by D.S. Black
Chapter Five: Final Night in the Swamp
1
Darkness surrounds Jack while a bar of swampy moon light drifting through an open window streaks across his face. For a moment, he thinks he is still unconscious. Slowly his nervous system reminds him of the pain coursing through his body. The smell of infection is nauseating. Breathing causes exhaustion, his eyes barely stay open. How did this happen? What in god’s name was I thinking? He thinks, gritting his teeth in agony. Outside the world is dark, frogs are burping, and something is moving. Where is she? It hurts so much. The rustles grow louder and he realizes he hears footsteps. The door opens. For a moment, he sees a dark and dead figure, full of ragged and jaggedly sharp teeth standing in the doorway, staring at him, ready to eat him in his oh so vulnerable condition. He welcomed it, wanted it. He couldn’t kill himself properly, so let the dead man standing in the darkened doorway do it for him.
But then the figure walked out of the dark shadow and Candy’s face appeared. She was covered in blood, her eyes exhausted with madness; a deep madness embedded inside her. She mumbled something, as though she was talking to someone, someone real. Jack saw nothing, just his cousin walking over to him with a bag. A bag that turned out to be his savior.
She opened the bottle of antibiotics and fed them to him, handing him a glass of water she’d left beside his bed before she left, back when she was still Candy the Sheriff’s deputy, or at least what little was left of that person. The police uniform was now gone. The kind spirited blue eyes that once sparkled were now cloudy and gray, an angry, tired mist surrounding her pupils.
“Candy…” Jack’s voice croaked in pain, but he forced himself to continue: “Where is—“
“Hes dead, Jack. Andrew’s dead.”
Jack said nothing. He was now not only in great amounts of pain, but now shock had drove back into his mind. Dead? Another one bites the dust. Just like that? Yep, just like that he thought miserably. Nothing sacred left in this god forsaken land. He felt the tears welling behind his eyes and didn't have the strength to stop them. They gushed down his ripped face, stinging like a bee stings.
“Open up, Jack. I found antibiotics and pain pills.”
He did as she said. He swallowed the pills and laid back down. He stared at the ceiling trying to remember how all this had happened. Why had they ever left? This was all his fault, he was sure of it. Did he want to know how? No. Yes. No. “How did he die?”
“Not tonight Jack. I think we have more to worry about than just those religious crazies now. I don’t know for sure, but got a bad feeling about it. I need to lay down for a bit. We’ll talk later.”
Jack watched her walk away and right before she stepped out of the room, he once again saw her speaking to the floor, as though someone (or someones) were standing their listening and talking back. She’s lost her mind, that’s it. And soon he would too.
Andrew. Gone. No. They are all dead. Only him and Candy? It can’t be. How? Why? Only twenty-four hours ago, they’d all been laughing together, hopeful for a better future in spite of the worlds current condition. He thought of late night sleep overs with Andrew. How he'd kept Andrew awake by poking him with one of their grandfather's canes. He thought of the beach trips. All the many and wonderful beach trips. Him, Andrew, and Candy could barely sleep the night before, staying up late talking about all the fun they would have. Was it really possible he was dead? Not just Andrew, but Papa, and the girls to? All the good times, all the memories now lost in the sands of time? How could they be dead? It seemed like only yesterday that they'd been kids, playing in their underwear, blankets tied around their necks and flowing behind them like super hero capes. All the sandcastles they built, then watched as the ocean swallow them. The sands of time. The goddamn fucking sands of time. He thought of going out to dinner, sun burned and happy. Papa's wild laughter. The whole family together, smiling, laughing. Eating gator nuggets, drinking sodas, and the loud and wonderful laughter, the laughter of children, of carelessness and freedom—the sounds of the Old World. The Dead World.
Hey Drew! Where you going? Can't be dead old man! We still have too much to do. Got to get married, have babies, and all that jazz. Come on now, Drew! Stop fucking around, and come on back. We've got too much living to do, you know?
A strong wind suddenly shook the old shack violently for a moment, and Jack thought it would cave right over, like the big bad wolf was hoofing and puffing, and blowing his house (his life, yes, his whole existence) down. Down for the count, never to get up again. Down like Apollo Creed, and the world was full of Clubber langs [what is this?] and big bad wolves, who wanted nothing more than to destroy everything and everyone. Jack was quite certain life had lost all meaning. He didn’t know that something else was happening. A supernatural something. A ghostly something. A call from beyond the grave. He had no idea that what he’d seen Candy doing was not a sign of her losing her mind, but instead, was the only chance of survival him (and anyone) truly had. A dead hope from two little girls that had been eaten alive.
