Humanity's Death [Books 1-3]

by Black, D. S.

  Okona couldn't stop the puke from coming. It sprayed against the Jeep, but he kept pushing; he kept on pushing even when his eyes were watering and stinging from painful tears.

  Duras didn't see Okona's daughter. He saw his wife, he saw her moving towards him. She held a box in her hands. Her eyes were missing; her teeth green with death, smiling broadly; worms moved in and out of black holes in her gums. “Tommy! My God Tommy. Where have you been? I've got quite the surprise for you.” Just as Okona couldn't turn away; neither could he. His wife opened the box, and there was his daughter's head; the little girl's blue eyes stared up at him; her face a pale and burnt black, worms crawled from holes in the side of her skull; a green mist came out of her mouth as she spoke. “DADDY! DADDY! YOU LEFT US! YOU LIED TO US! YOU KILLED US!”

  “YOU DID! YOU DID! YOU KILLED US!!!” The dead wife screamed.

  His daughter sang, “Jack and Jill went up the hill to kill Momma and Daddy.”

  Tears were running out of Duras's eyes now. “Leave me alone! Leave me alone! You're not real! None of this is real!” He forced himself to close his eyes and push harder against the Jeep.

  In the front seat guiding the wheel, Chris stared out of the front window. Andre stood there staring at him. His body was torn, his arms missing, his guts hanging out of his stomach, his face half eaten away; cockroaches and maggots crawled in and out of his skin feasting; dark green mist rose from the open holes they came out of. Chris stared not speaking, frozen with fear; his knuckles gripped the steering wheel until they turned white. He watched as his brother opened his mouth and sprayed blood against the windshield. Chris screamed.

  Vice saw a scene playing out about ten feet away. The father of the girlfriend who once tried to shoot him with a Desert Eagle .45 was starch naked; his daughter bent over in front of him screaming for mercy as her father raped her.

  “Hey there asshole! Bet you wish you were me, uh!” The father said.

  Vice watched with horror as the father jerked her blonde hair, arching her back, forcing her chin up and exposing her neck. Then the father had the Desert Eagle in his other hand. “Watch how a real man does it, sonny!” The father pointed the Desert Eagle at the back of her neck; the girl stared at Vice with begging eyes. “HELP ME! HELP ME! FOR GOD'S SA—”

  The gunshot blew her throat out in a spray of bone and blood. The father was still thrusting his hips against her as Vice turned his head away, screaming madly, pushing harder, and harder against the Jeep.

  Rhino saw his mother. She was half eaten; her face was barely recognizable because the flesh hung in loose flaps; her teeth were all gone, but she smiled, showing green and black gums; her hair was gone like cancer treatments had taken it away; she reached for him saying, “My good boy. Come here Terry. Momma has a new tale for you.” Her tattered dress disappeared; she was naked; her body was grayish black scales; “Momma wants her good boy to rub these sores away. You can do that for Momma, can’t you baby?”

  He joined the rest of them and screamed bloody murder. Their screams sounded distant and hollow, the sounds of madness echoing. They pushed the Jeep like their lives depended on it, and it very well might have; if not their lives, then their sanity.

  The Jeep's front end exited the paranormal realm. Then the windshield. Then—

  3

  the Jeep was on the other side and so were the men. They all fell to the ground vomiting. All of them were crying. They laid on the hot blacktop of I-20. About ten yards behind them the green-blue wall still stood, hovering with all its supernatural glory.

  Okona was the first to break the silence. He'd gotten some water bottles out of the Jeep and was passing them around. “Well, that was quite an adventure.”

  This brought laughter, first from Duras then it spread to the others. They laid under the hot sun, drinking water and laughing. What more could they do or say after such an extremely disorienting and horrifying trip through another world; even if that world was no wider than twenty feet? Laughter is sometimes the only answer to extreme stress; as many war veterans might say and many a war movie attested to.

  After a while, Duras said; “Let's hit the road.”

  “I think we should find a place to shack up for the night. Get a fresh start in the morning,” Okona said.

