by Black, D. S.
She was closing on the clearing that led to the pontoon and the water's edge; she heard voices, male voices, stranger danger, red alert; her own primal instincts sent her hand straight to the handle of the Colt revolver. She slunk down into a slow and stealthy walk as she edged her way to the clearing.
She saw three men. Camouflage covered their thin and rugged bodies. They stood around the pontoon, then the men saw the hummer, and smiles broke across their faces; faces that looked higher than a fucking kite jacked up on something crazy strong. She'd seen that kind of look countless times dealing with meth heads, but this look was more intense, like they weren’t quite human anymore; they looked like primal savages with the intelligence of rabid bears.
"Mama ... can't let ‘em take the Hummer." The girls spoke in hushed whispers, their translucent bodies shivering in hot swamp air like ghostly vapor. Earth's hot steam rose, surrounding Candy with stealthy mist. She removed her revolver, and quietly opened the cylinder. Three bullets left. Primal savages with insane bear intelligence or not; powerful drugs fueling their intensity withstanding; hot lead shot by an award-winning gunslinger was a fix all for such circumstances.
(murderer!)
(baby killer!)
The soldiers were now sliding the pontoon on the shore. They looked to be talking about trying to secure it to the top of the Humvee. Candy aimed her revolver for one of their heads then the crackle of a radio on one of their belts caused her to stay her trigger finger.
The man turned and looked in her general direction.
She didn't budge.
He was walking casually closer, speaking loudly into the radio. "A hell of a find, Sarge! A Humvee and a pontoon boat... Nope. I don't see ‘em... Wait a second ... holy shit!"
The rain had washed away some of her tracks and the drag marks from Andrews final ride, but now the radio man spotted them, then he spotted her.
Her first bullet split Radio Man's head. The two others had stayed at the Humvee and turned fast, almost fast enough, her second bullet burst a hole through the next soldier’s right eye, exited through the back of his skull and splattered his buddy red. The man fell backward, and took cover on the other side of the Humvee.
The radio crackled alive on the ground with questions. What is your situation? Do you copy? Hello? Tom, are you there!"
The man jumped up from the other side and sprayed an erratic spurt of bullets from his rifle; the hot lead zipped passed Candy, leaving her unscathed. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Candy said in a soft monotone as she entered the clearing, making her way to the Hummer.
A wild voice came from the other side of the Jeep. “You just fucked up! I mean, you just fucked up big! You got any idea who you messin with!”
Candy squatted down, and looked under the Hummer. The man may be jacked up and feeling strong, but that bear intelligence just failed him. She picked up Radio Man's rifle, a AR15 (seemed like everybody's carrying them these days), aimed it deftly at the man's exposed ankle and fired. Hot blood shot from his leg in a red spurt and he fell to the ground, dropping his rifle, screaming. She ran around the hummer, quickly walking up to him, and kicked the rifle out of his reach. He was looking up at her, his big bug eyes pulsing in his skull. “You going to regret this, fucking bitch!” he spat at her. She smiled.
“You have any clue what you just did? Who you just fucking crossed? You red headed, stupid fucking cunt! The Militia will have your fucking head in a goddam slin—”
She blew his brains out. The report of the rifle echoed over the smoggy land, the hot humid air, and reverberated over the black water. Somewhere a flock of birds took flight.
She examined their uniforms. This was some new hell; this wasn't the City of God guys. She was almost certain of that. They had a basic patch stitched on their arms with skulls and rifles crossing each other with only two words in bold capital lettering: THE MILITIA.
Thompson Moves Closer to the City
Thompson watched as they got closer to the City of God. The heat was intense, but he had made all the Hummers roll down their windows, and cut off the AC. It was time to prepare for battle. Dead men and women watched with hungry eyes as the convoy drove by. The dead didn’t care about control of territory, though they certainly controlled much of the world now. They only wanted hot flesh.
Thompson’s mind was reaching a fever pitch. He felt the need to kill, he wanted to hurt someone. Soon he would have his chance. Whoever was in the City of God would serve his dark desires.
