Humanity's Death [Books 1-3]

by Black, D. S.

  But not all the girls. He met the girl he wanted to marry, Alicia Martin. Alicia had thick, dark brown hair, shoulder length. She wasn't the typical petite magazine beauty. Her hips were curvy and voracious, her back side thick, her breasts of medium size, her skin a pale Renaissance white. It was her mind that Pinky fell in love with; her editorial mind. She was a senior English major planning for a career as an editor. And, boy could she edit. Comma splices, awkward sentencing, passive voice, and all the grammatical errors in the world stood no chance against Alicia Martin's keen mind.

  He'd met her in the Hollins Commons recreational room. Strictly speaking, he wasn't supposed to be in there. Girls only as they say, but the Hollins security was all in house and private. They knew Pinky, he knew them; everyone liked Pinky. He was the liberal Southern man in the flesh, a lesbian's best friend. A straight man that should have been gay as the Hollins’s girls liked to say.

  Alicia was playing pool that day, which she happened to be quite good at; Pinky knew he was in love; love at first sight might sound like nonsense to most, but Pinky was a firm believer in it, and humans tend to act on their internalized beliefs.

  He charmed her with witty discussions on literature and screenplays. Over the next few weeks, they started going to movies, reading books; she critiqued and edited his personal essays and helped him choose the theme for his final project. All MFA students had to complete a full-length novel (at least fifty thousand words) before graduating. Pinky had chosen to write a historical fiction story about Robert R. Lee in the aftermath of his loss to General Grant. He knew it would be a wonderful book, and he had already met several publishers through the Hollins MFA program interested in buying it upon completion.

  On the final day of the spring semester of Pinky's first year at Hollins, he had pressed his lips against Alicia’s lips and promised to call her as soon as he got back to Marlboro County. She promised to come down in a few weeks and meet his father. Pinky promised to come up with her and meet her folks. All these wonderful prospects had floated in his mind all the way back to South Carolina, and he thought he was the luckiest man on the planet. A good girl, a book deal in the making. Dear lord, things looked good for Pinky.

  Driving back home with the warm May sun gleaming through his windshield, the beautiful valleys of Virginia on his left and the taste of Alicia’s cherry lip gloss still on his lips; the idea that the next two weeks would bring the ruin of not only his romantic dreams, his book deal, and any more picturesque semesters at Hollins University never crossed his mind. The thought that within two weeks all of civilization would stand on the edge of total destruction never crossed the valleys of his thoughts.

  11

  Pinky was still laying under the tree, his back resting rigidly against the bark when Clara walked up to him and nudged his boot with the tip of her sneaker.

  “Pink? You okay down there?”

  Pinky opened his eyes, looked up and for a moment he thought he saw Alicia, but only for a moment. Then the beautiful face of Carla came through, in all its glory, and though he missed Alecia terribly; Carla's face wasn't the worst substitution, and he truly surprised himself when he stared into her green eyes and said, “I love you, Carla. It’s the end of the world and I love you.” She was about to say something, but he held his finger up and continued. “We've all lost so much. You lost your man. I lost my woman, but we still have each other. God knows life could be worse, right? Even with that damn Militia out there, the scary ass ghosts, and the walking dead... somehow it could be worse.” He reached up and took her hand and guided her down beside him. She didn't fight it. She embraced it and wanted it; her green eyes fighting tears of love and loss; her lips trembling with the vibration of tragedy.

  Pinky continued. “We could be alone, without this farm, without the wonderful people around us. There’s still people out there, Carla. People the Militia want to kill, enslave, or turn into drug addicted killing soldiers. I've just had a bizarre experience.” His eyes looked desperate, as though they were searching for answers in a dark room without light, without clarity or sight, but there was also hope in his eyes as well and in his voice. “Carla... a little girl came to me. Not a living girl, but a dead one. It's pure madness I'm able to tell you that with a straight face. And maybe even madder you are going to believe every word I say, because you know what people have seen, and you may have seen the ghosts yourself.” He then told her about the little slave girl, about the redhead and the man with the scarred face, about the people who were strong enough to keep out of the Militia's hands. He told her somehow, it's connected to him and the farm. Somehow, he was supposed to link up with these people.

