Humanity's Death [Books 1-3]

by Black, D. S.

  He fell over with relief, and Mary Jane had laid her head on his broad chest. She listened to his heartbeat. She felt the warm breeze coming from the pile of burning bodies, and smelled death's sweetness burning hot in her lungs and filling her soul with power to march on. She could remember the days before, but made a special effort to ignore them. Recalling her dead husband and son always made for a bad day. The memory of her sweet blue-eyed boy. That was always the worst. His birthday, his smiling teeth. A little boy's dream.

  A tear had run down her face.

  “I heard a tear fall,” Duras had said. “Tell me what's on your mind.”

  “My son. I'm alright. I'm just remembering a time my husband and I took him to Charleston for the weekend. He loves Folly Beach.”

  “Loved.”

  “Yes, loved.

  Duras and Mary Jane loved each other. A love forged in an apocalyptic furnace. A love that would soon be tested by the Militia, a group Duras had no idea even existed. He would know soon enough.

  3

  As his men cleaned the mess down below, he rested his chin on the top of her head, and stared out at the blazing sun and the blue sky.

  “Mr. Poet, would you please quote me something you dreamt of once,” she said.

  “In the darkest days, there stood a man without a plan.

  Lost in pain, loss of all hope, ready to die

  Then came an angel, from somewhere in the dark

  dark brown hair glimmering, blue eyes shining

  a cold and warm glare meant to wake my heart

  Meant to shake my soul, and loosen my pain.”

  She stared up at him, and kissed the bottom of his chin. “ What do you think will be here in one hundred years?”

  “A lot of walking dead people.”

  “Maybe a good scientist will find a cure.”

  “You're the only good scientist left.”

  “We really need to go out and get some solar panels,” she said.

  “I know. We need to find some; then find a blue ray player, a big screen TV, and all the Star Trek collectors’ editions with all the extras.”

  “And we will watch for hours. Tell me, what is your favorite episode?”

  “I’m not sure I have a favorite, but if I’m forced to choose; I would say, under the circumstances that the episode in Enterprise…” She interrupted him with a question. “Yes that’s the one starring Scott Bakula, and the episode I’m referring to is during the third season. Archer and his crew found a ship of Vulcans, but the Vulcans had all lost their minds; and act very much like our dead friends out there rotting in the sun.”

  “It’s good to be alive isn’t it?”

  “It’s better to be in charge.”

  “No doubt.”

  They held each other, and the day warmed. Down below, the sound of the bodies being shoveled made its way up over the rooftops, and into his ears. Vice stumbled through the roof’s gray entry door, quite drunk; holding an even drunker Mary Ann around her thin waist.

  “You rascals!” Vice started. “The sheep below are hungry for your words of wisdom.” His words came out in a drunken ramble.

  Duras stood up and stretched. “Join me dear?”

  “Of course, Sire.”

  Him and Mary Jane made their way to the staircase.

  4

  He hummed an old war tune his father once sang, but he didn’t know the words or the name. So, he just hummed and the sound echoed off the walls of the zig zag staircase. The metal stair handles were cold to the touch like a dead man’s hand. Vice and Mary Ann had stayed up top because he claimed it was his turn to do nothing, and bask in the great glory of the sun, enjoying the ants working below. So down and down some more he went, down the stairs until he reached the bottom where two metal doors, both with silver knobs, stood waiting his arrival. Then he noticed it. How had he missed it before now? Had they just built it? My god! What glory! In the corner of the door, right at the top right edge was a nest of blue jays.

  “Oh! How marvelous!” his dear Mary Jane proclaimed in one very excited voice. “I shall bring them worms and anything else they need!” she said.

  “I'll have the men dig you up as many as you need.”

  He stood, holding her close there in the dark at the end of that long stairway, and watched the light flickering in that small corner where the birds lived peacefully, chirping away. “I will make a decree. This right-side door shall never be opened!” he said.

  She jumped into his arms, and kissed him firmly. “You doll! You wonderful, courageous doll!”

