Humanity's Death: A Zombie Epic (28 page)

“It was real. I'm telling you it was real!
Jesus! In the world where the dead walk, ghostly experience is
beyond belief?” The look on his face ended the conversation and she
held up her hands in exasperation.

“If he kills you...”

“It’s going to work. Trust me.”

And so they did. Tasha, Chris, and Andre waited,
watching from the darkness beyond the tree line.

Moon light shined down on Okona's head; the
trees rustled behind him from a gust of wind; that’s when Duras
turned and saw him.

2

Duras, Vice, Rhino, and Ice Man stood a quarter of a
mile from the city behind broken down cars and buses. They were
only two hundred yards away from the vast low state wilderness. At
first he was sure it was some kind of trick. The bald fuck was
walking right towards him, wide open, holding a white flag, visible
under moon light. Vice, Rhino, and Ice Man shouldered their rifles,
ready to kill. Why Duras held his hand up to stop them; why he felt
a moment of trust for the bald prick; he wasn't sure, not then at
least.

There was something in Okona's eyes that stayed
his weapon; the full moon above shined brightly.

“
Not another
step!” Was all he could think to say in that moment. He stared into
Okona's gleaming eyes. There was an absolute certainty in them. He
couldn’t believe it, but he felt a stab of respect for the man.
Somehow he knew it wasn't a trick. Some feeling inside him told him
this was preordained. This had to happen. Whatever
this
was.

“It’s a trick Duras!” Vice said. He had every
reason to think it was a trick, Duras thought. But it wasn't.

“If this is a trick, it’s a mighty stupid one.
And if he isn't alone—and I doubt he is—it means they tracked us
and could have killed us already. Let's hear him out.”

3

And so they did. Okona explained the story of the
encounter with his wife. Eyes rolled and disbelief was apparent,
but in the end, what could be said? When the dead walk, when the
Old World is gone, when death is around every corner, what choices
were left? When a drug crazed, heavily armed, heavily maned militia
spreads throughout the Palmetto State like a human virus dead set
on killing and rapping on a scale Duras's Seekers could only dream
of, what else could be done? It was an alliance of necessity, of
survival. Born of strange and paranormal activity, this small band
of survivors didn't know the hell that awaited them in Columbia,
didn't know the bond that would grow between them, had no idea that
after that day, the need to survive, to save those they loved,
would bind them in a union of fellowship and courage.

And now, poised and ready to attack, both groups
(formerly and bloodily opposed to each other) entered the city.

At the about the same time the rape of Rusty ray
came to a close, the battle for the City of God began.

4

Lieutenant Thompson sat with his feet high on the
large dark wood desk. He was still in the main cathedral in the
center of the city. He was feeling quite proud of himself. He'd
sacked the city and hardly lost a man. He'd bagged a few women, and
ordered them escorted back to Recon 3's camp, where they would then
no doubt be taken to Columbia.

Would Cap be upset? Oh yes. Furious more like
it. But fuck him. He didn't just take a major objective with only a
small platoon, now did he? No sir. And the Mountain King would hear
about this; and then Thompson would get his promotion to
Captain.

At least I damn well better. If not, then
maybe I get a few of the boys together and have ourselves a little
revolt. Maybe send the Mountain King Cap's head on a silver
platter. HA! Wouldn't that be a sight!

Thompson felt like nothing could stop him. He'd
played a game of fine chess indeed. He'd used that holy roller,
then turned him into his own personal fuck toy and sent him out
into the dark night to die a good Christian death.

“
What a
fucking loser! HA!” He jumped out of the chair and walked over to
the large double door entrance. They'd been propped open to let the
summer night breeze come in. He stared out at the dark city.
I love the smell of
gun fire and blood. The smell of screams and fear! OH
YES!

He grabbed his crotch and squeezed. “Why didn't
I keep the holy roller for a day or two. Damn.”

The large stone steps in front of him led down
to the cobblestone street. Beyond that were town houses, dark and
without life. He could hear the sounds of his men somewhere in the
black distance. They were laughing. He'd told them to break up into
two groups and sweep the city once more before settling in for the
night.