  “But you don't know where to find them?” Carla asked. She stared at him with believing intensity.

  “That's the hell of it. The girl was so damn vague. You'd think she could have given me names and locations.”

  “Johnny might have something to say.”

  “Johnny will hopefully have a lot to say and offer a plan. He's good like that. I guess it’s a cliché for the Native American in the group to always have the supernatural third eye, but I know he does.”

  “Whatever the case, it can wait till tonight. For now, let’s get you inside. You look pale. It's nearly lunch, you know?”

  Pinky let her help him up, and together holding hands they walked out of the shadows, into the light and back towards the farm house.

  12

  The farmhouse was quite large, twenty big bedrooms, five full bathrooms, a large cellar, the living room and kitchen. The rooms were set up with bunk beds, and that's where the survivors slept. Johnny Rainbird Hudson's room was just to the left of the spiraling staircase. He'd gotten black out curtains from an abandoned Wal-Mart many months ago during a run for supplies. They kept the light out while he lay sleeping. He was dreaming, tossing and turning. His dreams were of children dancing around a large fire. Their eyes were black as death, their teeth green, their gums bloody. They were chanting a hypnotic and strange melody:

  down by the sea

  in the black swamps were thee

  now coming up, up, up

  looking for pinkeeeee

  Rainbird wanted to ask them what they were talking about, but like so often in a nightmare; he was frozen and unable to do anything at all. Around the fire were tepees, all glowing an evil green, with hot white smoke billowing up from each. The kids kept dancing and kept chanting:

  Down by the sea

  in the black swamps were thee

  now coming up, up, up

  looking for Pinkeeeee

  Then, like dreams can do, the landscape changed suddenly, and Rainbird was looking down a long road. He recognized this stretch of blacktop but couldn't quite put his finger on the name of the road. He was walking down it. On either side, large swaths of grassland and farmland spread out as far as the eye could see. He saw a fruit stand and an old man behind the booth. The old man wore a straw hat, smoked an old pipe, had no shirt on and wore cut-off blue jeans. The old man looked up as Rainbird approached and smiled a gummy and toothless grin, then said: “Why look at this big ass injun! Whoa hell fire Nelly! Do me a dance boy and make me some rain, for this here land is dry, everything dead and dyin.” Johnny now saw what he meant. The fields were filled with dead bodies, and the smell hit Johnny hard like the stench of a day-old battlefield.

  “I've got a message for ya, injun!” the old man's voice boomed. “You and your friend just stay clear of this road and all those that travel it. A new time is here, and you folks will join the ranks of the dead soon enough. No sense in fightin it. I'm here to tell ya, ya can't win and never will. So just give up, injun.”

  Now Johnny saw two little girls standing beside the fruit stand. They looked identical. “Momma's countin on ya, Johnny. The old man's lyin. Good versus evil. It’s the same old story, just new characters. You'll find momma and Jack here. On this road or somewhere close—”

  “Johnny! Johnny!” Rainbird opened his eyes. He was
awake and in his room at the farm. The curtain was pulled aside letting in late afternoon light. Sweat poured from his face and the sheets under him were soaked. Billy Bass was standing over him, staring down with concern. “Jesus, Johnny! You were twistin and turnin like a fish outa water. You OK? Must a been a lousy dream, partner. Wish I could say the nightmares end when ya wake up, but these days they don't ever end, do they?”

  Johnny liked Billy Bass. He wasn't the smartest, but he was a good kid and he knew the lay of the land and knew how to shoot and survive. Johnny didn't answer Billy but nodded and flapped his hands in a gesture letting the boy know everything was alright.

  “Alrighty then. I'm goin down for a bite to eat. See ya downstairs.” Billy left, clicking the door shut behind him.

