Humanity's Death [Books 1-3]

by Black, D. S.

  She begged Jack not to get involved, but Jack saw red. She told him McGinnis had made bail and would be looking for him, and he wouldn't go easy on Jack like he did on her. Meaning the man meant to kill Jack, sure enough.

  Jack did the first thing that came to his mind. He went to see his grandfather. After he explained the situation to Papa; the old man took in a deep breath and said: “When a dog's gone mad, there’s only one option, and you can't depend on the police to handle a man like that before he kills somebody. Cops are there to make reports not protect you, Jack. No matter what, your cousin might say otherwise.” Then the old man wheeled himself over to a desk sitting in the front living room, pulled open the front drawer, and took out a snub-nosed .38. He gave it to Jack and told him to do what he had to do when the time came.

  Jack took the gun and kept it on him for the next few days, not knowing when McGinnis would strike or how he might go about doing it. Jack knew Papa was right, though. Cops are good and all, but rarely around when the bad guys come knocking. And you better believe McGinnis came knocking, only four days after Jack had his conversation with Papa.

  This time, the cops would prove both Jack and Papa wrong.

  5

  McGinnis came late on a Thursday night, around eleven. He was drunker than hell's fury. There were a few screams in the parking lot of Jack's dormitory. The mad man shouted. “Where in flying hell is he! JACK! You stupid son of a whore!” McGinnis wielded a sawed off shotgun while he stumbled in the lot.

  Jack saw it all from his window. Blue lights hurled around the corner of the lot; cop tires screeched, doors popped open.

  “Put it on the fucking ground, asshole! Put it DOWN!”

  McGinnis’s' face was clear as a movie picture from Jack's vantage point. The college kept powerful street lights all over campus, so McGinnis was easy to see. He had on an old camo jacket, blue jeans, and a white t-shirt. The look he gave the cops was comical and horrifying at the same time. The man smiled. A smile that was bright and fearless. Then he gave them the bird, did a marine trained tumble roll, took a position behind a car and let loose.

  The gun shots were heard all around the campus. Being a marine after all, McGinnis’s first shots were dead on. The head of one the officers was torn almost off his shoulders, but that was the last good shot McGinnis got; cause when you shoot a cop, it tends to make the other cops go bat shit crazy. Jack watched with interested and excited horror as over ten cops unloaded everything they had into Tommy McGinnis.

  McGinnis flopped back against another car; his hands flew up involuntarily, almost like he was sending up an amen to Jesus. The bullets kept coming. His blood was jumping out of him every time a bullet punched a new hole. Incredibly, not one bullet touched his face. Blood spilled out of his mouth though, in great gulps. He then stumbled forward, hot smoldering smoke coming from the bullet holes (along with plenty of blood); he fell over onto the asphalt, bringing an end to Tom McGinnis.

  Jack had left the dormitory and went straight to the hospital. Susan cried and cried. Said it was her fault. Jack told her not to talk crazy; this meant they could be together. “Baby, I lov—

  She slapped him as hard as she could. His ears rang for a moment; then he just stared at her, dumbstruck.

  “You think I'd be with you now? After this! GET OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT!”

  Jack backed away slowly, a look of confused pain on his face.

  “GET OUT YOU SON OF A WHORE! GET THE FUCK OUT!”

  Jack walked out of the hospital room, stunned beyond tears. He walked slowly through the hospital halls, never taking his hand from his cheek. When he reached his car, he fell to his knees and puked. He then sat in his car and cried.

  He never saw Susan again. She dropped out of college and that was the end of it. Even now, as Jack laid feverish and dying in the back of the Humvee, in a world that knows nothing but death, that remains the single most confusing moment of his entire life.

  6

  The memory was powerful and vivid in Jack's fevered mind. He saw it all so clearly, as though it was happening at that moment, but it wasn't. Susan was long gone, and outside the world was a dark stranger, its wind howling like a mad loon. The trees rustled restlessly. The moon was a bright gray spotted eye in the night sky.

