Humanity's Death [Books 1-3]

by Black, D. S.

  Years later when Vice was twenty-one, another close call occurred with a seventeen-year-old girl named Susan Watson. Susan was a pretty volleyball player with long brown hair and green exotic eyes. Vice was a four-year veteran by now and was beginning his second term at Fort Jackson, SC.

  He met Susan on a dating website called MeetYours.com. She liked his burly body, his rough and slightly stupid personality and she just plain liked older men, but in South Carolina, seventeen is still illegal with rare exceptions. But, in this case the parents were never going to be inclined to sign off for their daughter to marry some drunken Army man five years her senior. It all came to a head one night when he came to her house and confronted her father. He came decked in his dress Army uniform, pressed and shoes shining. His hair was buzzed in a crew cut, and he'd splashed a little cologne on.

  The meeting didn't go well from the get-go. The father was furious. Her parents knew about Vice and were hoping their daughter would grow out of it, but with Vice standing right in front of them; her father didn't waste a second. He excused himself as though he needed to use the bathroom, and when he returned he brandished a Desert Eagle fifty caliber pistol—basically a hand cannon.

  The first shot missed Vice's head by mere inches and blew a huge chunk out of the front door frame. Vice got the picture pretty damn fast and turned and ran. Her father stepped out onto the porch, his sweater vest puffing out proudly, his khakis nicely ironed, his salt and pepper hair waving in the soft summer breeze; his small round spectacles snug against his face, and raised the Eagle.

  “No daddy!” Susan grabbed his arm just as he pulled the trigger. The bullet went to the right instead of going straight and blew out the window to Susan's Volkswagen Beetle.

  As Vice ran away, he heard her father shouting. “Run pervert! Run for your goddamn life! Oh, you shut up! You're nothing but a damn skank!”

  Vice thought he heard the man slap her a good one but couldn't be sure; he never looked back. He started his red Ford Ranger (the Datsun was retired after the brutal beating it received years prior) and peeled rubber.

  As he drove away from the raging father, breathing fast, sweat dripping; he spoke to himself “College girls from now on. Yes, sir. They can be eighteen. Stick with the legal tender.”

  And thus, were the memories bouncing around Vice’s mind as they neared I-20.

  3

  Rhino was sleeping, snoring softly. Every time Rhino smoked weed, he fell asleep. He was dreaming of a beach. A beach with pristine white sand that ran along the Atlantic like a silk ribbon. As far as his dreamy eyes could see, naked women frolicked and giggled. Rhino was a short, but very large man. His skin was as black as a chimney. He was playing a game of volleyball (something he enjoyed quite a bit before the Fever hit) and he too was naked. He jumped, his manhood dangling in midair, and spiked the volleyball over the net. There was a chorus of applause and laughter. The women jumped around him, touching him, kissing him, calling his name. They all had swimsuit model bodies. They came in all colors—black, white, mixed, Asian, Arabic brown—after all his mama taught him to love all people, regardless of color.

  Rhino ran down the beach, surrounded by his beautiful women. The sand under his feet went from hot to cool, to wet and mushy; then he was in the mighty Atlantic. The salt water splashed around him as he pushed deeper, heading out past the breakers. The girls followed beside and behind him, screaming and cheering his name. He dove head deep into the salty sea, ducking under a wave, letting it break above and over him.

  Under the water it was peaceful. The gurgling of the ocean was the only noise he heard. When he rose out of the water, what he saw caused horror to stroke his soul. The sky was blackened, with angry clouds full of pain and misery. The sea was in turmoil around him, waves growing large and dangerous with ever rising winds. The sea was turning red from dead and naked bodies of his formerly beautiful swimsuit models. Their bodies tumbled with the waves, crashing and rolling onto the shore like dead fish, their skin a bloated yellowish blue.

  Something grabbed his ankles from under the water. He couldn't see what it was; the water was now a dark maroon red. It felt like cold clammy hands; the hands of dead models pulling his down into the dying sea. He screamed and thrashed with all his strength, but like a rip tide; the cold dead hands pulled him down.

