by Black, D. S.
Hey, Drew! Where you going? Can't be dead, old man! We still have too much to do. Got to get married, have babies, and all that jazz. Come on now, Drew! Stop fucking around, and come on back. We've got too much living to do, you know?
A strong wind suddenly shook the old shack violently for a moment, and Jack thought it would cave right over like the big bad wolf that was huffing and puffing, blowing his house (his life, his whole existence) down. Down for the count, never to get up again. Down like Apollo Creed, and the world was full of big bad wolves who wanted nothing more than to destroy everything and everyone. Jack was quite certain life had lost all meaning. He didn’t know that something else was happening. A supernatural something. A ghostly something. A call from beyond the grave; he had no idea that what he’d seen Candy doing was not a sign of her losing her mind, but instead was the only chance of survival him (and anyone) truly had. A dead hope from two little girls that had been eaten alive.
2
Candy fell onto her queen bed, face first and closed her eyes. She could smell Jody on the side next to her. His heavy indentation still there. She fell into a troubled sleep; she dreamed of horrible things. Wretched, bloody things. Jody screaming and begging for help. Her girls being ripped into, gorged open; Papa looking up at her with those dead dreadfully scary eyes. She'd put them down and buried their bodies. Now in her dream, the bodies rose up and chased her. She ran and screamed; they were going to catch her, she knew it. Then she was suddenly back in that small shack where Andrew's body still laid; She saw him looking up at her with his dead eyes. He spoke and blood spat out of his mouth, but she could still hear his words. “Everything's gonna be okay. Don't you worry now,” but his face was melting; the skin pouring off the bones in heavy and hot clumps. His eyeballs rolled out of his skull and fell to the floor, a bloody string was still attached to them leading up to his eye sockets; the eyes themselves looked up at her, and one of them winked.
A cold hand touched her shoulder. She jerked around and saw Jody, he was bloated; his skin a dead purple and blue; his tongue hung from his mouth, swollen and dripping blood. His eyes stared at her, and then burst with a bloody pop.
Her nightmare changed, she was now in her old backyard. She stood at their grill; she wore Jody's old cooking apron. Something was burning on the grill; she looked down and saw that it was arms and legs too small to be adult. She saw Tamby's little blue bracelet, the one she got in her Christmas stocking one year. Then all around her the yard was burning, their small cottage caught fire; the windows bursting, scattering glass onto the burning lawn. She became aware that the yard was filled with open caskets, and now the bodies sat up like vampires waking just after dusk. She saw her girls looking at her from the caskets, side by side; Jody was a little further over to the right, looking at her; Papa was cackling loudly; she saw Andrew sitting up in his casket, the fire engulfing him.
They were all screaming, “(Murderer!) (Baby killer!) (Murderer!) (Baby killer!)”
Someone walked out of the burning house; it was Jack, his face mangled and burning. He held a pistol in his hand, raised it to his head and pulled the trigger. She watched, frozen in nightmare's cold grasp; unable to move, unable to speak or breathe. Jack's head exploded in a flash of blood and skull, then laughter. They were all laughing in their caskets; laughing at her and pointing. “Join us! Join us! Join us!” They chanted over and over. She still couldn't move, she wanted to scream but nothing would come out. “Join us! Join us! Join us!” She felt as though she was going to explode with madness. A raging insanity was building in her brain like a cancerous tumor growing; she felt it eating her sanity in thick gulps.
Her nightmare continued like that throughout the night. She tossed and turned, sometimes screaming aloud; sweat-drenched the sheets under her. Beside her—
3
Her girls stood as translucent wavering figures, watching her as she slept. They didn’t disappear, instead they stood there like timeless statues of protection and wisdom. The past and future—time itself, didn’t mean anything to them now. They saw the path they all would take. The path Mama, Jack—and people they’d never met while still alive—Duras, Okona … they could see slave girls, they could see a woman … Mary Jane and another … Tasha. They saw them trapped and scared, surrounded by evil men. Men doing drugs, men holding out their private parts. The men they knew they were here to stop. Candy’s little girls didn’t know how they’d gotten here. They couldn't see exact locations, streets, and cities; they could only see the larger picture of what was coming, and even then only in fast and strange images—sometimes names and faces. They couldn’t remember what had happened. They didn’t remember the Plateye creature; they didn’t remember Papa attacking them, and how they were too confused and scared to stop him. They didn’t remember the pain of his old grimy hands ripping their stomachs open, and the blood spurting as he feasted on their guts. All they knew was that, here they were and here was their Mama, and here was a path they had to take her on. They knew something else too… but it was more of an instinctual knowing, not anything they knew how to conceptualize much less verbalize. There was a power in them they didn’t understand, but knew that it was important. A power of time, the power of memory, at least the memory of others. They could sense others around them, all over the place. Other dead people, other ghosts. Some with happy motives, some neutral; others with a dark evil that shadowed their minds from time to time, and caused them both to shiver with a fear that no living creature could