Humanity's Death [Books 1-3]

by Black, D. S.

  Duras looked up and a herd of zombies moved their way. He took his rifle and aimed. He saw what looked like an old business suit. A bloody money clip clung to a black leather belt. He blew his head off.

  The next one wore a blood-stained yellow sun dress; she had blond hair. He saw her earrings. The diamonds hadn’t lost their sparkle. Maybe she was the manager’s wife. He put a bullet through her skull. Her head exploded; she tumbled to the ground.

  He saw a black man with a blood-stained Rastafarian haircut. His eyes burned white hot and his face had gone from black to a pale gray. His cheeks sunk in like pot holes and half his chin was missing. Duras pulled the trigger.

  He saw a young boy. His shirt said SKATER FOR LIFE. His face was a grayish green and his eyes burned hot white; he still wore a black helmet with stickers stuck to it. Duras aimed for the middle of his face and fired. He went down.

  A fat dead man with a Grateful Dead shirt on, came into view. Duras fired into his stomach for the hell of it. Blood and guts poured out, but he kept moving forward. The next shot removed half his head.

  He saw a little girl. Maybe she was five when she turned. Her dress was torn and bloody; her blond locks dangled from a loosened scalp. He'd shot many kids since this world turned dead, but every time hurts. Every time it was like watching humanity die all over again. Who would she have been had this not happened? She would be in school right now. She’d be saying the pledge of allegiance. She’d be studying basic geometry; he pulled the trigger.

  “You okay, boss?” Rhino asked.

  He let the tear drop down his chin and fall to the earth. He raised his rifle and put the final dead man down, “Let’s get them loaded and get back.”

  They did not put up much of a fight as they loaded their bleeding bodies on the roof. Rhino and Ice Man tied them down with thick nylon rope. As the Jeep drove down the road, Vice pushed his head out of the window, “The worst is yet to come, boys!” he shouted up to the people strapped to the roof.

  This was all that was left of humanity. The four of them in this Jeep, the people back at the compound, the people in wilderness. Who else was out there? What was left? Anything? Did any other country do better? Where were they headed? What did all this mean? Questions with no answers. That was all that was left. A world of decaying corpses walking around eating what was left of the living. How long did they have before all that roamed was the dead? Months? Years? Days?

  The hot wind whipped through the windows and he looked out. Nothing! Nothing at all! No wonder, no joy; only death. Sweet deathly misery.

  “Don’t think so hard.” Said Vice as he reached back and slapped Duras's knee. Duras forced a slight grin and turned away.

  7

  Back at the compound, a large gathering of people waited at the front entrance. It was a personal D-Day welcoming party. Shouts of victory roared.

  It was nearing midday. The sun was hot; the sky was clear. The humidity dripped down Duras's neck. His head hurt; he forced himself to ignore it.

  He helped unstrap the bleeding fools from the top, and hauled them down.

  “Crucifix! Crucifix! Crucifix!” the crowd shouted.

  Hatred, pain and sadness covered their faces. Bankers, lawyers, and school teachers screamed for the death of these men. Did they ever believe they would come this far down the evolutionary ladder? It happened so quickly.

  Barney drove up in the Gator with crucifixes tied to the back. The faces of the prisoners were sullen and drained. Blood oozed out of their gunshot wounds. The crowd pelted them with pebbles.

  Holes were dug for the crucifixes. Duras took some large nails from the back of the Gator and a hammer. The first one screamed bloody hell while Rhino and Ice Man held him down and Duras hammered the first nail through his wrists. The next two begged for mercy and forgiveness as the hammer nailed them. The final one looked Duras in the eye. “You're not Christian. God's gonna treat you to some serious hellfire!”

  “Maybe. Too bad He can't save you though, huh?” He said while he drove the nails into him.

  They rose up into the sun. Their bodies dripped with blood. The cries lasted throughout the day, but began smoldering out as night came. The entire town was out to see the spectacle. Lawn chairs were brought out. Food was being cooked. It was a celebration for the lives lost and the redemption brought in their names.

