by Bonds, Javan
I need the rest to psych myself up. I’m positive there’s gonna be a victory party tomorrow night. I’ll make sure I’m one of the examples of a model citizen Reaca will show off. He’ll want everyone to see he appreciates the work his slaves do for him.
When they come to get me in the morning and find out I’m not infected, I’ll be sure to offer myself for any mission. Gotta show I am a perfect servant so I can get close to Fielder. If I can find some way to get some peevie blood and something to cut him, I won’t even have to make a scene. Perhaps I can do it small so he doesn’t even know. I might even get out without him even realizing I killed him.
If I do that, you can bet he’ll realize it, eventually. I can’t wait until he figures out he’s going to die. Wish I could tell him. Either way, I wonder what the rest of The Black Hand will do. Will it be all out war or just a passing of the torch?
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28
The Wings of an Eagle
Saturday’s gone. Onto Sunday.
Sun’s almost up...and guess what? No Sako. Big fucking surprise! Maybe he did go to the preacher’s, demand protection in a world where dollars are barely worth wiping your ass with, dismember the damn Reverend, and skip town. Yeah, and I’m a fucking superhero.
Maybe good old Mike’s just recuperating, you know, from being violently assaulted by the straight-laced public servant. No kids went missing tonight. Well, at least none were reported. That means I get to go home tonight, this morning, what the fuck ever...so I can get a few hours of shut-eye. Bet I’ll be doing the same thing tomorrow... tonight... Goddammit!
If Sako’s not here, that means the preacher won. No way in hell that tough-as-shit bastard would give up and go home. He probably can’t even be fucking alive! He would’ve been hollering for the past solid day if the motherfucker had him chained up in the basement or something. Hirotaro Sako was just like me. Always seeking justice. And yeah, I feel okay with saying “was.”
He may be gone, but wrongs still have to be made right. The law still has to be followed. Justice still has to be served. There might not be a federal government to enforce the fucking Constitution, but there’s still natural law, dammit. If an animal attacks others of its own species, the rest of them will be forced to fucking destroy it. And fucking swiftly!
Last I checked, we were still human fucking beings. A select few protect our species...like Sako...and me: cops, servicemen, protectors, guard dogs. Call us what you want. Regardless of what moniker given to us, one thing always remains true. We will defend until the fucking end!
Enough of this waxing poetic, sounding Germanic bullshit. I’m just gonna keep doing what I fucking swore to do until I can’t do it anymore. Hopefully, after I’m finished, someone else will be there to take my place. The innocent always need defending. There are still monsters at the door...wolves in the night. Somebody’s gotta watch over the sheep.
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29
Ramblin’ Man
Though the sun hadn’t risen yet, it was coming. That meant it was time to get to work for the serfs of The Nash. On most days, they were given a piece of salt pork, enough time to get a swig of water, and were herded to the barricades until it got dark. If they were lucky, there would be only a few losses per cycle. Of course, slaves were far from fortunate to begin with.
When a barricade was up to one intersection, a team would advance to block any alleyways or entrances from buildings. After these groups gave the okay, the major body of workers would push another defensive construct up to the next street. This insured no peevies would be attacking from the sidewalks.
Once this task was complete, at least one squad of humans would surge into the buildings, one structure at a time. After the entire domicile was re-conned, those at the barricades outside the doors would move into the building and block all other ground-floor exits. This procedure had been repeated innumerable times throughout the process of growing the border. Though time-consuming, it was as close to foolproof as it was going to get.
Never allowing slaves to be armed with any kind of projectile weapon, The Hand equipped these first assault units with nothing more than baseball bats, machetes, and the occasional fire axe. Thick, long sleeve shirts, dust masks, sunglasses, and work gloves were the maximum amount of armor the subjects could hope for. Initially, names had to be drawn to pick out these units. Once it was discovered these assaulters got extra rations, volunteers nearly fought to be put in the thick of it.
On this Sunday morning, the end was in sight. Only a few more blocks of one-story buildings lay between the workers and completion of their task. Downtown was about to be reclaimed. Being a former paramedic, Paul Rawlings was part of the five-man strike team that volunteered to clear out one of the final structures. He was sure the celebratory meal of possibly a whole slice of Spam would be worth paying for in blood. There would be plenty spilled this day.
☠☠☠
Wearing a flannel shirt, denim jeans, Craftsman gloves, N95 disposable respirator, cheap sunglasses, and a leather covering tucked into the collar of his shirt, he was as ready as his fellows tasked with the mission. Armored to the maximum of servants, Rawlings was given a machete. A couple of Paul’s mates from home, Bill Bonar and Robert McInally, both carried Louisville Sluggers. Patti Rauccio, though, was outfitted with an aluminum baseball bat. Virginia Keim was one of the lucky ones on each of these adventures, armed with a single bladed fire axe.
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30
Be Very Wary
“Worked yesterday. No reason it won’t today.” Mike finished telling his wife as she completed snapping his shirt.
With a gesture, he forestalled her argument. “I know we’ve got a truck. I wouldn’t be walking and shit if it wasn’t useful. These Bible thumpers eat it up. Bet your ass it’s not comfortable walking a fucking mile in a goddamn black suit. Fucking Alabama!”
