by Black, D. S.
A back alley ran along the entire length of the townhouses; she disappeared into the dark alley. She stayed in the black shadows as soldiers rushed by. She could smell their hate. She could hear their joy of killing; she could see the spittle dripping from their mouths like rabid dogs; their eyes bulged and seemed to pulse with mad pleasure.
She moved through the darkness, her gun held in front of her, but now her hands shook. Tears ran down her face. Death was everywhere. Humans dying all around. Death owns this world. Humanity’s death so close to its completion; the extinction of the human species was well in its final stage.
Another scream. A little girl stumbled into the darkness; Mary Jane froze watching.
A dash of moonlight highlighted the girl; she held her stomach as blood gushed out of her. She was screaming. “Mommy! Mommy! They shot my mommy!”
A soldier, tall and lanky, moved into the alley behind her. His pistol raised, his teeth shining yellow and rotten in the moonlight. A hot flash exited the barrel and tore the little girl’s skull open. Mary Jane put a hand over her mouth and puked into her palm as he took out his member and drenched the little girl in yellow. He zipped up and left the girl lying dead, and took his killing elsewhere.
Mary ran past the little dead girl and nearly slipped in a slathering of her brain matter. She didn’t look down. She kept moving forward.
My sister. Please God. Don’t let this happen to my sister.
3
Guns cracked and blasted. People kept screaming. Mary kept moving in the shadows. In the distance, she saw her sister’s townhome. She saw her window. She saw shadows inside. She heard more screams, like someone was being ripped and torn apart from the inside out. The echoes of death raged in every direction. No end in sight. No hope for life. No savior coming.
“The kids are all dead, mom. Didn’t you hear? The kids are all dead.” She spoke aloud. She tasted the vomit. The bile was dried on her hands. She heard a raucous of laughter then a woman pleading. “Don’t kill my baby! Don’t kill my sweet baby!” Then a gun shot, then the sobbing mother’s cry of pain.
“Yeah, mom! The kids are all dead! Didn’t you hear?” Mary spoke to herself. She stopped for a moment and realized her pants were wet. She hadn’t peed herself since she was four. But now she was drenched. This is all that’s left, a pee stained world full of piss brains with guns and a healthy appetite for torture. That’s all that can survive now. Just darkness. Just pure evil. No good people left.
She suddenly felt bitterly cold, like she was tossed into an ice-cold January. All around she heard them at once. Dead voices. All speaking in union. It was not the screams of the living, but cold whispers that seemed to scream in her ear, too many. She shook with fright and chill.
She knew the voices. She knew them well. It was the people dying out there on the street. All the people she'd helped in the past year, screaming.
“I can’t help you! I can’t help anyone!” She yelled at the voices.
The voices disappeared until she heard only one, and like a frozen vice grip, something grabbed her arm and held her still and screamed at her; she felt the cold rush of its voice: soon, soon you will help!
And then all around her the world changed, and she saw the lives of people that used to walk and talk in this town. Little kids, mothers holding babies, and boys on skateboards. Men in business suits marched by, hustling to whatever meeting they needed to get to. Mary saw them, but it wasn’t really them. It was just an echo of what used to be—just a faint sketch of their former lives superimposed over reality. Their faces weren’t right, their bodies whisper thin, hollow and transparent; they roamed in a frozen memory, a flashback of lost lives—and they swirled around her faster and faster, rushing past like shooting stars, and then…
…it was over.
The hot and smothering July night returned. Above her, she saw the stars twinkling. She didn’t know how long she'd been standing there, but the gun shots had slowed. The death was nearing completion.
She was once again staring down a dark and shadowy back alley. She needed to get to her sister. She ran as fast as she could.
4
She charged into her sister’s townhouse. The wood floor creaked under the weight of her boots; the air smelled of blood; a clock ticked, ticked, ticked time away on the wall. Her sister’s body was laying in the middle of the floor. Her clothes were torn off, her bare skin visible via a bar of moonlight shining in through a double-pane window. Sarah laid face down in a pool of her own blood. Her panties were still on, but half torn and pulled to the side.
