Humanity's Death [Books 1-3]

by Black, D. S.

  His heavy, evil gaze shut Tasha up. Mary Jane intervened best she could. “Please, forgive her. It’s been a long few days, and we need rest and food. I promise, the king has our complete devotion. For any and all of his needs.”

  The general laughed at the sexual insinuation. “Erase the images of brutal rape from your mind. The brainless brutes need your bodies, but not us. Certainly not the king. He changed us, but I’ll leave that for the king to explain at his leisure. Let’s continue.”

  Her and Tasha were flanked on both sides by two of the pale white soldiers. It was more than just appearance which made these men different from the rest of the Militia. These men didn’t leer at them. Didn’t show any sign of sexual attraction. Maybe they were gay, but she doubted it. More likely, something more sinister and ominous was at play. In the New World, anything was possible, and she attempted to prep her mind as she walked step by step closer to the Mountain King’s main office.

  Certainly, something supernatural had happened to them. Their eyes looked both dead and alive, their skin grave yard pale, skin stretched tight against lean muscle, violet veins pulsing with fluid power. They smelled like ancient, wet rotten books, like eternal mildew.

  Mary Jane and Tasha were escorted to the end of the hall, where they took a left. More art, surprisingly unique, yet sinisterly beautiful hung from both sides just like the last hall. A large red door, carved with the runes Mary was coming to symbolize with the Mountain King, stood at the end of the hall.

  The hall way vibrated just for a moment with a strange power.

  “That’s the power of the king. Of the Voice.”

  “The Voice?”

  “Shhh. Your answers will come soon enough. The king is just beyond the red door. This is his main office. He just left his meditation room, so you should find him in a good mood. But whatever his mood, do not allow your friend to say something similar in his presence; and try to think happy thoughts. I am only slightly more lenient than the king, he has no patience for willful girls.”

  The door opened without the aid of a hand to turn the knob, and Mary and Tasha stepped in.

  4

  “Have a seat. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mary and Tasha,” the Mountain King said.

  Two chairs spun around without a hand in sight to assist them in doing so. Mary and Tasha looked at each other, and then tentatively took their seats, adjusting them back to a position facing the Mountain King.

  “Impressive. Telekinetic?” Mary Jane said, trying to hide her fear.

  “One of my many gifts. You may leave us, General. Thank you.”

  “I survive to serve you, King.”

  The General bowed slightly then left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  “Does the general also have powers?” Mary Jane blurted out. Her heart was beating faster than she could breathe. She forced her breathing to slow and normalize.

  The Mountain King smiled. “He does. Though, not as honed as mine. Learning to control our power…well…it’s like a language, takes time to get all the details correct. Plus, my power comes direct from the source, the King’s Guard gets it second hand from me.”

  “And what is that source?” Mary Jane asked, looking into the king’s dreadful eyes.

  “Very willful, aren’t you? I just read the letter Mullinax sent with your escorts. He was right about you,” he said, a crooked, devilish smile spreading on his gray face.

  “How is he?” Mary Jane said, then bit her lip. That may not have been a good question to ask.

  “Dead,” he answered staring at her with knowing eyes.

  “Sorry to hear that,” she lied.

  He burst into a shrill laughter. It made Mary Jane’s stomach turn. “Surely! I’m quite certain you are glowing with joy deep inside over his demise,” he said jumping up. He walked over to a shelf, removed a bottle of brandy, grabbed two crystal glasses and brought them to the desk. With a practiced hand, he poured them both a full glass, sat the glasses on the table, and slid them over the fine wood with his mind. “I see your thoughts. Lying to me will not work.”

  She ignored the statement about reading her thoughts. It was far too worrisome to think about right now. She focused on smaller details. “Thank you, King. Why not simply do the entire pouring with your mind? Now that would have been impressive,” she said picking up the glass, smelling the fine liquor.

