Humanity's Death [Books 1-3]

by Black, D. S.

  “A chance. A hope, or death,” Okona said as he gripped the bars of his cell.

  Another volley pounded the building, knocking them both to the hard, cold concrete floor. Then the gun shots, but the gun fire they heard wasn’t from the battle outside; it was just down the hall, near the guard’s post. Shoes pounded against concrete as someone ran towards them.

  “Mary Jane!” Duras said, smiling.

  “Tasha! What’s going on?” Okona’s smile was as wide and brilliant as Duras’s.

  “No time to explain everything,” Mary Jane said, working the key into Duras’s lock. The key clicked, and Duras swung the door open, and stepped into freedom.

  Mary Jane threw the keys to Tasha, and she did the same for Okona.

  Mary Jane looked at Duras, then Okona and back to Duras. “We have to hurry. The king has a bomb set to detonate. I don’t know if we can stop him.”

  “But we’ll try,” Duras said, embracing Mary Jane, kissing her lips.

  Beside them, Okona did the same to Tasha.

  The building shook, more plaster came down on their heads.

  “Better go!” Duras said. “Lead the way, Mary!”

  They ran. Duras grabbed his bat'leth and Okona grabbed the guns the guards had dropped. The corridors of the casino compound were empty; all the soldiers were engaged in the battle outside, or dead from where the building had caved in from the shell blasts. They turned a corner and ran through thick smoke, holding their breath, trying not to breathe it in. Duras stumbled over a dead body, used the wall to regain his balance, and felt his skin burn from the touch.

  “This place is coming down! We should make a run for it! Hell with the king!” he said.

  “We’d never make it. We either stop the nukes from detonating, or we die here,” Mary Jane said looking at him; her face covered in soot and pain.

  “Nukes? You didn’t say the bomb was nuclear,” Duras said.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for all I did. My failures.”

  Duras saw the pain on her face. He felt more love for her then than ever before. He wanted more time. To kiss her, to hold her. To listen to her prattle on and on about biology and how much she loved living organisms.

  “Never say sorry again. You did nothing wrong. It’s all my fault.”

  “And mine,” Okona said.

  “We don’t have time for this! Let’s go! If there is any hope we can stop the maniac, let’s go!” Tasha screamed.

  They ran. Mary Jane leading the way, Duras behind her, Tasha next, Okona bringing up the rear. The building shook, it was as though it wanted to die. To rid its plaster shell and be done with this madness.

  They stopped abruptly. The tall metal doors were open, classical music playing softly inside.

  They all looked at each other, eyes bold, fearless, accepting of whatever fate waited.

  They stepped inside Nick Spade’s studio.

  The Melody of War

  Pinky felt the sting and rush of pain as the bullet shattered his right leg. He fell to the ground, pressing his face in the blood-soaked dirt. Screams. Death. Pain. All around him, war’s sound track played on, a black tune, a dark melody; the final die cast on a gloomy landscape. Bullets whizzed above him, more men dropped, more blood gushed, lives lost, hope murdered.

  Pinky watched as his friends, his men, his only family left, died one by one as the Militia’s bullets and overwhelming numbers poured over them like death’s river.

  Bodies were strewn everywhere the eye could see. The smell of death in the air. The pungent rotting decay. Screams for help, for mercy, begging for death. The field of battle was a landscape of broken and dead bodies, blood, craters filled with body parts—Pinky thought of hell and knew he was living in it. Had been living in it for the last year. Everything up to the Fever was an illusion, a tease, a cruel joke. This was the real world, the thin veneer of the Old World ripped away, exposing the ugliness, the hate, the pain, death.

  The battle raged on as he lay in the mud and filth, blood and gore covering every inch of him. He watched as Rainmaker fought with courage. He saw as not one, but three bullets ripped into his Native American friend, a man Pinky once thought invincible.

  Pinky crawled, ignoring the bullet wound leaking his blood, trailing it as he put one elbow in front of the other. He navigated around dead bodies, lost lives, dead friends. He could barely hear; the sounds of war’s theater had nearly deafened him. He saw Militiamen running by him, ignoring him, not seeing him as he made his way to his dying friend. The dirt was soft and wet from blood and guts. He smelled seared flesh. He pushed aside an arm, a leg, then a bashed and decapitated head, the hair burned away from war’s hot flames.

