by Black, D. S.
She'd rather die. Rather die than let them force her to snort the White Mist; she'd rather die than feel another rapist's dick between her thighs. Some of them had come inside her, she worried about pregnancy. Surely, they'd just kill her then? Or what? Make her have the baby? Raise it to be a loyal Militia soldier if the baby was a boy; or if a girl, breed her to be a sex slave?
No! If she became pregnant, she would kill the baby in the uterus; hopefully killing herself in the process. Had she known she was already pregnant, she might have swung herself out of the Hummer right then because she would have no way of knowing it was Okona's baby starting the nine month evolution inside her. All she knew for sure was she missed Okona dearly; she assumed, most glumly that she'd never see him again.
2
The child growing in Tasha was conceived only two weeks before. That had been a beautiful night, one to remember for all time. The stars looked like a god's eyes, shining and blinking in the vast cold darkness of space. The moon was full and round, its grayish spots easy to see. There was a cool breeze blowing; the leafy canopy of the treetops shivered against nature’s breath; the smell of sweet wilderness perfumed the air. Death and dismay had never seemed so far away. Okona took her in his arms and kissed her deeply. They had been standing alone, staring into the vast black of the wild's midnight hues; their hands had come together in a loving clasp, warm with emotion. She turned to him, the kiss was everlasting; her hands caressed his smooth bald head; his hands pulled softly at her windblown hair. They undressed each other; their clothes peeled off with natural speed; their bodies bonded, creating sexual heat that felt like heaven's touch against the contrast of the cool summertime wind.
When it was over, they laid on the bare wood of the tree house, holding hands. Neither spoke, but they felt each other’s thoughts like lovers do after great sexual bonding. A form of ESP only lovers can create. Tasha felt Okona's love vibrating into her from his touch. In it, she felt the pain of losing his family lessen, though the misery was still there riding along with the new love like an unwanted, but necessary third wheel; because true love is born and understood only against the pain of one's past.
3
Now as the city of Columbia came into view, Tasha’s heart beat nervously. The Game Cock stadium stood high in the distance; it once was a sight of fanatic joy for many college football fans; it now loomed ominously in the eyes of Mary and Tasha. It was a symbol of coming pain and loss of identity.
All along the curving stadium wall were gun ports with fifty caliber guns. Men with dark and shifty eyes manned each port.
Around the stadium, barb wire strung around poles that went about ten feet up. At the bottom of the stadium, guards stood behind entry gates. The parking lot was filled with Hummers, Jeeps and trucks of various makes and models. No living person walked outside the stadium; the dead roamed in sporadic and small hoards. Most got caught in the barbwire if they strayed too close and were shot down by snipers with silenced carbine rifles.
The parking lot had an extra layer of barb wire, and a metal fence was set up that allowed controlled entry. It was manned by a contingent of guards on sitting posts. When the Hummer carrying Mary and Tasha pulled up, two soldiers jumped down from the posts and opened the gates, closing it quickly after they passed through.
Once parked, they were led (roughly) over the blacktop of the parking lot, stepping over the fading white lines of parking slots until they reached the entry gate. They walked through the gate and looked down a long concrete walkway leading into the stadium. Shadow enveloped them, a sudden switch from bright daylight to cold interior darkness. The gate closed with an ominous clank.
Mary looked at Tasha, and took her hand; their eyes dark caverns of fear.
They were in a prison of horrors which might prove the death of their sane minds, if not their very lives.
Jack Wakes Up
1
While Jack lay bleeding on the hot asphalt, dreams danced wildly in his mind. He was running from something, or someone. His breath came in haggard gasps; large amounts of blood smothered his face and chest. He was on the Myrtle Beach main drag. Along the beach front, motels lined up one after another. Across from the ocean front motels, were shops. Shops that sold things like conk shells, stupid t-shirts, water floats, and crabs. Jack could hear the thing running behind him but was too afraid to turn around and face it. He could smell the sea but couldn't see it; it was blocked by the motels. Dead bodies lay on the sidewalk. Jack had to jump over them to keep moving. There was trash and broken beer bottles—the normal litter of the Myrtle Beach main drag. As a kid Jack had loved this stretch of beach, but as he grew old he saw it as a cheap imitation of life, cookie cutter culture.
