by Black, D. S.
The Fever changed all that. She never made it to the coast and the Militia spread quickly in the Upstate. The Mountain King didn’t waste time gaining men and power. She’d watched it all happen; watched it with a knowing eye. The eye of a survivor. The eye of a witch. The eye of the Huntress.
But she missed her home. Missed it more than anything. Missed her father most of all, and now as she pulled herself out of the filthy dirt hole, she once again affirmed her commitment to get back home.
To see Russia again. Back to her village. Back to Papa.
But first…
…first there was the Hunt.
The Mountain King
1
Nick Spade’s thoughts darkened as he sat in his meditation room. Surrounding him were his paintings—dead bodies, apocalyptic hell holes, and a hellish nightmare cityscape, all hanging evenly on the dark walls. He sat in a large high back, overstuffed recliner, staring at his masterpieces. Outside the room he heard the mummer of The King’s Guard, the chosen few who protected him with life and limb.
He was after all, the future of the human race, the king of kings, ruler of rulers—The Mountain King. His bullet shaped head had a broad brow, brown beady eyes and strong white teeth. His short legs, thick with muscle stretched out, his ankles crossing, his booted feet pointing up to the black ceiling where the soft hum of a fan circulated cool air.
This was more than meditation, this was communion. A dark communion. He never saw the beast, or the spirit; whatever it was which gave Spade his abilities. He only heard It in his mind’s eye. Heard It loud and clear.
“TO YOU GO THE GLORY. TO YOU I SHINE MY BLACK, HOLY LIGHT INTO. EMPOWERING YOU TO DEFEAT ALL. BUT THERE EXISTS A NEW ELEMENT TO THE STORY. A NEW FORCE, WANTING NOTHING MORE THAN TO UNDERMINE WHAT YOU’VE ACCOMPLISHED. I WILL SEEK THEM AND BLACKEN THEIR THOUGHTS LIKE BURNED MEAT, BUT YOU MUST READY YOURSELF FOR THE FINAL SOLUTION IF ALL ELSE FAILS. YOU MUST PREPARE TO DARKEN THE REGION WITH ATOMIC PLAGUE. FAST AND SLOW DEATH, AND AN END TO ANY CHANCE THE OLD WORLD RETURNS.”
The Mountain King had heard the cries of his men in Columbia, as though sent via a mental signal straight to his brain. They’d been killed, vanquished and now all his plans, all his hopes, his very leadership was being called into question. But the Dark Force, the Voice gave him power. The power to see further than anyone else, and the power to bless. He’d first used that power to bless the White Mist, a combination of crystal meth and heroin, mixed by his chemist then blessed by Spade. Blessed with a power that gave the Mist a stronger kick and empowered his men in ways normal drugs could not.
But the true blessings had been given to his inner circle, his elite King’s Guard. Like the Mountain King, they needed neither food nor sleep. He’d tried putting this power into the Mist, putting his hands over the powder, feeling the black energy growing, enhancing, changing his cells, making him supernatural, and then the black aura of light emanated from his palms. But, it had been too much, too taxing. He’d nearly died that day and had since learned the Extreme Blessings (as he’d come to think of it) could only be doled out in small amounts. So, he’d chosen ten of his best men, all former cops; he knew them, and had led them to the mountain casino when the Fever proved unstoppable.
He had no idea the kind of power that existed there. When he first saw the black aura, or what the Militia officially called Dead Zone Black, he had no time to question what it meant. The casino had years of provisions, backup generators, mountain peaks and ranges, and cliffs protecting it from the dead and the living.
One by one, one week at a time, he had bestowed them with the power to never sleep or eat, the strength of ten men, the agility of a wild cat, and most importantly; telekinetic abilities.
Now, sitting in his meditation room, hearing the Voice inside his mind again; he responded by saying: “Anything it takes. I stand with You, bringer of power.”
No one saw him, but had they? They would see a black cloud of energy circling his head like a supernatural crown. “Whoever tries to stop the Militia will die. One way or another, they will die.”
“THEN PREPARE! THEY COME SOON! FROM MANY ANGLES THE ENEMY DRAWS CLOSE, SOME ARE AT YOUR DOORSTEP ALREADY.”
