by D. S. Black
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.
Chapter Three: A Ghastly Return
1
Back in the pontoon, the swampy trees s
urrounded Jack. In them, a gloomy darkness seemed to scream loneliness. Down the narrow river the pontoon sped; and all around the innumerable trees, with their thick trunks, hid what might be an unseen fear—a hidden violent multitude, just waiting, hungry for the taste of flesh. In that solitude, there was nothing to do but sit still and think. Think about what was happening all over the world. How bad was it in other nations? What about the west coast? How much of the population now roamed flesh eating zombies? Can any of the Old World be saved, resurrected from this deathly squalor?
Jack looked at Candy. Her head was down, staring at the floor of the boat. He could sense her sanity cracking like a dam about to flood the once fertile, happy lands of her mind.
His glasses slipped down; he pushed them back up.
Was his sanity slipping as well? Would his mind come crashing down like a shattered wine glass against dark, black stone?
He watched Andrew guiding the boat. The thin shoulders of his cousin were hunched; an unseen weight pressed upon them.
A flock of black birds screamed out of the trees to Jack's right; they flew high in the sky like a ominous black cloud. He thought of Jenny from Forest Gump asking God to make her a bird so she could fly far far away. The birds were safer than any human; that was for certain; able to fly and go as they pleased; the world now belonged to them and the dead; it belonged to the crows and the gators, the wild things of the night.
The black water swirled around the boat. The sun was rising like a hell's beacon; a fire strip across the sky. His stomach rumbled; he hadn't eaten in almost twenty four hours; at least not a decent meal, he'd only picked at the food Okona gave them. He felt weak and tired. He wanted to sleep.
Up ahead, he could see their small swampy home.
2
Back at the shack, the trees enveloped Jack in lonely shadow like a forgotten ghost. He watched his cousins enter that rickety home. Candy’s maddening scream made him jump. His neck tensed and his heart pounded. He ran for the house. His feet crunched into leaves and soft swampy earth. Her screams persisted—a loud tearful bellow, hell's siren call.
Jack darted in. His heart stopped. My mind went numb.
Candy laid on her knees screaming out of her mind. Andrew sat in a corner not saying a word, just watching, void of emotion.
Two little girls, piled on top of each other, ripped open; and Jack's dear ole granddad, dead as can be, savoring their entrails, one bloody handful at time.
Jack fell to his knees, his glasses slipped off and cracked on the blistered wood floor. He saw his reflection in the broken glass; and stared back at his shattered self. He saw his hand reach down, and remove his pistol. He held it by his side, and stared with hopeless eyes. He breathed in deeply as he lifted the pistol with a shaky hand, placing it against his temple.
Hidden deep within a swamp, far from the world outside, he still couldn’t save them; in a world set with only tragedy, horror, and depravity—no man can live, no humanity can shine. In a world where the living and the dead walk, there is no place for good men to stand.
He knew it had to end; so he squeezed the cold steel trigger.
3
Candy’s mind was slipping. Her thoughts a grave yard of growing instability as she dragged Jack to his bed. He was bleeding badly; but he’d done a poor job of killing himself. She’d seen failed suicide attempts like this before. A gun to the temple was not always the best way to do it. The gun can slip just a bit and only leave a nasty graze. She quickly applied a bandage, but did nothing else then.
She walked back into the living room. Her thoughts wheeled quickly through her mind. Grayness threatened to take over; her moral compass was cracking; right and wrong, good and bad losing any real meaning. Her police uniform was in tatters; a symbol of a torn past.
She carried the bodies of her girls and Papa outside one by one. Andrew brought a can of gasoline and handed it to her. She said nothing. She poured the contents over the bodies. Andrew handed her a box of matches. She opened it, took one out, and struck it against the side of the box. She threw it onto the bodies and flame engulfed in a fast whoosh.
Andrew was crying. Candy just stared; her thoughts darkening as quickly as the bodies of her family. She watched them smolder; their white skin turning dark black. The smell was abominable; but she breathed it in, refusing to try and avoid the dead perfume of cooking flesh.
The black smoot now covered her face like a black, smudgy mask. Her red hair now showing through black dust. Her soul now tainted with the decay of the New World.
4
Jack awoke, his vision a blurry haze of unimaginable pain. His entire face screamed for mercy; and the world was black from the right side over. He laid in his bed, surrounded by the old wood of the swamp shack, and the always present swell of the dying world. He had no idea how he'd gotten there.
