Humanity's Death: A Zombie Epic

by D.S. Black

  Chapter Two: Plat Eyes

  1

  Back in the swamp, the girls sat watching their grandfather snooze. His snoring was laborious, coming in snorts and jerks. His face was pale and a little yellow, with dark shadows under his eyes. The shadows grew long as the sun lowered itself. Out in the world, Jack, Andrew, Jody and Candy were just entering Okona's tree fortress, not knowing (or may be just not believing?) what hid deep inside the eerie black water Carolina swamps. After all, they'd not seen or heard anything out of the ordinary for the last year. Not even the gators bothered them. The stories of mass haunting that came like a broken psychic damn after the Fever hit, were just that, stories, nothing more. But tales of haunting in the South Carolina lowlands were legendary. With such horrible pain and suffering—slavery, war—there were bound to be left over emotional footholds filled with nasty ghouls and spooks. And if there is ever a group of human beings that are open to the spiritual flip side of reality, its children, and of course, superstitious grandmothers.

  2

  The girls shivered in unison, even though the temperature was well above eighty degrees and the humidity was stifling, thick enough to cut like butter; the cold bubble encircled the girls. It was the first time the girls had been this alone. Their Papa was more like a prop from a movie set. Once everyone had gone, he just kinda snored life away. The chill in the air was like an arctic breeze.

  “Remember the stories Mema used to tell?” Tamby said.

  “I do. I don't want to, though. Not here. Not now.”

  “She called em Haints.” Tamby said.

  “Why dont ya not to talk about it! And you're wrong! Haints caint hurt no body. PLAT EYES. They live in the swamps. Just big round eyes till they take a form.”

  “Animals, usually. I remember now.”

  “But I think they can take any form. I hope Mama gets back soon.”

  “You member hearing Mama and Jack talk about all the ghost stories people told after—”

  “After the dead people starting walking.” She finished for her sister and continued. “All sorts of weird stuff. Member Mema tellin about the Headless Horseman of Finwick Hall?”

  “She called it a love story. Yeah I member. Or the one about the Old City Jail? How the Gulla people talked about it like it was all real. Cause all the slaves got butchered and hung.”

  “'Souls don't rest easy after that kind a blood lettin, girl' That's what Mema said.”

  “Thats it. Thats what she said. Lets not talk about it, OK?” She shivered as the temperature suddenly dropped around them and a whistling wind blew their blond hair, when only moments before the air was calm, thick with humidity. Sun light disappeared and dark shadow crept around them. That’s when they both saw it. First it only looked like a moving shadow, then the eye opened. It glared at them, burning blood red. Then a voice. An ancient voice. A voice that was older than the trees and the swamp water itself. “Tasty angels. Tasty treats. I've come to eat.”

  The girls said nothing, frozen in fear. Their bodies shook. Their breath came out in warm puffs against the cold air. A hypnosis seemed to take them over and they just stared at the big red eye, now dripping blood tears. “I eat em young. I eat em blonde.” The voice came out as a sinister whisper. Now a tongue, a massive and thick charred green tongue appeared, rolling out of the dark void under the eye. Red teeth appeared, horrible rotten with large holes. Worms wriggled out of the holes and had small dark mouths of their own.

  “W-w-are you? A-a-re you the Plateeyes?” Tamby asked. She shook with a deep and paralyzing fear.

  The dark face rose up, directly behind Papa, and smiled a disgusting grin—like a dead and ghastly Cheshire cat. “I'm the terror in the wind. The ancient evil that never ends. I've come to eat. To swallow you up. My sweet little treats. My hot little twats!”

  3

  Papa continued to snore as the Plateeye rose above him. Age spots covered the old man's face like ugly birthmarks. The youthful and full of life faces of the girls were a startling reminder of the generational gap between them and the old man snoring. World War Two (which he served proudly), Korea (which he didn't understand, but accepted as a necessary evil of Communist containment, and Vietnam (which he decided would be the last war he ever paid any attention to), had all passed well before the little gals had shared the womb of their mother. The seventies recession, the 80s recession, and then the glorious 90s, and finally, the new and turbulent first decade of the twenty first century gave birth to these two twins; who now held each other, shaking with fear.

  The old man snored loudly, his eyes closed to the swampy world around him, to the Plateeye hovering above him, its green and diseased tongue lolling out; and deep inside his mind's eye he saw the image of his deceased wife, or Mema as everyone else called her.

  It wasn't a ghostly image, not at all. It was right before he left for the War. He was clean shaven, thick head of hair, and a full and shining set of teeth. He wore his green fatigues and held his hand under her arm. He stood proud and tall. Emma Stubblefield, who he'd married just a week before, had her arms wrapped around his waist, her head buried into his chest (not sunk in back then, but strong and brawny). They stood there like an old photograph, holding and hoping. Hoping that he'd come home in one piece. So many others were coming home either in boxes or with missing legs and arms, not to mention their sanity was often shattered.