Mary dropped to her knees as tears pooled in her eyes. She dropped her gun and crawled on all fours till she reached her sister's dead body. The body felt warm. After a tearful grunt, she forced her over and saw that her throat was cut open, from ear to ear, like a sick and disturbing smiley face. Her skull had been stabbed with a large knife.
She held her as best she could. She was dead. She was the final kind of dead.
Always remember, good people don’t die, they resurrect.
Just then, a loud crack came from behind her—
She tried to turn around—
Blackness.
Militia Interference
1
If Duras knew that a bloodthirsty militia was planning on cutting him down after he left the safety of his city, he may have thought hard and long about not chasing after revenge, but ever since Okona first stepped into his life, Tommy “Duras” Morrow had wanted nothing more than to kill the guy. His sleek bald head, his narrow intelligent eyes, his youthful smugness infuriated Duras.
Now, loading the Humvees up with ammo, he had a moment of hesitation, a feeling. It only lasted a moment, but in that moment; Duras felt like he was stepping into a gulf that would swallow him and all that he loved. He shrugged the feeling away and focused on the job at hand. He knew where Okona was laid up. High in those fucking trees just waiting to be burned out. The old hate resurfaced and the thought of Okona's burning charred corpse brought a delightful smile to his face. He was going to clean the past and create a new future. A future without bald and arrogant assholes. And who knew? After he finished today's task, he might just marry Mary Jane. He'd thought about it quite a lot. More than he'd ever tell his men, that's for sure. His wife was dead and was never returning. And he loved Mary Jane; he thought it a bit pretentious to have an apocalyptic wedding. On the other hand, why should romance die? Just because the dead walked, and ghosts roamed? He'd even found a diamond to give her during a food run. It was in a Zale's jeweler store. They'd raided the Waccamaw Mall and came away with a nice load of dried food goods from the food court. Raiding malls proved dangerous business these days since so many of the walkers seemed to congregate at them—drawn there by some lingering instinct from the Old World.
Duras pushed the memories out of his mind and focused on the current moment. “Light the fires boys! Let's bring ‘em hell!” Duras stood; one foot standing outside the Humvee, the door angled open. They'd driven up to the edge of the wilderness. The sun was lowering; darkness began to shroud them in ghostly shadow. The tree line stood tall and crookedly ominous, like giants threatening to pounce. They charged into the woods headstrong, moving swiftly yet stealthily. Duras led from the front. He wanted to taste Okona's blood. He'd wanted this moment since the first time the bald bastard showed up in his parking lot. Make ‘em pay with blood. On his left ran Vice, armed with gasoline soaked arrows (minus the sparklers). On his right was Rhino and Ice Man, armed with automatic pistols on either hip.
In another group, many of his other men moved like black shadows. The City of God was left undefended.
The night grew dark as they moved through the trees, getting closer to the wooden fortress. The ground was soft from the long heat of day, but the air was cooling around them as a storm front approached. The trees cast night's darkness around them like a nightmare. The wind whipped around them and blew their unkempt hair. Hoots and howls came from all directions, dark vo
ices in the night echoing malcontent and hatred. The wind now came from all directions, a screaming hell.
“Not far! The gates are close. Take up position. Vice! Lite ‘em up!”
Before Vice could soar his first burning arrow, the Militia's artillery shells turned the world around them into a thunderous hell. Most of the other group of men were turned into hamburger in the first volley. Their shrieks unheard over the falling shells.
Then the zombies came in full force. A tidal wave of death. Another volley of artillery shells crashed into a large oak near Duras. A thunderous roaring of branches came pouring down.
A massive, burning branch fell on top of Duras, trapping him under flaming wood. His mind went blank as he lost consciousness.
2
Okona heard the artillery blasting in the distance, but his attention was lost; caught in a dream state. He stared at his wife's painting like a magnet, gluing his mind to it. Something was moving in the painting. He didn't believe it at first, but as he stepped closer, he saw it more clearly. It wasn't something, it was someone. Someone moving in the painting. His heart beat hard against his chest. Somewhere behind him, Tasha yelled his name. She sounded a million miles away.
