by Black, D. S.
And as always, Novy was silent and mostly ignored. Most of the time, they forgot she was even there. All that mattered was that she kicked some serious ass once the game started.
Tasha (feeling relaxed in her role as Foulslut) sat staring at the screen as the next map slowly loaded. She took off her headphones and let them fall over the back of her neck. She reached over and took a glass of three-hour-old Mountain Dew and drank it in gulps. The green liquid streamed down her gullet and filled her stomach with the sweet nectar of gamer’s caffeine.
The doorbell rang. She looked at her watch. Grim agony clutched her soul. She’d forgotten all about Redneck Ranger, he was right on time. She groaned loudly and rose from her chair like a dead girl standing. Downstairs, the sound of Riker Mayer (oh, this is my beloved stepdaddy. I’m pretty sure he wants to fuck me!) opening the door and greeting his chosen man with a firm handshake and a stupid joke (you know what a probate is? A professional masturbator! HA! HA! HA!).
Not this time. This time the animated redneck with spittle flying into Redneck Ranger’s face said, “Gonna make me proud, son?” He spoke with eloquent perversity. The Redneck Ranger had looked shyly at the floor for a moment, cheeks glowing red. “Oh hell, boy! I’m just fuckin with ya!” Riker moved in close. “But just in case...” He strangely and erotically forced a Trojan condom into Redneck Ranger’s tight jean pocket. The younger boy forced himself to let the man shove the condom deep with two fingers, then felt the fingers slip out. The boy looked more than embarrassed; he was red as roses. Redneck Ranger shivered while Tonya watched. She wondered to herself: Gay. Oh yes! Which one is gayer? Stepdad.
She reconsidered: may be a tie.
She walked over to the upstairs banister and shouted in a modest and temperate tone. “I'll be down in just a minute, Tommy.” She heard Riker crack another joke before erupting in caricature like laughter, probably overcompensating for a lack of something. She’d monitored his pornography use regularly. The old man loved, HER. At least if the only qualifier is a cute, petite body, aged 18. She’d thought about turning him in, but the porn wasn’t illegal; only perverted and he’d never laid a hand on her, only his glaring eyes. Like the way he’d watch her while she went for a glass of milk only in her towel. She could feel his dark and hard eyes examining her, wanting to shred her of her virginity. He never touched her, though.
The knowledge of a forty-five-year-old man wanking while fantasizing over her dripping wet freshly showered body—kind of gave her the creeps. Better to monitor and feel sick, then not know what those crazy old man eyes viewed every night at ten o clock after her mother had gone to bed.
7
Gun blasts and what sounded like artillery shells snapped Tasha and the rest of the Comic Warriors out of whatever daydream slumber they were in. They immediately grabbed their weapons and armed themselves. The sounds were coming from a little way off. Somewhere in the dark trees, a war had started.
Thompson Gets a Call
1
Thompson smelled the power he would soon have; he tasted it, craved it more than anything else. Real power. He would lord it over Cap, Mullinax, and finally, drive the Mountain King from his lair and claim the mantle of King for himself. No one could stop him, or even slow him down. He had decided to give the holy man from the city one more hour to contact him. If he heard nothing, then the invasion would be done the old-fashioned way, with brute force and superior fire power—a strategic assault he’d planned out over the last few days. The gates were good at keeping zombies out, but could easily be over taken with mortar rounds. They could bombard the front gates, while him and another team cut through the back gates and kill anything moving.
He sat under the shade of a large pine tree, occasionally looking down at his watch. The watch had been a present from one of his old banking colleagues, Henry Patterson. He’d hated Patterson. Patterson had been a fat balding worm that had a fat wife and even fatter kids, but the man had been a step ladder to the top, and the watch was a Rolex Cellini made in 18 carats rose gold. It had a blue moon dial at the six O clock position, which let him know when the new and full moons came and went. The leather strap never lost its strength, even after countless battles with both the dead and the living. Only a small scratch was on the face, and the battery still ticked time away. He had multiple spare batteries for the day when it eventually died. Though Thompson was not prone to nostalgia, the watch for him, represented a part of his past that he was quite proud of. Moving up through the chains of banking command. Had the Fever not interrupted that life, he was certain he would have been chosen for a high-level banking position in New York.