  “I won’t argue with that,” Duras said.

  Okona drove and Duras road shotgun. Chris sat in the middle of Vice and Rhino. Ice Man sat in the back with the guns and food. They drove down I-20.

  4

  Okona was thinking about what he'd just seen. His dead wife and dead daughter. He knew instinctively that wasn't really the spirits of his Old World family; it was something else. Some other entity. Some other strange and nasty force. They were there to scare them, not help them. Whatever he saw in there, that much was for sure. Okona was certainly no expert on the nature of paranormal beings. But he seemed to remember poltergeists were angry spirits that enjoyed harming the living, or at least scaring the ever living shit out of them. Maybe that green-blue world back there was a pocket of poltergeist activity. A world within a world. A random strip of mean and evil energy just waiting like a fly trap to catch its prey. He remembered a spooky episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. Doctor Beverly Crusher had gone to take care of a death in her family and found a ghost which haunted her family line. It owned her during most of the episode, living off her energy; she’d survived of course. The spirit came in the form of a handsomely deceptive man (who in Star Trek tradition dressed, acted and looked like a character from the nineteenth century); but in the end, the deviate ghost didn't stand a chance against the wits of Beverly Crusher and her Captain. If only Okona had a Captain Picard looking out for him; things would certainly become easier to deal with.

  That's when he heard her voice. Not Beverly Crusher (that would be a bit too strange); it was his wife. She spoke in perfect clarity and he knew only he could hear her serene voice.

  I can hear your thoughts. I see your fears. I'm with you. I'm guarding you the best I can.

  Then her voice was gone. Was it really there? He thought so. He remembered stepping into the painting with her. Holding her against him; it was all real, even with her dead; she was still out there. Maybe he didn't have Captain Picard, but he had Aquiel, and he had Tasha. He knew she was still alive. He knew he wouldn't be here, sitting beside a man he once hated, if there was not real purpose behind every move they made and every mile they drove. There were certainly dark forces playing in the world of the living now, but those dark forces were counterbalanced by spirits of love and goodness. And with the help of those decent spirits, he would prevail against any foe that stepped in his way.

  5

  Duras stared out of the window. He was thinking about how much more intense the paranormal barrier was compared to what he experienced in the City of God. It wasn't just more intense; it was the scariest thing he'd ever witnessed. Duras had always found pride in his ability to control fear; his talent of taking the power that comes with fear and wielding it in a way that works for him and those he loves.

  But this experience left him feeling depleted, he felt sleepy and depressed. He wanted the Old World back, he found himself fighting back tears; he wanted to just give up and say the hell with it all; he thought about putting the barrel of his pistol in his mouth and blowing his brains out. Just end it all in one final moment; but would it end? Not if the experience back there was any measure of how reality operated after the Fever. No! He would never be able to commit suicide. Suicide wasn't his style. He was after all a fucking Klingon warrior, and what was the best way for a Klingon to die? Death in the field of battle is the best way to go, but how does one battle against paranormal entities? Fighting and dying against the Militia was easy to grasp and understand, but could those things back there kill him, hurt him in any way? Okona didn't think they could, but Duras was unsure. The things could certainly send a person over to the realm of insanity; that much was certain.

  That wasn't his wife or
daughter, he knew that too. That was some dark thing that wanted to scare him; wanted him to ask himself these questions; wanted him to put a bullet in his brain. No! Whatever he experienced back there, he was certain it was not the spirit of his dead family. Has that barrier been there since the beginning of this clusterfuck? Since the Fever first came? Did more exist? Jesus! He didn't know if he could handle going through another one. It was like a net cast to catch wandering strangers and pull them into the realm of madness. He never wanted to see one again.

  He missed his wife so much. Where was her actual spirit? Was she happy? Hurting? Searching for him? Did he even want to see her in that kind of ethereal form? His daughter? That sure as shit wasn't his daughter back there. That was one sick bastard of a ghost. Was it a ghost? What else could it be? A demon? Some pissed off angel God cast out of heaven before time began?