What is moving in the painting? How can this be? He stepped directly up to it and stared hard.
Can't be. No. My dear god.
3
Vice, Rhino and Ice Man moved with speed. They felled the dead beasts one by one, fighting side by side, back to back, and killing their way to Duras.
“It's artillery shells! Somebody is aiming right at us!” Vice shouted into Duras’s ear as Ice Man and Rhino hoisted the branch just enough for Vice to pull Duras free. He helped Duras to his feet.
“Where is it coming from?” Duras asked, his consciousness returning in a blaze of pain.
“Somewhere over there!” Vice said pointing in the general direction where the City of God was.
Duras stared around. Zombies were everywhere, like beacons sent from hell; their dead eyes glowed bright white in the dreadful darkness.
Duras didn't see any sign of Okona and had no idea the Militia existed. He only knew that something horrible had crept up on them and rained furious hell.
Vice stepped in and brought Duras out of his fog of uncertainty. “I suggest we try and circle around and flank ‘em! Let's get the fuck out of here!” More shells erupted into the hoard as Duras and his company ran through the trees, slaying dead men as they went.
“We’re earning it today, boys! Holy fuck!” Vice said as he and Duras stopped and stood back to back and fought off a small horde of six zombies. In front of them, Ice Man and Rhino stood over the bodies they had slain holding their swords high in victory. They were shouting: Bring it on! Bring it on! Bring it on!
The shells were now behind them, but still blasting hard against the Earth.
The dead thinned as they moved swiftly through dark shadowy trees. The trees towered in the darkness. A cool wind blew and swirled the rotting flesh in a swirl of decaying stench. Above the trees, darkness towered in dark clouds of black smoke.
Artillery shells continued to explode as Duras followed behind Vice. Their boots dug in the wet earth, damp air filled their lungs. Their hearts beat at the same rhythm, and a look of vigilant rage covered their faces. Darkness surrounded them, but at that moment, they were an unstoppable phalanx; a rising glory of determination.
The world may fall around them; they may hang on by a mere thread, the world gone to shit. But they marched on and fought for glory, for the world’s ending, for lost love; while marching through the fog of war; Duras, Vice, Rhino and Ice Man were the four horsemen of the apocalypse.
4
Tony Piper clunked artillery shells into the launcher. BAM! Another one inserted. BAM! Clunk! BAM! Tony worked like a mad man. His arms moved, his legs bent, but his mind felt only the mad exhilaration of the White Mist. The white powder wasn’t meth. Nope! Something new, exotic, and more powerful. Tony heard it all came from the Mountain King. All praise the Mountain King. Creator of White Mist; that mystical powder, so soft as it enters the nostrils.
Tony kept clunking the shells as his mind danced with raging obedience. Tony was no stranger to drugs before the Fever. Meth, coke, heroin, he loved it all. On his knuckles, he’d tattooed ADDICT, each letter on a separate knuckle. Drugs purified Tony. Least that’s how Tony saw it. Drugs freed him from the norms of mainstream society. Tony knew the truth. A truth the Mainstream didn’t want to accept. All their hopes and dreams. All lies! An illusion! “My drugs free my mind and body,” he often said. Once he’d taken a dog into the woods and stabbed it to death after smoking a few bowls of some fine Crystal. He'd lured Mr. Buttons out of his elderly neighbor's yard. Mr. Buttons was a neighborhood favorite. Mr. Buttons was part of the Mainstream. He’d let the dying dog lick his hand as it bled out, then he stabbed Mr. Buttons for the final time, directly into his eyes. Tony's cock was rock hard the whole time. When Tony was twelve, he took another neighbor's cat and hung it out in the woods, watching the creature gasp its last breath. The cat was part of the Mainstream.
Tony felt lucky. Since the shit hit the fans, life was good.
Clunk! BAM! Clunk! BAM!
Around Tony was Larry Burnett, Gary Mather and Todd Snout. Insane goons jacked up on White Mist.