  Rainmaker lay, bleeding, staring up into the dark night.

  “Johnny? It’s me Pinky,” he said, pulling himself up to his friend, sitting up on his elbows, looking down at Rainmaker’s ruined face.

  Rainmaker didn’t look at Pinky, he stared up. When he spoke, his voice was cracked and weary. “I wish the clouds would disperse. Just a glimpse of the stars, a final look at the peace of creation,” Rainmaker said, and then turned his gaze to Pinky’s face. “We fought well, old friend. I don’t think this was a failure. My instincts tell me everything is about to end. For everyone. Well, not everyone. She’ll survive.”

  Tears ran down Pinky’s face. He didn’t bother to ask who she was, he didn’t care. “Then let it end. Let it all go to hell” he said, then fell down beside Rainmaker.

  They didn’t notice, but their hands searched, and found each other. They looked up at the dark clouds; shadows rushed by, gunfire caste flickers of light on their faces; their fingers interlaced, hands locked in final embrace.

  2

  The women fought, their hearts pounded. Blood pumping, eyes wide. A sea of death, blood, and mayhem laid before them. Hundreds of Militia soldiers slain, yet more charged; a never-ending supply of drugged soldiers. The women manning the .50 calibers felt the bullets tear apart their flesh, penetrating their organs, yet somehow they kept firing; screaming for more, more, and more. Bring it on…

  A rush of Militiamen charged them. Hundreds. The women fired, killing dozens, and then dozens more as their blood dripped from open wounds, and their vision blurred. They didn’t see the soldier creeping up on their left flank. A tank was on his back, a long metal torch held firmly in his hands.

  They were on fire before they knew it, screaming madly. One fell, dying slowly as she cursed the New World. The other, face melting, skin running off her bones like butter, swung the .50 caliber, stared down the soldier; her face now a skeletal mask of melting skin, only one eye working; she laughed, bringing the soldier to a halt.

  “DIE MOTHERFUCKER!” she screamed, cutting his body in half with one final burst of energy. The bullets penetrated the tank; the explosion rocked the area, killing all but one woman quickly and mercifully.

  She stood defiant, bleeding from open gut wounds, her face covered in blood and hate. The faces of the Militia charged her, some with only knives and swords. She aimed to fire and heard only the dry clack of her rifle.

  She backed against one of the Jeeps and felt the cool metal against her back. She remembered the pain caused by these barbarians. Recalled the Old World. Her kids, husband. Her mother, her father. What a life she had! Stolen in an instant! Ripped from her! To be taken from a world of happy dinners, family events, Christmas, Sunday church, Easter, oh, and the wonderful summers…

  Gone like the wind. Gone like yesterday. Gone forever.

  Her gut gushed blood. Her vision blurred. The savages approached.

  Lemonade. Cool-Aid. Apple pie. Pumpkin pie. Kisses in bed. Clean sheets. Vow renewals followed by two weeks in Fiji while her mom and dad kept the kids. Sun tan lotion. Sun block for her red headed, freckled husband who burned so easily.

  The glories of the Old World. Washed away, swept far from her, and now this…

  Now this…

  She stared up at a man, at least six seven. He hel
d a long sword. His face was red from blood. Blood from his friends. Blood she had spilled.

  She smiled. Laughed. Spit at him, the mucus landing on his chest, dripping down past the right nipple. He raised his blade, grinning with drugged rage.

  Sewing kits for her daughter. A new game console for her son. School supplies. Painting the basement with her husband. A surprise puppy for Christmas. Sex in the rain, while the thunder rolled. Cooking thanksgiving dinner with Mother, hearing the family laughing in the living room, watching the game. The cool winds of Fall, the snow of winter, the glorious sunshine of Spring, and the oceans of Summer…

  The blade split her skull, and the soldier let loose a deafening cry of triumphant joy. The woman’s body and mind fell dead, atop one of her companions. The soldiers ran over their bodies, crushing them deep into the earth like a stampede of horses.

  3

  “Die Mudcats! Die with their blood dripping off your hands! NO FEAR!”

