by Black, D. S.
But, no. These were no delusions. No tricks of light. She felt something like tiny fingers trying to pry into her mind, running rough, angry nails against her brain.
Then the feeling was gone. Her revolver Candy, glowed at her side, and the soft blue hue comforted Zarina; gave her strength, and she was quite certain, some power over this dangerous and frightening realm.
Like a dark jungle, the motion within it was illusive and uncertain. Souls (and this was no trick of her mind) moved in vast array, moaning and begging for succor—something Zarina was certain they’d never get.
These souls suffered here and would keep suffering for as long as this dead zone existed. The souls look whole at first glance, but at closer inspection, Zarina now saw, they were formless, hollow, and cruel to their very core—harsh, dreadful shadows of whatever body they once inhabited. These poor bastards existed for only one purpose—to serve the Voice’s evil desires, to bring him the comfort of their everlasting misery in this miniaturized version of hell.
She again sensed a probing hand against her mind. This time it was different. This was no soul seeking her out, it was a living man; she felt and heard his thoughts vibrating against her, his name…General Bright, leader of the Kings Guard… and found she was able to block him out, and still listen to him.
And she could do more than just listen.
He wanted to know who, or what she was; who had infiltrated the Voice’s lair?
She closed her eyes and sent him the answer: ZARINA.
She felt his astonished, scared, and surprised gasp; and then his mind closed, slammed closed like a heavy door.
She smiled. The Hunt. The greatest and most important Hunt of her life had begun.
She walked deeper into the spiritual forest of the dead zone, her eyes burning wild and hot violet, her hand tickling Candy’s handle, ready to draw, kill, once and for all the dark men who she had fought for the last year.
She stalked low, knees bent slightly. She felt vibrations. She no longer heard the general’s mind, but she smelled them. She smelled their blood, something like burning metal. Smelled and felt their movement. How long had it been since the general, or any of the King’s Guard felt fear? Had a reason to move stealthily? Zarina was willing to bet not for some time, and certainly not since their transformation.
She felt them getting closer. Could they smell her? Hear her? She swiftly moved behind a large boulder. A small chunk had broken from the boulder’s tip and fallen to its base. She used it like a step ladder. She peered over the top and saw them.
Black shadow radiated from their bodies, their guns burned a radiant red, their eyes dark chasms of emptiness. A distant cry of pain was heard, a dying scream of some unknown spirit tortured in this mini hell. Zarina’s heart did not falter, her soul did not cry, her mind did not wander into madness; her breath came out in cold controlled puffs, her eyes, sharp and ready, targeted her prey.
She removed Candy from her holster with liquid speed, the cold blue glow piercing into the darkness.
She aimed over the top of the boulder. She fired.
The bullet zipped through the dark void, the liquid smoke parting like a black sea. A near deafening scream echoed through the void as the bullet struck one of the King’s Guard.
She jumped from the boulder. Zarina didn’t slow. She moved with determination, her shoulders slightly hunched, knees bent, eyes sharp, hot violet emanating from her pupils. She felt a cold fire burning deep inside her, a supernatural power unlike she’d ever thought possible.
She saw them coming, like horsemen from hell. They rode down towards her from a ridge, their faces draped in shadow except for intense white eyes. She saw the glow of their pistols as they raised them.
Bullets whizzed toward her like screaming red devils. She ducked and rolled behind another large boulder. Somewhere behind her, she heard a woman screaming, followed by more cries of agony—souls, pained, hateful souls.
Zarina ignored it. She drew a deep breath, said fuck it, and wheeled around the rock screaming like a bat out of hell; her face a mask of danger and rage. “Zarina of the Night! Zarina of Zlatoust! Zarina the Witch! Zarina the Huntress! At your service, Militia!”
She fired rapidly. Her bullets hit four Guardsmen dead in the center of their foreheads. They fell, the fifth rode in retreat. He didn’t make it far.
She watched him ride, took aim. The blue light emanating from the revolver seemed to track him. She pulled the trigger.
He dropped, dead and gone, his soul lost to the void.
Up on a cliff stood General Bright, looking down at her, his hands raised in surrender; his voice came booming down to her.