Tony stopped dropping rounds and cracked his back. He felt a grotesque beauty only he understood. He was special. Just like his momma always sai—
The first bullet flew by Tony’s head and shredded Larry's face.
Tony looked into the darkness, his eyes wide with—
Fear?
Regret?
Tony saw something moving out of the shadows. It wasn’t zombies, it was the faces of warriors; the whites of their teeth shining like beacons of destruction; a hot stream of urine streamed down Tony's inner thigh.
Clunk!
Bam!
So very Mainstream.
5
Duras charged from the woods, into a circular clearing, and saw the fear in the boy’s eyes. 18? 19? Didn’t matter. The blade of his bat’leth caved into the Tony's chest; darts of blood splattered. The boy fell to his knees. Duras pressed his foot onto his chest, and ripped the blade free.
A couple of feet away, Vice gutted the last man standing with a thrust of his blade.
Then it was quiet. They stood there breathing deeply. A cold moon shined a bar of light on Duras’s face. His eyes were wide; he breathed heavily, but comfortably.
Mary Jane.
“Mary Jane! We have to get back!”
“Calm down, let's think this through for a minute,” Vice said.
“Let's hope like hell these boys aren’t organized into something larger,” Rhino grunted.
Duras collected his emotions, then said “Some red neck militia, maybe? Look at this patch.” The same patch Candy had found was sewn onto the sleeve of the dead soldier. “Bet the bastards love this world. My God! How did they know we were here?”
“Somebody at camp probably told them. Must have. They caught us on the move and flanked us hard,” Vice said.
“You’re right. A coincidence is never this precise,” Duras said
“What now?” Rhino asked.
“If they are part of a bigger group, then the town is probably under attack,” Vice suggested.
“Let's go stealthily. Might be more out here,” Duras said as he led the way.
6
Okona almost didn't believe his eyes; the voice came out of the painting. His wife's voice. His dead wife. He saw her standing on the painted rope bridge, but it wasn't painted anymore. It was real. The painting had somehow come to life before his eyes and there she stood, waving for him to step closer ... closer ... then—
He was in the painting. Somehow, he really was; she stood right in front of him.
“Hello, my love. Did you miss me?”
“What? How can this be?”
She reached up and touched his face. He felt her hand caress his
cheek.
“It's you. It's really you,” he said.
“Who else would it be?”
“But you're dead. I saw it happen.” Tears streamed down his cheeks. His voice quivered. “I-I-Sa-Saw you DIE!” He fell to his knees and held her around the waist, burying his face into her stomach.
“Stand up. We don't have much time.”
“Time? Time for what?” He stood up, his face red and teary.
“Time for you to make amends with Tommy. There are bigger problems. Neither of you can do it alone.”
“What? I don't understand! Tommy? Tommy Morrow?”
“Yes! The Old World is gone, along with all the problems and petty disputes it held. This is too serious to hold on to those old hatreds. You must help him. You must make him see and understand. There are people that need your help.”
“Who? Why is this happening? How are you standing here? How am I standing here?”
“Shhhhhh.” She put her finger to his lips. “All in time, your questions will have their answers. All in good time. Now go! Go and help Tommy.”
“I don't under—”
But she was gone. He stood staring at the painting. Just a painting. His wife was no longer standing on the rope bridge; he felt a firm hand take him by his arm and twist him around.
“Are you deaf! Do you fucking hear that! It's a goddamn battle zone over there!” Tasha's eyes were wide and alert.
“Tommy needs our help.”
She looked at him bewildered. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“He needs our help,” he repeated.
“And I need a hot shower! Let him fry! I say we head north to the Outer Banks and hide out for a while.”
“No! I have to find him and make him see.”
She stood looking at him. Okona knew she probably thought he'd lost his mind. But what he just experienced was no dream. He knew that. It was real. He had to find Duras and fast. He had to know why his wife appeared to him. Who needs help? What is the bigger issue? The words of Fox Mulder came to mind: the truth is out there.