  He swam hard and broke the hold, exploding from the water’s surface like a human fish. He was being pulled out to sea. Rain was coming down in harsh torrents. He was barely able to keep his head above the water. Half a mile to his right he saw water rising into a cyclone of liquid, bloody fury. It skipped and zipped over the water, heading for him. It looked hungry, ready to suck him into its wet, towering hell. The water was dark and bloody; he could see chunks of human body parts swirling; the cyclone screamed at him. He saw faces forming on its maroon, red exterior wall; dead faces, laughing and mocking his cries. Then it was only a few feet from him; freezing, black and blood-soaked water sprayed against his face; he tasted the bloody salt and the dead skin of the models, then it was on top of him, sucking him up; he couldn't breathe; he was dying—

  4

  Ice Man slapped Rhino a hard one on the back of his head. “Christ! What's the dream about Rhino? You look like you’re dying.”

  Rhino said nothing and just looked out the window. Ice Man thought he saw a tear running down his black face. Ice Man was rolling another joint, listening to the book play over the stereo. The Ice Man's hair was hand brushed back, held in place by dried sweat. His hair was a sun-baked blonde, his pupils deep black marbles stranded in a sea of blue; his skin a golden brown, his teeth miraculously white; his gum line healthy and pink. His body was firm and naturally defined muscle.

  Before the Fever, Ice Man was known as Lance Hawkins and was a surfer. He'd owned a small surf shop in Garden City called The Surf Garden. He spent his days teaching tourists how to ride the waves, repairing broken boards, and smoking a lot of reefer. His nights included smoking more reefer, drinking margaritas and fucking till the sun came up. Lance the Ice Man Hawkins was a low-key guy that never lost his cool; always slow to anger, and he always had a friendly smile. He enjoyed the MILFS, the hot college girls, and everything in between. He drove a Scout with a Salt Life sticker on the back windshield. He enjoyed any type of mellow music, but his favorite band of all time was 311.

  The Surf Garden was a two-story stilted beach house accentuated to look like a rundown beach shack; it was hardly a rundown shack though, being only a block from the ocean and holding a steady property value of seven hundred thousand dollars. The first floor was reached by climbing sun-weathered blue wood steps, and that’s where the actual shop was. There were comfortable couches, both new and used surfboards on the walls. A glass panel showcase ran three feet from one of the walls. On the end was a cash register covered in various surf stickers. In the glass case were an assortment of items—board resin, t-shirts (the bestselling saying I GOT LAID AT SURF GARDEN), stickers, sun lotion, books about surfing, videos about surfing, hemp necklaces, hemp wrist and ankle bands, earrings, and so on and so forth.

  The second floor was where Ice Man lived and entertained the seemingly endless supply of women who came and went during the spring and summer seasons. It was a large studio with a California King directly in front of a huge porthole window that gave an excellent view of the Atlantic. The floor was hardwood with a thick blue shag rug. A flat screen smart TV was mounted on the wall, with a keyboard mounted underneath it. There was a small kitchen on the other end of the room and a bright yellow door with blue trim leading to a sun deck. There was a gas grill, a small dining table and a couple of Lazy Boy outdoor recliners.

  He had made a good living, and if there was anything he missed after the Fever came; it was indeed his life as the hottest and most successful surf instructor in both South and North Carolina. His home was the sand, the salty waves, the tan skin, and wet clingy bikinis. The smell of the ocean, its crisp and clean air. Garden City, unlike the main stretch
in Myrtle Beach was mostly a family environment; people kept the beach and the streets cleaned. The worst of the pollution came from the large jacked up trucks the wealthy rednecks brought with them. He missed the loose grainy sand that always found its way into his board shorts, back to his home and into his bed. No amount of vacuuming could stop the accumulation.

  His staff included a blond and a brunette. Both college students. Both looking like they walked out of a surf magazine. To his credit (oh so he'd say) he never slept with them. He considered it unprofessional to sleep with hired help (though one episode had come to haunt him).