Now, as he watched the time tick past, he grew anxious. If the little holy fuck was going to call, now was the tim—
The radio crackled to life. “Thompson? Are you there? This is Rusty! The time is now!”
Thompson grabbed the handset, and clicked the communicator button. “It’s about fucking time. Where the hell have you been? Over.”
“No time for such pleasantries, Lieutenant. Duras and his fools left the city on a mission of revenge.”
Thompson sat and waited.
“Are you there, Lieutenant?”
“Jesus fucking Christ! Don’t you know how to use a radio? Say over after you’ve finished speaking. Over!”
“Oh, yes. My apologies. I’m not up to date on how to use military communications, but with that said, I do urge you to rush. There is a chance you can take the City of God with little or no bloodshed. Most people here will bow to whoever looks the strongest, and most likely to keep them safe.”
Thompson let out a sigh of annoyance.
“Oh, yes. Sorry. Over!”
“We’re on our way, Rusty. Where do you want to meet? Over!”
“The same place as last time. At the old warehouse outside the city. Meet me there in the next few hours. I have a few things to do before your arrival. Some cleansing experience. Over!”
“You holy rollers and your rituals. OK. So be it, Rusty. Me and my men will arrive in a few hours. Over and out.”
2
He spent the next hour thinking. Trying to find some kink in the plan. Anything that might trip him up. He found nothing, which wasn’t surprising. He was after all, a master planner. Its why the Militia let him into the fold early on. His ability to see a problem before it caused issues, and his skill at fixing the problem quickly and efficiently had led him to this moment of glory.
The day grew old as he sat thinking. Afternoon would soon turn to dusk. Above the trees, the sky was turning a midnight blue. No clouds in sight. The sun shone down in a dying red fury, his watch said it was just past eight O clock. Above and all around him, he heard the buzzing of crickets, the hot sounds of Southern summer. The humidity sweated through him, and there was no breeze this evening. It was going to be a devil’s night, the hell fire furnace let loose on the world.
Since his talk with Rusty, he’d felt a calm come over him. The resolution to his plan was in motion. Soon he would have the city and then take the fight to Cap. Cap could either capitulate (he very much doubted that), or die in a fight. Whichever case, Thompson had no doubt about his ability to conquer Recon Base 3. Columbia was a different story. Columbia was a base filled with thousands on top of thousands of troops. All high on White Mist. All loyal to Corporal Mullinax, the commander of Columbia, but that was a problem to solve later, after he’d taken the City of God and destroyed Cap, and taken command of the troops at Recon 3.
His men had eaten, and were now waiting for their next line of White Mist. He spread the lines out on the Hummer’s hood, and let them come one by one. Nearly forty soldiers in all. Every one of them loyal to him. If they didn’t lose to many taking the city (and he didn’t have a lot of reasons to think they would), then taking the fight to Cap, and convincing the troops at Recon 3 to join Thompson’s Revolution (as he was beginning to think of his upcoming coup) would prove much easier.
After they’d taken their hit of Mist,
they began loading up the Hummer per Thompson’s orders. They knew the fight was near, and a hot excitement leered in their eyes. Thompson watched them with pride as they checked the fluid levels, cleaned the guns, and rechecked the ammo supply. These men had been with him for nearly the entirety of the year since the Fever struck. They’d grown to trust him, and he them. He’d led them against massive zombie hoards, gang bangers, and other groups not willing to join the Militia. Thompson’s clever planning had won the day every time, with minimum losses.
They were as close to a family as he’d ever had. Sure, they were more akin to dumb cousins, or brutish slow minded brothers, but in his own strange and sick way; Thompson felt a bond with them. They were tools. Yes, but they were his tools. He felt a moment of god like power over them. They did whatever he wanted, without question.
And, now it was once more into the breach, my dear soldiers. Thompson helped them load the rest of the equipment, and soon he was on the road again; heading for the City of God, and his date with destiny.