  Duras sat staring at their dying bodies. They would turn soon; he would finish them off. A warm hand touched his shoulder then rubbed the back of his neck. “Hard day at work, hon?” Mary Ann said.

  “Just another day at the office.”

  “The office of the dead.”

  “At least I get to work outside now.”

  “Comic book store owners didn’t get to work outside?”

  “Not so much” he said, wrapping his arm around her.

  She laid her head against his shoulder. “What’s for dinner?” she asked.

  “I think Barney is cooking some pork.”

  “The white meat.”

  “That’s what's for dinner.”

  They sat in silence for a while. The smoke billowed high in the night sky. The smell of death everywhere.

  “We buried them while you guys were out,” Mary Jane said, breaking the silence.

  “I heard.”

  “Sarah Ann sang a song.”

  “Was it good?”

  “Dreadfully appealing. Some Celtic tune she learned while studying in Ireland.”

  “History, wasn’t it? Is she still keeping that journal?”

  “Every day. And, yea! She studied history.”

  “I’m sure she has painted me as a tyrant.”

  “Would you have it any other way?” she said, turning her head up smiling.

  “Who the hell does she think is going to be around to read it?”

  “I guess it keeps her from losing her mind.”

  “That and the wine. I can’t count the amount of dead and living I’ve killed to keep enough wine for her to drink.”

  “Everyone has their sins.”

  “What’s yours?”

  “You of course. You and your dungeon hideaway I have to keep up with.”

  “Listen…”

  “Don’t. I understand.” She squeezed his arm.

  “That’s why I love you.”

  “Love. Is that a new word?”

  “I just made it up. Do you like it?”

  “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

  She pulled him closer against her. “You could use a bath,” she said.

  “Me? I can smell you from here.”

  “Hush you. I smell like roses.”

  “Dead roses.”

  She laughed, then said: “Everyone is dead.”

  “We are all dead, yes.”

  “Dead and dying.”

  “Cold and alone.”

  “Hollow as stone.”

  “Is stone hollow?” he asked

  “Why not?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  “Rhyme, meter and meaning do not matter in the day of the dead,” she added, snuggling deeper against him.

  “Here comes the pork,” he said as plates were brought to them.

  They ate the pork side by side and said nothing as the night grew older. The stars shined bright and the world was at ease for a few hours. The prisoners had turned and were growling for flesh.

  Duras finished his plate, and stood.

  Mary Ann grabbed his arm, “Not yet. I want to watch and listen to them for a while.”

  “Getting sentimental, are you?”

  “The moans of the dead will do that to a woman.”

  “So, I hear.”

  “I hear hell in their moans. It’s what awaits us.”

  “You know better.”

  “Yeah. This is hell. This is hell and heaven combined.”

  “Maybe it will snow this winter.”

  “Winter? Aren’t you becoming the optimist?”

  “A man has to dream sometimes.”

/>   “Be realistic. Maybe fall will come.”

  “The dying of the leaves, the turning of the season, nature’s symbolism at work.”

  The night moved along while a few clouds blotted out the stars from time to time. The dead men growled from their crosses as the moon cast shadows along the pebbled streets. The streets were empty. Only him and Mary Ann now; she held his arm as he tried to stand again. “Not yet. A little longer. Do you think they dream?” she asked.

  “I don’t think they sleep.”

  “You don’t have to sleep to dream.”

  “Just about flesh.”

  “Maybe more. When there is no flesh around.”

  “Then they just moan and groan in large groups.”

  “What will be here in ten years?”

  “Just a lot them.”

  “The dead inherit the earth?” Mary Ann asked, and shivered.

  “That’s a fact.”

  The night continued to dwindle until the early sun started to rise.

  “I wonder what’s happening in China,” Mary Ann mused.

  “A lot of little dead people.”

  “Don’t be racist.”

  “All the PC squads are dead.”

  “I’m still here.”

  “I’m sorry. I love the little Asians.”

  “And they love you.” She kissed his cheek. “Now come on, I will help you finish them off.”

