by Black, D. S.
“Troubling times,” he'd muttered to himself. In the distance, a police siren had whaled; he jumped. “Goodness... signs of the times.”
Chris found himself wondering what would cause such entrenched hatred for black skin. Why did the cops feel justified in what they did? Was it just human nature to have so much hatred? He remembered listening to a Tony Robbins motivational tape. Robbins was talking about violence and power. He said humans perpetrated violence against each other to feel that they had power and control; until the human species had a fundamental shift in consciousness, the violence would never end. Was that why cops beat and shot unarmed, defenseless people? Because it gave them the feeling of control? Was it why soldiers can sometimes commit atrocities in faraway lands?
At least the soldiers tend to suffer some form of post-traumatic stress due to guilt. The cops seemed to not suffer anything unless they were caught. Cops seemed to actually thrive on the power to hurt others. They felt that their position gave them the right to hurt others.
And now, riding towards Columbia, getting ready to face off with a new form of soldiering cop, Chris couldn't help but wonder if some of the Militia's members were former police; now without a Constitution, the ACLU, CopBlock, Black Lives Matter, or any other check or balance against their brutality; they probably saw the Fever as a destined event allowing them to exercise their right to kill anyone they wanted.
His insight was not too far from the truth.
9
While Chris was thinking about dirt bag cops and corrupt legal systems, Okona was thinking about his dead wife. About a time when their neighbor came over. Their neighbor was Martha Mullinax. She was a portly woman around the age of forty or so. She wore big bug eye glasses and worked at the library. She was also married to a sheriff’s deputy. The day she came over to the house is a day Okona would never forget.
Okona's wife had gasped when she opened the door and saw Martha. Martha's face was battered to a point she looked like a mangled monster. Her right eye was closed shut like a boxer who had taken a beating. Her nose was clearly broken; blood still trickled down her face. Her front two teeth were nonexistent.
“Jesus Martha! What happened?” Not that she needed to tell them. They'd heard the fighting, time and time again. Seen the bruises, but never said anything. Martha always had an excuse. She bumped her leg while unloading groceries; she fell down while mopping the floor, always something.
And her husband, Ted Mullinax, the DARE officer for the local school district always would come out on the porch after the shouting, cross his arms, and stare out at the neighborhood as though daring anyone to challenge his right to slap around the misses. He was a cop after all, and cops can do whatever they damn well choose.
This time, it didn't work out quite that way.
Okona called 911, even though Martha begged him not to. Occasionally cops can actually act like decent human beings and this time, the first responders did just that. They knew who Ted was. They also knew he had a nasty temper, and when they went to arrest him all hell broke loose.
Cops arresting cops can turn into a nasty situation fast. Okona watched from his kitchen window as the two cops fought tooth and nail with the six feet, two-hundred-pound frame of Ted Mullinax. Okona honestly thought the man was going to get the upper hand on the small officers until two more cruisers pulled up, and the Tasers came out. Ted went down as fast as anyone else when the fifty thousand volts of electrical current struck his skin.
That was the end of the good story and the good cops. The following weeks helped solidify Okona's belief that cops are almost always dirty bastards, and the courts they work for are even dirtier.
The charge of High and Aggravated Domestic Violence lasted for less than a week before being dropped. Turned out Ted was best friends with the county Sheriff. Turned out the county Sheriff played regular rounds of golf with both the district attorney and several of the local judges.
Ted was released and allowed to go back to his wife. Martha was too afraid to try and leave him. The man after all, had just beat her badly and walked away without even a slap on the wrist; the good ole boy Southern justice system working at its best.
One week after his release and return home, Martha was found dead. She'd been dropped in a ditch off highway seventeen with her skull bashed in. Ted Mullinax was nowhere to be found. The house was searched; blood was found spattered everywhere. There was no doubt Ted murdered his wife then dumped the body in a hurried attempt to cover his tracks, probably drunk off his ass. Then he'd hightailed it. That was only two months before the Fever struck; Ted was never located.