2
Candy fell onto her queen bed, face first and closed her eyes. She could smell Jody's odor on the side next to her. His heavy indention still there. She fell into a troubled sleep. She dreamed of horrible things. Wretched, bloody things. Jody screaming and begging for help. Her girls being ripped into, gorged open; Papa looking up at her with those dead, dreadfully scary eyes. She'd put him down and buried their bodies; now in her dream, her nightmare the bodies rose up and chased her. She ran and screamed; they were going to catch her; she knew it. Then she was suddenly back in that small shack where Andrew's body still laid; she saw him looking up at her with is dead eyes. He spoke and blood spat out of his mouth, but she could still hear his words. “Everything's gonna be OK. Don't you worry, now.” But his face was melting; the skin pouring off the bones in heavy and hot clumps; his eye balls rolled out of his skull and fell to the floor, a bloody string was still attached to them going leading up to is eye sockets; the eyes themselves looked up at her and one of them winked.
A cold hand touched her shoulder. She jerked around and saw Jody; he was bloated; his skin a dead purple and blue; his tongue hung from his mouth, swollen and dripping blood. His eyes stared at her and then burst with a bloody pop.
Her nightmare changed; she was now in her old back yard. She stood at their grill. She wore Jody's old cooking apron. Something was burning on the grill; she looked down and saw that it was arms and legs; too small to be adult, and saw Tamby's little blue bracelet, the one she got in her Christmas stocking one year. Then all around her the yard was burning, their small cottage caught fire, the windows bursting, scattering glass onto the burning lawn. She became aware that the yard was filled with open caskets, and now the bodies sat up like vampires waking just after dusk. She saw her girls looking at her from the caskets, side by side; Jody was a little further over to the right, looking at her; Pap was cackling loudly; she saw Andrew sitting up in his, the fire engulfing him.
They were all screaming, “Murderer! Babykiller! Murderer! Babykiller!”
Someone walked out of the burning house; it was Jack; his face was mangled and burning; he held a pistol in his hand, raised it to his head, and pulled the trigger; she watched, frozen in nightmare's cold grasp, unable to move, unable to speak or breath; Jack's head exploded in a flash of blood and skull; then laughter; they were all laughing in their caskets; laughing at her and pointing. “Join us! Join us! Join us!” They stared chanting over and over; she still couldn't move; she wanted to scream but noting would come out. “Join us! Join us! Join us!” She felt at thought she was going to explode with madness; a raging insanity was building in her brain like a cancerous tumor growing; she felt it eating her sanity in thick gulps.
Her nightmare continued like that trough out the night. She tossed and turned, sometimes screaming out loud; sweat drenched the sheets under her. Beside her—
3
Her girls stood as translucent, wavering figures. They
watched her as she slept. They didn’t disappear, instead, just stood there like timeless statues of protection and wisdom. The past and future, time itself, didn’t mean anything to them now. They saw the path they all would take. The path Momma, Jack—and people they’d never met while still alive—Duras, Okona… they could see slave girls, they could see a woman… Mary Jane and another… Tasha. They saw them trapped and scared, surrounded by evil men. Men doing drugs. Men holding out their private parts. The men they knew they were here to stop. Candy’s little girls didn’t know how they’d gotten here. They couldn't see exact locations, streets, and cities; they could only see the larger picture of what was coming, and even then only in fast and strange images, sometimes names and faces. They couldn’t remember what had happened. They didn’t remember the Plateye creature. They didn’t remember Papa attacking them and how they were too confused and scared to stop him. They didn’t remember the pain of this old grimy hands ripping their stomachs open and the blood spurting as he feasted on their guts. All they knew was that here they were and here was their Mama, and here was a path they had to take her on. They knew something else too… but it was more of an instictional knowing, not anything they knew how to conceptualize much less verbalize. Their was a power in them they didn’t understand, but knew that it was important. A power of time. The power of memory, at least the memory of others. And they could sense others around them, all over the place. Other dead people, other ghosts. Some with happy motives, some neutral, others with a dark evil that shadowed their minds from time to time, and caused them both to shiver with a fear that no living creature could endure. A dead fear. It was a hollow and and empty, except for a boiling rage that echoed its hatred for all life. They knew it controlled… The Mountain King. The man they knew they’d have to see destroyed, less he destroy what is left of the people they loved. They saw the path, but the path was by no means certain or without its traps set along the way. They saw someone else, someone that didn’t answer to anyone save for… Chaos. A lost soul filled with despicable hatred. They could sense his sad spirit, but it was solely independent—a spiritual wild card. They saw another man. He had a sweet soul. An old soul. Pinky. Pinky and a Native American. They could see the man called Duras and the man called Okona, and could feel the hatred they shared of each other, but also the love that would eventually bind them on the path being laid ahead. They saw the bright eyes of children, hardened children, but living and determined children none the less. They saw their part to play, they felt the cool calm of the lead child, the brazen courage that ran through all of them. It was pure…. The Mudcats… they were a pure band of energy, a life force representing all that was good in the world, a light shining bright, a beacon of hope in humanity’s darkest of nights. They saw a confused and sexually deviant man. He was a smart and conniving man. A man that preyed on innocence. He sat beside the Mountain King, helping the dark forces that caused them to shudder with cold and lifeless fear. While standing—if you call it standing, more like floating, barely in the physical world—above their sleeping mother, who had lost herself for a short time; they were here to fix her, to bring her back onto the right path, the path of decency and love. They were her conscience now, her spiritual guide. But so many road blocks are set up on the path, dangerous pitfalls with sinister men. They could see those men. Men like the Corporal Mullinax, a dark soul of utmost depravity. A drug and sex lusting maniac of the highest order and one that controlled the dank souls of soldiers congregated in that stadium of horror.
