by Black, D. S.
Above, he saw something lowering on a cable, eventually reaching his position. It was a short sword, engravings on the blade read: For the Faithless, May He Forgive You.
Jack became aware of dark blood stains under his feet that covered every inch of the pit. How many other innocents had these disgusting barbarians fed to the hungry undead? Would he now become just a number in this sick game? Not today! Not tomorrow! Not ever!
He removed the blade from the cable, and marched around the pit, pointing the sword at the crowd. “I am Jack Teach—defender of peace, justice, and humanity!” The crowd bellowed in disgust, launched small stones, more spit and feces. One of the stones conked Jack in the temple. He saw stars as the bars continued to rise.
Jack collected himself, and pointed the tip of the blade up at Duras, “Today I will show you that the will of man cannot be defeated. Nothing can stop the will of mankind! Our species will rise again! Do you hear me, Duras? Do you hear me, Tommy! Witness for yourself the stirrings of humanity’s rising!”
The gate clicked at the top, and time stood still around him. He raised the sword. The dead men wobbled out of the tunnel, snarling and growling; their skin hanging from their faces. Six disgusting, stench-ridden pieces of flesh lurched for him. He charged with ferocity, the heat from the trash cans dashed across his face, and his eyes widened exposing the white underneath the lids. He lobbed one of their heads off, and it tumbled to the ground, rolling away. Jagged teeth bit into his shirt, nearly cutting the skin; He pressed the hilt of the sword against its forehead, and used his foot to kick it away. He twisted quickly, and swung the blade with all his might, rendering another creature headless. He took a few steps back and watched the other four moving for him. He circled around the dumb beasts, giving him an advantage by only allowing one of them close at a time. His blade finished each one off with precise, powerful cuts. Their blood drooled out of their decapitated heads, and their bodies lay motionless, pooling blood all around. Jack celebrated by jumping up and down, screaming obscenities at the crowd and up at Duras.
He stopped in his tracks when he heard the creak of the other gate rising. He turned, and watched with horror as four massive dead men moved out from the darkness—all of them well over seven feet tall, and clad in armor. He swallowed deeply, and the crowd screamed for his bloody demise. He braced himself for attack, but the whole structure suddenly shook as though a violent quake erupted. The jarring sounds of sirens blasted in every direction; he heard the screams of spectators,
“The gates! The front gates are breached!”
From within the crowd, jumped Okona sliding down into the pit on his knees. He popped back onto his feet and drew two swords from sheaths hanging from either hip. The fire glimmered in his face, and his eyes burned with rage. He charged with a blood-curdling scream, “Aquiel! Aquiel! For my Aquiel!” Jack saw the white of his teeth as he charged into the pack of seven-foot hellions. He jumped high twisted with fury, slicing off the forearm of one of the giants; then landed low to the ground, cutting the leg off the beast, planting his blade into its skull. Another dove for him, but he met the zombie's momentum with the tip of his blood dripping blade, sending it through its skull. He let it fall to the floor, and gripped his remaining sword with both hands. He charged the third beast; jumped, and drove his foot into its chest, cutting a back flip, and sending the zombie stumbling back. With his left hand, he removed a small revolver from a holster, and shot a hole through the fourth’s skull, splattering brain matter against the curved walls of the pit; then charged the final creature, and screamed as he drove his blade through its face. “Die foul beast! Die in the name of Aquiel!” Jack watched in both horror and pride as he struck the beast over and over, chopping it to pieces all the while screaming his dead wife’s name.
“Come on! We’ve got to go!” Candy stood at the top edge of the pit. A rope was thrown down, and Okona followed Jack to the top. A large portion of the crowd had vanished through the exits. Jack looked up, and saw that Duras was gone.
Outside, back in the streets of the city-sized compound, Jack stared out at a horrid scene. Okona, and his people had blown the main gates, and the noise had attracted a massive horde of zombies. Thousands of dead faces clamored over the broken rubble like a sea of peeling, ripped flesh. People screamed from every direction, guts were being ripped out of hundreds of people. The walking corpses ate through the crowds—men, women, children—all meeting the final death via the teeth of the mangled flesh eaters.