As he ran he felt both fear and rage. Rage at the nastiness of it all. Rage because he could never walk barefoot on the beach due to the trash and broken bottles. It was a cheap culture; a culture that could die with a strong gust of hurricane wind. What was chasing him? He didn't know. Didn't want to know, he just kept running. He saw up ahead, hanging from lantern posts, the bodies of Candy, Jody, the girls and Andrew. They hung like expensive horror movie props; dangling, blood still dripping from unseen cuts, pooling red on the sidewalk beneath them.
Up ahead he came to the Pavilion. Myrtle's excuse to put up Ferris wheels, cheap gypsy games that you always lost, bumper cars where spoiled fat brats bullied their way around. The fairground was filled with zombies coming for him, surrounding him. Like often happens in nightmares, Jack suddenly couldn't move; like an invisible nylon net enveloped him. He could see the hunger in their eyes as they came closer, could smell rancid death breath. He tried to scream, but only a hoarse croak came out. They were closer, closer, then—
Jack opened his eyes to the real world. It was getting dark. His head felt like it was going to explode from pain. He was still lying on the hot asphalt. His skin was burned from being in the sun all day. His mouth was dry, begging for water. He could barely remember what happened. He forced himself up and looked around. The trees stood on either side of him, shaking in a light breeze. The sky was turning a dark midnight blue as the sun disappeared in a fiery crescent over the horizon. He looked behind him and saw the Humvee, battered and useless.
Then he had a total recall. Candy pulled from the Humvee by her hair. Him jerked out, hearing Candy's screams; hearing his own maddening laughter and remembering his thoughts: this is it, this is where I die.
Jack suddenly felt rage bellow up inside him. He tried to stand, but dizziness pushed him back down. He sat there letting the breeze blow against him. He realized he was one lucky son of a bitch. Not one walker had come out of those woods. Not one! Him lying in this road all fucking day like a marinating steak, and not one damn zombie smelled him. Jack laughed and it caused his head to hurt even more.
Candy! Jesus! Where have they taken her?
He felt a moment of panic and forced himself to take deep breaths. There was nothing he could do about it now. If he didn't get water soon, he would die; zombies or not. With that thought in his mind, he stood and faced the dying day with shaky legs.
2
The bleeding stopped, but he’d bled quite a bit. He was weak and dehydrated. The sun was down now as he stumbled wearily towards the Humvee. Reaching it, he opened the back passenger door, hoping... thank you.
The soldiers hadn't even bothered to strip the car clean. The bottled water was still there along with canned food. However, the guns were gone. He thought it strange to leave the food yet take the guns, but sometimes god forgives and tosses a dog a bone, as his grandmother used to say. He found the can opener and opened a can of beans as he stood beside the Hummer. He ate them with a half clean spoon. He drank the water in slow gulps at first, then chugged. The sky was black with bright stars. The trees whispered in the night. He still couldn't believe his luck. All day, just lying there and not one zombie. God does forgive and toss bones, he thought as he swallowed another mouthful of beans.
Candy.
Where were we headed? Marlboro County? Can't be but another few miles. Who is this Pinky guy?
He intended to find out. Then the dizziness struck him again and he nearly fell. He grabbed the side of the Humvee, barely holding himself up. The beans rolled in his stomach; he felt it coming. He fell to his knees and vomited brown chewed bean onto the dark road.
On his knees panting, he became aware of a painful stinging on his face. His skin felt flushed and hot, then he knew that the long hot day with his face against the filthy blacktop had caused the infection to return. He was out of the antibiotics. He suddenly remembered his pocket. The pain syrup. He took it out and looked at it. Just over half full. It wouldn't kill the infection. It would probably make him vomit.