“Never have I seen such courage! Such bravado! And from someone so fucking small!” His laughter found its way to her ears, and her rage blossomed.
She fired, but he jumped and her shot ricocheted off cold rock, sparking blue.
He landed on the ground, kneeling, rose up, whipped his pistol from his holster and let loose a barrage of bullets. One caught her in her left shoulder, the others missed her as she barrel rolled behind another large boulder. She ignored the pain, the blood, reloaded with blurring speed, and came around the other side of the rock face ready to fire.
She ducked under a tree, it's branches hanging like dead arms. A bullet whizzed by her, barely missing her left ear. She took refuge behind another fallen boulder, breathing rapidly yet rhythmically. Her senses heightened, eye sight sharp, hearing like a hunting dog, her smell sensitive to the quivering fear and excitement the general perfumed the air with.
"Zarina! Do you sense my fear and worry? My excitement? You are a blessed woman! A magnificent foe! But I will not die by your small hands!"
She focused in on his voice, the sound waves reverberating through the Dead Zone. She turned, firing not with mind or body, but with spiritual thrust; her every fiber screaming for a solid hit. She heard him scream, smelled his strange blood.
A cold shiver ran up her spine and she saw a woman float by; half solid, half spirit, brushing against Zarina’s shoulder. Zarina met the ghost’s stare, looking deep into pits of agony and hate, swirling black pupils, hypnotizing, seductive...
"Begone! Far from me!" Zarina said, whipping the revolver against the ghost’s right temple. The woman vanished with an ear splitting scream, and Zarina barely ducked Bright’s blade as he came from seemingly nowhere.
"Oh! Clever bitch! This game grows old!" he said.
He swung his blade again. Zarina ducked, rolled, and then dived out of his trajectory. She caught sight of his shoulder, bleeding steadily, the blood black with hints of purple and red. She took aim, the revolver recoiled; ripping Bright’s stomach open.
He jumped for cover just as she let loose another bullet, ricocheting off a boulder with a beautiful blast of blue and white sparks. A whirlwind of spirits, cold, hate filled, mastered by evil, controlled by a sinister will, rushed upon her; circling her, reaching for her body, mind, and spirit.
Zarina’s eyes turned from hot violet to dark, swirling crimson and with an intensity chilling to the bone, she commanded: Chjornyj duh, chuma serdca i razuma, pozadi menja, pozadi menja, POZADI MENJa! Black spirit, plague of heart and mind, behind me, behind me, BEHIND ME!” The ghosts screamed, swirled above her, and then behind her; their agonized wailings fading, fading, gone.
She heard the general’s blood gushing, smelled the life flowing out of his wounded body. Then she heard his voice: “What are you? Devil bitch witch!”
She followed the sound of his voice. She walked over cracked earth, a few spirits moved close to her then quickly rushed away at the sight of her glowing eyes, still swirling hot crimson. A cold wind blew against her, trying to stop her forward motion, but she would not be denied her prize; her victory, her prey.
She found him pressed against a rock face, black tears running down his face, his hand against his bleeding gut, the strange blood pulsing through his pale fingers, pooling around his legs and buttock. His face was a
contradictory mask of misery, lunacy, and delight; a smile spread across his beleaguered face.
Zarina approached him, her glowing blue revolver aimed at his head.
“End this,” he said looking at her glowing eyes. “Such pain…such misery...you…are…amaz—”
Zarina pulled the trigger, expelling her final bullet. General Bright’s head exploded. Black brain, purple bloody goo spattered against the rock face.
She staggered away from him. She holstered Candy and put a firm hand on her bleeding shoulder. She turned to leave, to find a way out of this nightmare; hoping she’d never have reason to enter another Dead Zone.
The screams of souls surrounded her, closing in fast and angry. She felt a million fingers trying to rip her mind open, dig in her thoughts and memories, excavate her fears, drive her to insanity and then death; she ran. Her heart beat wildly, sweat poured down her body. She felt dizzy.