Okona remembered the way Martha spoke in the hospital after the broken nose incident.
“I still love him. I can't help but love him. I'm also afraid of him. You know?”
Okona sat beside her, holding her hand. “I know.”
“I mean... love doesn't just come out of a faucet. I can't just turn it on and off.”
“I understand, Martha.”
“I’m just so confused! He's untouchable!”
“No one is untouchable,” he said with little to no conviction. When he heard the domestic violence charges were dropped, his stomach had turned. He knew the county was corrupt, but he'd never would have thought they could be so blatantly cruel and uncaring. Then again, he probably did know. He may not be a black man, but he wasn't ignorant to the level of state-sponsored violence going on around the nation. It seemed that more often than not, cops were untouchable, and that time it had cost a woman her life.
And, just as Chris did; Okona wanted to know how many of those same cops survived the Fever and were now working for the Militia.
Mullinax 2
Mullinax drank a lot the night he murdered his wife. Her face disgusted him. She was weak and pathetic, someone worthy of dying. How she had screamed and begged until all thought left her as he beat and bashed her brains in. His dick had never been harder for her as he looked down at her broken and dead body. He’d taken her corpse to his cruiser and stored it in the trunk. He then dropped her in the nearest ditch and disappeared. His connections may have gotten him off for domestic abuse, but murder was a deal breaker. No way would a judge throw this one out.
But that was then, and this was the New World. The New Mullinax; he was the boss now. Only the Mountain King could order him around. If he wanted to bash in someone’s face, then by god he would. But he was a changed man, who had turned over a new leaf. Nature chose him to service and lead society back from the brink of extinction.
Back to Order.
Plus, his dead wife was not on his mind. The two new girls sent by Cap were being brought to him. He sat, smug and comfortable, a full belly and a well-lit cigar burning red, plumes of smoke billowing above his face. First, he would interrogate them. Find out what they knew about coastal survival groups and then the real fun would begin, but Militia business always came before pleasure. In the Old World, busting a hooker would mean an easy blow job, and then he’d still take the whore to the station. Who would believe a whore against the word of an Angel in Blue?
He had turned over a new leaf and would not allow his desires to step in the way of serious concerns. The Mountain King would only stay patient with him for so long and expected results.
And he planned on giving the Mountain King everything and then some! Behind him, a battery-operated CD player, hooked to speakers, played an old country tune. Something with some serious twang in the strings, and depressive lyrics. Something about how some man’s old lady cheated. Mullinax chuckled as he poured himself a shot of whiskey, dragging the shot glass (taken from the cabinets, so it had the Gamecock logo on it) against the hard grain wood desk, then uncapping the whiskey bottle, pouring the brown liquid till it nearly reached the lid of the glass. He raised it, and threw it back while saying a silent toast to the Old World, and the pathetic losers who didn’t make it. This was his world. The Mountain King chose him to bring order to chaos. Who could stop him?
&nb
sp; No one! That’s who.
Kid Chaos 3
The Militia, those Barbarians of Order. Dreaming of their New World. A world that stank of whatever version of society these men wanted. Larry knew from the moment he first saw them that his destiny to institute perpetual chaos had not died with the Old World. Nature kept him here to make sure these pesky fuck nuts didn’t succeed in creating their dystopic civilization.