“Whoa!” Randy said as he hit the brakes. The other hummers slowed behind them. Soon, they were at a full stop. About fifty yards in front of them was a mass of zombies; they stood in the road like a police check point, waiting for a car to come along.
“Jesus fucking Christ! I hate delays! Did I ever tell you I hate delays, Randy?”
“Many times, sir.”
“Nothing to it, but to do it though,” he said and swung open his door and let out a loud whistle as he twirled his finger around in the air. The men behind him, nearly 30 in total exited their Hummers, and grabbed their guns.
“Make a line, and take these dead fucks out. We’ve got an appointment, and I don’t plan to be late.”
The men lined up as they were ordered. They stood in front of the lead Hummer, and opened fire on the coming hoard. The dead walked into the hail of bullets with complete and total disregard. They only saw the warm flesh of the soldiers; the zombies smelled the stench of their under arms (deodorant wasn’t a priority in the Militia.) For the dead, the men smelled like rib roast prepared by a fine dining chef. They growled, their white eyes burning from deep sockets.
Thompson stood on his Hummer, surveying the scene. “Right flank!” He said.
A group of the men turned, and opened fire on a group of zombies stumbling through a field of grass to their right. Thompson took out his .38, aimed carefully and fired to his left where another group of zombies had emerged from a shadowy tree line. Thompson was a decent shot. The past year had made good shots of anyone who had survived this long, but the gunfire always brought more zombies. The only hope was that there wasn’t enough nearby to create a flood of death that would overcome even the best, and most hardened platoon.
He smiled as one of his bullets ripped a hole in a zombie’s head, and it dropped dead—this time the forever kind of death. It wasn’t exactly what he desired; killing the walking dead didn’t bring the thrill like wringing the life out of a living man or woman. There was something addictive about watching the life drain out of their faces, their eyes losing all hope, and finally losing that sparkly shine that all living creatures have. As he reloaded his revolver, he said a silent prayer that the City of God would be filled with people to slaughter. They would take some of the women (the men needed playthings. Columbia and the Upstate was always looking for fresh pussy), and they would take the young boys and train them. And if Thompson found a young lad who caught his eye, he might just keep him for a while. Cap had warned him about it after the first time. Cap’s hypocrisy about raping the young was just another annoyance for Thompson. Cap raped and murdered countless girls, but if Thompson wanted to enjoy a young boy? Cap always lost his shit. He nearly shot Thompson dead after catching him giving a blue-eyed blond of no more than twelve years the pounding of a life time. Had it not been for lack of good leadership, Thompson had no doubt that Cap would have plugged him with a bullet then and there, but finding good help was hard before the Fever, and finding it now was next to impossible.
After about ten or twelve minutes of nonstop gunfire, Thompson screamed: “Hold your fire! Hold your fucking fire!” A little at a time, the gun fire slowed and eventually stopped. All that was heard was the sound of the wind rustling against the nearby trees, and the sound of summer’s buzz all around them. As Thompson took a three hundred and sixty degree look at the aftermath of this little battle, he breathed in the smell of dead bodies and gunfire. He didn’t gag, this was a smell they were all accustomed to by now. I
ndeed, he had learned to love it. If he could smell death, it meant he was still alive. It meant that he was the death dealer.
“Looks like it’s clear! Let’s hit the blacktop! Move it out!” He said as he holstered his .38. He jumped down from his Hummer, deftly landing on the road. He watched as the men walked by him; their eyes were red, but alert. The White Mist did wonders for these idiots. Made them slaves to the Militia, and tough as nails. If they had a good leader with them, they could fight through just about any mess the New World had to offer.
Almost any. There were, of course places that even the Militia knew not to go. Strips of paranormal strangeness that broke minds, and claimed souls. Thompson had lost men to these oddities, and the Militia had since marked all the ones they knew in the state of South Carolina on maps. Thompson didn’t know how to describe them; he’d never been stupid enough to enter one, but most were narrow strips of what looked like both a solid gel, and a misty realm of blue green. The men ordered to investigate, either never came out, or came out insane. So insane they had to be shot, and once they were in you couldn’t see them. You could only see strange shadows, fragments of whatever dark madness lived inside of the pocket of spirit land.