  “HOOOOOOO!”

  Fernando rattled off gunshot after gunshot, putting down Militia soldier after soldier. Hundreds laid dead at their feet in front of them, and to either flank. The remaining Mudcats, now only a dozen; the same kids he’d first met Zarina with, fought in a circle formation, surrounded.

  On all sides, the Militia pushed against them. Thousands of troops, countless eyes, mouths dripping spit, guns unleashing a hail of bullets, swords and knives moving in.

  Around Fernando, littered like broken mannequins, his child army laid dead—dozens of the bravest souls he’d ever known. Boys and one girl who’d fought so long, so hard; stood against the worst kind of odds.

  “To the END! TO THE END!” Fernando screamed, his dark Latino face smothered in the blood of children and men.

  “THE FUCKING END!” Hector repeated, standing beside him firing well placed shots.

  “HOOOOOOO!”

  The chorus screamed out into the night above the crowd of war. Vultures circled above, looking down with hungry eyes. Hidden in a clove of trees, near a rock face, an actual owl answered their hoos with one of its own.

  The eyes of the Militia were a mixture of amazement, hate, curiosity, and awe. Children, some less than ten. Fighting against grown men. Fighting in the face of certain demise. A suicidal mission.

  Courage only goes so far. The bullets penetrated their circle of fearless fighting, and three of the final twelve dropped dead. The others answered the death of their friends with a frightening hooooooo…

  Yet four more dropped from bullets that ripped, tearing, reducing their bodies to riddled flesh. Another Mudcat fell as a Militia soldier lobbed off his small head with the fast swing of an ax. Two more fell, their ruined bodies bumping into Fernando and Hector, who now stood alone, back to back, brother to brother, child warrior to child warrior.

  The soldiers surrounded them, thousands of men versus two boys. A soldier, someone in charge evidently, raised a hand and brought the chaos to a momentary stop. He was tall, bald, and his face was smeared in fresh dripping blood. He approached Fernando and Hector who were now firing dry clacks, empty of all their rounds.

  “Brave little fuckheads! You know… you don’t have to die today. Join us! Why die when you can fight for the Mountain King!”

  A chorus of shouts came from the massive army.

  Fernando and Hector now stood side by side. They looked at each other, brotherly love overflowing, memories screaming for release, then they turned back to the lead soldier.

  “Momma always told us you are who you hang with,” Fernando said.

  “Daddy always said not to talk to strangers,” Hector added.

  “But, daddy and momma never taught us this…ZARINA DID!”

  The boys quickly dropped their guns, and in one fluid motion removed throwing knives from sheaths on their legs.

  “HOOOOOOO!” They both cried as they charged, leaping over bodies, using the dead forms as catapults to lift themselves in the air; throwing the knives with all the skill Zarina had bestowed upon them. Two of the knives entered the eyes of the lead soldier, entering his skull, dropping him to his knees as blood gushed from both eye sockets, a look of surprise on his face as he fell to the earth.

  The soldiers moved on the boys like sharks on fish, and though the few knives they had left, found marks, ending the lives of their target; Fernando and Hector fell, stabbed and shot, bleeding and dying, to the ground.

  Before they died, they looked into each other’s eyes, and with the energy they had left, let loose a blood curdling, “HOOOOOOO!”

  Zarina Leaves

  Zarina heard their dying hooooooo. She saw a landscape of death. Bodies piled on top of bodies. She couldn’t see any of her friends. The children were dead.

  She grimaced and pressed her palm against her wounded shoulder, which was now wrapped in a cloth she’d taken from her satchel. She wandered away from the battle, and moved along the snaking drive way towards the main exit. She was hidden by trees till she reached the front gate and saw what she wanted. A Hummer, no top, jet black, sat idling. Beside the Hummer stood three guards anxiously looking in the opposite direction, towards the battle.

  She stepped out from the protection of the trees. Her nimble feet made barely a whisper as she walked to the Hummer. She crouched beside the large tire, her small figure easily hidden.

  The men were on the other side. She smelled them, a mixture of body odor and hate. She peered over the large black tire and into the back seat. She saw what she needed. Staying low to the ground, she stepped over to the back seat door. The door squeaked as she opened it, but was easily overpowered by the immense noise coming from the battle field—screams of dying men and shouts of victory.