  Bullshit. Whatever it was, it was evil and mean and lusted after the sanity of humans. It enjoyed what it did. Duras thought he could sense that for sure. That thing got off on their fear, fed from it. It nourished itself with their pain, it used the images of people they loved; used those images against them to break them, to cast their minds into the pit of despair. Compared to that thing; the Militia will be like dealing with a drunk unarmed burglar.

  Because Duras thought whatever the barrier was, it could do worse than kill you. There are worse things than dying after all; such as going bat shit crazy and losing touch with the things you love and care about; not being able to feel love and compassion, hope and destiny.

  No! He wouldn't allow anything to bring him to that point. Anything!

  6

  Chris thought on similar patterns as Duras. He was sitting in the back seat with his eyes closed. Vice on his left and Rhino on his right. He thought the barrier was alive. He thought it wanted them in there. Wanted to eat them alive. Not their flesh; that paranormal monster wanted their souls, their inner energy, their life force; it wanted to suck them dry of all their goodness and ability to dream anything other than nightmares. It wanted to own their minds. He thought he heard it saying something like “hatechew, killyew, eeechew” right before he exited the green blue barrier. That wasn't Andre, he was just as sure about that as both Okona and Duras was sure what they saw wasn't their wives and daughters. Chris wanted revenge, but how can a man get revenge against something like that? It wasn't possible. This isn't Ghostbusters. He doesn't have an ectoplasm pack that can wrangle in ghosts; he isn't a wild west paranormal gunslinger. The Militia he knows how to deal with; the paranormal monster back there? Not so much. What kind of disgusting spirit uses a person's dead brother to try and break him mentally, morally, and spiritually?

  He tried to push it out of his mind. He couldn't do it. He kept seeing the blood erupting out of Andre's mouth. Seeing it splash against the windshield, seeing that same blood disappear like it was never there the moment the Jeep left the confines of that green-blue hell.

  Is that what it was? Miniaturized hell? Ran by a miniaturized devil? If there were more... please don't let there be more. If it was a creature, it reminded him a bit of the black oil sleek monster that killed Tasha Yar during the first season of Star Trek: The Next Generation. That monster fed off fear and pain, but that monster was a fiction created by writers who were now most likely roaming the earth as the undead.

  This was real; that really happened back there. How can something like that really exist? His thoughts sounded as though he was screaming at himself. He felt a moment of fear and confusion; a feeling of being disconnected from his body, like this was all a strange dream, or that he was about to blast off into space like an astral projected missile; his mind forever lost in the blackness.

  7

  Vice watched the trees flow by as the Jeep moved down I-20. He had an uncomfortable erection; he felt shame for having it, but there it was none the less. Seeing the girl's father kill and rape his own daughter didn't turn him on, did it? No! It was just the excitement. After all, he did vomit like the others did. He cried and screamed in horror like the others as well.

  But Vice hadn't had sex since the death of Sarah and he didn't know when he'd have sex again. This brought the memory of Sarah to the front of his concentration; he welcomed it with an open mind. Anything to get rid of the image of his Old World underage girlfriend and the thrusting hips of her pale dead father.

  To add to the hard on in his pants, he now had tears rolling down his face. The paranormal barrier had done a serious number on Vice's emotions. The pain he felt holding Sarah’s corpse in his arms came back full frontal. She had by far and large, been the best thing to ever happen to him—at least when it came to women. Unlike all his other Old World conquests, Sarah had been age appropriate. Sure, he'd stumbled that one-time (OK, two times if you're being an ass about it) and tried to feel up the young thirteen-year-old teeny bopper back in the City of God.

  But he'd paid his price; he'd won the Trail of the Damned fair and square, and Mary Ann had taken him back. Vice thought in some ways it wasn't just the Militia's fault she was dead; it was also Okona's and Duras's fault as well. Without their stupid feud, Vice would have been in the city to defend Sarah. Not to mention the rest of the population, but blaming them would get him nowhere; the Militia did the killing and they may have killed her even if he'd been there to fight them. So, like Chris; the best he could hope for would be a vengeful attack on the Militia.