They hovered over their mother, watching her toss and turn till the early light of dawn sent bars of light through the windows; they watched her wake up; they watched as—
4
Candy opened her eyes. Sweat pressed the black spandex shirt she'd grabbed from the army surplus store against her body. The horrible dreams she'd had over the night were slowly fading as all dreams do. But the two translucent girls standing beside her bed did not fade; they were real; she was now going to have to accept that fact. She didn't understand how any of this was possible; but did it matter? Ghost daughters were better than no daughters. She rose up and swung her feet over the bed; she would face this New World one step at a time; the hurt wasn't going away anytime soon, but she was gonna make herself find a reason to keep breathing.
(murderer!)
(babykiller!
And seeing those men yesterday, and killing them (she'd never thought in a million years she could kill so many damn people without losing her mind) meant that more may be on the way; there was just no way around it; her and Jack couldn't stay here, even with Jack hurt the way he is. A well-organized party could find them out here, even with gators and miles of swamp protecting them. “Ladies” she said to her girls. “What's on the agenda? Any news from the dark side?”
“Time to leave mama.” Tamby said.
“My thoughts exactly.”
“You have to find a man named Pinky.” Hannah said.
“Pinky? Who the hells Pinky?”
“We don't know. But you have to find him.”
“Where is he?”
“We don't know. We just know you got to find Pinky. We just know a little.”
Candy rubbed the rest of the sleep out of her eyes and stood up. “Well. We'll just figure it all out on the way, I suppose. Time to get Jack up.”
5
After a brief breakfast Jack and Candy (and her ghostly girls) left the swamp for the last time. They had no clear idea of where they were going, but as they traveled inland small intuited nudges seemed to guide their direction; as though some unseen hand or force propelled them onto a set path. They had no idea of what was happening at the City of God, of the battle between Duras and Okona; nor did they know that the Militia was stronger than they could imagine.
But the unfolding of events were already well underway, and sooner than later, both Candy and Jack would come face to face with dangers that can freeze hearts and minds in terror; their fortitude, their sanity, their mind and body were now on a collision course with their inevitable destiny; for a long year they hid from the horrors of the New World, finding that their luck held out for a while; but all luck runs dry like a sun battered creek during a long drought; with their family dead and gone, the season that would test their ability to survive was now upon them.
Intermission: Dead Letters
1
To anyone that survives,
My name is Dale Thomas. I'm a news caster at Fox Carolina. Or at least I was. Three weeks have gone by since the Fever started. I'm holed up in the news station with a few of the reporters and production crew. The power went out a week ago. Food is getting short. They know we're in here. Those affected by the Fever stand outside the station like vultures, just waiting for us to leave. There are also... how shall I say... well... ghosts. That's the best I can do. There simply is no other word for the things I have seen.
Jesus...I just heard a gun shot.
Donny Evans shot himself. That's the gun shot I spoke of. Others are seriously considering “opting out.”
I don't know if anyone will ever read this. But I've always thought it important to keep a record of important events. I actually have a personal journal at my house, though I doubt I'll ever see it again. I'm going to give you (whoever you are) the best account of what happened (at least from my vantage point here in South Carolina and the news reports given to me) that I can.