  She stayed low, and reached and took grasp of a AR15. She quickly knelt beside the open door, checked that the gun was loaded, and chambered a round. She moved around the Hummer, the gun stock expertly pressed against her wounded shoulder, her left hand guiding the barrel.

  They never saw her. Never had a chance to see the violet eyes glowing as she laid them to waste.

  She climbed in the driver’s seat, ignored the pain in her shoulder, and drove quickly away.

  The Final Solution

  The Mountain King, white skin, strange red tears running down his ghost white face, greeted them when they came in. “Welcome. You’ve come to stop the countdown. To end my victory. My final solution, but as you all know in your hearts, your hopes are pathetic failures; however, if you wish to die by my hands, then I will submit to your requests.”

  “I sure hope this works,” Mary Jane said, then removed from her pocket a small vile, raised it above her head, and threw it. It shattered at the Mountain King’s feet. A purple liquid spattered him and began to steam.

  Spade looked down, smiling. “What feeble attempt is this? Do you really thi—”

  The steam reached his mouth, his nostrils. He stumbled and fell, rose again quickly, and stared at his enemies.

  “What is this? What have you done, Mary?” he asked.

  “Just a little biology and chemistry. Not all power comes from the supernatural. Like I told you, it’s all biological underneath. Just takes time to understand it.”

  “Enough talk!” Duras screamed, charging.

  The other followed, howls of rage on their faces.

  “So be it!” The king threw his hands out and sent a shock wave against them. They were thrown back, but not with nearly as much force as the king clearly intended. He looked down at his hands, then hit the side of his head a few times. “I can’t hear you. Any of you. Your thoughts are dead to me. You stupid BITCH!”

  “Be careful! The liquid only weakened him. He’s still one powerful asshole!” Mary Jane warned.

  Duras charged, wielding his bat'leth with fierce skill. The king picked up a blade from a nearby table, and steel on steel clashed, sparks flying.

  Behind them, the detonator ticked. 06:00…05:59…05:58…05:57…

  “Take him down!” Okona said, joining the fight. H
e swung his short sword hard but was deflected by power emanating from the king’s palm. Okona screamed as his sword turned red, scalding his hands. Before he could say another word, he was thrown off his feet, crashing into the wall.

  Duras swung his blade again as Mary Jane and Tasha charged. Duras’s bat'leth was knocked from his hands, and he was sent flying across the room.

  Tasha and Mary Jane opened fire with pistols. Spade laughed, holding his hands up, deflecting all the bullets but one. Spade cried out as his left ear tore from his head, black and red blood gushing, spattering on the walls and floor.

  Duras stood up, shaking off what was probably at least one broken rib. “He’s not a machine! He’s just a man! Kill the bastard! KILL HIM!” He picked up his bat’leth and charged again; bloody fury raging in his eyes.

  The clock ticked. 03:49…03:48…03:47…

  Okona rose, shaking off the pain, picking up his sword, and charged again. The girls were out of bullets, so they grabbed whatever was near. Mary Jane found a long piece of rebar with a jagged edge, Tasha a large hammer.

  They engaged the king. Swinging their blades, making cuts here and there, but then being deflected and shot across the room. Sparks flew, bright flashes of light burst from their blades. The Mountain King was weakening; his face riddled with pain and exhaustion.

  03:00…02:59…02:58…

  Okona brought his blade high, ignoring his throbbing hands, then his breath cut off, and it felt like a vice grip had him around the throat. The Mountain King laughed, a wretched sound filled with anguish and hate. Okona rose slowly, then with a furious thrust; the king threw Okona’s bald head against the hard unforgiving ceiling. They heard a lethal cracking sound. Tasha screamed. She ran as Okona’s body fell heavy on the floor lifeless, bleeding from the skull. His eyes were still open. No life. No more fire. Tasha fell over his body. Agonized, painful wails of sorrow erupted; her face a mask of tears.

  Mary Jane and Duras looked at each other. That’s all it took. That one moment of indecision. The Mountain King took Mary Jane by her throat and whirled her round and round like she was caught in an invisible tornado.