by Black, D. S.
“After the dead people started walking.” She finished for her sister and continued. “All sorts of weird stuff. Remember Mema tellin’ about the Headless Horseman of Fenwick Hall?”
“She called it a love story. Yeah! I remember, or the one about the Old City Jail? How the Gullah people talked about it like it was all real, Cause all the slaves got butchered and hung.”
“'Souls don't rest easy after that kinda blood lettin, girl. That's what Mema said.”
“That's it, that's what she said. Let's not talk about it, okay?” 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. Sunlight disappeared, and dark shadows 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 older than the tree, 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.” The voice came out as a sinister whisper. Now a tongue, a massive and thick charred green tongue appeared, rolling out of a 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 Plateye 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 II (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 eighties recession, and then the glorious nineties. 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 tow 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 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. Wartime 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, because 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 fiddler’s 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 sound 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 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; too deep 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, staring into the Eye.
4
The girls backed away, holding each other. Their tiny legs shaking beneath them, their knees begging to buckle. Their grandfather 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 backward, 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 ain't gettin 'em! You's a damn demon from hell! You ain't gettin 'em!”
The ground shook under the girl’s 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 son of a— “
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 wheelchair.
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 sh
ort 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 through the crack under the door. All the windows were darkened by a black shadow; the shack began to shake violently, and the door swung open. They stared in frozen horror, it wasn't the Eye crawling in through the door. It was Papa; 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, they 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 as tight as they could for the last time.
Thompson Makes a Move
From their position, Thompson saw the explosion from a distance with his binoculars. He saw the zombies moving in to the City of God. This was his time.
“Sir…I don’t know if disobeying Cap—"
“Shut up, Randy! Worry more about disobeying me.”
None of the other soldiers cared what their orders were. They were busy snorting their allotment of the White Mist. A fine, and powerful concoction that came straight from the layer of the Mountain King.
“Hurry it up boys! Our contact is waiting, and it looks like these fools are prime for the picking. The city will belong to the Militia within days. Oh shit!” He looked around at his men. “Almost forgot. You two, what are your names again?”
“Name is Stance, LT. This two here’s Tyler and Downy” said, Dillon Stance. Sun burned the man’s face; his red hair was matted against his forehead, and White Mist crusted around his nostrils. Drops of sweat beaded down his face, though he certainly didn’t feel it. The Mist gave him super powers, at least that’s how he felt. He’d done coke before the Fever, and even meth, but White Mist was something else. He didn’t have much of a vocabulary, so the word supernatural never occurred to him.
Beside him was, Bobby Tyler. A tall lanky black man who was lucky to be part of the Militia. There were black people in the Militia, but they rarely did much else other than clean up after the whites; and if they argued, they caught a bullet faster than they could blink. Bobby learned to obey fast, and was an accepted member of Force Recon 3. With the help of the White Mist, forgetting about his past as a business major at South Carolina University wasn’t hard to do. The Mist erased all doubt.
The other man was John Downy. Downy was bulky, with a large belly that didn’t diminish even without the large amount of food he used to eat. He’d owned Downy Automotive, a small mechanic shop that had brought him in about fifty grand a year before taxes. His wife had left him, took his kids, and only called if he was late on child support payments. The Fever for him was a blessing from God.
The three men stood at attention, awaiting Thompson’s orders.
Thompson stood in front of them, “A while back, we lost a unit exploring the swamps. Fools probably ventured too far, got caught up in the marshlands, and then met a few hungry gators. Cap wants it checked out, so that’s what you’re going to do.”
“Yes, sir! We here are the best soldiers the Militia has. If they out there we find em,” Dillon Stance said. His face took on a sudden worry.
“But… you think we can take some Mist? Just enough to see us through.”
“And some if we get lost! Don’t leave us out without it!” Bobby Tyler blurted.
“Chill nigger!” Thompson snapped. “Randy! Hook these fools up with enough to see them through a few days.”
Dillon’s face sparked with joy. “Thanks! You count on us sir! You bet!”
Bobby Tyler had lowered his head. He’d been conditioned to feel shame when he spoke up. He felt like crying; he never wanted to get on the bad side of his leaders.
“Oh shit. Chin up nigger! All’s well that ends well.” Thompson said. “Just watch those fat black lips.” Tyler shook his head in agreement, but said nothing; scared to even look up.
John Downy only stared at the clear plastic bag that was handed to Dillon. His mouth watered, it was more beautiful than any car he’d ever seen.
The three men left on foot, and headed towards the swamps.
After they were out of sight, “You think we will see them again?” Randy asked.
“Hell, I doubt it. Damn idiots. OK! Get these others ready to roll! I don’t want to be late for our meeting.”
A Ghastly Return
1
Back in the pontoon, the swampy trees surrounded 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 with 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 an 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 a 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, his 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 a 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, staring 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 were a graveyard 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 sui
cide 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 right then.
She walked back into the living room. Her thoughts wheeling 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 as 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 flames 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 soot covered her face like a black smudgy mask. Her red hair now showing through black dust. Her soul 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 until all thought was swallowed by throbbing pain. 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.