What had happened? How was he still here? These questions rushed through his mind for only as long as the throbbing pain allowed. He let out a low bellow of agony. The memory of Papa chewing on the remains of the girls sparked in his psyche. How did he allow this to happen? His life is over. It is a forgotten memory. Part of the world that once was, and will never be again. His hopes, dreams, and worst of all, he feared, his humanity, his wonder and joy, forever lost in the dark haze of a darkening, insidious world.
He tried to move, but to no avail. The pain swelled once more. He couldn’t move. He didn’t want to breath, though his body forced the air in and then out, causing grief mixed with self-hate to plunder his soul, his mind, his heart, every inch of him calling out, without saying a word, to please just let him rot, just let him die now.
“Candy.” He barely spoke; it came out of a hoarse whisper.
But she heard him none the less. The door creaked open, and in she came carrying something in a brown bottle with a white screw on lid. She didn’t say a word. In his now left sided vision, mixed with the pain of failed suicide, he saw her battered police uniform; it was covered in dirt and the stench of swamp water; clotted portions of smoke smut blackened the once pristine and pressed uniform. The odor of a recent fire followed her, and lingered with her every step. Her face was emotionless; her eyes unresponsive, her cheeks smothered in dark soot. She walked with impatience, and stood over Jack for a moment, staring down with blank eyes, almost as though he didn’t exist. He felt her firm grip on his chin, and a bandage tore from his face. He screeched in agony.
“Shut up.” She said and forced his face in the opposite direction. The sound of the brown bottle's top twisting open, and then the striking sting and smell of alcohol smothered his face. His legs jerked, his hand gripped the dirty sheets, and he cried tears of discomfort, hate, and suffering.
She wrapped a new bandage on his face; he then heard an old wooden chair scratch against the splintered floor; candy plopped down beside him. Her stare focused on the floor, and her elbows met her knees. Jack stared at the top her head; her filthy red hair, meshed with sweat, blood, and soot, half clung, half dangled from her scalp.
“Candy…” Jack murmured.
“I have to go into town. Your wound is gonna get infected soon. The humidity, the moisture causing it to fester. That's the last of the alcohol and bandages.” She said.
“Where is Andrew?”
“He's waitin outside. I have to go now.” She stood, and walked out of the room without another word.
He laid helplessly, unable to fathom his idiocy. His mistake. His bamboozled attempt to end it all in the face of that scene. Oh god. He ate them. He was gone. Papa. The girls. All gone. Forever. Never see them again. The pain. The horror. The filth he lived in now. The world is gone forever. Nothing. Left. Gone. Yes. He will die. Soon. He hoped.
Chapter Four: Candy and Andrew
1
Candy stood at the edge of the embankment, staring out into the dark trees.
“Its OK Candy. Everything is going to be OK.” Andrew began, “we’ll get through this. Just you wait and see.” He reached and pulled the
engine’s cord. It rumbled alive.
Candy watched as her brother guided the pontoon away from the bank and back into the dark water. He turned and a cheesy smile spread across his face. His thin arm rose, and he gave a wave. She forced half a smile. He disappeared upstream. She stood for a moment longer and then turned away and moved to the Humvee. Her tattered uniform clung to her body and sweat soaked through the material. Her mind was also drenched; soaked in anger and confusion; a desire for revenge that seemed impossible to obtain. In twenty-four hours she'd lost her husband, twin daughters, and grandfather. To make all this shit stain that much worse, Jack would die if she didn't find antibiotics. She walked over to the Hummer, climbed in, and slammed the vehicle’s door shut.
The narrow dirt road stretched long in front of her. Both her hands gripped the steering wheel while her knuckles turned white. The suspension kept her steady as the Humvee moved over uneven ground, pot holes, and marshy wet spots. The Cyprus hung high on both sides of the road. The tree’s boughs closest to the road dangled over and early morning fog created a dark misty tunnel.
She pushed a button on the CD player panel. Loud guitar music blasted the sounds of For Whom the Bell Tolls. She reset the song to the beginning and rolled down the window and for a brief moment she closed her eyes. Her eyes popped back open. Her look was stern, and hard lines ran down her face like dry rivers.
She turned the music to maximum and rolled down all windows. She screamed. She screamed again; the noise sounded both and chocked; scared and wild like some primitive beast was being unleashed. The shadows from the trees dashed across her face followed by streaks of sunlight. The road that led to highway 17 came into view. She floored the pedal; tears staring down her face, filling in the hard lines as bawled madly. The opening to the two lane black top came into view; she didn't slow down; the Humvee screeched and nearly flipped as she pulled the wheel hard to the right, steering onto the asphalt road.
