache guided the way down a ladder attached to the interior fence. It was loose, but not so loose to cause anyone to fall.
Then the man led them through what used to be a sprawling downtown avenue, then down a shadowy alley; no one was in sight. The streets empty and bare, only a few candle-lit windows here and there, stood in what had been high dollar town homes.
In the alley, the mood changed. The stench of deceased flesh suddenly filled the air. In the obscure stillness, Jack saw a long row of corpses crudely crucified, with wood plank engravings above each head: THE FAITHLESS ROT AND HANG FOR ALL TO SEE.
The former day’s sun had cooked the flesh and made it ripe. Jack held his hand over his nose and mouth, hoping to protect himself from the smell. A door appeared ahead, just beyond Okona and his guide. Two guards stood watch.
“Wait here,” said Okona.
Jack strained his ears to hear. “We had an agreement, you can’t back out now.” Then the sounds of anger and men grappling. Jack moved closer, motioning for Candy and Jody to get ready to bail. Okona had slit one of the guard’s throats, but the other fought with fervor. A gun shot went off, and the man fell.
“No! Don’t do that! Okona, no!” said Okona's accomplice, but it was too late. He kicked the door in, and an alarm sounded.
Jack ran to the commotion. He found Okona kneeling beside the people he came to help. They were dead, though recently turned. They were chained and reaching up to Okona.
“Damn them!”
Tasha came to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “We couldn't save them, we did our best. Okona, we have to go.”
Chris and Andre were shouting for them to hurry up. Candy, Jody, and Andrew were beside them motioning as well; their guns at ready.
Okona and Tasha walked out of the room. The man that had guided them was gone, he'd disappeared into the shadows. Jack followed Okona, and Tasha. The others were already running back along the path they'd taken to get to the alley. Jack watched them reach the street, and run across just avoiding the seeking lights that were now dashing across the city.
At that moment, gunfire rang out in all directions. Gas canisters bounced in the streets, and the sounds of jack booted thugs marched closer, and closer. Jack's eyes burned and watered, his breath came in short gasps. He saw what he thought might be Candy, but she and the others were now watery images. He thought he saw them moving to the wall. He could barely breathe; he could only hope the others made it back over the fence. That was his last thought right before he felt the linebacker-sized man tackle him, and turn his vision into darkness with one fast punch.
11
He awoke with a headache. It felt like wild African drum sticks using his temples as drums. His vision was blurry for a moment, then slowly the room came into view. Standing in front of a large burning fire, dressed in a steel gray and black, was a tall man with broad strong shoulders. A long mane of braided brunette hair ran down in his back. The man's right arm twisted behind him, and the back of his fist pressed against his lower back. His chest stood out proudly. He spoke without looking at Jack and stared upwards.
“My name is Duras.” His chin was chiseled to the bone, pointing down with a powerful slant. All around, the walls were shadowy gray with hints of cold blue hues here and there. “You know, I don’t run into many people these days that still carry around a wallet and identification.”
He held a plastic card in front of Jack's face. “Jack Teach…” He flung the ID into the fire.
“I used to believe our species would live amongst the stars.” The fire shadows danced on his face as he spoke. “My whole life was spent believing that; I dreamed we’d make it to space. My heroes consisted of the men and women of the starship Enterprise.”
He turned and glared at Jack with dark, wide eyes. “I hated religion you know, but what good did all that fantasy get me? Instead of a future filled with joy and wonder, I watched helplessly as my wife and children were ripped apart by undead monsters.” He stared toward the floor. “Now that … I did not anticipate. Even though I've read just about every zombie comic ever illustrated.”
Jack's head still throbbed; his breath came in short gasps. He tried to wiggle against the ropes. He craned his neck to the right, then to the left; and then forced his eyes to stare upon Duras. “So instead of accepting the deaths, and moving on, you chose to turn to pure evil as a counter to the pain?” Jack asked.
Duras turned away. His gaze went down to the red embers. For a moment, he said nothing, then he took a deep breath and blew it out, breathed in once more and said, “Don’t over-philosophize this. It’s about survival now, and the best way to survive is by enforcing a religion. If people try to stop you, you kill them in the name of God, and the people that listen to you, are willing to martyr themselves without question.”
“While you hide in here reaping the rewards? While you stand around betraying your own humanity!” Jack said.
“Would you agree it beats living on the outside?” he asked.
“I’d rather be dead than become like you!”
Duras broke into a smile. “Oh, my! I like you! We are going to have a grand time!”
“I don’t plan on being here that long. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Yes, I like you. You remind me of the gallant Captain Picard, always shouting his self-righteous babble.”
“Enough! What do you want from me?”
“Fun, of course! Rhino! Ice Man! Come!” Two large brutes barged into the room. “Take him to the Pitts!”
“Yes, sir! Come on you! To the Pitts!”
One of the men grabbed Jack's right arm, and the other grabbed the left, picking him up and holding him high in the air like a crowd surfer. “Let me go!”
From behind Jack, the deep cackling laughter of Duras echoed, his shadow flicking against the walls. “And sound the bells! Sound the bells! Let the celebration begin!” Duras shouted.
Loud bells jangled from every direction. Screams of malicious joy echoed from outside the walls. Jack was carried down long dark corridors decorated with medieval architecture, and down a flight of winding stairs. He screamed, and dug his nails into the wall but to no avail. He saw a large wooden door ahead, and another large brute turning a key. The door swung open, and they tossed him in. He slid down into a soup bowl metal pit. The bottom was a flat rectangle with iron bar doors on both ends. Above, and all around he saw a coliseum with rows upon rows of seats. Fire burned and flickered light from metal trash cans, it was pure medieval hell.
Jack watched
in horror as hundreds of men, women and children screamed from unseen entry points, gathering in the seats—their faces hidden in the fiery shadows. Profanities were screamed his way, and bits of rotten food, spit and feces flung in his direction. The insane crowd erupted in a chorus, “Duras! Duras! Duras!” Large torches gleamed from high above, and directed its light onto a balcony high above. And there, bathed in firelight piety was Duras holding a goblet, and drinking merrily.
In his other hand, he held a megaphone. “Quiet now! Quiet!” The room slowed to a low murmur, then absolute stillness. “We are all fortunate to have a God that allows such wonderful breaks for entertainment. It is one of the many blessings we all receive for being his faithful followers."
A few people shouted "Amen! Amen to that!"
Duras continued "Today, I bring you a special guest. His name is Jack Teach! He denies our God exists!” A bellowing of boos and shouts for his death cried out from the enraged crowd. Duras raised his hand to silence the mob. “But not to worry, there is a reason God gave us the walking dead. They are here to consume the flesh of nonbelievers like dear Mr. Teach here.” Duras then focused his attention to Jack. “Jack my boy! You have only one chance now. It’s time for you to enter the Trail of the Damned!”
The crowd erupted at his proclamation, banging their feet, and pounding their fists against the floor and walls, causing the entire room to shake violently.
“Death for Jack! Death for Jack! Death for Jack!” they screamed.
“Jack! May God have mercy on your flesh!” Duras said as he sat down on a dark shadowy throne.
A slow creak sounded behind Jack. He turned to see the bars rising, slowly, inch by inch. Beyond the bars, he saw the glowing eyes of the dead moving toward him; their growls echoed against the concrete, and their wicked shadows danced on the tunnel walls. He turned, and looked at the other gate still closed, but shadows moved just beyond the cold steel bars.