  Together, they gave them the final death and carried the bodies to the burning pits. As the sun continued to rise, the gasoline caught fire with the match Duras threw in. “What do you say we go up to my chamber?”

  She looked at him, “You know I love it when you talk medieval”

  Thompson Watches and Waits

  As Duras and his friends and citizens were fighting off the invading zombies, having a trail for Vice, and dining and smoking—Lieutenant Thompson waited and watched. He waited for the call from his contact in the city. He watched from a distance with powerful binoculars. Watched as they somehow killed over thousands of zombies. He was impressed; he almost hated to kill them all. They would have made good soldiers, but after having the power and freedom for so long, Thompson doubted they would come willingly into the fold. No! Blood was necessary. Killing them was the only choice that made sense.

  He had just returned to his small hidden encampment. They’d set up in a section of wilderness about a mile from the City of God. The hummers were covered with tree foliage, and their tents surrounded by barb wire and cans—the New World’s addition to everyone’s camping necessities.

  He was greeted by grunts of recognition as he entered the small encampment. The men were feeling fine and high as kites. He’d taken the watch for the day, and given them a chance to relax. He was their leader, and took the job seriously. The drugs made them loyal, but he believed in leading from the front. As he unzipped his tent, he smelled what was surely Randy waiting, lathered with the lotion Thompson loves so much.

  “Very nice.” He said as he climbed into the tent. Randy was nestled on sleeping bags, completely naked.

  “Just how you like it, sir.” Randy wasn’t a gay man. Had someone told him he would be a bitch before the Fever; he would have never entertained the notion, but after being with Thompson for nearly six months, he’d learned to accept his new role. He even believed he loved Thompson, and that the Lieutenant loved him as well.

  Thompson removed his grimy clothes, and threw them out of the tent. He stood in front of Randy, letting his manhood stand at attention. “Take it and suck it good, boy.”

  Randy didn’t hesitate, and took Thompson into his mouth, teasing the head just the way he knows will drive his lieutenant wild. Thompson wasn’t huge, and for that; Randy was thankful.

  “Yes. Just like that, Randy. My God! Yes. I needed this. Ohhhhh.”

  Randy pulled him out just in time. He knew from experience, that if he caused him to cum too quickly, Thompson might lose his temper.

  “Smart boy. Now turn over, and get ready for a nice long hard fuck.”

  “Anything for my god.”

  Thompson arched the younger man’s back. He ran his hand down the length of manly muscle, and then drove his cock home. He was like heaven. The tent was hot and muggy, but he loved it. He spanked Randy as he fucked him. His hand print was soon embedding in red. Randy was begging, and screaming for it. He was about to cum, but pulled out. He wanted this to last.

  He turned Randy over onto his back, then laid down and kissed him passionately. The two men embraced and made out with feverish passion. It was a lucky night for Randy. Thompson would go easy on him, making love instead of the brutal pain he normally enjoyed. They were about to step into battle, so Thompson would want him in good shape.

  As he kissed him, he pushed his length all the way in, causing Randy to moan with pleasure. “Take it all, boy. Take all my dick.”

  “Give it to me, sir. Oh, yes! Please make me yours forever.”

  Randy felt the spasms begin as his cock exploded. Thompson laughed when he felt Randy’s hot cum spatter against his belly. It drove him wild. He began fucking Randy furiously, harder and harder and harder, until…

  “FUCK! YES! OHHHHH!” He came hard into Randy.

  Thompson dropped down beside Randy, and stared into the man’s eyes. Did he love Randy? Was that even possible? Randy had been the only man he’d ever been gentle with, even if it was rare. There was something sweet about Randy that Thompson was drawn to, but love? He didn’t think it was possible.

  As if Randy read his thoughts: “Sir, I love you. You don’t have to love me back, but I love you. I would die for you.”

  “Shhh.” Thompson put his finger to Randy’s lips. “Come on; get some fresh air.”

  When they climbed out of the tent, still naked; the soldiers met them with a rowdy round of applause and whistles.

  “Shut up, idiots! You’ll attract walkers!”