  The night lingered on. Jack turned restlessly, sometimes screaming out names. Sometimes talking like he was in some other time and place. The early signs of morning light began to come through the windows of the Humvee. Jack saw it, and saw someone moving in the light, coming closer. The tall dark shadow peered in and then moved out of sight. He heard a few shouts, then the door opened behind his head.

  Jack looked up, and for a moment he was staring at God. “God? Have you come to take me away? Away to a merry place?”

  Jack smiled up at God. He never thought God could be a Native American. He heard the large brown god talking to someone close by. “It’s the man with the scarred face.” Then the Native American God turned and looked down at Jack. “Don't worry, my friend. We've come to help.”

  Jack was taken out of the car carefully. The Native American picked him up and carried him to a Ford F-150 and laid him in the bed's truck, then climbed in and sat beside Jack. The truck started. The early morning sky rushed in front of Jack’s eyes in blues and oranges. The cool morning wind gushed against his burning face. Before he closed his eyes, the big Native American looked down again. “Going to be OK, pal. Everything's going to be OK.”

  Jack smiled, then closed his eyes.

  Everything's gonna be OK; he thought, and then fell asleep.

  Candy’s Captivity

  1

  When Candy was twelve she was chased by a gang of wild rabid dogs. Wild dog packs are not unusual things in the deeper parts of the South, especially out in the sticks. Hicks like to let their dogs breed freely and could give a hoots ass as to what happens with the puppies. So, the puppies grow up wild and form packs. These packs have been known to kill kids and even adults. They are quite dangerous.

  Candy was at Christian Quest Camp deep in the thickets of Williamsburg County, a place where the hicks breed as much as their dogs. She never enjoyed the camp. The camp counselors were mostly college students from Charleston Southern, which is a fundamentalist Christian college, but there was nothing Christian about the camp counselors at Quest Camp. The girls wore tight little shorts and the boys enjoyed going shirtless. They often left the kids alone while they went necking or skinny dipping in the lake.

  Candy didn't mind that because it gave her the chance to escape and explore the area alone. She was walking, picking wild berries when she walked right up to a pack of snarling dogs. They'd taken down a deer and were feasting on the flesh. When they saw Candy with her red khaki shorts, her pink tank top and her tied back red hair; the dogs saw red and forgot about the deer.

  Her short legs ran like wildfire, her heart beating rapidly; hot sweat running down her face. Candy had always considered herself an excellent tree climber and had that not been true, she'd have died right then and there as lunch meat for hungry dogs. Instead, she leaped onto the lower branches of a young oak tree and climbed up like a monkey.

  The dogs had her treed though, and she was there till the camp staff finally decided to do a head count and then a search for the missing redhead. She spent nearly twenty-four hours on that tree; dogs can be patiently vicious animals.

  That same feeling of being trapped by rabid, wild and hungry dogs was what she felt as the Militia men tied her hands to the back of the Abrams tank. The Captain still stood on the tank, arms crossed; a cigarette dangling from his lips.

  “You are one sexy red fox hunny,” he said, pulling the cigarette from his lips. His lips snarled up like a hungry dog. She was trapped. Fucking A! She was indeed trapped. Trapped by a gang of sneering thugs dressed in army fatigues. Their eyes looked like bulging orbs of wild excited madness. Except for Cap who looked insane, but in a soberer manner. He seemed more in control. The others were a bit jumpy like
they had a bit too much cocaine or something. Candy had seen those eyes countless times. You encounter a lot of junkies as a cop.

  But there was something different about their drugged looks. It was more intense, almost spiritual. Bloodshot and wild. It was like the eyes wanted to jump out of their heads. Their muscles were tense and prepped like they were ready for a fight. The flight or fight mechanism on full power, and she wasn't sure flight was ever an option for these men. Fear probably didn't exist for them anymore. Not with whatever drug was running through their bloodstream. Not the Cap, though. His body was calm and steady.

  She looked back for a moment.

  “Don't worry, Red. The zombies will take good care of your boyfriend,” Cap said.

  The soldiers laughed; their eyes pulsed like insane black orbs. The color around their pupils all gone, leaving intense dilation. Evil, dark hate filled blackness. The dark mental crypts of insanity.