Whatever they were, Thompson always made it a point to navigate around them.
They loaded back into the Hummers, and started on their way again. Thompson was eager as ever, but forced himself to take a calming breath, relaxing his mind—at least a little bit, long enough to control his thoughts till they arrived and had assessed the City of God’s situation.
His radio crackled, “Thompson! Report! Damn you! Answer! OVER!”
“I hate the son of a bitch, I really do.” The day was dying, the sun lowering for another night’s rest. The sun was still hot, and the humidity thick; but a rumble in the distance meant pregnant clouds might bring blessed rain. Rain that might cool Thompson’s burning soul, his angry heart screamed for something to chill him out. He looked over and saw Randy’s camo covered thigh. Thompson had a nearly overwhelming need to bend Randy over, and fuck him silly. Now that would ease the tension.
Instead, he picked up his radio and said: “Sorry Cap. We were a bit busy dispatching a few dead men. Zombie’s always gum up the works. Over.”
“Jesus hell fire, son.” At the sound of being called his son, Thompson nearly threw the radio out his open window. God did he want to kill that bastard.
Cap continued: “Whatever. Just report. Did you find the missing men? Over.”
“That’s a negative, Cap. I sent a search party, but I haven’t heard back from them either. I assume the worst. They weren’t the smartest bunch, but after I finish scouting the church fortress, I’ll go out and find them personally—whatever is left of them. Over.”
“Goddamn right you will, and what about the church community? Any updates? Over.”
“No updates yet. We are on our way now. I’ll have you plenty of information in the morning. Over.”
“See that you do, Thompson. I’m sick of feeling like I can’t trust you. Don’t fuck this up. Over and out.”
Thompson’s face was red as blood. His breathing came in angry gasps. He took in a deep breath of hot humid air; felt the sweat running down the back of his neck, and let the breath out 1…2…3…4.
“Sir, you OK?” Randy asked with a rattle of nervousness in his voice.
Thompson breathed in 1…2…3…4.
“I’m fine. That shit for brains really pisses on my parade sometimes. Not to worry!” He forced a smile that looked deranged and dangerous. “Soon, I’ll show him and the Mountain King what my worth is, and they will have no choice, but to promote me. Just wait and see.”
Randy said nothing. He simply drove the vehicle down old southern roads, slowly making their way to the point on the map Thompson had indicated. They were to meet a “holy man” from the city.
“You think this guy will pan out, sir?”
“If he does he does, if he doesn’t he dies. Either way, he will most likely die. I’m not in the mood for holy bullshit. I admit, I like some of the authoritarian; man dominating philosophy and teachings, but overall, it’s complete bullshit and how anyone can cling to that shit these days is beyond my comprehension. The good news is that, at least based on my first meeting with the little snot, he is eager for power, and is willing to make a bargain with anyone to gain it.”
“Even the devil, sir?”
Thompson smiled, and smacked Randy on his thigh. “Especially the devil.”
Thompson lowered the visor, and stared at his eyes. He saw darkness there, he remembered when his eyes were blue. Right? Blue. Surely his eyes were once blue, but now all he ever sees is the black vomit of hate and distrust, of lost life and the death he has bestowed on so many men, women, and kids; is he the devil? Oh, please. Don’t play nonsensical games.
Yet he believed, if there was to be a devil, then why not him? Why not the boy born, tossed aside by his parents, then forged by rape and pain into the man he became? If there was ever a man more deserving of the mantle, of the responsibility, of the power and control that the stories of Satan claimed—it was he, Thompson the Ruler, Thomson the Killer, Thompson the Impaler, Thompson the Rapist, Thompson the King.
Oh, yes…
Why should the Mountain King get all the glory? Who was he? Where was he? Hiding in a mountain while Thompson did all the dirty work. That’s what the so called Mountain King was doing. Well, it wouldn’t be long now. Thompson would shoot them all; show them who he was, and what he could do.