  Eventually, he stopped staring at the chirping birds and pushed open the left-side door. The hot sun beamed down onto his face, followed by the foul stench of a thousand rotting corpses. In front of him was the town courtyard, covered in blood-drenched cobblestone. The feet of his men plodding against the stone, and he watched as they heaved the bodies on the backs of pickups that then carried them away in a sputter. He suggested it was time to deal with the sheep so with his dear lady on his arm, he marched with his chest held out trying to enjoy the smell of death.

  The flock had moved to the main cafeteria, and a set of guards protected the entry doors. Inside, hungry faces devoured soup and bread. Ron John the chef gave Duras a wiggly wave with his skinny black arm when he saw him enter. Then the people all waved and forced smiles on their faces, but the fear, confusion and anxiety leaked through their worn expressions.

  Duras kissed Mary Jane on the cheek and launched himself onto a table, causing it to rattle. He held both hands high in the air, palms out. “Listen up! I know you are all scared, but this is nothing more than a test; a test of our faith. There are faithless men and women in those trees out there, and occasionally God has to let them hurt us to make sure we are still his servants, but those that die in the name of God, receive a bountiful award in heaven.” Their eyes watched him intensely, and they had little choice but to want to believe enough that they forced themselves to accept his words. Fear is a powerful motivator, never forget that. Fear has helped warlords and great national leaders control their populations since the dawn of civilization.

  “We have come a long way.” He continued, looking down for a moment and contemplating his words. “When we first came together we were all famished, but I gave you a promise then, and I give it to you again now. Stand with God, and a place in his holy cathedral will be set aside for you in the next life. This is the Tribulation. There was no rapture and there never was going to be. That was nothing more than the hopeful ramblings of men that thought they knew God, but did not. Look at your plates, and thank God for the food we have.” The sheeple were taking his speech well. “Rest assured, we will march on the godless heathens that live in those woods. They are vermin! They are wretched animals! And, it is our duty as God’s chosen few to march into those dark trees, and burn every one of them!”

  “Do it for bobby!” One sheep shouted

  “And Sandra!” Another tossed in.

  And soon the one hundred strong group were in high spirits encouraging him to go with God’s speed and destroy the barbarians hiding in the murky forest. And for days after that, their spirits rose. The bodies were finally disappearing, and the streets were being cleaned. He helped pull the metal fencing from the storage buildings, and helped rebuild the fence. A few dead people strolled by, but nothing a few bullets couldn’t handle. Then after two weeks went by, the City of God was getting back to normal.

  5

  Like a reminder that life is never safe, a massive hoard came down and pushed hard against the northern side of the perimeter. The New World has a never-ending supply of zombies. Where do they all come from? It never ends. At least one thousand of the dead bastards groaned their way against the metal links. He didn’t sleep very much for days. Killing, killing and killing some more. Is it really killing when they were already dead? Who cares.

  The fence held, and he began assisting his men. One rotting corpse after another were loaded onto the pickups an
d driven to the fire pits. At the pits, the fire burned high, bellowing blackened gray smoke high into the air. When nightfall came, the hot black smoke became visible against the backdrop of a full moon. He sat Indian style on cooling grass, his hands resting on his lap, and stared motionless at the rising plumes. There was no escaping the smell of scolded and melted flesh. Some of the men sat on the backs of the pickups, smoking cigarettes and drinking moonshine. Others continued to dump the few remaining bodies on the smoldering pile. The night sky was clear, and stars shined. He laid flat on his back, and listened to the bones crackle in the flames. It felt surreal. He could not help but think, for just a moment that none of it was real. And then he thought, as his eyes met the big dipper above that somewhere out there might be life. Maybe they could see them. Maybe they watched them and laughed at their situation, or maybe they did not notice them at all. It wasn’t that long ago that those stars gave him goose bumps, made him dream of a marvelous future—commercial space flight, trips to the moon, and one day surely; even if long after he had died, his species would populate even the farthest of star systems.