12
Jody ran, his big belly swaying back and forth like a fleshy pendulum. His breathing came in gasps. Are they OK? Are my girls OK? Is all he could think while a crowd of zombies marched his way. Andrew stood beside him, firing rapidly in multiple directions; Jody’s head swam. This ain’t right! My girls! God! My girls!
A sharp shiver shot up his spine, and tears fell from his eyes. Can’t live in this; nobody can survive now. It's finished—
“WATCH OUT! FUCK!”
Andrew’s warning came milliseconds too late. The zombie chewed into Jody’s shoulder, taking a massive chunk of flesh with it.
“JODY!”
Jody woke from his suicidal daze, and jammed the butt of his rifle into the dead man’s face, sending it tumbling backward like a drunk getting tossed by a bouncer. Let ‘em be alive. Please God, let ‘em be alive. My little angels.
He fired hot shots into the air, taking down the zombies. They came in from every direction, a sea of dead flesh. The smell of their skin filled the air with a dark, and distinctive smell.
Like a rotting dog in a basement.
Jody’s mind, in a blink of a second saw it all happening again. His dog dying in the basement, his daddy laughing and drinking beer while Jody cried in a corner. “I find rust on my tools again, it’ll be you dying down there. Understand me boy?”
Jody shook with fear, and missed Mama. He’d watched her die from drinking; he watched her face go from a healthy thirty-five-year-old woman to a foreshadowing image of the dead beasts that now roam planet earth.
“I ask you a question, son—you best damn well answer!” His father stood up, and slapped Jody with all his might. Jody slammed into the wall. A three-foot chain latched around Jody’s thick neck clanked, and locked Jody in place, nice and unconscious. He’d been captive, forced to listen to the begging, starving howls of his best friend. Years later, those howls haunted him; he’d wake in the middle of the night, sweat pouring, and tears streaming. Candy would hold him and cuddle him. “Back to sleep, baby. It's okay, everything is gonna be okay.” They never left though. The howls of Henry Rosko never left.
When he woke up, his father stood above him holding a shovel and a bag of lime. “It's done! Bury him.” He threw the lime and shovel down. Jody pulled himself up, and watched his father walk down a short hallway. He watched as is father never looked back, the bedroom door opening, and then shutting with a fatal click. It was the last time Jody saw his father alive.
The door leading down to the basement hung in front of him. He glowered at it, not wanting to touch the handle. Knowing what was waiting for him down below; his best buddy, his old pal Henry Rosko. He’d had Henry Rosko for three years since he was a puppy of only eight weeks. Henry Rosko was the last gift Mama ever gave him. Jody felt some sense that it was Daddy’s fault that mama died. Some vague but powerful feeling deep inside him always said: he did something! daddy done it to her. He knew it, he made her drink, he hurt her. He heard Mama’s howls too; he didn’t starve her of food, he stole her humanity and decency one slap at a time. After one too many concussions, his Mama chose the booze over leaving Daddy. Maybe because she knew he’d kill not only her, but Jody too. Her Little Fat Man.
Jody stepped onto the first step leading down to the basement. The floorboard creaked under his weight. At only 10 years old, Jody already weighed a hefty one hundred eighty pounds. His short and fat legs walked down each step with care. He heard water dripping somewhere, and saw nothing else. “Henry Rosko
…” He choked up and started to cry. He saw him.
Before Henry Rosko was starved to death he was a mix of Rottweiler, and Labrador. He had a healthy and proud snout. His soft coat of fur (Jody washed him in a kiddy pool in the back yard at least once a week). He had deep, and shiny black fur save for Rottweiler speckles of brown on his face. His eyes were happy and glowing brown marbles.
On the basement floor, Henry Rosko’s ribs showed through tight skin. He lay on his side, his paws laid out like he had been reaching for something. His legs shot out behind him, hard and stiff. Foam fumed out from his mouth, his lips curled back over his teeth. The brown eyes stared with hungry horror.
Outside, he buried Henry Rosko, and swore on the dog’s grave: Daddy dies tonight.