  They quieted, but only after another round of cheering. The men were fresh off a dose of White Mist, and the threats of the New World seemed distant and meaningless.

  “What did you fools cook?”

  “Bean soup!” said a boy named Tony Piper.

  “Beans again, Piper? Damn you!” Thompson took the beans, and ate them as he let a cool summer breeze dry his sweaty, naked body. After eating, he spent the remainder of the night planning. He’d scouted the City of God, and knew the best ways to attack. All that was left was to wait until he heard from his contact. The holy man had made clear that something was about to happen which would make taking the city much easier. If that was the case, then showing a little patience would go a long way; and,Thompson was a patient man for the most part.

  That night he dreamed of his old school, of Dickerson and the whip which caused so much pain. The pain that bred the man he became. He saw Dickerson standing over him, blood dripping from the whip. He tasted his salty tears, and saw the look of perverse pleasure they gave to Dickerson.

  When he woke, sweat beaded his face. He saw Randy sleeping next to him. The man breathed easy and smooth. Randy had never suffered the way Thompson did. Never had to grow up an orphan. A rage took hold of Thompson; blood gushed to his face, and his eyes narrowed in on the sleeping Randy. All thoughts of love left him. Love was a dream created by flower and jewelry companies. Randy had enjoyed a good life growing up. A mom who loved him, a dad who took him out and taught him things. Randy had experienced things Thompson only understood from movies—baseball games with dad, family barbeques, high school prom, and most of all, Randy had been blessed with a burden less youth which didn’t include a whip and a man named Dickerson.

  These are the thoughts that echoed in the dark regions of Thompson’s mind as he unsheathed a blade from his pants; he never slept naked. Not on an outing like this. He rose above Randy, and his shadow darkened the moon light which was illuminating Randy’s handsome, youthful face.

  Randy opened his eyes. Dreariness turned to fearful concern. “Sir?” Was all the boy got to s
ay before Thompson covered his mouth with one hand while driving the blade into his stomach with the other. Randy was strong, but not as powerful as his Lieutenant. The blade went in and out with sick and gurgling sounds, blood gushing from the open wounds. He coughed up blood, and it poured through the spaces between Thompson’s fingers. Randy’s eyes look wild and frightened, but there was more to his look than just fear. Hurt, pain and betrayal rolled down his cheeks in the form of tears. Randy wanted to believe his lieutenant loved him. Wanted to hope that although the man was abusive and cruel at times, somewhere deep within, just waiting to be let free, was a passionate and unyielding love which would keep Randy safe during this insane days.

  All Randy saw now were the eyes of a mad man. Thompson smiled down with a wicked grin. No tears ran down Thompson’s face. He stabbed Randy over and over and over. He felt the life pour out of the younger man. He smelled the coppery blood. He savored every tear, every hurtful moan that escaped from Randy. All the pain Thompson suffered was unleashed. The years of rape and torture at the hand of Dickerson; he took it all out on Randy. Stab! Stab! Stab!

  Randy’s life left him with each pint of blood he lost. When Thompson finished and stood above his kill, the tent floor was a pool of blood. His bare feet sank into it like thick, sticky water. He stared at his prey for a long time, admiring the look of anguish and pained betrayal which covered Randy’s face like a mask. His legs were crooked from where he had struggled, his torso turned slightly to the left, his face staring straight up with blank dead eyes.

  Thompson lowered himself on top of Randy’s corpse, raised his blade, and pushed it into the soft flesh of the temple, stabbing the brain. He removed the blade, and wiped it clean on his pants. When he left the tent, he breathed in fresh summer air. When he let out the breath, he knew everything was going to be just fine. He felt great; he looked around at the surrounding tents. No one was awake. Thanks to the White Mist, the soldiers only slept a few hours a night, but those few hours were deep and rejuvenating. The night was calm, with a slight breeze. The tree leaves and bushes rustled against earth’s soft breath. He smelled no zombies. Had he not been covered in Randy’s blood, he may have been able to fool himself (at least for a moment) that he was on a safe and fun camping trip with friends.