by Black, D. S.
He slammed an ax (he’d found it beside a dead man in a house a week before) into the skull of a male zombie, probably around the age of fifty when it turned. The zombie wore overalls like a farmer’s, and Okona thought a near miracle that the zombie still wore a John Deer cap on his dead head. The ax split the hat, then the skull in two, and the farmer dropped for good; this time his body acting as earth’s fertilizer.
The furnace of a day had to be reaching one hundred degrees, the humidity thick with suffering. Sweat poured down his arms, chest, legs. His entire body felt like it had been dipped in hell, but Okona hacked and slashed along with the others, till they reached the Jeep.
He went to take the driver’s seat.
“I’m driving!” Duras said and pushed Okona aside.
Okona let it slide, holding back his rage for a later time. He got into the back of the Jeep. The moans of the approaching horde were more than enough to allow him to swallow his pride.
As they drove, Okona pushed Duras out of his mind and thought about his wife and the painting she’d come alive in. It seemed like ages ago and in the New World, he supposed that was about right. Surviving a week was like surviving a century in the Old World, if not more. He hadn’t seen her since that time, and now thought maybe he had hallucinated the entire thing.
He wanted to see her desperately. He closed his eyes and tried to will her presence. He wanted not only to see her, but to touch her, feel her, smell her, and gain some advice, some knowledge of what to do now.
Nothing. No matter how hard he tried, his dead wife remained dead and gone. If it was a onetime deal, then it was a cruel joke.
He looked over at Chris, who stared out of the passenger window in the back seat. Chris looked broken inside. He looked like death might make for a good time. Okona’s old friend, comic book brother, wore a mask of pain and loneliness. His brother dead. Life was never easy for them back at the tree fortress, but it was manageable. They had a mission. A purpose. Fight Duras. Do something positive to keep hope alive in a dismal dark world.
Now?
He looked up to the front seat and caught Duras taking glances at him via the rear-view mirror.
It seemed the old mission was still alive.
The vision of his wife may have ordered him to make peace with Duras, but it seemed that the dead, or spirits; whatever his wife was now, didn’t have all the answers, and only could throw you a bone that might lead you in a good direction.
Okona had followed his wife’s suggestion; he did as he was bid. The mission was a complete failure. Tasha was dead. All the women held captive in that place were dead.
Duras and his cohorts lived on.
Lived on within arm’s reach of Okona’s blades and bullets.
Years ago, what felt more like centuries ago, or maybe even some fictional story he had once read. Okona had been a fun hearted prankster. He’d made a lot of money doing it. YouTube and the Google ad system offered him more than enough income to live just about any life he and his wife had wanted. His mom and dad had doubted it, but then had to admit it—even silly nonsense can make a penny turn gold when done correctly. The preacher he’d pranked that one time sure as hell didn’t agree, condemning his parents and suggesting Okona lived a life bound for the bowels of hell.
He’d lived a good life for many years with his wife and could afford anything they wanted. He’d watched her die. Watched as the dead ripped into her. His sweet caring wife killed by the boy she was trying to save, then eaten by the little guy. Eaten like a dead animal in the wild.
Animal. Is that what Okona had become? He thought about it, ignoring the occasional look of contempt from Duras reflection in the rear view. Yes! Maybe he’d always been nothing more than an. Just one that had a video camera and other modern tools to create a life he’d deemed proper.
And what had he left to live for? Why did he continue to try and survive in the New World? Tasha was dead. No doubt about it. Chris? Well, he loved Chris, but what could he do to help him? He couldn’t bring his brother back, no more than he could bring his dead wife back. So, what did that leave him to strive for?
Killing Duras? Slaughtering Tommy Morrow? The thought brought a sick twisted peace to his mind. It was a welcomed emotion. Okona didn’t mind all he had left was the killing of the asshole driving the Jeep. At least he had something left in this screwed-up world.
After Duras was dead?
Who cared. After that, Okona would just have to figure it out.
First came the killing.
Okona looked up, met Duras’s gaze, and their eyes locked.