3
As Thompson led his soldiers to the City of God, his radio crackled. He was alone in his Hummer, the rest of the troops trailing behind him—an entourage from hell. Gunmen sat in turret seats, ready to open up with well oiled .50 caliber machine guns. The sun was disappearing, and the night air cooled not by much, but any drop-in temperature was a welcome change to the intense heat of the Southern sun.
It was Cap on the radio: “Damn you! What the hell fire is going on Thompson? I’m ready to send out another party, this one led by me! I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m sure I sure as hell hate it! OVER!”
“Cap! We’re heading you way now, and I’ve got a lot of good intelligence to share with you. But…hey listen, there is a hoard up here, and I need to take care of it. Over!”
He rolled the window all the way down, and let the wind whip in to help cause static on the radio. It was a hot wind, with the day’s heat still trailing on its heels. Thompson thought of Hell’s hot flowing lavas, and the winds that touched the embers, melting the skin of the damned. A bright smile spread across his face, and a laugh of sincere albeit twisted joy erupted from deep within him. He laughed so loudly, he nearly dropped the radio and lost control of the Hummer.
“You son of a bitch! You lying piece of shit! If you’re not back here at the break of dawn, I’ll find you and rip your ass a new one. You like fucking little assholes? Well boy, I’ll shove a rifle barrel so far up your faggety ass you’ll be singing Dixie! Over!”
“Cap, I really need to deal with this hoard. See you in the morning. Over and out.”
Before Cap could continue, Thompson changed channels on his radio to the one he’d ordered his men to switch to and the one he’d spoken to Rusty Ray on. There was no hoard up ahead, of course. He had simply wanted to throw Cap off, which clearly had failed. Cap would be prepping to find him, and that was OK. He’d deal with that bridge when it came time to cross it. He was still sure of his ability to turn the men of Force Recon 3 against Cap, and the Militia in general. Thompson’s Revolution was in swing, and nothing could stop the momentum he was creating.
For tonight, all he wanted was some blood and guts to spill. And as Cap had pointed out, a nice little asshole to fuck. Now that he could see the City of God getting closer, his heart sped up and his dick got hard.
Tonight was going to be a fine one. A testament to his manliness and bold bravado. Satan was coming to town, and he wore the mask of Lieutenant Thompson.
Rusty Ray and the Seekers
1
A Christian tune played on a battery-operated CD player.
Don’t hide from Truth
Don’t hide from His Grace
You’re not a stranger
Your best friend was born in a manger
Guitar chords played; the head of Rusty Ray moved with rhythmic motion as he pulled out a pair of blue latex gloves from a red box. They came out like thick gummy tissues. He pulled them on with a skillful snap. He wore a blue surgical coat, one he’d taken from the Horry County Hospital, along with the rest of his equipment. He walked over to a surgical table. He smiled down at a middle-age man, who screamed and pleaded through a gag; the man's face was white as a ghost.
Rusty Ray shook his head back and forth, and said with a comforting tone “Don’t worry, Holiness is calling. His Love has chosen you for the sacrifice.”
Rusty walked over, grabbed a surgical mask and a Plexiglas eye protector from a long metal table. He stood in front of a mirror and fastened them both with pride. He smiled under the mask. He walked back to the steel table and lifted it up to an incline position.
The song continued:
Don’t let doubt cause a stumble
Don’t fall from Grace
Everyone feels up against sin’s wall
His love never changes
Show faith Holy Grace
He took a pair of scissors with long and sharp blades with large finger holes. “My daddy always said, Rusty Ray you gotta be strong to use these. Daddy, God rest your soul. I’ve grown up and my fingers are nice and strong.”
A bright light shined down from above and the man on the gurney, tied and gagged, let out a shrill of pain as Rusty Ray slid the scissor blades into his warm gut; it sliced in like it was going into butter. “Stay still now. Only take a minute.” Rusty snipped up through the bundle of nerves at the solar plexus and into the beefy weave of muscle and tendon above it.