The first week most people didn't quite understand the seriousness of it all. Most assumed the government had contingency plans. And they were right. FEMA had plans, plans that failed in the face of such a stealthy virus (or whatever it is.) In the first few days, our station received numerous reports from our Washington headquarters. The CDC (Centers for Disease Control) was hard at work finding the root of the Fever (as it so ambiguously came to be called) and the best in medical science worked day and night trying to finding a cure. The reports soon claimed that the Fever resulted from a Ebola vaccination mutation and originated
in Africa.
But this claim was never substantiated. The report also claimed that the Fever first showed up in the United States in Florida, then Texas, then another case in New York. The reports were simply too muddy and full of instantiated claims. It did not take long to realize that no body (FEMA, CDC, NOBODY) knew what caused the Fever, nor how to combat it.
Martial law was declared in all fifty states and the borders shut down. No flights in or out. But given the fact of the high level of violence, getting to and from an airport was impossible anyway. People did not understand the nature of the Fever, and when they saw a loved one become infected, they took little to no measures to protect themselves before the infected person “turned.”
During the first week the army and national guard tried setting up refugee centers. But they were overwhelmed. Let me reiterate on the level of violence and death. The Fever came fast and turned people into monsters. They attacked and ATE loved ones or anyone else. If killed, it had to be in the head (yes, just like in the cheap zombie movies, can you believe it?). But killing a mother, child, or father that had just turned was not easy for most people. Reports of trying to contain family members started circulating, followed by reports of the fool heartiness of doing so. It simply was not in the cards to contain such a fast moving virus.
After the first week ended, any resemblance of law and order was a thing of the past. People (such as myself and my colleagues) holed up wherever they happened to be. Reports of mass suicides came in. Then massive explosions erupted all around the Greenville, SC area and by the end of the second week all mass communication ended. All we had here at the station was emergency food rations and backup generators. The infected owned the streets, day and night. You might here a helicopter from time to time, but by the third week (and the current time of this writing) even that had ceased. Our station's helicopter, along with the pilot, reporter, and crew never returned. I'd like to think they found a safe location, but given the current situation...
Now... the ghosts. Before mass communication ended, varied accounts of paranormal activity started coming in, and coming in fast. At first, even with the fact that the dead roamed the streets, the idea of ghosts seemed like nothing more than the scared imaginations of millions of scared people.
But Peter Dike changed my mind.
Peter Dike has been dead for twenty years. He was this station’s manager back before Fox took over and I am staring at him right now. He stands at the control station, just staring. He doesn't talk to anyone, but he does walk around, smoking a phantom cigarette, as though a major event is on the horizon. Wherever he goes the temperature drops dramatically. Most of my collegues just stay away from the control station now. But I cannot help but watch him. Its certainly better than standing on the hot roof watching the dead move in the streets, waiting to feast on the meat from my bones.
I cannot even begin to try and understand why or how such paranormal activity is happening. Is it a mass hypnosis? God... I just don't know. I am a fucking new anchor not a theologian or philosopher. I have to rest. I'll write more later.
Its been two weeks since I last wrote. That puts the initial outbreak at about five weeks ago. Things have gotten much worse here in the station. Last night there was a rash of suicides. There is only a few of us left. And of course Peter Dike still owns the control center. I wish the bastard would at least talk to me! I've tried to talk to him! He either does not see me or does not care that I am talking to him. I don't know how much longer anyone in the station can put up with the mental strain. I feel my own sanity slipping. More later. Hopefully.
Its been a week since I last wrote. At least I think so. I'm all that's left. The rest took their lives last night on the roof. Some of them were not so good at blowing their heads off and turned. As the earlier reports suggested, the Fever seems to be inside all of us, waiting to assert itself. I locked the door leading up to the roof, but they are slamming themselves against it, almost nonstop. Sleep is now a forgotten dream. And my only companion is Peter Dike.
I'm going to end it tonight. I doubt anyone will ever find this letter. God knows I hope you do. But from the looks of it, civilization is over.
Peter Dike can have the damn station!
This is Dale Thomas, Channel 12 news, FOX Carolina, signing off! Have a good day South Carolina!
2
My name is Tommy Lister. I’m from Conway, South Carolina, and this journal is for those that survive.
Entry One:
Me and bobby fought off a whole lot of them jerkin bastards. Barely got out. A real shit eater. don’t know where army is. I don’t know what’s going on. Chaos round every corner. I saw three women torn apart by a gang of men in dark cloaks. they carried her off, half awake and screaming bloody hell. God help us.
Entry Two:
Momma’s dead. Daddy’s dead. Saw it happen.
Entry Three:
Got bit today. I’ve seen people go fast. I’ve seen em turn slow. It all depends on the person. aint got it in me to kill myself. Ill join the Ranks of the Dead. god have mercy.