Okona winked, and soon after the fun began.
3
As they travelled, heading deeper Upstate, none of them new just how close they were to the Mountain King. The Mountain King and the King’s Guard could only travel so far from Dead Zone Black before their powers failed, and their bodies would start to wither.
But, if one stepped within their boundaries…
Had Duras and Okona known how close their current path veered towards the dark ears of the mountain, their bitter, angry, petty feud may have died then and there.
4
Duras saw the wink, shrugged it off, telling himself to wait a little longer. Then the bastard smiled, and Duras hit the brakes. They came to a skidding halt, kicking up loose dirt. They were on a deserted woods road (built and maintained by the Militia, but they had no idea), and had come to a stop in a circled clearing. Tall, ancient pine trees surrounded them, creating what was about to become their own personal, natural octagon.
“What the hell!” Vice said. He sat in the front passenger’s seat.
Duras ignored him, climbed out of the car and beckoned for Okona to get out. All the men climbed out. Vice instinctually, and with little thought quickly went to the back of the Jeep, grabbed Duras’s bat'leth, and threw it to him.
Duras caught it with skilled hands, and twirled it round and round, showing off his ability to kill. Vice stood beside him, then Ice Man and Rhino joined him.
Okona had climbed out of the Jeep and stood ready for battle, not an ounce of fear in his face. More like joy. The time had finally come.
Chris stood beside Okona, looking a bit tired, but ready for whatever was about to happen.
“Oh no! Just me and you, Tommy my boy! You and me! Here and now!” Okona said, and pointed a daring finger at Duras.
“Music to this Klingon’s ears, baldy! Let’s finish this once and for all! The rest of you back the fuck off. This is between me and this bald bastard.”
Duras spun his bat'leth with dramatic flair and prepared himself for combat.
Okona unsheathed his short sword, twirling it fancifully.
The others looked at each other with nervous eyes. Chris looked at Vice, and Vice shrugged his shoulders as if to say what can we do? Ice Man and Rhino watched, unsure of how to deal with the sudden turn of events. Neither of them had paid close enough attention to the growing tension between their respective leaders, and this came as a bit of a shock to them.
Duras moved first, swinging his bat'leth hard and fast. The metal clashed against Okona’s sword, causing sparks to fly in the thick hot air. Both men backed off, then came at each other hard; metal sparking again, both men grunting, sweating, and breathing rapidly. A year in this hell of a world had given both men blade skills beyond some of the best swordsmen to ever exist in the Old World.
Their blades locked; their faces strained with rage and pain, the heat burning against their heads. Duras’s long brunette hair matted against his head, some if it dangling, sweat dripping from the tips. Okona’s bald head glistened under the hot day, the top a mixture of tan and sunburn red. Duras pushed against Okona, and Okona pushed back. A seesaw of motion till blades unlocked, and the men centered their stances, readying themselves to try and break the stalemate.
“Die!” Duras screamed and charged, missing Okona by less than an inch. Okona sidestepped, and let his opponent’s angry momentum carry him forwa
rd. Duras turned just in time to block an attempt to cut his legs from under him. Again, the blades clashed with spark and fury. The men swung and swung again.
Even during an intense heat wave, both men possessed powerful lungs, offering cardiovascular conditioning fitted for a long fight.
The blades continued to meet, spark, and ring out the sounds of battle. No matter the maneuver, no matter the speed, strength, and skill used to deliver the blow; each were met with counter strikes and blocks.
Around them, Chris, Vice, Ice Man, and Rhino watched with amazement and worry. The overheated world around them did its daily dance—birds sang in the near distance, a soft breeze tickled the leaves above them. A squirrel ran by, unseen and uncaring, scampering up a tree in search of fresh nuts to feed on. A lizard crawled by, slow with indifference for the problems of men. A fire ant hill breamed with activity, carrying food to the queen, and expanding her dirt empire. A curious deer peered through the trees, then took off at the sound of footsteps crunching nearby.