  The image of the father raping and killing his ex-girlfriend came back again, he moaned, his stomach turned; he closed his eyes, then it passed.

  Sarah. Did he miss her? You bet your bottom fucking dollar he did, and while you're at it; you best damn well believe he's planning one hell of a retribution against the Militia.

  8

  Ice Man was laying in the back with the guns and food. He was thinking about the young girl he'd seen in the paranormal barrier. He'd hired her the second year he was in business. Was she eighteen? Nineteen? Either way, she had been one hot little number. She'd had a kid when she was seventeen, but child labor had done nothing to her figure. She was a petite little blonde, with slender and strong surfer girl legs. She was also a lesbian, or at least that's what she told everyone; and Ice Man was a liberal who accepted people the way they were. The fact she had a kid didn't seem to negate her conviction in the least, but he had wanted this girl; wanted her in the worst and naughtiest ways. She had been ringing up the final consumer for the day; she wore a pair of shorts and an ocean green tank top that showed off her tan stomach line and firm little breasts. Blink 182 was blaring from the shop's speakers, and the ocean breeze came in through the open doors.

  She didn't notice Ice Man watching her, almost drooling. He hadn't been laid in almost two weeks, and that was almost a record. He couldn't take his eyes off her firm, round little butt; the way her shorts hugged against her so perfectly. After the last customer left, she looked up and saw him looking. She took it in stride though, and simply asked, “Can I go now?”

  He walked up to her; feeling hypnotized and grabbed her around the hips and pressed his lips against hers. Before she smacked him a mean one across the face; he got a whiff of her peach perfume (boy did he want her!).

  SLAP! “Stupid pig-headed son of a bitch! I'll sue your sorry ass for this!” She stormed around him, went around the counter, headed to the front doors then turned around. “I quit! Check the mail for the summons, asshole!”

  He never did get that summons, though. She must not have been quite as pissed as she made out to be. Either way, he thought he was lucky. Maybe she didn't know if she could prove the allegation since there were no other witnesses to attest he tried to kiss his employee; which certainly would have been considered sexual harassment (if not assault) since he was in a position of power.

  He had learned his lesson; he never hit on another employee again, but he continued to only hire petite, hot, well-tanned surfer girls.

  But hey! Ice Man was operating a surf shop.

  9

  Rh
ino wanted a drink. A strong and powerful shot of something that burned the image of his mother out of his mind. That scaly body wouldn't leave his mind no matter how hard he tried to push it out. Her naked, strange body lingered like a waking nightmare. It wasn’t her, he knew that just like the others did; that didn't stop the horrifying feelings, though. Rhino wasn't a man who scared easily; he normally thrived off dangerous and scary situations; it's why he signed up for another tour after the terrorists attacked the World Trade Center; it’s why he was able to fight off the “cave rebels” and earn a bronze star.

  But this was different.

  He couldn't kill whatever it was he'd seen back there, and if there was one of those things then there was more, at least that's how Rhino was seeing it in that moment. He was rubbing his thick black fingers against his temples, trying to will the image away. He'd seen Marines fall prey to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; he was stronger than they were though; at least that's what he thought until now. Not that he judged them; he understood not everybody could handle death and fear the way he could, and he gave as much as he could to local charities that helped veterans deal with trauma.

  But there were no charities left to help him now. The Old World was full of soft-hearted people who wanted to help each other; the New World was full of people that only looked for an angle to take advantage of the weak and vulnerable. Rhino knew he couldn't afford to lose his self-control now, not in the face of the coming battle with the Militia. To lose his cool now would mean certain death. Even without the Militia to worry about, the New World had plenty of dangers, and now he'd just met one that he'd never thought could possibly exist. One that he was certain couldn't be fought, couldn't be reasoned with; it would just destroy your mind and laugh while you died.