Ahead she saw the perimeter, the world of the living just beyond. A wave of souls rushed in front of her, barring the path. She felt rage, and her eyes turned from crimson to black, then violet, then back to swirling crimson. In a voice she barely recognized, and had never heard from her mouth, she screamed: “Uhodite, dorogu, nechistye dushi, imenem Oshun, imenem Baby Jagi, imenem ZARINA, VED''MY I OHOTNICY! Uhodite! Uhodite!depart! Make way foul souls, in the name of Oshun, in the name of Baba Yaga, in the name of ZARINA, WITCH AND HUNTRESS! Depart! Depart!”
The souls bellowed with rage and contempt but opened a path for her. She didn’t look at them as she ran through the opening and left the screaming souls behind her.
Final Stand
1
Rainmaker’s face was a scab of burnt flesh and exposed bone, but his stride moved purposely, gun at the ready. Behind him, beside him, in strategic positions, moving in on the casino—an army of barely one hundred marched to engage the Mountain King’s massive army.
A little way down from Rainmaker, now moving off to a flanking position, Fernando led the battle ready, black faced Mudcats towards the thicket of battle and war. Their eyes were concentrations of fearless warrior rage, wanting nothing more than to inflict a lethal blow against the Militia, even if it meant they died in the process.
For over a year now, the Militia had kept them in hiding, fighting a guerilla war against a powerful, spiritually possessed army of hate and disaster, but now in the face of certain death, the spirit of this rag tag army saw their destinies clear, and didn’t fear what was surely waiting them—death.
“DEATH! DEATH! TO THE FINAL END!” Rainmaker screamed, and somewhere down the line he heard the powerful hooooooos, the war cry of the Mudcats and a wild, insane smile spread across his ruined face. He looked over and saw Pinky, whose face was a riddle passion and wonder and zeal.
“DEATH!” Rainmaker’s army answered, their war cry daring the Militia, begging them for battle, hell and pain. This was it! This was the moment all had waited for, secretly hoped for, a stand, a warriors’ death, an end to the troubles of a year of hellish torment and scarcity.
Then the horns sounded in the distance. Rainmaker looked at Pinky, and they both nodded a final goodbye, friends stepping into the breach of battle. The Militia’s horn of death screamed again, and a flood of drugged crazed maniacal soldiers poured from the casino, from the front, the back, the sides, they poured out like ants of war.
“Jeeps! Engage!” Rainmaker commanded, and the .50 calibers opened up.
“Mortars! Rain down pain and misery! SEND THEM TO OBLIVIAN!”
Pinky and his team set up a line of mortar equipment and let loose a barrage of well-placed shells. The rounds found their targets, shaking the earth with the blasts, sending rock falling down from the mountain hills and rock face.
Death shadows danced in their eyes, the fire burning from the Mountain King’s fortress blazed. The heat licked their faces like Satan’s tongue.
The bullets came in rapid succession. The Militia ran at them with reckless abandonment, drugged eyes bugging, veins pumping fearless energy.
But they fought back and hard. Rainmaker saw his men take a hail of fire and pain. He turned his head away from five of his friends ripped apart, their lives gone, their bodies now mangled flesh.
“Rockets!” Rainmaker cried, tears of war running down his cheeks.
Men launched heavy powerful rocket rounds into the coming wave of Militia soldiers, creating large blood craters within the mass of men. Arms, legs, skull fragments, still beating hearts, and brain matter erupted and began shattering the already chaotic Militia front lines.
Like Columbia, they kept coming; a seemingly endless supply of drugged soldiers.
Rainmaker screamed: “Aim your fire on the casino! Bring the fucking thing down! BRING IT DOWN!”
2
Driving the Jeeps, masks of courage on their faces, the women Candy saved drove hard, staring towards the Militia. A fifty-caliber mounted on both Jeeps, rifles popping well placed rounds as they drove deeper into certain death.
Their faces didn’t show fear, only pure looks of freedom. As slaves, they’d been raped and demeaned daily by their brutal masters. Once homemaker, lawyer, business manager, entrepreneur, day care center worker, retail employee, reduced to sex slavery; now finally fighting back. Taking their dignities back in the face of gunfire and drugged eyes, the eyes of the type who had beaten and raped them so many times.