  Johnny lay there, a bar of light across his face. He knew that dream wasn't just a dream. He knew it in his bones that it was something more. A vision. A message. A warning. He jerked himself out of bed. He had to talk to Pinky because Johnny Rainbird Hudson just remembered the name of that long stretch of black top.

  13

  While Rainbird was still sound asleep, not yet having the dream that would soon take Pinky on his inevitable dark and dangerous path; Carla and Pinky walked hand in hand across the farm towards the house. Pinky felt the warmth of Carla's hand, the vibration of budding love. He felt he could deal with any problems that lay ahead. Holding her hand made him feel supernaturally endowed with the power to overcome all future hurdles, no matter how ghastly or ghostly. He looked at the large red barn sitting not too far from the farm house.

  Why not? Life is short and it's even shorter these days. Go for it.

  He did go for it and scored a magnificent feat of sexual love. It was hot in the barn, and their sweat dripped from hot bodies. When it was over, they laid panting in the sweet hay, both smiling, both content with the world.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry for waiting this long. Fear stopped me. Fear of getting close. Fear of losing you if I did. Now I just feel we've wasted so much time that could have been spent right here in the hay.”

  She laid her head on his bare chest. “Better late than never, Pink. I love you. After Mike died…”

  She stopped and shuddered for a moment, reliving that gruesome scene then continued. “I think I was afraid to try to love another man, but I think I've loved you for at least the past six months.”

  “The way people talk...I guess it was obvious,” Pinky said.

  Somewhere above they heard nesting birds. The smell of the hay was sweet as molasses. It was warm and humid, but in that moment it just didn't matter. Love has a way of canceling out the uncomfortable aspects of any situation and making them bearable. They laid there, not saying another word, just sweating together like lovers in a sauna.

  The memory of the dead slave girl suddenly pushed into Pinky's conscious thought. The need to talk to Johnny came right along with it. It was now closing in on one in the afternoon. Johnny usually didn't get up till after five. The man enjoyed his sleep. Pinky had no idea that Johnny's dreams were turning dark; the visions that would help lead them to Jack and Candy were just beginning in that early afternoon hour.

  14

  The Satterfield farm's history is a story as old as the South itself. The little dead slave girl Pinky saw was the daughter of a slave couple butchered, the mother raped of course before being whipped to death while tied to a tree. Pinky's great, great, great grandfather bought the land not long after the Revolutionary War, in which he had fought bravely. Though courageous against the British, the man turned into one of the most brutally repressive slave owners in Southern history. Even the local white population questioned whether Paul Satterfield was mad; some even suggested the man was possessed by Satan himself (or at least a demonic minion working on Satan's behalf). Blacks might not be white, but many questioned (albeit silently) if it was necessary to beat them that often and kill so damn many. Given the fact that buying a black slave cost a pretty penny, only madness could account for Paul's zealous, blood lust when it came to killing his property.

  On top of all the killing, the man created more interracial babies than any other slave owner. It was said he had well near fifty kids with numerous slave girls. It was also said he later killed every damn one of them. When the man died, the slaves had one hell of a dance down by the river.

  His son, Daniel Satterfield didn't have his daddy's desire for fertilizing the land with dead slaves, but he nonetheless enjoyed whipping them as much (or probably a bit more) than any other slave owner. As far as freeing any of them, well you might as well hold your breath for the second coming of Christ, because that just wasn't ever going to happen.

  Then came what Daniel called “the Northern Oppressor's War,” which saw the emancipation of his slaves. Daniel fought and died fighting for the state's right to own, butcher and beat blacks.

  Daniel's son (Pinky's great granddaddy), Nathaniel was a bit of an oddball, at least in the Old South's view. The farm was originally willed to his brother, Louis who was just as brutal as the two former Satterfield’s. The only reason Nathaniel got the farm was because he petitioned the Union and used his ties within the abolitionist movement (which is consequently why he was originally disowned by his father Daniel Satterfield) to curry favor. The former slaves rejoiced at this because Pinky's granddaddy Nathaniel was a rare man in the Old South. He paid double what other former slave owners offered, helped build homes for them, and built a school that taught the same curriculum that white children learned.