In his remaining hand, he lifted his walking staff, complete with the head of a wolf engraved at the top. Dipping his head, he started toward the door. “Just one... maybe two more days of this shit. Then, we’ll be sitting on our thrones,” he clicked his tongue.
Before making it around the first bend of Sunset Drive, the front door of every single occupied residence within sight almost simultaneously opened.
Were they all watching out their fucking windows? I don't hear any angels singing my name, but you can bet these goddamn fucktards will be praising holy Mike Brown! I still don’t know how they’re able to communicate, but the people that live on the other end of the fucking island will be at the church before my parade gets there.
☠☠☠
“The Lord has spoken to me once more! I was told we must completely wipe out every one of the fiends that claim to be benefactors. If the purge is not entire and swift, those lying savages will continue to peck away at the armor of God. Just like He commanded the Old Testament Jews. He said to destroy every last Canaanite, regardless of age, gender, or any other factors. Because some of them were spared, not every Israelite was allowed into the land of milk and honey. We shall follow the Almighty’s dictation, or none of us will ever see the promises fulfilled!” he spoke from behind the pulpit.
“The head of the snake, Mayor Collins, must be our priority. Even after that is taken care of, the body of the serpent shall be cast out! I tell you, children...if we do not strike with righteous fury, our attempts to bring about purity will ultimately fail.” The pastor pounded his fist on the podium as he spoke, reiterating sincerity. “The safety of your children...and the awesome power of God, demands that these servants of Satan be dealt with once and for all! Until the Lord our God is the ultimate ruler on this earth, we must be wary of thieves in the temple.”
Soft hymns began playing. “If you wish to see the rule of God on this earth, come join me at the altar... Bow at His feet. Seek His Guidance through these trials, and we will be allowed to see him reign supreme!” Continuing, Brother Brown stepped from the stage. “Join me, my
brethren, in supplication to our Father. May His will be done in the coming days.” With that, he spun on his heel and crouched, obviously deep in prayer.
The sound of every single church member rising was audible. They planted hands on him until there was no more room. After that, others laid hands on those touching him and so forth. A few broke into their own prayer groups, but he was clearly the center of attention. The Wolf was the epitome of a charismatic leader.
Un-fucking-believable! I wish I could tell them what they were eating. They’d be offering their own goddamn kids for another serving of person. That’s got to be what it is. And I hope they eat up the shit I’m bringing tonight. I’m betting we have an extended supply of adults after tomorrow. Apparently, they think I have a goddamn basement jam-packed with freeze-dried food. Only with some straining did he keep a maniacal grin off his face.
☠☠☠
After entirely too long of kneeling, the assembly broke away from their messianic man of the cloth. Pretty sure, I nodded off a few times. Knees popped as he stood and spoke loudly to the fold, tears of obedience in his eyes. “I believe we are closer to readiness. We have wrapped ourselves in the shielding of prayer. Now, the only thing we can do is continue to ask for His divine protection while we wait for the feast tonight. Jesus wants you to be focused solely on Him as you prepare for righteous warfare on the morrow!”
“Amen, Brother Mike!” and the like could be heard shouted dozens of times throughout the crowd.
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31
Six More Miles
Paul and Virginia were the first two ushered inside by those stationed at the door. After they performed an initial scan, the immediate area was decided to be secure. After that, a series of quick knocks was given. Bill, Robert, and Patti entered, baseball bats at the ready.
Large, picture windows lined the front of this former Nashville Hooters Restaurant, meaning the majority of the building wouldn’t be difficult to clear. Like in most eateries, the kitchen and bathrooms would pose the greatest problem. Guaranteed, it would be extremely difficult.
☠☠☠
“Can’t have your piece of cake without a heaping of shite!” Paul joked with his comrade, closing on the bathrooms.
In return, she snorted, “Looks that way. But who knows? This building might be easy like the last one I went through.” Paul could only shrug and shake his head.
A wide entrance opened to a short hallway, restrooms of either sex on opposite sides of the foyer. Only doing so out of habit, Paul turned to make his way to the men’s. His comrade was pretty much elbow to elbow with him as they stood before the door. They both rolled shoulders and cracked knuckles in preparation. The heart of the hive could be on the other side of the barrier.
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“Are you fecking serious? How the bloody hell is the room empty?” Rawlings was outraged, unwilling to believe it would be so easy.
Maybe their olfactory systems had been deadened by months of being surrounded by peevie shit. The room was spotless, even compared to most public restrooms before the fall. Backing out of the enclosure, they both decided the only other bathroom in the structure had to be the crux of the mission. The building couldn’t be clear.
Lagging one step behind his partner, Paul let her take the lead. Subconsciously, he was wary of entering the ladies’ room; Even one that hadn’t been used by any human ladies for a considerable time. The unspoken rule had been simply drilled into most modern males for their entire lives. Not stepping through that door was nearly without question.
☠☠☠
“I told you. Just as clean as the other one,” Virginia pushed open the entrance, exposing a perfectly white tile floor.