The Voice disappeared, and he was alone in the room. He breathed easy. He always did after the Voice had communed with him. Whatever enemy (he assumed it was other groups which had banded together and somehow defeated Mullinax at Columbia), would not win against him, no matter what.
2
The first time he heard the Voice was a week after they’d moved in. No one dared approach the black energy that rose above the back of the casino like a dark shadowy mountain, and in those early days; the only concern had been day to day survival.
All that changed after the Voice came to Nick Spade.
“SHERRIF!” The Voice had said.
Spade had dropped his pint of whiskey, and nearly pissed his pants. He had been sitting alone, brooding on his options, thinking about his dead wife, dead son, and the town he’d left behind for chaos and madness to consume. His first thought was that he was going insane. He’d seen enough to justify madness. Seen his grown son, a new graduate of South Carolina’s Police Academy, ripped apart while trying to save his mother; both dying by the same dead hands and teeth.
“A NEW WORLD OF POSSIBILITIES OPENED WITH THE DYING OF THE FLESH. IM FREE TO ROAM NOW. FREE TO POSSESS YOU AND ANYONE ELSE. I CHOOSE YOU, SHERRIF.”
“You’re a hallucination. My mind is spent. My sanity gone.” Spade had said, trying to shake the Voice out of his head like a nasty ear infection.
“SHUT UP!”
Spade had fallen from his chair, down to his knees. His hands over his ears as though he could block the Voice from speaking.
“ACCEPT THE POWER I OFFER YOU. ACCEPT IT, AND TOGETHER WE WILL TAKE THIS WORLD OVER. STARTING HERE. RIGHT HERE AT THIS MOUNTAIN.”
“What are you?” His voice was shaky, but the idea of this being a hallucination, or a mental break down vanished. This was real, and he knew it. Whatever the Fever had opened up. This thing, this Voice was part of that supernatural process. He felt Its power emanating all around him.
“WHAT I AM IS YOUR SAVIOR. YOUR DARK LORD. I OFFER YOU POWER. THE POWER TO LIVE FOREVER AND TO RULE ALL MEN.”
The Voice made him feel a new energy he’d never felt before. A black power, darkening his mind yet blossoming his ambition, his confidence, literally changing his cells at the most basic level, making him a new creation. He saw the world, saw the chaos which overtook the planet, yet also felt the limits of the Voice. The Voice needed him. The Voice couldn’t go much further than the mountain where its black aura of energy had taken root. It seemed even supernatural spirits could have regional boundaries.
Then the Voice had ripped the power away, the visions, the greatness, and like a heroin addict in desperate need of a fix, former Sherriff Nick Spade screamed out: “Please! More! Don’t take it away! I beg you! I’ll do whatever you want!” Tears gushed down his cheeks; he’d not cried since he was a boy being slapped around by an overbearing father, but he cried out for more and begged like a pathetic imbecilic loser, like one of the many fools he’d put away over the years.
The Voice gave him what he wanted, and then some.
“GO TO THE BLACK SHROUD. GO TO MY HOME. ENTER AND YOU WILL BE GIVEN POWERS BEYOND THE ABILITY OF MORTAL MEN TO STOP.”
He had gone that moment, his men begging for an explanation. Some of them (the ones who were later chosen for supernatural enhancement) followed him as far as the perimeter. One of those men, Walter Bright had asked the question: “What the hell are you doing? You’ve lost your fucking mind?” Walter, a tall strong, and obedient man had held his Sherriff’s shoulder, hoping to dissuade him from going on a fool’s errand.
Spade responded by yanking his shoulder free, and charging into Dead Zone Black.
Nothing could have prepared him for the things he saw. He saw strange mists of agonized spiritual life screaming for relief. Mutilated bo
dies of men, women and children, who looked whole, yet would then turn vapor thin; only to return back to being whole a moment later.
Spade didn’t know it then, but had he not been invited, hence under the protection of the Voice; his mind would have been invaded, used against him and madness taken him, left him to die, his soul forever trapped, his life force used to fuel the evil mind of the Voice.
Within a minute of entering the dark realm, the Voice approached him; appearing in the form of a gray shadow against a black shroud.