  He paid his employees minimum wage but let them choose a surfboard, free of charge. When the Fever came, Ice Man was twenty-nine years old, but felt just as youthful as ever; his mellow lifestyle kept aging to a minimum. He didn't smoke tobacco and didn't hang with anyone who did. A large NO SMOKING sign hung on the front door of the shop.

  He'd graduated from Coastal Carolina with a degree in business, took out a loan (with his father offering a hefty down payment), bought the two-story beach house, and converted it to Surf Garden. After five years of steady business, his mortgage was paid off, his father paid back, and he owned it free and clear. He didn't think life could get any better; he was living the American Dream. He never thought shortly before his thirtieth birthday the American Dream would fade into the American Nightmare; he assumed he'd go on living the good life, surfing and fucking, drinking and getting stoned—till may be around forty; he thought he might decide to settle down, marry, and have a kid or two around that time.

  Now Surf Garden was abandoned and boarded up; its only visitors the occasional zombie jerking by without a second look. One of those zombies was a dead blonde, her skin now a greenish tan color; she used to be one of his staff. Now her face was eaten away, and the dream of becoming a professional surfer lost in her dead consciousness.

  As he waited the arrival of I-20; he took a long drag from the joint he’d just lit and blew out a cloud of smoke. He turned to Rhino. “You OK over there? Here, hit this. Take your mind off your troubles.”

  Rhino looked over, his eyes dead with depression, and took the joint.

  5

  Rhino (formerly known as Terry Johnson), leaned back against the comfortable Jeep seats and smoked the joint a few times, and then passed it up to Vice; who took it without looking back.

  Before the Fever, Rhino worked at a chemical factory and was two years’ shy of retirement. He was going on fifty-five years old; in his younger days, he'd been a Marine. He'd fought in the first Desert Storm and stayed in active duty for another eight years. Then, after the September 11 tragedy, he reenlisted for one final tour. He spent it in Afghanistan seeking out the “cave rebels” as he enjoyed calling them.

  He'd bagged nearly five, one day in a nasty firefight deep in the mountains. His killings allowed the medics to carry away three wounded Marines (as opposed to three dead Marines; Rhino received the bronze star for his efforts. When he was awarded the medal, it was the proudest moment of his life. He'd never taken if off. Even now, sitting in the Jeep, driving down an empty apocalyptic two lane black top; Rhino still wore the bronze star. He'd replaced the blue ribbon with a thick hemp rope, and it hung underneath his shirt, resting against his hairy chest. He felt it kept him alive; giving him supernatural luck. His momma was a superstitious woman; he figured it must have rubbed off on him. Then the Fever came, and all those crazy superstitions found justification in the realm of reality, or at least what people perceived as reality. Rhino's momma had always told him that there was much more to the universe than the eye could see. There were haunts and haints, demons, angels and devils. She'd told him there was no such thing as God, though; no all-seeing eye that sent out orders that controlled the spirit realm. There were just spirits; some that people would call “good”, others that people would call “bad.” Some that folks wouldn't really know what to think of. She used to tell him this while he was in bed, dozing off; this helped bring about many strange and sometimes horrifying dreams, much like the one he had earlier involving the dead naked models and the killer cyclone of blood and guts.

  And now, as Duras lowered the volume of Thinner and announced they were a mile away from I-20; Rhino had no idea that he (along with his friends) were about to come face to face with the paranormal in a way none of them thought possible.

  I-20

  1

  I-20 ran West towards Columbia. To get to Columbia, you took I-20 to I-26. This was the plan as they pulled onto I-20. Then the Jeep engines suddenly shut off. As the survivors got out of the Jeeps, they found themselves staring up at a towering greenish blue aura, like a translucent wall made of smoke; a wall of supernatural hues of green and blue.

  “What is it?” Duras asked the obvious question.

  “I don't know but looks like it runs from both sides of the road, all the way into the woods,” Okona said.

  On both sides of I-20, the blue-green smoke wall entered the woods as far as they could see. Inside the smoke they saw what looked like shapes of people, or things; something was moving inside. Something not quite human. They had no way of knowing, but the Militia had designated this section of I-20 as Dead Zone Green; the Militia mapped it and found it went about one mile into either side of the woods. Its width was about twenty-one feet; the height unknown.