endure. A dead fear; hollow and empty, except for a boiling rage that echoed its hatred for all life. They knew it controlled … The Mountain King. The man they knew they’d have to see destroyed, lest he destroy what is left of the people they loved. They saw the path, but the path was by no means certain or without its traps set along the way. They saw someone else—someone that didn’t answer to anyone except for … Chaos. A lost soul filled with despicable hatred. They could sense his sad spirit, but it was solely independent—a spiritual wild card. They saw another man. A sweet soul, an old soul called Pinky. Pinky and a Native American. They could see the man called Duras and the man called Okona, and could feel the hatred they shared of each other, but also the love that would eventually bind them on the path being laid ahead. They saw the bright eyes of children; hardened children, but living and determined children nonetheless. They saw their part to play, they felt the cool calm of the lead child, the brazen courage that ran through all of them. It was pure ... The Mudcats … they were a pure band of energy, a life force representing all that was good in the world, a light shining bright, a beacon of hope in humanity’s darkest of nights. They saw a confused, and sexually deviant man. He was a smart and conniving man, who preyed on innocence. He sat beside the Mountain King, helping the dark forces that caused them to shudder with cold and lifeless fear. While standing—if you call it standing, more like floating, barely in the physical world—above their sleeping mother who had lost herself for a short time; they were here to fix her, to bring her back onto the right path, the path of decency and love. They were her conscience now; her spiritual guide, but so many road blocks are set up on the path, dangerous pitfalls with sinister men. They could see those men. Men like the Corporal Mullinax, a dark soul of utmost depravity, a drug and sex-lusting maniac of the highest order, and one that controlled the dark souls of soldiers congregated in that stadium of horror.
They hovered over their mother, watching her toss and turn till the early light of dawn sent bars of light through the windows; they watched her wake up, they watched as—
4
Candy opened her eyes. Sweat pressed the black spandex shirt she'd grabbed from the army surplus store against her body. The horrible dreams she'd had over the night were slowly fading as all dreams do, but the two translucent girls standing beside her bed did not fade. Real! She was now going to have to accept that as fact. She didn't understand how any of this was possible, but did it matter? Ghost daughters was better than no daughters. She rose up,
and swung her feet over the bed. She would face this New World one step at a time; the hurt wasn't going away anytime soon, but she was gonna make herself find a reason to keep breathing.
(Murderer)
(Baby killer)
Seeing those men yesterday, and killing them (she'd never thought in a million years she could kill so many damn people without losing her mind), meant that more may be on the way; there was just no way around it. She and Jack couldn't stay here, even with Jack hurt the way he was. A well-organized party could find them out here, even with gators and miles of swamp protecting them. “Ladies,” she said to her girls. “What's on the agenda? Any news from the dark side?”
“Time to leave Mama,” Tamby said.
“My thoughts exactly.”
“You have to find a man named Pinky,” Hannah said.
“Pinky? Who the hell’s Pinky?”
“We don't know, but you have to find him.”
“Where is he?”
“We don't know. We just know you got to find Pinky.”
Candy rubbed the rest of the sleep from her eyes, and stood up. “Well, we'll just figure it all out on the way I suppose. Time to get Jack up.”
5
After a brief breakfast, Jack and Candy (and her ghostly girls) left the swamp for the last time. They had no clear idea of where they were going, but as they traveled inland, small intuited nudges seemed to guide their direction as though some unseen hand or force propelled them onto a set path. They had no idea of what was happening at the City of God, of the battle between Duras and Okona; nor did they know that the Militia was stronger than they could imagine.
But the unfolding of events was already well underway, and sooner than later, both Candy and Jack would come face to face with dangers that can freeze hearts and minds in terror; their fortitude, their sanity, their mind and body were now on a collision course with their inevitable destiny. For a long year they hid from the horrors of the New World, finding that their luck held out for a while; but all luck runs dry like a sun battered creek during a long drought. With their family dead and gone, the seasons that would test their ability to survive was now upon them.
Intermission: Dead Letters
1
To anyone that survives,
My name is Dale Thomas. I'm a newscaster at Fox Carolina, or at least I was. Three weeks have gone by since the Fever started. I'm holed up in the news station with a few of the reporters and production crew. The power went out a week ago. Food is getting short, they know we're in here. Those affected by the Fever stand outside the station like vultures, just waiting for us to leave. There are also... how shall I say ... well ... ghosts. That's the best I can do. There simply is no other word for the things I have seen.
Jesus ... I just heard a gunshot.
Donny Evans shot himself. That's the gunshot I spoke of, others are seriously considering “opting out.”
I don't know if anyone will ever read this, but I've always thought it important to keep a record of important events. I have a personal journal at my house, though I doubt I'll ever see it again. I'm going to give you (whomever you are) the best account of what happened (at least from my vantage point here in South Carolina and the news reports given to me).