Thompson still had his green BDUs on, but no
shirt. His skin was a dark tan. His hair black and cut short. He
looked like a young version of Ben Affleck.

He sat down at the top the steps and leaned
against a large pillar. He closed his eyes. He was drifting off,
ready for a few hours of deep, restful sleep (he'd found he could
sleep in just about any position).

Then he heard the first gun shots.

5

Duras, Vice, Rhino, and Ice Man went left; Okona,
Tasha, Andre, and Chris went right, agreeing to meet at the front
door of the towering cathedral, in the center of it all. Duras had
seen that the Militia was already starting to leave the city,
taking random women as they went. He once again thought of Mary
Jane and shuttered with rage at the thought of her held captive. He
still had no idea that Rusty Ray and the Seekers helped orchestrate
the invasion, but he had a dim hunch that someone in the city was
to blame. The timing was far too perfect. They knew where they were
and struck them accordingly. There was just no way to do that
without inside help. An inside job.

He couldn't stop a smile from crossing his face
as he thought about the 9/11 Truthers. No way a tower can fall from
an airplane. The pancake theory? That was just a front story sent
out via Popular Mechanics; just another New World Order printing
press controlling the sheeple with propaganda. That all seemed like
a million years ago. The Iraq war, Afghanistan, years later,
Benghazi, the 2008 housing bubble—all ancient history.

The night shrouded their movements through the
city. This was their turf after all, and Duras meant to use it to
their advantage. The Militia had left an occupying force behind.
They now patrolled the city in five man teams, heavily armed, and
seriously high as kites, jacked up on a powerful upper.

But even better, they seemed overly confident.
Probably hadn’t had much resistance; they’d probably been able to
run through the state unchecked.

Not today. Today they fucked with the wrong
group of survivors.

Duras wanted to find Mary Jane. But his mind was
already telling him it was too late. She was gone. They'd taken
her. He pushed these thoughts aside as he saw a patrol moving
towards them. Time to take out the trash.

Then another
memory occurred to him, this one like the blast of a psychic Colt
45. It came from another place, from another time. It wasn't really
one memory, but many memories overlapping each other all at once.
He stumbled and fell. Vice grabbed him before he could crash onto
the ground.
What in hells bells is happening to me?
He saw faces, millions of faces, dead
faces. Black faces, burned and battered. Children, mothers,
fathers. They wore ripped and torn garments. He recognized the
slave clothing from the middle nineteenth century. So many black
faces. So many lost lives, butchered right here. Right here in this
city. He was walking on a killing field. He saw the whips whipping
down on the backs of slaves. He saw the screaming women as dirty
old men raped them with Southern brutality. He saw a little girl's
throat being cut in front of her daddy. He felt their pain, it
whirled through him like an angry tornado. A tornado full of dark
and blood stained history. The black faces cried out to him, their
eyes bulging with despair. He heard the sinister laughter of the
slave drivers, the plantation owners, laughing, mocking their
cries. He saw families torn apart, carried away, never to see each
other again. A whirlwind of agony, ancient and persistent screamed
in his mind. Why hadn't he felt it before? All the stories he'd
heard. All the tales of ghostly horror that blossomed after the
Fever hit, after it all went to shit, like the dead had had enough
and now, finally, their pain would be heard once and for all. It
didn't matter, because just like that—

The faces disappeared. Vice slapped him hard
across the face. “No time for this now, boss!” Vice spoke with a
hasty whisper. “They’re coming.”

Duras pulled himself up and shrugged off the
thoughts of dead and butchered slaves like a person does with a
nightmare shortly after waking up. Hot sweat dripped down his face.
He tasted hot copper. Blood dripped from his lower lip; he'd bitten
it. Soldiers were coming; he heard their footsteps. The click of
their boots on cobblestones echoed in the night. They laughed.