How? How you gonna do it? Can’t chop him up. They’d lock me up for good. Gotta be nice and silent, gotta look like an accident. A dirty mist in his lungs. Something so quiet it could kill a house of Navy Seals. Death! Death for Daddy. Justice for Henry Rosko, that’s all I want.
He heard the voice of his mother: My good Little Fat Man, kill that son of a bitch!
Inside, Jody walked stealthily. His eyes gleamed a moderate glare. He walked softly to a hallway closet, the closet was blood red with a gold handle. Jody’s thick fingers wrapped around it, and turned. It opened with a yawning, creaking sound. He paused … listening … heard … nothing. He stared at Daddy’s door, and listened to the loud snores. He returned his eyes to the open closet, reaching in and pulled a metal string. The small closet was bathed with bright light. A gas hot water heater stood to his right, on a well-scrubbed wooden floor. His father may have been an evil asshole, but he kept a clean ship. Directly in front and an arm’s length above him, was a tool box. He lowered the box to the floor, making sure not to let the tools shuffle against each other. He sat it on the floor, and listened. He heard his father snoring from all the way down the hall, behind the bedroom’s closed door. Good, old man. Sleep, Sleep the final sleep. This is for Henry Rosko.
He opened the tool box. The metal snaps clicked, the snoring stopped; Jody froze. Sweat beading down his face like a river of fear, his heart pounded against his chest. Veiny cords stood out on his neck. His face flushed red, his teeth clenched together; his lips rose above his teeth.
He heard what sounded like his father turning over in bed … then the snoring returned. He let out a breath of relief, then thought: What if he’d caught me? Next time it’s you boy, next time it’s you starving and howling in the dark basement. Next time it’s, YOU!—
for Henry Rosco, for Mama. He reached inside and brought out a small screwdriver. He looked up and saw the blinking light of a carbon monoxide detector. He stood up, and reached high above his head. He yanked it down with a fast jerk. It wasn’t tied into the house’s wiring, he popped open the battery slot and let the AAs fall softly into his sweaty palm. In fact, sweat drenched through his shirt and ran down every inch of his chubby young body. He went down to one knee, and found the metal gas line leading to the water heater. He used the screwdriver to slowly grind a small hole. Daddy It’s time! Gas is gonna getcha Daddy!
He smelled the gas line’s deodorant leaking out, its way of telling Jody carbon monoxide was now leaking into the room in a steady stream of invisible death. Jody thought: smells like Victory. He stood up and stared down the hall. He listened as Daddy’s snores came in steady, loud and in flapping snorts. Jody moved with mouse like stealth. He went to the kitchen. Orange and white striped wallpaper adorned the walls. Handmade cabinets made by Daddy’s bitter and brittle hands. He took a few things loaded them into a plastic Walmart bag and softly stepped through the front door. He sat outside, beside Henry Rosko’s grave. He’d taken some beef jerky, a gallon of milk, a bag of Fritos, and a two liter of Pepsi. He stared into the dark sparkling night, and waited for the morning dew.
The night sky swiped across a vast dark landscape. Stars winked from galaxies far, far away. Jody chewed his beef jerky, and pondered the situation. He wasn’t the brightest, but he knew, there were things bigger than him in this world. He figured all the God stuff added up to something in the end. He hoped there was a hot burning pit waiting for his father (who at that very moment started breathing in the carbon monoxide, and burping it out his nose in long and loud snores). The stars looked like big diamond studs to Jody, something he wished he could have given his mother. A big diamond. Daddy never bought her any, and he always hoped to give her one. He never did—
“Move your fat ass!” Jody snapped back to the sight of Andrew screaming in his face. A face covered with blood and bits of guts. “Move! It bit you! FUCK!” Jody snapped around and opened fire. Jody fought with the rage of a dying father. He saw Jack in the distance.
13
Jack saw Andrew and Jody running toward him; Jody was holding his shoulder.
“No!” Candy screamed and ran for her husband.