  2

  The tank started moving, and Candy jerked forward. Her wrists were tied together and attached to the back of the tank. Cap still sat on top smoking another cigarette. The soldiers moved along either side. She counted them, ten on either side. Including whoever was inside the tank and then Cap; that made about twenty-five or so.

  The hot midday sun glared down like an angry yellow eye. The relentless Southern humidity made breathing difficult. Seeing the men staring at her body made her mouth dry. She was in trouble and damn well knew it. Jack was probably dead, and where the hell did her girls run off to? She wondered now if they weren’t just a figment of her imagination the entire time. Her mind's way of dealing with the pain of losing them. She never watched a lot of TV, but Jody had enjoyed the Walking Dead show. She remembered one of the few episodes she'd ever watched. She recalled the good looking main character. Jody told her he was a cop, just like her. They were living at a prison and he'd lost his wife and started seeing her ghostly image, but it wasn't really a ghost. Only the haunting of his mind. Could that have happened to me, she thought.

  She didn't think her girls were hallucinations. Unlike the fictionalized Walking Dead, this shit was for real. The zombies were for real. The ghosts were for real. These men were for real. Jack lying back there dead and bleeding, that was for real too. Jesus Christ! She knew she was in serious goddamn trouble now.

  “When we gonna have a go with her, Cap?” a soldier asked. The man was standing to Candy's right. He was staring at her; his mouth drooling; his eyes mad as a fucking hatter.

  She looked down, and yep, his crotch was bulged out. Jesus H Christ. She was in a shit ton of trouble.

  “You know the fucking rules. I get them the first twenty-four hours asshole, or how would you like to spend tonight in the hole?” Cap said.

  The soldier obediently shut his mouth but didn't stop leering at Candy. She held her head high and refused to let them make her feel like a piece of meat. Like some Bronze Age whore.

  She thought about Jack. Jack always said that the passages in the Bible about buying and selling women were written by ignorant sand dwellers that didn't know any better. He said they were men of their time and place; he could never understand how anyone in modern times could take them seriously, but these soldiers were serious. Just men of the New World, men of their time and age, but who were they before the Fever? Who were they before they turned to whatever hellish drug they were on? Bankers? Lawyers? Teachers? Mechanics? Fathers? Uncles? Did they have wives and daughters they loved? Loved and watched die and then went mad? Whoever they were then doesn't matter. Because who they are now is all they will ever be. Drugged madmen hell bent on fucking and killing.

  3

  The tank continued to rumble down Route Six, heading for whatever shit hole these men call camp. Every so often a zombie would stumble out of the woods; growling and hungry, going for the nearest soldier. The soldiers would dispatch the dead thing with deft action—sticking a blade into its skull.

  They reached a clearing, fields on either side. Under other circumstances, this would have been a peaceful day. The day was hot, but the fields were beautiful. Without farmers to tend, grass had grown high and wild. It blew in the hot afternoon wind.

  Up ahead she could see more wilderness approaching. In this area of South Carolina, you either ran into large farm fields that once grew tobacco or you ran into the forests. Before the Fever, all this land was privately owned, and Candy always had to give the Old Money folks credit. Most of their politics were ignorant and cruel; conservative Christian assholes writing laws; pretending they weren’t making their own form of Sharia Law. The only good that came out of them was their love for the land. They wanted to keep it clean and pristine, untouched by human ingenuity as much as possible. That's why a topographical view of South Carolina showed vast stretches of wilderness, a green wonderland, mystically natural.

  Candy had known a few game wardens. They didn't fuck around. Fines were the least of your worries if you were caught dumping in the wrong areas. Not that the Palmetto State didn't have its environmental hazards. It sure did. Paper mills near Charleston and nuclear plants were just a couple of the issues that worried many of the more liberal residents.

  And of course, there were the tobacco farms. Other than stinking up the place and polluting the lungs of those who smoked it; the tobacco farms didn't do much harm. Before the Fever, there were even talks of putting the legalization of marijuana on the next ballot, something most of the farmers supported, and the politicians were starting to come around to considering the massive tax revenue Colorado and Washington State reported.