(
just like the slave owners
)

Their voices were triumphant and stoned. Hearty
sounds, the sound of victorious soldiers after the big battle.
Duras felt a growl growing in his heart, reaching his throat, a
rage that couldn't stay contained. He held his rifle, then laid it
down. He pulled his bat’leth from his back and looked into Vice’s
eyes. Vice smiled and nodded. The soldiers were damn close. They
were coming around the corner—

6

Seth Taylor strolled heroically, high as the
mountain wind. Dried blood covered his green camo. Him and the four
soldiers walking with him were left in this place to keep it warm
and cozy for the next wave of Militia soldiers that would come once
they knew the area was secured. Seth had never felt so strong, so
fucking powerful. Today had been one of the bloodiest days of his
life and the drugs in his system only increased the orgasmic
pleasure the screaming faces brought him. They'd never seem them
coming, a slaughtering cake walk, baby. He'd raped a little girl
(she'd looked about thirteen or fourteen), then he'd just blew her
brains out, just like that. No big deal, still plenty of
defenseless teeny boppers left in the world. Jesus though... she
had been one cute little cun—

Seth Taylor never saw another thirteen-year-old
girl again thanks to the blade of Duras's bat’leth cleaving into
his throat. The blood gushed and ran down the blade. A loud gun
shot from Vice's pistol sent a bullet through the skull of one of
Seth's comrades, ripping his face clean off. Ice Man didn't waste a
moment manhandling a long, sharp blade deep into the heart of one
of the others. Rhino had attached his bayonet to the end of his AK
47 and ran the tip into the final soldier’s chest and then pulled
the trigger, pumping the body full of hot lead, sending spurts of
blood flying out of the man's back.

7

Okona moved stealthily, feeling a strange newness
about him. Since he'd stepped out of his wife's painting, back to
normal reality, everything felt off key, as though reality's thin
veil lost some of its solidity and pockets of supernatural and
rather ghostly rays shined through dark light. Certain areas seemed
to permeated with this feeling and this city was now filled with
it. He'd been in here before of course, but never felt this.
Something horrible happened on these grounds and the after images
and feelings never left, only waited till the right time to
reassert themselves onto living human tissue. It seemed the dead
would never rest again in the New World.

Okona led them through the shadows, staying
close to the buildings as they moved. Voices up ahead laughed and
cajoled, soldiers at play after battle. Okona held his hand up as
they neared the edging of a town house. They listened.

“Should a seen the little bitch. Runnin and
screamin. I shot her dead and pissed all over her!” Deep, nasty
laughter erupted. Okona thought he'd never heard anything so
grotesque as that laughter. The laughter of evil animals. Of
demonic spawn. Classless villains, drugged out of their minds;
their humanity forfeited for soulless darkness.

The soldier now imitated a little girl's voice.
“'Don't hurt me! Please! Please!' HAHAHAHAHA! I love how the little
ones squeal!”

What creates such evil in men? What spawns such
brutality? Okona thought these things, but had no answers. Then he
turned, gave Tasha, Andre, and Chris a wink, and stepped around the
corner.

“Gentlemen? Mind if we have a chat on this
lovely evening?”

The men just stood for a moment, stared at each
other, then looked back at Okona.

Meanwhile, Andre, Tasha, and Chris swiftly
worked their way around the other side of the building.

The soldiers didn't have much of a chance once
the bullets flew.

8

Duras heard the gun shots coming from the other side
of the city as he moved with blood soaked rage, cutting through the
remaining Militia's men. Guts spilled, skulls erupted, and they
pushed harder and deeper, until he reached Mary Jane's Apartment.
He entered, kicking the door open with a heavy boot, and screaming
her name. No answer came, of course, only the sounds of gun shots
somewhere outside.

He left her apartment, made his way to her
sister's. He found Mary Ann’s body; and then saw Vice's eyes.

9

Vice had spent his years prior to the end of the
world in the Army corps of engineers; that’s why he'd been in
charge of building the fences that kept them all safe for over a
year. He wasn't perfect, but the man had heart, albeit a bit
perverted; but none the less he fought like an eagle. He now held
his dead girlfriend and tears streamed down his battered face. All
the goodness that lived in her was dead, and the pain ran through
him like a shot of hell fire. Even with all his failings—the
attraction to younger girls, the heavy drinking—she had loved him.
He cried like a child. He held the corpse in his arms and screamed
to the roof, begging God to take him instead. He never knew he
loved her so much, not until now.