  “I don’t drink anymore, but I do miss it at times. I like the feel of the glasses and the sound of the clinks and clanks,” he said looking forlorn, his black eyes distant, swirling galaxies of thought.

  “You gave up drinking on account of the Fever?” She took a sip of her brandy, and urged Tasha to do the same. She didn’t know where the conversation was about to go, but she wanted to make sure her nerves were ready for anything.

  “I don’t drink anything at all, Professor. I don’t need food or drink, and neither does my Guard. The Voice made sure of that.”

  “The Voice?” she asked, peering over the rim of her glass.

  “It’s why you are here. It’s why you are in here and not out there having your insides ripped open by my brutal soldiers,” he said as a matter of fact.

  She ignored the horrible image his words created. “In that case, I thank you for your consideration and kindness. Whatever we can do to help; we will,” she said then finished off the rest of her brandy.

  “You’re a trained biologist, yes?” He looked at her fiercely, yet knowingly.

  “Absolutely.” She felt a little relaxed after the entire glass of brandy, but the knowledge her safety depended purely on her education drummed against her nerve endings.

  “What is your take on the Fever?” he asked, twining his fingers together, leaning back in his chair.

  She welcomed the new topic. “Only guesses. I didn’t have the chance to study a sample of the virus before the world went to hell, but from what I’ve seen; it’s not spread via biting, or contact because we all carry it. Since we all turn after death. The biting clearly speeds up the process, activating the virus, but there is also something larger at play here, King. Larger than biology? I doubt it. It’s simply a matter of understanding it. That could take time, and I need equipment.”

  He seemed pleased by her words. “I have all the equipment you need, and a chemist to help you. Well, a kind of chemist. I’ll let him fill you in on those details if he so chooses. He wasn’t worth a damn before the Fever, but now he’s quite valuable to me. But you first need to understand my situation. You see… I am both master and slave. The Voice is my master. A vile creature who only wants death and soul to feed on. His home is in Dead Zone Black.”

  She swallowed hard, then said: “I see. It’s a ghost?”

  “Nothing so mundane,” he leaned forward, “the Voice can hear much of your thoughts, and use your mind against you. I’ve learned to lock him out to an extent, but I worry any day now, it will discover my plot to free myself.”

  She leaned forward, intrigued. The man needed her. She was certain of it. He was looking around as though expecting an angry and abusive parent to come barging in and ruin his plans. “What’s your plan?”

  “You are my plan. You are my last hope. You will be given full leisure of the compound as long as you work and make progress on a solution. I need you to find out what this creature is. What is It made of? What are these Dead Zones? What is their connection with the Fever?”

  Mary Jane was nearly lost for words. She didn’t expect this. The Mountain King, unlike his brutish men showed signs of deep intellect, albeit tainted by megalomania. There was more to him than meets the eye, though. First, he was clearly an articulate mind with an artist’s passion for knowledge. He was pragmatic; giving her so much freedom was risky. It was also wise. She was after all, a biologist and could never turn down the chance to study the Fever up close and personal with the right equipment. He probably read all of this in her thoughts. And who knew? Maybe she could crack the code, and save the world. She wasn’t a fool, a
nd didn’t hold her breath, but she did allow herself the hope that she could make something good come out of all this.

  5

  First, she had questions and wanted answers while the Mountain King seemed more than willing to talk.

  “More questions?” he asked, reading her mind.

  “Please.”

  “Very well, ask. I could just read your mind, but I do enjoy the conversation.”

  “Who are you? I mean… before the Fever?”

  He looked at her annoyingly. “I don’t see why it’s relevant, but I was Sherriff Nick Spade. I served Spartanburg County for nearly twenty years. I was a father to a little boy, and a husband. I lost them in the first days of the Fever.”

  “I’m sorry. We’ve all lost so much. So…How did you find the casino?”