No! He couldn't take it. He wanted it. He was addicted, but he forced himself to put it in his pocket by pure will and a desire to live.
He realized he did still want to live. His mind had slipped; he was sure death was going to be a welcomed diversion from this hell of a world, but with the infection back, his temperature rising, Candy taken, and him alone in this summer night, the summer breeze blowing out from the shadowed trees—Jack Teach wanted to live more than ever before.
3
Jack’s fever increased rapidly. He shivered. Damp beads of sweat covered his face. He climbed into the back of the Humvee and closed the door. He laid down holding a bottle of water against his forehead. It wasn't cold, but it was better than nothing. He wanted to rest a bit. Then maybe try finding this Pinky character or die trying. Probably the latter, if his current condition was any indication. The cool breeze blowing through the shattered windows was like a small miracle to him. It felt wonderful against his hot skin like a fan blowing in a warm room.
He lay there for some time before he saw the apparition. She stood outside the window, staring in on him. It was his grandmother. His Mema, but that was impossible. She'd been dead for years. He remembered where he was, The New World. It would seem all things are now possible. The dead can walk, and spirits can talk.
There she is, sure as shit. Hey, Mema.
In his mind, her voice came clear.
Jack. It’s gonna be OK. Everything's gonna be OK. You just hang in there a bit more.
Don't know if I can, Mema. I'm pretty beat up back here. Don't think I'll find a doctor.
Now, Jack you can't let that kinda language fill your mind. Somebody will come along; you just believe it.
I love you Mema, but you just don't know this world. Doctors don't exist anymore. Neither does philosophy.
The ghost of his grandmother was wavering in the wind, coming and going like a bad TV transmission. He stared at her, he was shivering uncontrollably. His fever was burning him up. Sweat dripped and pooled on the leather seat.
Jack. It’s the same as always. Rough times call for tough boys. Now you be tough for me. You hang in there.
I'll try. I'll try to be tough.
Then she was gone as though she'd never been there. Now he saw himself riding his old bike. He bought it at Kmart with money he made working at Joe's Crab Place in Murrells Inlet over the summer. It was his first semester at college, and he rode that bike everywhere. Jack was always a bit solitary. Not antisocial, he enjoyed chumming like anyone else,
But he also liked to be alone. Riding his bike was when he did his best thinking, or the way he saw it back then, his best philosophizing. It was a Huffy mountain bike. He logged some serious mileage on that baby. He especially liked to go to the movies during the week when there wasn't a lot of people. He'd ride his bike, park it and chain it with a huge chain lock that was covered in thick gel plastic and wrapped around his waist. The little theater he went to was at an old run-down mall near Garden City. Popcorn and a large soda, and a nice long movie.
Jack missed those days. Those simple days when all he worried about was making the Dean's List and what movie he would see that week. When he could ride his bike down to the beach and read. The warm October day wind blowing his pages and his dark hair. His big round black rimmed glasses had made him look like a tall and older version of Harry Potter.
Now, lying here in the back of the Humvee, Jack thought those days were magical. People might see some magical things these days, but back then... oh boy... back then it was simple magic. Simple like the sun on your face, simple like the smell of salt in your mouth, simple like the view of a pelican swooping down and scooping its lunch from the mighty Atlantic.
It was the small things. That's what a person really misses these days. These days when the world is so scary and dangerous, a person misses the small delights of The Old World. The cold ice cream, the movie theaters, the long walks on the beach, the sight of bikini clad women and shirtless studs.
Tears ran down Jack's mangled and infected face. The pain of losing The Old World was symbolized in those running tear drops. At that moment, Jack even missed the Myrtle Beach main drag with its cardboard cutout culture, its con men and its broken glass littered beach. The smell of carnival food at the Pavilion. The fat women wearing bikini's showing their large, overhanging bellies. Bike Week, with its endless noise pollution, its huge fat women, their large asses jammed out and dangling over the backs of their boyfriend's bikes. Jack would give his left testicle for just a taste of a sugary carnival cake, a large snow cone, or a huge chocolate milkshake. Glory days, glory days... how did Springsteen put it? —they'll pass you in a wink of a young girl's eye.