  “Beautiful day in South Carolina, wouldn't you say Red?” Cap asked as the tank rolled down Route Six.

  She looked up at him and for one horrifying moment, she saw the Marlboro Man from her nightmare in all his nasty horribleness. His tobacco stained mustache, his elongated legs, his bulging crotch. I need some PUSSY! SOME PUSSY, RED! She could feel his weather worn fingers on her; smell his nicotine tar breath.

  A cold shudder ran up her spine.

  Then he was gone; it was just Cap sitting on top of the tank smoking his cigarette looking down at her with calm madness in his eyes. She hadn't said much of anything since they first tied her to the tank and took off down the road. Now she felt like asking a question. “Where are you taking me?”

  “We got simple rules, Red. Really simple. Hey Mitch, teach this bitch one of the rules.”

  A sharp pain shot up her back as the man called Mitch thudded her kidney with the butt of his rifle. Not hard enough to make her bleed internally, but hard enough to make her fall to one knee.

  “First rule, Red. Women don't ask questions. NEVER. Women only answer them when asked. So, I'll ask again. And if you don't answer me, or if you answer wrong, then Mitch here is gonna give you another kidney shot. Now, beautiful day in South Carolina, wouldn't you say Red?”

  She felt the rage about to blow but quelled it. Not now. Not now, but soon. “Oh yes. It’s a lovely day in South Carolina.”

  4

  She was so thirsty. She began to feel like this march was the Trek of the Dead. Her mouth was starch, her throat dry as old cloth. She felt dizzy. They all had water in plastic flasks. She saw them drinking it, gulping it down. They didn't offer any for her, and she wasn't going to ask. Asking would no doubt bring about a fresh kidney whack, and they still probably wouldn't give her water. No! She would just wait this out. Wait till an opening came, then she would escape.

  She continued down the road for some time. The day grew old; her shadow growing longer. Her clothes stuck to her body, causing horny excitement from the soldiers. Trees now covered both sides of the road. The Palmetto wilderness went on for miles around; the fields now at least a mile behind her.

  The convoy slowed. Up ahead shouts from other men. They had reached their camp.

  An old woods road, nothing but dirt, ran to the right. The tank turned, and she was pulled with it. The dirt road was uneven, and she nearly stumbled and fell.

  The only con
solation was the thick tree cover over the road. Dark shade descended, bringing welcomed coolness. It wasn't like walking into a grocery store on a hot summer day, but it beat sun beaten Route Six.

  Just stay alive. Survive. That's all you can do right now. No matter what, stay alive; but Jack's dead. No! No! Stop that! Don't think about that! JUST STAY ALIVE!

  Her mind screamed at her. She was so fucking thirsty.

  The tank stopped. Cap jumped down, removed his flask, unscrewed the top, and held it to her mouth.

  “I don't have AIDS bitch, drink up.”

  She did, being careful not to let any spill as she gulped it down. Oh, sweet Jesus, it tasted good. She didn't care she was drinking some of this brute's backwash. She drank like her life depended on it.

  “No gag reflexes. Very good, Red. Very fucking good. We're gonna get along just fine, me and you.”

  She bit her tongue to keep from spitting in his face. He'd unhooked her from the tank and was now dragging her to the camp’s entrance. The camp wasn't huge, but it was big enough for two large army tents and one small one she assumed was Cap's. The tank parked outside the perimeter.

  The perimeter was a circle of razor wire fencing that went up about six feet. The entrance was a metal gate with a large red sign with black letters that read: MILITIA RECON 3. It was guarded by two large bug eyed guards with AR15s. They were shirtless and wore green camo pants. She was reminded of Vietnam movies from the eighties.

  The guard opened the gate and let Cap and Candy pass. Inside, were the tents and long white hard plastic picnic tables. Some tables had guns on them that were being cleaned by more bug-eyed soldiers. Others had cooking equipment. There were about another twenty soldiers inside, not including the ones that brought her here. The realization of their manpower was dawning on her. The fact that this was a recon team meant that much larger forces clustered in other places.