The Jeeps came to a slashing halt. The women except for the two manning the .50 calibers, jumped from their seats, and took formation.
Terry, blond hair flowing from the winds of war, screamed: “FOR CANDY! FOR WOMEN! FOR EVERYTHING!”
They opened fire, gunning down rushing Militia soldiers. Each dying man, every bullet fired, a vindication, a symbol of their free minds and bodies and spirits.
The .50 calibers unleashed a furious hail of bullets, cutting down dozens of Militiamen in an instant. Fire burst from the large, spinning barrels, and the faces of the women. One black, the other Mexican, their faces dark with dirt and soot, their white teeth clenched.
No pain. No fear, only retribution. Their kids dead, their minds tested to the worst kinds of limits. They screamed and gunned down more and more soldiers. Bullets whizzed past them, surely to find a mark soon, but they didn’t care; they fought on with grinding teeth and determined hearts. They fought for every woman, for every child, for anyone who had ever been hurt, mutilated, killed, raped by these thug barbarians.
Mortar shells soared over their heads, crashing down, ripping apart the Militia lines. The sounds of war were deafening—their guns, the mortar and rockets, the hurt and dying men, the cries of passionate men and women fighting against an entrenched enemy.
The air filled with the heroic outcry of some of humanity’s last good souls, who never bowed to the evils of the Mountain King, never accepted the offer of submission for a warped sense of security.
As the women fired, killing dozens and then dozens more of the Mountain King’s army, they heard, somewhere to their left, deeper behind the lines of the Militia, the sounds of angry, wild, insane owls.
3
“HOOOOOOO!” Fernando screamed their war cry, Hector beside him; his army of children following and firing into the Militia’s left flank. Now was their turn to inflict pain. Now it was time for the Militia to hear their voice and see their faces!
“HOOOOOOOOOO!” Fernando screamed, raising his right arm, pointing in the direction of the Militia.
The other children joined him: “HOOOOOOOO!”
They’d fought the Militia for a year, killing them in fast hit and run skirmishes, kidnapping them as they marched, killing them as often as possible, but never like this… never a suicidal blitzkrieg; a rush against their main defenses.
It felt wonderful, exhilarating. Fernando didn’t care what happened to him, and he knew his child army all felt the same. This was not a time for hoping for a better future. The world was dead or dying, and he wanted to make sure the Militia made no more headway. These bu
tchers of women and children could not be allowed to survive and thrive as they had since the Fever ruined all their lives.
He saw the whites of the drugged eyes, and though he saw no fear; he did see their surprise as an army of children, screaming like owls, charged against their flank. One of the wild-eyed men mouthed “holy shit,” just before Fernando blew the man’s brains out, spattering the thoughtless goo on the other Militiamen.
Inside the Casino
1
As Mary Jane ran with Tasha down the corridors, mortar rounds shook the casino. She was knocked off her feet twice, landing hard, cutting her head. Dry wall dust filled the air, pieces of roof fell.
The casino’s security office came into view just as the Voice pushed hard against her mind. She stumbled and hit the wall. Tasha grabbed her before she could fall. Mary Jane’s eyes closed, and her eyes rolled.
Tasha was gone. Mary stood in a black room and felt Its presence. Felt Its joy.
“HEY WHORE! YOUR SOUL WILL SOON BE MINE! I JUST WANT TO GIVE YOU A TASTE OF YOUR DEATH!”
The dark room suddenly swirled with light, and she saw the Mountain King. He was painting and crying.
“NOT HIM YOU WORTHLESS CUNT! LOOK OVER THERE!”
She saw what the Voice wanted her to see. A bomb, a timer. And the clock was ticking.
“SEE YOU SOON, MY PRETTY!”
“Mary Jane! Mary!”
Mary opened her eyes, saw Tasha screaming and crying in her face. The world shook, dust and roof falling in around them.
“Help me up,” Mary Jane said. “We don’t have much time.”
2
Duras and Okona heard the shells and jumped up as the building shook and rumbled. Roof dust tumbled down, falling on their shoulders.
“What now?” Duras asked.