4
The night aged, the darkness, the pain, the strange thoughts. Jack's mind was a feverish madhouse of dreams. He saw his grandfather rotting and cackling in a grave. He saw Candy hung against a wooden post, naked and torn open. Her guts hung out of her ripped open belly like red jelly. He saw his old pal, Donny Waters hanging from a lamp post, hung and dead. Him and Donny were best friends in high school. Donny was a lover of computer parts and mathematics. His face was scorned with the ugliest acne a man had ever seen. Donny's IQ was an official one fifty. Jack loved Donny. Jack and Donny were two pees in a lonely pod. The high school pod. Jack didn't have the acne, but he looked like Harry Potter and the girls just didn't dig it. At least not Southern girls. Maybe if Jack had been born in a liberal area of the country, he may have had better luck, but Jack went to Socastee High school; Hicksville High as Donny enjoyed calling it. Jocks that thought they were going to go pro ruled the high school. Cheerleaders and hot soccer girls walked like their farts didn't stink.
Then you had the thugs (black and white) who sold pot and other drugs. One of them was Terry “Cheddar” Thompson. He was a confused white kid who sold coke in the hallways and the parking lot. He wore FUBU from head to toe and listened to gangsta rap from his Chevy Eldorado (paid in full by his dad, Barry Thompson; attorney at law). For whatever reason, Cheddar liked Jack and Donny.
“Yo, Jack! I got somethin here for ya!” Cheddar always tried to give them free coke, knowing full well they didn't do it and never would.
“You know we don't mess around with that stuff, and I really think you should get some help. Cheddar you have a lot going for you. Interpersonal skills along with an entrepreneur spirit, but you need to channel it via a legal means,” Jack said. That's why Cheddar liked Donny and Jack so much, maybe. They spoke to him honestly and always wanted to be of genuine help.
Cheddar never changed, though he eventually was expelled and arrested. His father was able to get him only house arrest. Which meant Cheddar spent five years at their huge ranch in North Carolina. Jack never saw him again.
Donny went on to college just like Jack, but Donny went to MIT on a path to a successful career as a software engineer.
Now as Jack lay feverish and mad, he screamed out, “Donny! Donny! Where are you old pal? Got a math problem I can't solve. You know me... if it isn’t philosophy, it doesn’t compute!”
<
br /> Jack and Donny had stayed in touch for a while, mostly by email or text messaging. Donny said his acne was clearing up and would send photos to prove it. Jack would tell him about his classes and the new girl he met in philosophy class. A real Yankee doodle dandy, Jack would say.
Susan O’Connell was an Irish Catholic from Maine. Her daddy worked for Amazon and brought her down to live in Charleston. She had dark (almost pitch black) hair, her skin pale and unblemished. Her eyes sparkled green and she wore tight gray jeans, black army boots and flannel shirts. Jack was in love at first sight.
Jack was in love alright, but there was only one problem: Tommy McGinnis. Jack soon found out that Susan had been dating McGinnis for the past six months. McGinnis was a local boy that worked as a grease monkey. His arms slabs of beef iron, his legs just about the same. McGinnis was older than Susan and Jack by almost six years. He'd been a marine before getting kicked out for beating the shit out of one of his commanding officers. He'd spent a year in prison for it.
What did Susan ever see in a roughneck like McGinnis? She saw danger, that's what. Susan was attracted to danger, and she had a way of bringing menace on other people, as Jack found out first hand.
Jack may have been a philosophical nerd who looked way too much like Harry Potter, but he wasn't a pushover, never had been and never would be. When McGinnis found out Susan was spending time in Jack's full-size dorm bed, the lights of hell sparked in the former marine’s eyes, and the next time Jack saw Susan was in Horry County Memorial. McGinnis had knocked out her front teeth, broken four of her ribs, and shattered her right arm.