He didn’t know that there was already a battle being raged in the lowlands. Thompson had no idea what had happened. He didn’t know who Okona was, or Candy or Jack, and only knew the smallest amount about Duras; but as they drove closer to the City of God, he saw the smoke rising like a black pillar against the darkening sky. He felt no worry. Instead, he smiled; he smiled because the smoke meant that something was wrong. That the world down here was burning, and he was the only one that could bring order. A Black Order. A Dark Order; Thompson’s Order.
And anyone who stood in his way would find out just how painful death could be.
Final Night in the Swamp
1
Darkness surrounded Jack while a bar of swampy moonlight drifted through an open window streaked across his face. For a moment, he thought he was still unconscious. Slowly his nervous system reminded him of the pain coursing through his body. The smell of infection was nauseating. Breathing caused exhaustion, his eyes barely stayed open. How did this happen? What in god’s name was I thinking? He thought, gritting his teeth in agony. Outside the world was dark, frogs were burping, and something was moving. Where is she? It hurts so much. The rustles grew louder, and he realized he could hear footsteps approaching. The door opened. For a moment, he saw a dark and dead figure, full of ragged and jaggedly sharp teeth standing in the doorway, staring at him, ready to eat him in his oh so vulnerable condition. He welcomed it, wanted it; he couldn’t kill himself properly, so let the dead man standing in the darkened doorway do it for him.
But then the figure walked out of the dark shadow, and Candy’s face appeared. She was covered in blood, her eyes exhausted with madness; a deep madness embedded inside her. She mumbled something as though she was talking to someone, someone real. Jack saw nothing, just his cousin walking over to him with a bag. A bag that turned out to be his savior.
She opened the bottle of antibiotics and fed them to him, handing him a glass of water she’d left beside his bed before she left; back when she was still Candy the Sheriff’s deputy, or at least what little was left of that person. The police uniform was gone, the kind spirited blue eyes that once sparkled were now cloudy and gray; angry tired mist surrounding her pupils.
“Candy…” Jack’s voice croaked in pain, but he forced himself to continue: “Where is---“
“He's dead, Jack. Andrew’s dead.”
Jack said nothing. He was now not only in great amounts of pain, but shock had drove back into hi
s mind. Dead? Another one bites the dust, just like that? Yep! Just like that, he thought miserably. Nothing sacred left in this God forsaken land. He felt the tears welling behind his eyes, and didn't have the strength to stop them. They gushed down his ripped face, like bee stings.
“Open up, Jack. I found antibiotics and pain pills.”
He did as she said. He swallowed the pills, and laid back down. He stared at the ceiling trying to remember how all this had happened. Why had they ever left? This was all his fault, he was sure of it. Did he want to know how? No! Yes! No! “How did he die?”
“Not tonight, Jack. I think we have more to worry about than just those religious crazies now. I don’t know for sure, but got a bad feeling about it. I need to lay down for a bit. We’ll talk later.”
Jack watched her walk away and right before she stepped out of the room, he once again saw her speaking to the floor, as though someone was standing there listening and talking back. She’s lost her mind, that’s it; and soon he would too.
Andrew gone! No! They are all dead. Only he and Candy? It can’t be. How? Why? Only twenty-four hours ago, they’d all been laughing together; hopeful for a better future despite the world's current condition. He thought of late night sleepovers with Andrew. How he'd kept Andrew awake by poking him with one of their grandfather's canes; he thought of the beach trips. All the many, and wonderful beach trips. He, Andrew and Candy could barely sleep the night before; staying up late talking about all the fun they would have. Was it possible he was dead? Not just Andrew, but Papa and the girls too? All the good times, all the memories now lost in the sands of time? How could they be dead? It seemed like only yesterday they'd been kids, playing in their underwear, blankets tied around their necks and flowing behind them like superhero capes. All the sandcastles they built, then watched as the ocean swallowed them. The sands of time; the goddamn fucking sands of time. He thought of going out to dinner, sunburned and happy; Papa's wild laughter. The whole family together, smiling, laughing. Eating gator nuggets, drinking sodas, and the loud and wonderful laughter; the laughter of children, of carelessness and freedom—the sounds of the Old World. The Dead World.