  He laughed for a moment, a humorless grin across his face. “This casino was my home away from home. I came here every other weekend. I used gambling to avoid the fact that I’d chosen a law enforcement career because of my father’s hatred of anything artistic. The grim truth, the sad reality, the harsh irony is that until the Fever I never pursued my one true love: art. My father hated it with a passion. He thought if he allowed me to paint, draw, or sculpt; I’d turn out to be a faggot. I harbored that shame, fed it, helped it blossom in my mind and personality, and then came here to deal with the dissatisfaction I felt with my job and life.”

  “Your art’s amazing,” Tasha said breaking her silence.

  “So, she does speak? Thanks, dear.”

  “It’s a shame there aren’t any art specialists left to enjoy it,” Tasha added.

  “Indeed, but there seems to be at least one left, right?” He winked at her, and for a moment Mary Jane cringed, unsure of what his intentions were.

  “Don’t worry Professor,” he said, returning his gaze to Mary Jane. “The Voice changed me, and I changed my men. We no longer have a need, or desire for sexual gratification. We now live to serve the Voice, at least until you find a way for me to rid myself of It.”

  “When did It first come to you?” Mary Jane asked.

  “Not long after I took residence here. It consumed me easily. I’ve always heard artists often have weak constitutions, so my father may have been correct because I stood no chance against Its temptations.”

  “Why does It do it? What’s the end game?”

  “I personally think it’s more instinct than mental awareness. That’s only a guess, of course. We all work on instinct, don’t we?”

  “You’re right. We all have biological drives which force us to act—food, shelter, sex, love—so its plausible this creature’s nature demands souls along with pain that comes with the consumption and destruction of human life, but the creature sounds aware of Its actions. I’d need more data to say for sure.”

  “Its motivations are secondary. What biological weaknesses if any, does It have? How can we exploit those weaknesses?”

  “If It has a weakness, Mary will find it. I’m sure of it,” Tasha said.

  “And I’ll have the chance to teach a new student about biology in the process,” Mary said, patting Tasha on the leg.

  “Then I’ll let you get to it,” the Mountain King said standing up. “Here’s one more shot for good luck.” This time the bottle of whiskey rose up, floated, the cork popped out, flying to his palm, and the bottle poured Mary and Tasha another shot, then floated back to him. He pushed the cork back in, and floated the bottle back to the shelf behind him with his mind.

  “To the New World and all the biology we are about to understand,” Mary said, raising her glass.

  “To the end of supernatural tyranny, to the death of the Voice.” Spade added.

  “And the end of the Fever, and the long reign of the Mountain King and those loyal to him,” Tasha said smiling.

  Zarina and the Mudcats

  1

  When Zarina was a child, her grandmother taught her many things—how to milk cows, goats, kill chickens with one swift swipe of the blade, how to plant and farm, how to pray, sew clothes, and how to cook—but, she also taught Zarina a skill she never thought she’d need, yet found deeply intriguing; knowledge Zarina soaked up like a dry sponge dipped in warm water.

  Many people in the Old World considered grimoires nonsense, nothing more than the imagining of fools, madmen and folks with too much time on their hands. This was especially true in the Western world, in America and Western Europe, but there were places; villages, communities that not only took the grimoires seriously, but lived them and saw the powers which existed just beneath the surface of everyday reality.

  Like the hidden powers of electricity (one of the reasons she was drawn to the profession), wellsprings of supernatural forces stood just outside of people’s perceptions; occasionally mingling, causing confusion and denial in those who didn’t believe, while creating awe and humility in those who took such forces as everyday occurrence.

  Although born in a supernatural wonderland, a place filled with ghostly apparitions, odd sounds in the night, voices emanating from dark shadows, Zarina’s father convinced his mind to reject such things as mere folklore and the overactive imagination of village people—bored minds disconnected with the proper activity of government and society, global activity and economy, focused only on fictional worlds, bubbles created from too many nights spent by the fire as thick, white snowflakes drifted from the gray and pregnant clouds of Russia’s winter skies.