  He let out a long sigh.

  That future is now dead. Dead as them. Dead as all of them will be. Dead! No life, hope, or joy left. No promises to keep. Nothing! An endless wandering. A joyless march into the abyss. That’s all, all that’s left. No greatness. No glories. No humanity. A dead species. Gone! Gone forever. Never was. Never will be; a forgotten memory. Where are they? Forever dead!

  Walking away from the fence line, back into the city streets, feeling the cobblestones and hearing the click of his boots, he saw Mary Jane walking toward him with hopeful glee shining in her eyes.

  He did not look her in the eyes and brushed by her. She ran behind him, and grabbed him by his shoulder. “Don’t do this again,” she said.

  He pulled his shoulder away and ignored her. He walked back to his castle home, and stared up the length of the Gothic architecture. The door clanked open, and he walked up some winding stairs, and stepped into a dark hallway. The clicks of his footsteps echoed off the marble walls. Along the walls, torches burned. His shadow flickered in the flame light, and the dark wood door of his room came into view down the broad hallway.

  His chamber door clanged shut behind him. The room was dark as night, save for a dash of moonlight beaming through a window and streaking over his bed.

  He sat on his bed’s edge, and that was when he stared at that picture bathed in moonlight. There she was. There they all were. Smiling and happy, because that was the day he'd taken them to that tropical paradise down in the heat of Miami, where the sand was so white, and their skin all got burned. Where he laughed with his boy, and sang stupid songs with his girl; putting them to bed and made love to his wife. That wonderful woman, so bright and so sweet like a flower in bloom, or sweet honeysuckle on a spring’s eve, and they'd loved all that night, drank cold red wine, and felt the warm ocean’s breeze. Smelled the salty sea, dancing on the balcony under the moon and the stars with the low rumble of the waves crashing not far; he will never forget those cool white sheets, and the morning after when that brilliant boy and beautiful girl came running in, waking them up, and begging to play; and down they all went to the ocean, and—

  And that was then, and now was now.

  He reached out and held that picture. He laid in his bed, pulled it close to his chest, closed his eyes, and for a split moment he thought he might beam back to that time when smiles were the norm, and bed crumbs were the worst of his problems; but now he had to fight the dead, keep the flock in line, and face the dreary world around him; he held his picture, and kept his eyes shut, ignoring the stinging tears. At some point he went to sleep, and dreamt of that moment in time.

  Professor Mary Jane

  1

  As Duras lied in his room crying over his past, Professor Mary Jane was remembering her own lost history. She sat in her townhouse, along with a bottle of warm wine in her hand. She wanted to forget about Duras and his manic way of shrugging her off. She knew what he did in his room. Feeling sorry for himself. That’s what.

  So why not give herself a little of the same treatment. Why not let her mind’s eye remember the days and nights before the Fever?

  So that’s exactly what she did. With the soft summer breeze blowing through an open window, drapes flopping softly, she allowed her mind to wonder back to her old life.

  She was in the classroom, only days before the virus killed humanity. She looked out at the rows of desks and young faces. “The Holocene extinction is the predicted 6th period of historical mass extinction marked by rapid loss of biodiversity largely caused by humans.”

  Around twenty young eyes stared back at her. Some of them were clearly high, others clearly hung over; others alert and taking notes.

  “Humans are killing off species thousands of times faster than nature creates them. The current rate of extinction across species is one thousand times that of the background rate before humans began altering the globe, and thousands of times faster than the creation of a new species.”

  She spoke to her class with real concern. She knew that something was coming, she felt it in her gut. And between global warming, the large number of species dying off, the threat of super bugs that are resilient to antibiotics, and the inability for humans to come to terms with the amount of destruction they ensue—she had known something major was in the air.

  It was a simple matter. Humans had to go. Nature wanted people gone, so that’s what it made happen. She never imagined the horror that was to pass. How could she have imagined people dying and reanimating like some shitty horror flick?