The Voice boomed: “YOU WILL HAVE THE POWER I GIVE YOU. NEVER SLEEP. NEVER EAT. SERVE ME. BRING ME SOULS AND BODIES TO KILL. MINDS TO BREAK. SOULS TO DIGEST. IN RETURN, YOU WILL HAVE DOMINION OVER ALL THE LAND YOU CAN CLAIM AND HOLD. I WILL WHISPER DREAMS TO YOU. YOU HAVE AN ARTIST’S MIND. STAND WITH ME, AND NOT ONLY WILL YOU RULE ALL MEN, YOU WILL CREATE THE GREATEST WORKS OF ART EVER IMAGINED.”
3
And so, Nick Spade accepted the Voice’s proposal, and now possessed supernatural abilities; but even with the power, he was still just a slave. Like the slaves of eighteenth century America, he had power over other slaves, but none over his master.
Spade wanted to change this unfair arrangement. He wanted power, real power, all the power. He didn’t want to share it with the Voice, nor anyone else. The solution to this problem was perplexing, to say the least. How does a mortal man combat a supernatural deity that can read much of his thoughts, and could at a cruel whim, do much worse than kill Spade—the Voice might take the powers away, and entrap his soul in Dead Zone Black.
Spade, via a risky experiment discovered he could keep some of his thoughts secret. He wasn’t sure how this worked, but it did; or better put, the Voice had given no reason for him to believe otherwise.
That was only half the problem solved; how to actually get rid of the spiritual tyrant? How to outfox a nearly omniscient creature? Spade had education and strong reasoning skills. He didn’t understand the New World, but he did believe it had an underlying order based in nature. The key was to unlock that secret, understand the Voice’s biological nature.
This is where Spade was at a loss. He didn’t excel in science, and was worse with numbers. He was an artist by heart, a brute by necessity, carved by an unyielding father who did not approve of little faggot artist boys.
But even now, as he sat thinking about what the Voice had just told him, a possible solution to his vexing dilemma was being escorted into his mountain fortress.
Mary Jane and Tasha Meet the Mountain King
1
Mary Jane held back a gasp as the Hummer came to a stop in front of what once was a Southern Cherokee Casino and Resort. It was a tall building, a glass pinnacle reaching up towards the sky, topped with a teepee style roof. The building’s majesty wasn’t the cause of Mary’s near gasp. Behind it, Dead Zone Black. A black cloud of semisolid smoky gel, intimidated the senses. It was at least three stories taller than the casino, and much wider. Nothing could be seen beyond it, the trees and mountains completely blocked from view. The building with its back drop of black dread, reminded her of the Dark Tower series by Stephen King, but this wasn’t the pillar of all known universes; this was…well…she didn’t know what it was. She only knew she felt its power reaching out to her, wanting her to come into its grasp.
Not a chance in hell. On the way up here, through the winding mountain roads, reaching higher and higher, elevating her to whatever world of shit the Mountain King had in store for her and Tasha; she had meditated the best she could. She had read her own thoughts—fear, anxiety, pain, grief, loss, anger—and forced herself to calm the emotional chaos threatening to burn her sanity like soft drywall.
Something had happened in Columbia a short time after they had left. She didn’t know for sure, but had the strong feeling based on the intense radio transmissions her escorts had listened to. A group attacked and had destroyed, or at least severely maimed Mullinax and his men, because all transmissions had ended. At least transmissions that were from Columbia. Her escorts, between snorting lines of White Mist off a knife’s blade had made regular reports to one of the Mountain King’s men they called General Bright.
Now, sitting and waiting as the men conversed with other soldiers outside the Hummer, she looked over at Tasha. The girl was eyeing the men with trepidation, yet Mary was quite certain, a new-found sense of survival and fearlessness. The events since their capture had been hard on Tasha, Mary knew that. The girl had nearly broken the first night, and had barely been able to keep her mind from cracking during the stay with Mullinax.
But Mary now saw that, Tasha was made of sterner stuff than one might think at first glance. A cursory look revealed a petite blonde with a good figure (though a bit underfed), a clear feminine personality, and an emo quality which caused men to see her as weak and easy prey. On closer examination; however, Tasha’s personality exhibited strength, eyes burning with a deep fire, a heart beating with passion and courage.
As the men continued to talk, Mary thought about her sister; staring at Tasha brought the memory surging back. She had found her sister, Sarah; dead, throat cut, the recent victim of a brutal rape.