Entree Four:
Still alive. Don know how much time. If Mr. Keely (my english teacher finds this): sorry for shit grammar. I done it Redneck. Till the end.
3
Dear World,
Today I killed my mother. I smashed her head in with her cast iron frying pan.
My name is Mary Beth Parker. I'm from Spartanburg, SC. I'm sixteen years old. I go (or went) to Spartanburg High School, where I am (or was) a junior honor student. This is the last letter I will ever write. As I stated above, my mother is gone. I had no choice in the matter. She chewed into my shoulder and then went for my throat. I've wrapped my shoulder up tightly, and the bleeding stopped. But the fever is getting bad. The news station is calling it the Fever, with a capital F. I can't leave the house. Its just too dangerous.
Why am I writing this letter? I guess I want to leave something behind. I want my daddy to know what happened. He doesn't answer his cell phone, and I worry the cell towers will go out soon. My boyfriend, Darrel Harris, doesn't answer his either. I fear the worst. It is an absolute hell out there. I think the world is ending. So much for Jesus I guess.
I'm sweating bullets. I'm so hot. And dizzy. I laid down in the dark for a while and felt a little better. That's when I decided I better write this letter before I'm unable to. It all happened very fast with my mother. She came in from shopping, and said she'd been bit by a crazy man. She was bleeding badly, so I helped her bandage it up. I told her we need to go to the hospital. She said something was happening and it would be impossible. I turned on the kitchen TV and the news showed me what she was talking about. People attacking and eating each other. It was like watching a horror movie. I stared at those images flashing on the TV for I don't know how long, and then noticed my mother wasn't talking. I turned around to her and she looked dead. I panicked and ran to her, shook her, and screamed so loud. Then she looked with a fast jerk, and I saw her eyes. Those dreadful eyes, like white fire balls. Then she grabbed me, leaned in, and took a chunk out of my shoulder. I pushed her away, tried to grab onto something, but only knocked myself over along with a number of pots and pans. She came at me, I grabbed the cast iron pan, and swung, swung, swung, SWUNG!
I swear I didn't have a choice! I swear! I swear!
I'm so dizzy. I wish daddy would come home. I think I am seeing things now. It must be the Fever, because I'm looking at grandma. She's standing right here, smiling at me. Grandma's been dead for five years.
God, I'm so dizzy.
4
To my family, to my Friends, to my Country,
When I first joined the Army, I did it because I loved America. I loved everything about her and still do. My daddy was career Army, along with my granddaddy. My granddaddy fought in world war two, my daddy Vietnam. I did two tours in Iraq, then another two in Afghanistan before coming back state side. I never married, because I was already married to America. I never, in a million
years, thought I'd witness her destruction. Not from terrorism, not from an invasion, and certainly not from some damned Fever. But, here I am. The last of my unit, holed up in this damn stadium. It was supposed to be a refugee camp. A safe place for citizens to come and wait this thing out. Who the hell were we kidding? The dead walked through our lines like unstoppable plague. We just didn't have enough fucking bullets. Those bastards multiplied so damn fast...
And I did what I had to do. Or am I am lying to myself? Some of those people... Jesus forgive me... they weren’t all infected. The chaos. We just unloaded. Killing indiscriminately. I still hear their screams. I’ll hear those screams for whatever is left of my life.
And now we're down to the ammo in our magazines, that's it. The arena is surrounded by the dead. There is no escape. No way we could shoot our way out. There's just too goddamn many of them. The other units either fled or were over ran. We held fast, cause we all joined for love of country, duty, and honor. Do those words mean anything now? We're down to the MREs in our packs. I tell you, its not a lot. I don't know why I'm writing this letter. No one will ever read it. Captain says we might just make a run for it. That's a suicide run of course. There has to be at least ten thousand roamers out there. May be if we'd made a run earlier, like the other units did. They took off when things got bad. When it was clear that we didn't stand a chance. When HQ stopped responding.
I think the stench is the worst of it. I've been around a lot of death. I've disposed of a lot of bodies over my career. But that smell dies off, forgive the pun. The smell of those things out there just lingers, and gets worse by the day. They don't sleep. At least I don't think they do. They just wonder around and wait...wait for someone to eat. A lot of them have army fatigues on. Soldiers that got ran through. God its hard to look at. Captain says if we can get out, we'll head towards North Carolina and see if anything is left of Fort Bragg.
Something tells me it’s a lost cause. Something tells me the human species is finished. Its only been a few weeks since the Fever started.
What will be left of humanity in six months?
A year?