  She had a family. A husband and son. The whole American dream. A house, a two-car garage, and two cars to park.

  “PS4 mom! Fuck! Don’t you know?”

  “Make due.”

  “With a PS3? Really? Dad! Mom is trying to force me to live like a stone age peasant! Do something!”

  She was back at her house. Soft crème carpet under her feet. Mahogany trim on the walls. A large brick fireplace with a large picture of her family, her included, hanging above the hearth.

  In walked Mark, his Oxford sweater clinging to his pudgy belly.

  “Your son has lost his senses, Mark.”

  He chuckled at her and then spoke, “You just don’t know what these kids need, hon.”

  “Oh?” Her hands were on her hips, trying to act serious.

  “The boy is simply trying to keep up with the social trends.”

  Her husband was the head of the Sociology department. How she ever fell in love with a sociologist she was not quite sure. She met him her senior year. He had worn an Oxford sweater, even though the temperature had been around seventy five.

  She had been standing by the vending machine, staring at the candy hooked in the metal coils. He’d walked up and started babbling about how food choices are influenced by socialization.

  She'd always hated sociology, such a mind numbing waste of brain energy; but that day Mark’s idiotic, naive, intellectual fat face; clean shaven and smelling of expensive aftershave, and those cobalt blue eyes had caused her to give in.

  “Yeah, mom! I need to keep up with the social trends. Don’t you want me to grow up and be a fine member of society? I can’t do that without a PS4!”

  “Oh, Jesus! Take him to the store, Mark!”

  She wasn’t much of a mother though. By default, scholars are almost always shitty parents who raise snot nosed brats. Her son, a thirteen-year-old with an addiction to video games and Red Bull was a fine example.

  She just didn’t have the time to put into proper discipline, so the boy did what he wanted, and she always caved. Mark seemed to get a great deal of joy in giving his son anything he ever wanted. Nurture and love, that’s what a boy needs, said Mark. Proper socialization.

  The contradiction never seemed to bother Mark. The fact that his son had zero real friends never made him worry at all. Postmodernist sociology is what he called his spe
cialty. He believed that in the new age of consumerism, digital communication, and global connection, the traditional definition of friendship was inadequate.

  His soft voice explained, “You have to understand the concept of hyper reality, which creates the simulation of reality for modern day kids and many adults. Playing video games, watching movies, and so forth creates simulations that are more real to them than what you may consider to be true biological reality. For example, while kids are fighting the perceived enemies in their video games, it creates in them a feeling of power and control of being the hero. Not that I would expect a biologist to care too much about sociology.”

  He was right; she didn’t care, but being around Mark made her feel safe. Strange as he was, he made her feel so comfortable. He never got angry. Never screamed.

  She always wanted to see him blow up just once, but not a fat chance in hell.

  He yodeled though. Very loudly; it made her love him even more. That fat belly and those chubby cheeks, red and burning with yodeling passion.

  And his cheeks were red that day, the day she watched him smile for the last time.

  2

  A week before the Fever, she'd watched a documentary; if you want to call it that—on the History Channel. Some crap about the Rapture. People disappearing, cars crashing, planes falling from the sky, and all the nonbelievers stuck on earth while the Christians sat happy.

  She had a long day that day. It was finals week, and beside her sat a stack of undgraded papers and a half glass of raspberry wine. She flipped through the channels; she finally landed on the satellite radio channel for alternative music. A rare pleasure. She allowed herself to lose all touch with reality while the music glared.

  She listened to the tunes of The Offspring’s The Kids Aren’t Alright.

  Then she remembered growing up off highway 9 in Upstate SC by a shallow and muddy creek, filled with its dangerous water Moccasins. She remembered her daddy’s whiskey breath. He’d tied a long rope to a tall tree that hung over the creek. To that, he’d tied an old tire. And it was on that tire that the Creek Kids (that’s how she saw them at least) would swing back and forth, and many times, let go and crash into the water, causing red clay mud to rise. It was by that creek that she'd gotten her first kiss.