Duras and Okona, nor their comrades heard those footsteps. They didn’t hear the leaves crack under the weight of boots, and horse hooves.
The blades made too much noise, and offered the approaching pale faces the opportunity of complete surprise. The first bullet ripped through Rhino’s skull, sending the black man to his final resting place in the fallen summer leaves and hot dirt.
The gunshot stopped the fight. Duras and Okona turned, wild eyed with confusion looking for the gunmen. When they saw the white faces appear, they froze for a moment, unsure if what they were seeing were real. Were these men? Zombies? A hybrid? The eyes shined with far too much intelligence for dead men, but these were certainly not ordinary mortals. Both Duras and Okona did a three hundred and sixty degree turn, and saw the creatures surrounded them, closing in.
To Duras’s right, Vice raised his rifle to fire at the demon men approaching, but his trigger finger froze against his will; and soon, Chris, Ice Man, Okona and Duras found their ability to use their weapons had been paralyzed. All four men were suddenly forced to their knees, no hand in sight of making them do it. As the pale gray faces approached them, now with guns put away, and long lethal swords drawn, they parted just enough to allow another large man to come forward. He sat tall and proud on a black horse.
Duras, Okona, Chris, Vice and Ice Man were forced again with no hands doing the pushing to kneeled positions, side by side, surrounded, and staring up at the mounted leader of whoever these hellish beasts were.
Duras muttered, barely able to move his lips. “What fresh hell is this?”
“Our last, boss.” Vice forced out of pursed lips.
Ice Man didn’t try to speak, only let his tears fall. The only mourning he’d ever get a chance to offer his dead friend lying a few feet away, now fresh food for any zombies within ear shot.
Chris also didn’t try to speak, only stared at his death approaching, wondering how this world could have possibly gotten any worse, even stranger than before.
Okona kneeled beside Duras, looked at the mounted beast, sitting so high and mighty on his black steed. “What are you?” Okona asked this in the same manner as Duras and Vice had spoken with forcibly tight lips.
The leader dismounted from his horse, his large boots thudding on the hot earth. He walked up to Okona and spoke with a deep ominous voice that sent a cold shiver down Okona’s spine.
“When Moses asked God a similar question, God responded in riddles. I will answer you in plain English. I’m a servant, nothing more, nothing less. Sent here to fetch two men, one with long flowing hair; the other, bald and bold. I presume you are my bald prey? And the man beside you is my other target? Oh, how foolish of me,” he snapped his fingers, though it was probably just dramatic flair, and not actually needed. Nonetheless, Okona and Duras found their lips unsealed, though their bodies remained trapped in whatever mental telekinesis was being used against them. The others remained the same, tight lipped, paralyzed, unable to move.
“Let us go, fuck face! Maybe I’ll consider letting you keep your balls if you do.” Duras said, though even he would admit his threat came out weak and unconvincing. Especially as this beast of a man (or whatever the hell he was) stared down at him like some well-crafted, realistic supernatural graphic novel villain.
“I’m General Bright. I’ve come to take you to the Mountain King. Your girls are waiting, but don’t get your hopes up. I doubt the king plans on allowing you conjugal visits.”
“Mary Jane?” Duras said, eyes gleaming.
“Tasha?” Okona asked, his eyes burning with passion.
“Correct!” The general said, then looked at the others and smiled. “As for the rest of you, I’m sorry to say your destination is Dead Zone Black. Put them in your Humvee, Marlow.” He said pointing a finger at a short, but very bulky comrade in pale arms. They didn’t move them with their minds this time, but instead hauled Chris, Ice Man, and Vice up with strong arms, as though they weighed nothing at all.
“Where are you taking them? Let them go!” Okona shouted.
“Don’t you hear well? They belong to the Voice now. Their fates are sealed. You two on the other hand have an opportunity to live, at least for a bit longer. And if you impress the Mountain King, maybe, just maybe; he might allow you to live and serve the Militia.”