  They didn't speak at all, just held each other. He smelled her fragrance, an off brand perfume he'd bought for her. Her blonde hair nestled against his nose, and he breathed in her beauty and elegance. His sweet Emma, a southern Belle, with the slender curves of a dancer. She had on a yellow sundress that cut off just below her knees. She was by far the hottest number in the little town of Drayton, SC—a pimple of a mill town.

  The sound of the bus roared up behind him and she gripped him even tighter. The bus came to a stop with the whoosh of the breaks. Women and their soldier husbands and sweet hearts stood all around. This was it. Somebody had to fight the Germans and it was him and all those around him. Sobs and kisses were exchanged all around, and they were no exception. War time romances are the most powerful kind of romance; when death is imminent and the future of nations in question, the bond between two people can blossom red and white lilies and roses of love that only the uncertainty of war can nourish.

  He kissed her deeply and held her hard against him, then gently pushed her away, holding her softly by the shoulders. “Don't you worry. I'm coming home.”

  “You better, boy. Cause I can't stand the thought of losing you.”

  “Then don't think it. I'll be seeing ya now.”

  He gave her one final peck on the cheek, turned and boarded the bus with his fellow soldiers, a green mesh of brothers in arms, ready and willing to fight and die for the American way.

  Then hell and brimstone fell and the old man's dreams took him to the beaches of Normandy. Salt water and blood, dead eyes and dead men, bullets zipping, Satan’s fury winning while God cried the loser's fiddlers tune. The sandy death all around, insane eyes staring out of a shell shocked skull, a brain trying, ever so desperately, to process broken bodies, floating friends, arms, legs, torsos. Time marched on and god's bell tolled to the names of the dying young. A large wall of fuming hate fired countless rounds down at him and his fellow soldiers, fading so many lives into darkness. Nothing more for them, just a beach front grave. The sounds of orders muted by the screams of agony. The growing darkness of lost souls, lost hopes—just the silenced madness of a nearby artillery shell exploding and there went his best friend Taylor Snow, gone with the bloody breeze of war. Death's machine incarcerating flesh, guts spewed out, the world's ending—at least that's what that warring hell felt like for Louis Teach. He'd survived to tell the tale, though he never spoke of it to anyone. Some hurts run too deep to share, to articulate into words. He'd always have those images, though, engraved deep in his mind like a never ending dark nightmare that could surface and play again just as though
it were happening at that very moment.

  Then his mind woke up. His heart beat fast. He saw the fear in the girl's eyes. A fear he'd seen before. The fear of coming death. A rage inside him boiled up; and Louis Teach turned his wheelchair around in a fast jerk and stared stared into the Eye.

  4

  The girls now backed away, holding each other; their tiny legs shook beneath them; their knees begging to buckle. Their grandfather now stared into the Eye and he shouted over his shoulder. “Get inside girls! RIGHT NOW!” They did as he said, but did so slowly, walking backwards, never taking their eyes off the scene unfolding in front of them. Their grandfather had both hands on his wheels, ready to drive himself directly into the Eye.

  They heard him as they got half way to the shack's door. “You aint gettin em! Yous a damn demon from hell! You aint gettin em!”

  The ground shook under the girls feet as the Eye cackled loudly. The tongue hanging out, slobbering at the foot of Papa's feet. As the girls backed onto the small porch, the Eye changed shape. It turned into a woman. They recognized her like they recognized an old photograph. It was their great grandmother, Emma Teach, Mema for all others.

  5

  Louis Teach stared at his deceased wife's form. The same form from his dream, so young, so beautiful. For a moment he wanted to believe it. He wanted to reach out and hold her. Then he saw the red gleam in her eye. “You foul bastard! You disgrace my baby! You sonofa—“

  6

  The girls saw and heard their great grandfather speak his final words. The Plateye transformed into a black dust that looked like dark flies buzzing in an angry swirl; the black cloud entered their grandfather's mouth; he convulsed rapidly and fell out of the wheel chair.

  The twins retreated, screaming for help that didn't exist, and slammed the shack door behind them. They ran into the small living room and hid behind the couch. For a moment everything went silent. They looked at each other; their matching blue eyes filled with fright. Their breath came in short, scared gasps; the room was as cold as a freezer.

  They both peaked above the tip of the couch and stared at the front door. A dark mist began to seep underneath the door. All the windows were darkened by black shadow. The shack began to shake violently. The door swung open. They stared in frozen horror. It wasn't the Eye crawling in through the door. It was Papa. His face was white death. His eyes burned with dead man's fury. He was a lifeless and hungry ghost of a man. He spoke, but not with his voice. It was the whispering voice of the Eye. “Come here my sweet treats. Time to taste my little cunts. I'm hungry. Hungry as the hippo. I want your insides!”

  Tears poured from their eyes. They couldn't move. The couldn’t scream. The dead old man moved closer, crawling with blood dripping, creating a bloody trail. They held each other now.

  They held each tight as they could for the last time.