Jody fell to his knees, and held out his hand, ordering her to stop. His eyes were turning red, and his veins started to enlarge. Then a bullet ripped through his skull, spilling the contents on the pebble streets. On a roof, not so far off stood Duras with a sniper rifle. A group of thirty undead broke off and made their way toward Jack's position. Candy, Andrew, and Jack took cover behind a nearby car. Bullets pinged the vehicle as Jack peeked around. He watched in horror as grimy dead hands pulled out chunks of Jody’s intestines, and nasty teeth ate into his neck, blood filling their insatiable mouths.
“Noooooo…” Candy murmured as her eyes dropped tears.
In front of Jack was dark shadow, and somewhere beyond that shadow was the wall where a rope still hung. Duras’s fire had left them alone and now focused its attention on the massive horde engulfing his city; Jack didn’t see Okona. He didn’t know where he’d gone, he didn’t wait. He motioned to his cousins and took off into the darkness. Candy fired well-placed head shots into any dead man that came near, opening their path.
Climbing up the rope, Jack's muscles burned. Sweat dripped from every inch of his body. The smell of rotting flesh, and the screams of countless dying people filled the night air. A bright full moon shined above, and bright stars twinkled like an ironic wink meant to convey their enjoyment of humanities’ extinction event. Jack helped his cousins over the wall, onto the platform; and as they jumped to the other side, Jack took one final look at the scene. The undead filled every nook and cranny, every dark alley. Large groupings feasted on their victims. Their white hot, soulless eyes looked content as they chewed fresh meat, and ground the warm entrails between crooked teeth.
Jack dropped to the ground, and left the city to die. He didn’t go back to the forest; he wanted out from here back to the swamps—back to safety and security. Back to his grandfather, and those wonderful kids. So, he ran with his cousins by his side, back through the abandoned streets, by the bar he was held captive at, and finally to the Humvee
Back in the Humvee, a long stretch of zombies littered the road. Their heads jolted, and their eyes lingered on Jack, instinctively wanting the flesh on his bones. Their wretched stench entered the open window. He grimaced, then squinted as the early morning sun rose. Would we all end up like them—thoughtless, brain starved animals? Is there any hope of really saving my species? At least the zombies kill for food. What can I say in defense of so many humans that choose to kill their fellow man for sport? There will always be men like Duras; the madness may never stop, not until we’re all dead, and then we’ll continue to enjoy the bloodshed as dead men walking.
He laid his head against the head rest. Candy’s reflection sat in the passenger side mirror, staring longingly outward probably thinking of Jody.
Jack thought, those kids have no father now. How will they take the news? Are they even there? Is this a dream? Let them be there, Alive.
Plat Eyes
1
Back in the swamp, the girls sat watching their grandfather snooze. His snoring was laborious, coming in snorts and jerks. His face was pale, and a little yell
ow with dark shadows under his eyes. The shadows grew long as the sun lowered itself. Out in the world; Jack, Andrew, Jody, and Candy were just entering Okona's tree fortress, not knowing (or maybe just not believing?) what hid deep inside the eerie black-water Carolina swamps. After all, they'd not seen or heard anything out of the ordinary for the last year. Not even the gators bothered them. The stories of mass haunting that came like a broken psychic damn after the Fever hit, were just that. Stories! Nothing more, but tales of haunting in the South Carolina lowlands were legendary. With such horrible pain and suffering—slavery, war—there were bound to be leftover emotional footholds filled with nasty ghouls, and spooks. If there is ever a group of human beings that are open to the spiritual flip side of reality; its children, and of course superstitious grandmothers.
2
The girls shivered in unison even though the temperature was well above eighty degrees, and the humidity was stifling; thick enough to cut like butter, the cold bubble encircling the girls. It was the first time the girls had been this alone. Their Papa was more like a prop from a movie set. Once everyone had gone, he just kind of snored life away. The chill in the air was like an arctic breeze.
“Remember the stories Mema used to tell?” Tamby said.
“I do. I don't want to, though. Not here! Not now.”
“She called ‘em Haints,” Tamby said.
“Why don't ya want to talk about it! And you're wrong! Haints can't hurt nobody. PLAT EYES! They live in the swamps. Just big round eyes till they take a form.”
“Animals usually. I remember now.”
“But I think they can take any form. I hope Mama gets back soon.”
“You remember hearing Mama, and Jack talk about all the ghost stories people told after—”