The first week, most people didn't quite understand the seriousness of it all. Most assumed the government had contingency plans, and they were right. FEMA had plans, plans that failed in the face of such a stealthy virus (or whatever it is.) In the first few days, our station received numerous reports from our Washington headquarters. The CDC (Centers for Disease Control) was hard at work finding the root of the Fever (as it so ambiguously came to be called), and the best in medical science worked day and night trying to find a cure. The reports soon claimed that the Fever resulted from an Ebola vaccination mutation, and originated in Africa.
But this claim was never substantiated. The report also claimed that the Fever first showed up in the United States; in Florida, then Texas, then another case in New York. The reports were simply too muddy, and full of instantiated claims. It did not take long to realize that nobody (FEMA, CDC, NOBODY) knew what caused the Fever, nor how to combat it.
Martial law was declared in all fifty states, and the borders shut down. No flights in or out. Given the fact of the high level of violence, getting to and from; an airport was impossible anyway. People did not understand the nature of the Fever, and when they saw a loved one become infected, they took little to no measures to protect themselves before the infected person “turned.”
During the first week, the army and national guard tried setting up refugee centers, but they were overwhelmed. Let me reiterate on the level of violence and death. The Fever came fast, and turned people into monsters. They attacked and ATE loved ones or anyone else. If killed, it had to be in the head (yes, just like in the cheap zombie movies, can you believe it?), but killing a mother, child, or father that had just turned was not easy for most people. Reports of trying to contain family members started circulating, followed by reports of the fool heartiness of doing so. It simply was not in the cards to contain such a fast-moving virus.
After the first week ended, any resemblance of law and order was a thing of the past. People (such as myself and my colleagues) holed up wherever they happened to be. Reports of mass suicides came in. Then massive explosions erupted all around the Greenville, SC area, and by the end of the second week all mass communication ended. All we had here at the station was emergency food rations, and backup generators. The infected owned the streets, day and night. You might hear a helicopter from time to time but by the third week, (and the current time of this writing) even that had ceased. Our station's helicopter, along with the pilot, reporter, and crew never returned. I'd like to think they found a safe location, but given the current situation...
Now ... the ghosts. Before mass communication ended, varied accounts of paranormal activity started coming in, and coming in fast. At first, even with the fact that the dead roamed the streets, the idea of ghosts seemed like nothing more than the scared imaginations of millions of scared people.
But Peter Dike changed my mind.
Peter Dike has been dead for twenty years. He was this station’s manager back before Fox took over and I am staring at him right now. He stands at the control station, just staring. He doesn't talk to anyone, but he does walk around, smoking a phantom cigarette as though a major event is on the horizon. Wherever he goes, the temperature drops dramatically. Most of my colleagues just stay away from the control station now, but I cannot help but watch him. It's certainly better than standing on the hot roof watching the dead move in the streets, waiting to feast on the meat from my bones.
I cannot even begin to try and understand why, or how such paranormal activity is happening. Is it a mass hypnosis? God ... I just don't know. I am a fucking new anchor, not a theologian or philosopher. I must rest. I'll write more later.
It's been two weeks since I last wrote. That puts the initial outbreak at about five weeks ago. Things have gotten much worse here in the station. Last night there was a rash of suicides. There are only a few of us left. Of course, Peter Dike still owns the control center. I wish the bastard would at least talk to me! I've tried to talk to him! He either does not see me or does not care that I am talking to him. I don't know how much longer anyone in the station can put up with the mental strain. I feel my own sanity slipping. More later. Hopefully.
It's been a week since I last wrote, at least I think so. I'm all that's left. The rest took their lives last night on the roof. Some of them were not so good at blowing their heads off and turned. As the earlier reports suggested, the Fever seems to be inside all of us, waiting to assert itself. I locked the door leading up to the roof, but they are slamming themselves against it, almost nonstop. Sleep is now a forgotten dream, and my only companion is Peter Dike.
I'm going to end it tonight. I doubt anyone will ever find this letter. God knows I hope you do, but from the looks of it; civilizatio
n is over.
Peter Dike can have the damn station!
This is Dale Thomas, Channel 12 news FOX Carolina, signing off! Have a good day, South Carolina!
2
My name is Tommy Lister. I’m from Conway, South Carolina and this journal is for those who survive.
Entry One
Me and Bobby fought off a whole lot of them jerkin’ bastards, barely got out. A real shit eater. Don’t know where the Army is. I don’t know what’s going on. Chaos around every corner. I saw three women torn apart by a gang of men in dark cloaks. they carried her off, half awake and screaming bloody hell. God help us.
Entry Two
Momma’s dead. Daddy’s dead. Saw it happen.
Entry Three
Got bit today. I’ve seen people go fast. I’ve seen ‘em turn slow, it all depends on the person. I ain't got it in me to kill myself. I'll join the Ranks of the Dead. God, have mercy.
Entree Four
Still alive. Don know how much time. If Mr. Keely (my English teacher finds this): sorry for shit grammar. I done it Redneck till the end.
3
Dear World,