  Her father probably knew, but couldn’t reach out and grab true belief of what his daughter’s capabilities really were. He never questioned the power she used to track animals so easily, as though she could smell them, sense them, like her body was a natural sensor.

  Zarina’s father only spoke of his wife, her dead mother a few times.

  One of those moments when Zarina was only nine, he’d let out something Zarina had already been told by her grandmother.

  “She had the power of darkness, of good and evil. Zarina, here in Moscow these things are considered mere nonsense, the stupidity of the uneducated masses. But in Zlatoust, your mother possessed respect and fear, a powerful combination.”

  He’d taken another shot of vodka, wiping away the excess from his lips with the thick, hairy back of his hand. They were in his small home, just on the outskirts of the big lights and tall buildings of Moscow. A warm fire crackled in the fireplace, casting dancing shadows on his bulky face, his eyes catching hers as she stared up at him from the large, soft and furry bear skin rug.

  “Grandmamma says Momma was a witch. A powerful witch,” Zarina said, searching her father for any doubt. That night she had seen none.

  “So they say. What I know,” he’d said looking down at her, smiling and then ruffling her brown hair. He moved his hand from her hair, and took hold of the black pendant resting on her small chest, “is she did things…unnatural things…this was your mother’s pendant.”

  He’d then let the pendant go, sat his glass down on a hand-crafted coffee table, and rose from his arm chair. “Another night perhaps, my dear Zarina. To bed with you, and dream of the future.”

  Zarina rose, started towards her bedroom, then stopped when her father asked: “What about you, Zarina? Can you do things… certain unnatural things…does that pendant…”

  Zarina, who loved her father more than anyone, even her grandmamma, had turned around, and answered his question with one of only a handful of lies she’d ever told him.

  “No, Papa. Grandmamma says the power missed me, and Mama’s pendant never worked.”

  “Very good,” he said with a smile. “Now go to bed, girl. And dream about your coming contributions to the hopes of the State, Economy, and Humanity.”

  She’d obeyed him and gone to bed, even though she’d felt mystic glow growing deep inside her; the power her grandmamma had taught her to harness and use.

  2

  Now, in the New World, she moved swiftly through the mountain trees; her black tourmaline orgone pendant, what her grandmama ha
d called a protection amulet and talisman, hung from her neck all these years later. Her detailed drawings, the notes from her nearly weeklong spy mission, was tucked neatly and safely in her back pack, a small and black Jansport not much bigger than a child’s pack. A nine-millimeter pistol hugged her hip, tucked tightly in a black holster.

  As she brushed through the wilderness, she still smelled of shit and piss. Pine needles, rocks, and dirt crunched under her boots. Her eyes were sharp and watchful, her ears cocked for sounds of danger.

  She heard nothing out of the ordinary. A bear stomped around somewhere; she could not only hear the beast, but smell him as well. It’s what her father had called the “hunter’s sense,” and Zarina possessed the quality in abundance, just as her mother had; at least according to Zarina’s grandmamma. The bear caused no fear in her heart or mind. On the contrary, the bears existence gave her a deep feeling of peace. At least something survived nature’s recent upheaval. At least the bear still lived his life as it always had.

  She was aware of the scamper of squirrels, the chipping of a woodchuck, and the bird song of blue jays. Even the beetles and the ants moving in the underbrush were caught in her mental radar, though she had long ago learned to see such small things as mere back ground noise. Not to say ants didn’t pose a threat in certain situations. If someone found themselves lost in the wilderness, injured and unable to walk, an army of hungry fire ants could end a life in ways that would make death by bear look like a much better alternative. She’d once taken a trip to South America where she learned of ants so militant and aggressive that they invaded villages, eating unwatched babies and elderly old men and women. Eating them whole and alive, screaming only for a moment, because the oversized ants entered the nostrils and the mouth, feasting on the soft tissues of the throat, working their little legs down to the lungs where a feeling of hot fire engulfed the victim as the ants ate the human body from the inside out. All in the name of the queen.