Humanity's Death: A Zombie Epic (6 page)

“Move YOUR FAT ASS!” Jody snapped back to the
sight Andrew screaming in his face. A face covered with blood and
bits of guts. “Move! It bit you! FUCK!” Jody snapped around and
opened fire. Jody fought with the rage of a dying father. He saw
Jack in the distance.

13

Jack saw Andrew and Jody running towards him; Jody
was holding his shoulder.

“No!” Candy screamed and ran for her
husband.

Jody fell to his knees; and held out his hand,
ordering her to stop. His eyes were turning red, and his veins
started to enlarge. Then a bullet ripped through his skull,
spilling the contents on the pebble streets. On a roof, no so far
off, stood Duras with a sniper rifle. A group of thirty undead
broke off, and made their way towards Jack's position. Candy,
Andrew, and Jack took cover behind a nearby car. Bullets pinged the
vehicle as Jack took a peek around. He watched in horror as grimy
dead hands pulled out chunks of Jody’s intestines; and nasty teeth
ate into his neck, blood filling their insatiable mouths.

“Noooooo….” Candy murmured as her eyes dripped
tears.

In front of Jack was dark shadow; and somewhere
beyond that shadow was the wall where a rope still hung. Duras’s
fire had left them alone, and now focused its attention on the
massive horde engulfing his city. Jack didn’t see Okona. He didn’t
know where he’d gone. He didn’t’ wait. He motioned to his cousins,
and took off into the darkness. Candy fired well placed head shots
into any dead man that came near, opening up their path.

Climbing up the rope, Jack's muscles burned.
Sweat dripped from every inch of his body. The smell of rotting
flesh, and the screams of countless dying people filled the night
air. A bright, full moon shined above; and bright stars twinkled,
like an ironic wink meant to convey their enjoyment of humanities’
extinction event. Jack helped his cousins over the wall, onto the
plat form; and as they jumped to the other side, Jack took one
final look at the scene. The undead filled every nook and cranny,
every dark alley. Large groupings feasted on their victims. Their
white hot, soulless eyes looked content as they chewed fresh meat,
and grinded the warm entrails between crooked teeth.

Jack dropped to the ground, and left the city to
die. He didn’t go back to the forest. He wanted out from here. Back
to the swamps—back to safety and security. Back to his grandfather,
and those wonderful kids. So he ran with his cousins by his side,
back through the abandoned streets, by the bar he was held captive
at, and finally to the Humvee.

Back on the
Humvee, a long stretch of zombies littered the road. Their heads
jolted and their eyes lingered on Jack, instinctively wanting the
flesh on his bones. Their retched stench entered the open window.
He grimaced, then squinted as the early morning sun rose.
Would we all end up
like them—thoughtless, brain starved animals? Is there any hope of
really saving my species? At least the zombies kill for food. What
can I say in defense of so many humans that choose to kill their
fellow man for sport? There will always be men like Duras; the
madness may never stop, not until we’re all dead, and then we’ll
continue to enjoy the blood shed as dead men walking.

He laid his head against the head rest. Candy’s
reflection sat in the passenger side mirror, staring longingly
outward, probably thinking of Jody.

Jack
thought
,
those kids have no father now. How will they take the news? Are
they even there? Is this a dream. Let them be there.
Alive.

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.