  Back in those days, family feuds were something of a Southern past time, and the Satterfield Feud turned out to be one of the bloodiest (and shortest) in the South's history. A person can imagine the rage Louis felt over losing what he saw as his lawful claim to the Satterfield farm. Louis quickly joined and led his own branch of the newly formed Ku Klux Klan.

  At first, it was benign acts meant to scare Nathaniel into giving up the farm. The classic burning cross was put in the front yard, causing an angry stir among Nathaniel, his wife, children, and the paid help. The day after the cross burning, Louis strolled up to the farm as though nothing was the matter.

  “You've got some nerve! You're as sick as daddy was! You stay the hell away from my farm!” Nathaniel screamed at his brother.

  This caused red anger to rise in Louis's cheeks. “Your farm? I tell ya now, you nigger lovin bastard! I'm getting the farm back! You wait and see!”

  The next few days went by without a hitch. The farm went about its daily life. Cows were milked, crops tended, tobacco grown, and lazy summer evenings spent on the large porch drinking tea.

  All that changed when a large group of men with white hoods, torches and guns showed up around midnight. The men rushed onto the front yard; Louis draped in his racist whites, screamed for his brother to “come on out and face the music of damnation!”

  Nothing happened. The house was as dark as the night. It was as though no one was there at all. In fact, no one was at the house. And what came next put an official end to Louis's branch of the Ku Klux Klan. The large barn, where Pinky and Clara consummated their apocalyptic love over one hundred years later was filled with Nathaniel, along with heavily armed former slaves (Nathaniel had sent the kids and wife over to a close friend's home for the night).

  They came out shooting. The Klansmen never really had much of a chance. Their white hoods and cloaks soon turned bright red. Louis himself was shot over forty times and looked like a ripped piece of sausage. A few of the Klansmen did escape, but no one ever found out who they were, and they certainly never spoke about it, at least not publicly. There was never an investigation or any kind of a trial, after all this was lawfully Nathaniel's property and he had every right to protect it. What did come out of it was the true beginnings of healing for many of the former slaves. And Nathaniel became somewhat of a legend within the black community, wiping clean the Satterfield name which became synonymous with justice instead of brutality.

  Pinky
's granddaddy was raised in the traditions that followed. Traditions of love and tolerance, a rare blend for a Southern family to have, even as the twentieth century grew old and the twenty first century loomed over the horizon. It was this tradition of justice and decency that Pinky was socialized in.

  Now, as he laid beside Carla, sweat glimmering on their bodies from a few bars of sunlight shining in; he realized and decided that the appearance of the slave ghost was the start of a new chapter; it was time to take the offensive. It was time for justice to prevail. Whoever was out there looking for Pinky, they didn't have long to look; Pinky was going to find them and let fate guide his steps straight to the gates of the Militia's stronghold. Just like Nathaniel Satterfield helped free the slaves of his day, Pinky meant to free the women held in sexual captivity.

  A Troubled Tasha

  1

  Tasha's thoughts were dark and dreary; she felt as though her soul had been torn from her; her humanity displaced by emptiness so deep and painful that the only sounds that one might hear would be the echoes of suicidal insanity. For a year, she'd felt strong and in control; her and Okona falling deeper in love. Times could turn harsh, but they'd fought on with stoic persistence, always knowing they were fighting side by side with friends. Now her personality had been raped out of her; she had only this woman with her now, and though Mary was sweet; the comfort of a friend in these moments was a small consolation for Tasha. She hurt down below in ways she never thought possible. She'd been used in ways never dreamed, even in her nastiest nightmares; the ones that involved her stepfather drugging her and raping her. Is there any return from such a ruin as this? She didn't know, all she knew was that she wanted to die; she wanted them to simply shoot her and be done with it. She was afraid they would force her to do the White Mist; she was afraid she might like the white powder, and even more than all that; she was afraid she could become acclimated to the new and sickening environment. An environment that was medieval and sub-human; she felt she might devolve, and accept the standard placed on women who found themselves in the clutches of the Militia.