The dying man’s blood streamed, dripped, and plopped into a collection basin at the foot of the surgical bed. The blade cut into the sternum; the man gargled blood. Rusty cut down hard with a heavy crunch, and the man’s rib cage tore open like fleshy wings. Snip-CRUNCH, snip-CRUNCH, snip-CRUNCH—the bones split; the muscles sheared; the lungs freed and Rusty Ray started in on the trachea.
His love never ending
graceful Hope for all
saves the beggars and the bankers
crooks and murderers
Jesus saves ‘em all
“Remember, Rusty Ray anybody can use the electronic machines to cut, but real blue-collar autopsy doctors use shears.” Rusty imitated his father, “Daddy was right. It’s all in the hands.” He slapped his latex gloved palms together, causing blood to fart in a few directions.
Rusty Ray grew up in a strict two-story brick house with parents that sang on the church choir down at St. Johns Methodist in Murrells Inlet every Sunday. On Wednesday nights, he helped his mama put on her make up and go down to church bingo. Little old ladies grabbed his cheeks and patted his bottom.
But what Rusty Ray loved most were the days his daddy took him to work. Daddy broke the rules for his little Rusty, and took him into the autopsy room every Thursday afternoon, right after school. His mouth always salivated when the bones crunched, and the blood squirted. His eyes never left his daddy’s skillful hands as they cut through the stomach lining, up through the chest cavity. Daddy even let him make the marks with the blue pen. What joy that brought Rusty; like a morbid Picasso, he savored every stroke as his eyes burned with passion under the white fluorescent lamp.
2
Behind Rusty, a large mahogany door swung open. A shimmer of light came in from the musty hallway, and in came Billy Wagner; he held a woman. She was tied and gagged, dragged across the room by two; Billy and another Seeker. Billy had a ridiculously large grin on his face, even as sweat beaded and dripped; he said, “Guess who we got?” Billy and the other Seeker lowered her to the floor. The room was now dark, except for the battery powered florescent bulbs glowing above the dying body.
Billy grabbed the woman’s thick Afro and pulled her head up so that her chin pointed toward the ceiling. “Rhino’s little nigger whore. Can you believe it? I’ve wanted some of this chocolate pie for soooooo long!” His mouth watered, a little drip of saliva went down his chin as he licked the right side of her face like a dog.
Rusty Ray’s face turned dark. He walked over to the metal table and laid the blood drippi
ng scissors down. He took in a deep breath. He stood for five seconds with his back to Billy, then let out a loud and intentional sigh. “Billy,” he started. “Come over here for a moment.”
Billy looked a bit worried. “You ain’t mad, are you Rusty? I was just havin’ a little fun. Nothing to be upset about.”
Rusty Ray did not turn around. The light bulbs buzzed and glowed against his back; his back was covered in fresh blood. His face was a dark shadow. “Come over here, now.”
“Rusty? I’m—”
“I won’t say it again.”
Billy walked over; his footsteps echoed in the mostly silent room. Then his knees shook as he walked over to stand beside Rusty Ray. Billy stood there with his head down, looking at the bloody scissors on the table. “Rusty...”
The body on the table jerked against its harness. Billy turned, and that’s when Rusty Ray reached down and grabbed the scissors, turned, and pulled Billy by the back of his shirt; he reached around to Billy’s front and pressed the blades’ tips against Billy’s throat.
The body on the table now convulsed, and a growl erupted from its chest and bellowed out of the mouth. The thick leather straps held the once living breathing man down tightly. Rusty Ray ordered the other Seeker out of the room. As the man walked out, the light from the hall lit up Billy and Rusty’s faces. Billy was a few inches shorter than Rusty, so his head reached just to the bottom of Rusty’s chin. Billy’s face was distorted in horror, with lines running down that made him look twice his age. Sweat had soaked through his clothes, and his chest heaved up and down in fast and panicky gasps.
Rusty pressed his pointed chin against Billy’s skull, moving it around in cruel circular motions; Rusty flirted the blade against Billy’s throat.
On the floor, the woman's bosom heaved up and down rhythmically. A little light reached her face, but most of her was covered in shadow.