The men were returning to the Hummer. Mary took a deep breath, swallowed her hatred and rage, saving it for another day, another moment when the time to fight back would come again.
2
In a semicircle, surrounding the entire front portion of the building was a perimeter fence manned and patrolled by heavily armed soldiers. Behind the building, just beyond Dead Zone Black was a massive rock face, giving the fortress natural rear protection. Dead Zone Black seemed to absorb a portion of the rock face, hugging against it like an air tight seal. Had the rock face been shorter in width, Mary wouldn’t even know it was there. It was just wide enough to jut out on either side of Dead Zone Black.
Mary Jane and Tasha were removed from the Jeep with speed, and escorted into the casino. Red carpet stained with dried blood, large scaling white marble walls, and what used to be a reception desk met their eyes as they were pushed along. On either side, large corridors led to even larger rooms, which once housed the greedy hopeful hearts of gamblers. Now the rooms were used as barracks for the Militia’s men—nearly ten thousand strong. They were everywhere, eyes bulging with White Mist.
There were also women. Many stripped down to the barest of clothes, some with battered faces, others walking with limps from days of rape. Mary Jane tried not to focus on the leering eyes of the men, or the fear ridden, (or worse yet, defeated) faces of the women. These women had been kept captive here for far too long, and had lost all hope of rescue, or escape. Mary wondered if given time, she could end up just like these poor souls.
She’d prefer death. Preferable a death with all the telltale signs of going out in a blaze of glory.
“Professor?”
Mary Jane turned, and this time she couldn’t hide her gasp. The man, if she could call him that was pale like a ghost, yet possessed a shimmering vitality. His eyes were black, his veins a dark violet. Even with the slight shimmer coming off his body, his skin looked stretched, like old white leather. He was tall, easily six five, built like a strong steel wire.
“Your surprise at my appearance is understandable,” his words came out like a viper’s hiss. “Few can comprehend what we’ve become.”
“And what might that be?” She asked.
He smiled, then said: “My name is Walter Bright, but you refer to me as General Bright. I’m the commander of the King’s Guard. The Mountain King waits for you. Let’s not keep him in suspense.”
He was flanked by two soldiers, both with similar appearances. They didn’t look dead, not exactly…just…other worldly. Changed. Strange and scary as hell.
Her former escorts were dismissed. “Come with me, Professor. And your name is?” He looked down at Tasha with a humorless smile.
Tasha hesitated, then said: “Tasha.”
“Tasha, you’re not needed. Your place is with the men.” He pointed ove
r to a large grouping of soldiers, all staring over at her with bulging eyes and crotches. “The Mountain King only wants you, Professor.”
Mary Jane took Tasha by the arm like sisters going on a stroll, and said: “Didn’t you get the memo, General? We are a package team. Your king needs a trained biologist, and I may be the only one left on earth. Certainly, I’m the only one close by. So, please give me this one perk and allow us to stay together.”
General Bright loomed over her, staring into her eyes. She met his gaze, but it took serious effort. His eyes seemed to swell in their sockets, swirling with black power, reaching into her heart, squeezing what courage remained. She felt her heart beating rapidly, felt the sweat under her bra, in her arm pits, and running down her thighs. If he said no? If he refused her request? If this bastard sent Tasha into the rape mill?
After what seemed like a deathless age, his heartless smile returned, and he said: “Very well. Come with me, Professor, Tasha; the Mountain King waits.”
3
Mary Jane was led down a long hall. Elaborate and skilled paintings and carvings hung on either side. She recognized the runes carved into the wood as the same she saw in her Columbia sleeping quarters. Had the Mountain King created these works of art? If so, she thought he should focus on his artistry, not on running a post-apocalyptic empire.
As though reading her mind, the general said: “The King’s talents are far reaching. He created all the artwork which adorns our walls. He even made much of the furniture. You can recognize his work by the unique runes he carves into the wood.”
“Impressive,” Mary Jane said.
“For a lunatic,” Tasha blurted.
Mary Jane gave her a hard look and shook her head back and forth.
“If I were you young lady, I’d let that be the final insult to leave your rotten mouth,” the general stopped them by holding up his hand. “Unless of course, you prefer life without a tongue, and as the king will tell you; your little skulls do not protect your thoughts around the Guard, and certainly not the king.”