“But... How... This can’t be!” Rawlings was offended to not be attacked.
His compatriot shrugged. “Yeah, I’m saddened not to have seen tiny, blue, shit covered genitals as well. Don’t worry, maybe we’ll have better luck in the kitchen,” she chuckled as she walked out into the dining room, turning left to a swinging door.
☠☠☠
The other three of the same unit, all carrying sporting equipment, entered the kitchen from behind the bar. Apparently, their search had been as fruitless as that of the bathrooms. Life seemed boring without the constant threat of death. Thirst for blood needed to be quenched. Danger needed to be met head on, regardless of the consequences.
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32
Low Down Blues
Like every single wing shack in existence, this Hooters served fried pickles. Because this appetizer was so often requested, there weren’t simply a couple gallon jars. Found in the back of the kitchen was always at least one fifty-five gallon drum of dill pickle slices. That was a lot of vinegar.
This treasure was initially discovered by a single male peevie. In the many cycles since first revelation, the blue one that laid claim to this structure had rationed small increments of the intoxicant to only chosen fellows. The substance could be used nearly as a form of payment. Hunters, scouts, and... services... from females... could easily be acquired through bartering vinegar. Almost anything would be offered for just a taste.
Though the outer sections of this domicile were basically exposed to the dreaded light in the sky, a heavy layering of dung made the inner chambers feel cozy. Any blue one was welcome to nest in this enclosure... as long as they contributed more than simply a fresh spattering of diarrhea. Initiative to advance the hive was the only requirement to call this slice of shit heaven “home.” It was a secluded stinky oasis tucked away in the middle of a sea of bright fire.
A small, musty cavern, formed from manure, had been built up around the containers of the precious fluid. Opening the cylinder to get a dose of the delectable concoction before quickly resealing it was easy enough to learn. And only the original finder was allowed near the treasure. It didn’t feel on a higher level than the others around it, it just understood restraint. Only what was needed to grow the pack would be taken. Conservation was essential for expansion.
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33
Mo Journal Entry 2
Well, it feels like we left Guntersville decades ago. Most of the journey was entirely uneventful, just as boring as any other adventure of Mo Collins. I mean, I actually had trouble justifying bothering to chronicle most of the shit that has happened thus far.
It was really just us walking around in disease-ridden, shit-filled, stomach-churning putrid, peevie infested dams, passing through them, and continuing down the Tennessee River. Sure, it might have been entertaining to watch someone in power armor obliterate zombies with a fantasy weapon, but it’s got to be tiresome reading it. Hell, I only recorded it because there was nothing else to do.
In a previous journal, that episode with Festus was somewhat amusing. Oh, and if anyone cares, I was almost infected a couple of thousand locks back. But yeah, that one wasn’t worth reading, either. We’ve turned a trip across Alabama that would have taken just a few hours before May Day and made it into an extremely long, profoundly tedious cataloging of nothing exciting.
The shit going down in Guntersville while we’re gone must be interesting. Kids disappearing, rescue missions, my dad getting arrested, and all that fun stuff. Maybe there is a temporary replacement on the island for The Hero, who can think up a better name for his recordings. Wasn’t Benji talking about starting some kind of memoirs?
Shit, does that mean I’m going to die? Do I need to kill Benji? Why do I keep bringing up these same ridiculous questions? My journal isn’t going to answer me. I could just ask The Oracle next time I see him rather than freaking myself the fuck out. But do you think that’s really going to happen?
Flustered by these insane queries, I’ll promise myself to look for them once I finish this entry. By the time it’s completed, I’ll only remember that I asked something and will need to go back and look for it. When I find it, it’ll again upset me so much that I’ll need to go over the entire message. Because, you know,
if I asked myself something like that, it obviously bothered me to the point that it could’ve affected my writing
Once more, the scene repeats itself over and over. Do I have some kind of weird disorder? It’s the song that never fucking ends!
☠☠☠
After my soon to be detailed conversation with The Oracle, I found that the Cora had apparently passed into Mississippi without my realizing it. No one took pictures of the sign that said “Welcome to Mississippi” or “Now Entering The Tenn Tom Waterway.” I actually have no idea if such a sign exists on the river entrances into the state. You know, like on highways.
Up late this morning, The Oracle surprisingly beat me out of bed. He was sprawled out in a lounger. “We in muddy wata, foo.”
Gazing over the bow, I turned back to him with a confused expression. The water didn’t look particularly muddier than it did the day before. He clarified, “Magnolia State, cracka.”
Narrowing my eyes, I bit my lip. Smokes rolled his and shouted. “Old Man Riva, mufucka!”
My expression remained the same as I mouthed the question. “Mississippi?”
Blinking hard, he barely contained an explosion of anger. “Is you dat stupid, white bread? Da fuck you thank?”
That was insulting, though it was probably true, depending on the situation. Of course, unless we had somehow backtracked into Tennessee, that was the only other state we could be in. That is unless we accidentally made it to Georgia. I just wasn’t big on the nicknames for states. It usually takes me a minute to realize Alabama is being discussed when someone mentions Yellowhammer State. And I live there.