The first time Larry saw signs of the Militia was nearly two months after the dead first took over. It had been a sunny beautiful day—except for the walking dead of course—and Larry had allowed himself the rare luxury of going upstairs and staring out the window. He never left of course, that would be too dangerous. Although Larry was damn good at making explosives, he’d never shot a gun before and certainly didn’t like the idea of bashing in the brains of zombies. He’d set himself up a fine little dinner of dehydrated lamb and mash potatoes with gravy, along with some juice mix. He sat caddy cornered near the window, staring out in a way that allowed him to see out, but no one else to see in. He’d just taken a sip of his juice when the rumbles began. He nearly knocked his food tray over when he saw the first tank moving through his once ivy league neighborhood. He didn’t know how to shoot guns (well, he knew the mechanics but had no real-life experience), but he did know a great deal about the names of weapons and other military equipment, including tanks. What he saw on that day was a M1 Abrams, followed by three more; all with a gunner on top. The gunners fired and mowed down any dead they saw; Larry hit the deck as a couple of bullets burst through his windows and went smoldering through his walls. The tanks moved through his area and eventually left. Over the next few weeks, Larry broke with his usual fear of leaving the house. He simply had to know who these people were and what they were up to. He’d hoped all life was gone, except for him of course; but he always knew, at least in the back of his head that he couldn’t be the only survivor. But what worried Larry the most was not that others had survived but that these tanks and soldiers might represent something much, much worse: a return to Order.
Larry could not under any circumstances, allow that to happen.
Duras’s Jeep
1
The first time Tommy “Duras” Morrow smoked weed was his fifteen birthday. It was a hot June day. School had been out for nearly a month; the summer season in full bloom. It was also the summer he'd started growing his hair long. Something his father didn't like but accepted as a personal choice.
Duras sat with his high school chums, Barbie Sanders and Dale Burnett. Barbie was your typical high school loser; though he certainly didn't see himself that way. He thought his backward Kyle Petty hat, one-size-too-small Fruit of Loom t-shirt (sleeves rolled up like a fifties greaser), baggy FUBU jeans, and black combat boots made him the coolest cat this side of Myrtle Beach.
But it was Dale who brought the weed that day. Dale wasn't going to win any popularity contests either. He was already going bald (something they found quite funny given his age) and wore hand me downs from his older brother. Dale scored great weed though, which occasionally brought him around some of the more popular kids. “I boinked Cathy Rogers. I fuckin swear to it. She might say no, but she's lyin,” Dale said.
“Why can't you just say fucked? Why do you say boinked?”
“If you were as cool as me Tommy you'd understand,” Dale said as he passed the joint to Tommy (he wouldn't be known as Duras till years later after he was married).
Tommy took the joint and puffed, puffed and passed. Tommy was a bit of a wild card, neither popular or unpopular, liked or disliked. At fifteen, inching near 6 feet 5, weighing in around just over two hundred—he proved to be a source of fascination. The fascination came mainly from the coach who lobbied (ever so unsuccessfully) for him to play football or basketball. Tommy would have neither. Tommy was a reader and enjoyed illustrations, though he never considered himself good enough to make a living out of it.
“The only cool thing about Dale Burnett is the weed he gets,” Tommy said.
“Amen,” Barbie said. Barbie had been on the kick of saying amen to everything he agreed with for six months now. No one knew why.
The day was cooling down, and a soft and salty breeze blew off the ocean. They were sitting under the Garden City Pier. It wasn't the best place to smoke weed, especially during the summer season. Cops could roll up in their trucks at any time, but they smoked quickly and it was a slow day. Most of the action was above them, at the Salty Dog Bar. The Salty Dog was at the end of the pier and was where all the hot college kids went to drink. The clanking of shoes on wood was directly above them. The shadow of the pier itself surrounded them, protecting them from the late afternoon sun.
They smoked the joint, then walked up to the pier and bought ice cream at the Ocean Bait tackle store. Ocean Bait was at the entrance of the pier. They sold ice cream, fishing poles, worms and other bait, and of course; cheap t-shirts that said things like OCEAN BAIT: LAND OF THE TACKLE; for the racist tourists, they sold Palmetto flag shirts with a Confederate flag theme—Heritage Not Hate—good ole South Carolina, gotta love it. The same inner state tourists that bought the Heritage Not Hate shirts, would some years later right before the Fever came, raise hellish pain when Governor Nikki Hailey ordered the Confederate flag (and the pole that held it) removed from the capital and placed in a museum.