“Fuck you! Kill me now! Fat chance in hell I’ll bow to your pussy king!” Duras said, then felt the sting of a sinister and rapid back hand against his face. He didn’t fall over, because his body was still in the grip of this monster’s mental lock.
“Few speak ill of the king and live to tell the tale. You are a lucky man. Now walk and shut up!” Both Duras and Okona’s mouths once again sealed shut, and they stood up against their will, and started walking.
Soon they were in a Hummer. As the engine roared, the general rode by on his horse. Another Hummer, carrying Chris, Ice Man, and Vice, drove off, kicking up dirt.
Okona and Duras never saw their friends again.
Zarina’s Vision
1
One day after the full moon sacrifice, fire crackled off Zarina’s left, the night’s warm air in no need of added comfort. Her blanket smelled of Downy—a tribute to the Old World. It felt nice against her small breasts, her chest breathing slowly, softly taking in the warm mountain summer air, a soft and welcomed chill occasionally mixing in with otherwise warm breezes. Her pillow, a mound of soft cotton cradled her neck. The Mudcats, though she didn’t really like calling them that, slept in their tents; but Zarina, much like her much-missed father, slept on the earth. A sleeping bag the only thing separating her from the dirt.
Her eyes closed, her mind drifted into sleep, and soon her eyes fluttered behind soft lids. She dreamt she walked through wilderness, pine trees on either side surrounded her. She smelled honeysuckle, the aroma of pine sap, heard the whistle and song of birds; a breeze tickled green leaves.
Blood. Dried and dead blood. She now saw it gave the otherwise welcoming atmosphere a ghastly contrast—life and death mocking each other, both begging for space, demanding she pay attention. Then a fog appeared in front of her and from it, stepped a figure; at first faint, then clearly a woman. Flanking the woman were two little girls. Zarina couldn’t see their faces or make out their full appearance. She only saw the shapes of a woman and two young girls.
A wind gushed, strong and short lived, and Zarina gasped at who she saw. What her eyes took in was dazzling, hypnotic, dreamy, yet horrifying while safe and welcoming. The woman’s hair blazed red, flowing around her like thick waves of red snakes at one moment, then appeared like blood tainted ocean waves. Her eyes burned bright blue, and a revolver burned an even colder blue on her hip. The two girls glowed with near blinding hues of gold, their eyes the same bursting blue, their skin renaissance princess pale.
“Name’s Candy, and I’ve got something for you.”
The woman’s voice was clear, crisp, and clearly Southern.
“These are my girls, and
they helped choose you.”
“Choose? Chosen for what?” Zarina said, her thick Russian accent forcing the words out.
“To fight. To survive. The New World needs you. You’re a Huntress. A powerful witch. I hear your soul. It screams with something I ain’t never heard. Me and my girls, we’re drifting on…to somewhere beyond.”
“Beyond?” Zarina asked, but she thought she knew the answer.
“From this world, this realm. We got places we can go. Other worlds, other realms. We get to escape the pain of seeing all what’s gonna happen. Don’t really know where the spirit road will lead us from here, but it’s sure as hell better. You girl, gonna be around a long, long time. I don’t think it’s a blessing for ya, hunny. You’re in for the long road only people of your fortitude can travel. The good news is you ain’t gonna do it without something special.” Candy said this and with fluid quick speed, removed the glowing blue revolver. “A man’s gonna find you and give you this. Not this one, of course. He’s got the one I died with. I passed something to it as I went. I don’t know how it happened, so don’t ask me. It just did. Something instinctual maybe, or just natural in the New World. The revolver you’ll get works in both this world,” Candy gestured with her hand at the surrounding environment, “and the physical world. You gonna need it soon. And no, this ain’t no dream. You’re here. I brought you here.”
“Why me?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. Just the way it’s gone down,” Candy said and shrugged as if to say what else could she say, then added: “You got something special. A mystic ruggedness. That’s the best I can do as far as an explanation. Nobody told me any of this, just a feeling. A strong one. The kind you can’t ignore.”
Zarina understood feelings like that. The Hunt came to mind.