  “Jesus! Did you see that?” Duras asked.

  The hazy wall rippled like waves of a green blue sea. At one moment it appeared to be like mist, the next moment it looked like liquid gel.

  “Throw something in it,” Okona said.

  Duras picked up a rock and threw it into the green haze. They heard it land far on the other side of the wall, striking the road with a thunk.

  “Went straight through,” Okona said. He was staring at the wall with a bemused smirk. “Why did the Jeeps stop?” He asked rhetorically, taking one step closer to the green-blue glow, the sun gleaming off his bald head. “Maybe we could push them through and they'd start on the other side?”

  “Or maybe it will kill us the moment we step into it,” Duras said. “Not to mention whatever the hell is moving around in there.”

  They all stood for a few moments staring at the green-blue wall.

  Duras said: “What the hell! I say we load everything into one Jeep and push it through. As Captain Janeway might say 'sometimes it’s best to punch through.'”

  This brought a light chuckle from Okona and Chris, but only looks of confusion from Ice Man, Vice and Rhino.

  After a couple of more moments of reflection, they loaded up one of the Jeeps.

  “Chris? Mind sitting up front and steering her in?” Duras asked.

  “That means I'll be the first to die, but sure why not?”

  Duras clapped him on the back. “Brave man.”

  Chris climbed in behind the steering wheel and put the Jeep in Neutral. “Ready up here!”

  Okona braced himself behind the left brake light and Duras braced himself beside the right. Vice, Ice Man and Rhino were between Duras and Okona.

  They began to push. The Jeep's front end breached the green-blue wall of misty gelatin. Then the hood, the front windshield, then—

  2

  the Jeep and the men were inside the supernatural realm. The air tasted thick and cold. The temperature was freezing. They could see their breath coming out in thick clumps of steam.

  There was a young teen girl holding a dead child. Blood dripped from the kid's neck. “Help me! Please help!” She walked towards them as they grunted against the Jeep. “You have to help. Please!”

  “Jesus Christ in a fucking handbasket, man! What the fucking shit hell is this place!” Ice Man said. He recognized the girl; she had worked for his surf shop. He'd once broken his rule and tried to kiss her. She'd slapped him and threatened to sue him. Now she walked crookedly up to him, holding the dead child. Her body was no longer the sweet, dark tan it once was; it was now green and black with sores all over. The sores leaked yellow ooze.
She pursed her purple lips up and puckered them at him. “Kiss me boss! KISS ME!” Blood came out of her mouth and oozed down her naked body, pouring over the kid in her arms. “Ain't I sexy BOSS!”

  “Ignore it! Keep pushing!” Duras screamed, but his shout was muffled in the green-blue jelly substance.

  “HELP ME!!!” The girl's face changed into something indescribably horrific. She lunged the dead child at them. It went through the Jeep and landed in a splatter of blood. Then the kid's head turned in a cracking one hundred and ninety-degree twist and started cackling madly, the eyes popped out, and fat nasty flies buzzed out of the sockets.

  Pushing the Jeep was getting harder, like pushing through an encasing of thick mud, but progress was being made. Howls and screams came from either side as they pushed forward. Their eyes tried to stay on the Jeep but found themselves darting out at the green-blue void of haunted and misty jelly around them.

  “I don't think they can hurt us!” Okona said.

  That's when he felt the tug on his pants. He looked down and had to choke back a scream of terror. It was his daughter; his dead daughter. Her face was pale white; splotches of skin hung loosely; her lips were dark purple, her eyes dead white. “Daddy? Please take me with you, Daddy, I need to get out of here! The bad men, they touch me down here.”

  Okona tried not to look; tried with all he could muster to not stare down at what this dead imposter was doing. He failed. She was now naked; her pale dead body looked like it had just been pulled from a lake. “LOOOOOOOK DAAAAADEEEEEE! THEEEEYYYY DIIIIIID IT!” She was lying on her back now, her grotesque legs wide open; her morbid child's vagina was bleeding. Men surrounded her, they were old and naked; their huge stomachs bulged out; their cocks were oozing a green liquid.