These are the memories that bounced around Duras's mind as he drove the Jeep down the hot two lane black top. It was probably the joint Vice lit and then passed over to him that caused the flashback. But the mind is a fickle thing sometimes; knowing where and why thoughts come to the forefront of consciousness isn't always so easy to ascertain (at least that's what Duras heard the prominent atheist philosopher and neuroscientist, Sam Harris say once during a podcast)
The Jeep came equipped with a fine stereo system and Duras had found a collection of audio books in the former managers office while seeking the keys. The manager evidently had a thing for Stephen King novels. Duras found It, The Tommy Knockers, and Thinner (written as Richard Bachman).
They were currently listening to Thinner and reached the scene where the main character confronts the Gypsies in their camp. Duras roared stoned laughter after the main character cursed the gypsies with the “Curse of the White Man from Town.” Had Duras been riding with Okona and Chris, his laughter may have not been solitary. His passengers were of the trustworthy meathead variety, good for a zombie apocalyptic gang, not so much for literary conversation.
The Jeep now smelled of new car, and that all-time favorite marijuana. Vice had rolled the weed up with JOB one point five papers. The smoke fogged up till they had to roll the windows down. They were now about thirty minutes away from I-20. The Jeep rolled smoothly over the black top. The view around them was what any other sweltering day would look like. The tree line was a dark green line running parallel with the road. Occasionally the Jeep would go over a reflector that made a mild thud.
The thought of Mary Jane kept jumping into Duras's mind like a nagging toothache. He kept seeing her stripped bare, her breasts bouncing as some Militia thug (or thugs) had their way with her. He'd force this thought out and tried to focus on the road, but the thought found its way back like a stubborn garden weed while trying to listen to the voice actor narrating Thinner over the speakers.
2
The thoughts running through Vice's mind were a bit less intellectual. He'd gotten over his initial pain of losing Mary Ann. Vice was like a dog in a way, his emotional memory short. This had always been a vital asset for him. His father, an insane drunk who left long scars on Vice's back (starting at the age of five), died in a house fire while Vice was in high school. Vice shed no tears. After Vice joined the Army, he found himself in an environment that suited him well—cold, hard discipline. He also discovered that he wasn't as dumb as his father always told him he was. The Army taught him how to build bridges, fences, roads and an assortment of other useful things.
The only thing the Army cou
ldn’t teach him was teenage girls were off limits. He was never arrested for statutory rape, though it came close a few times. Once, while Vice was only eighteen himself, fresh out of boot camp; he'd started a relationship with a fourteen-year-old girl by the name of Claire Day. Claire crept out of her home in the middle of the night and would meet him by the road. He'd wait on her in his old 87 rusty orange Datsun. From there, they'd drive down to Black Snake Creek via a long woods road. The road was nothing, but dirt and grass and the truck took a beating getting down it, but they never got stuck. He'd park beside the creek and enjoy his young treat.
He'd drop her back off half a mile from her house, and she'd walk home. The only reason he never went to jail was because Claire’s parents (and her brothers, which Vice didn't know existed) believed in keeping things in the family. One night, Claire met him like always, but this time, she only stood at the passenger side window (which was rolled down, no AC after all) and said in a meek and sad voice, “I'm sorry.”
Before Vice could respond, a man and two strapping young boys emerged from the shadows, and a meaty fist punched Vice in the temple. He saw stars and was only vaguely aware his door was opened. Claire's father and two older brothers had used her as a distraction. They yanked him from the car and beat him so badly he pissed blood for two straight days. They used tire irons to bash his windshield and cut open his tires with buck knives. The whole time this was happening Claire was crying and saying over and over, “I love you. I really do love you! I'm so sorry!” This was a poor consolation prize though, and Vice thought for sure the men were going to kill him. The last thing the red-faced father said before kicking him one more good time in the ribs was, “Ever see ya again, I'll cut cha balls off and feed em to my pit bull.” The brothers didn't give him any last words, only a few final rib shots—father like son.
