by Black, D. S.
He walked over to the black Hummer, opened the back, and found a change of clothes. He took off the blood soaked garments, and put on the fresh camo. He went to the hood of the Hummer and slid on, lying on his back, staring up past the trees, at the stars above.
At some point, he fell asleep. He didn’t dream, and his sleep was peaceful.
When he woke, the men were looking at him with strange eyes. They saw the flies hovering over the tent which was now Randy’s final resting place. Thompson threw himself off the Hummer. “What the hell are you fucks looking at? Randy had a bit of an accident last night. I took care of it. Well! If you losers want to look at me life that! Wait. I know what will help.” He reached into the Hummer, opened the glove box, and took out a large plastic bag of White Mist. The eyes of the men went from suspicious to hungry.
Thompson threw the bag to Piper, who grabbed it out of the air with deft precision, as though the world may burst and die if he allowed it to touch the ground.
“Today is a big day. If that holy fuck doesn’t radio me, we’re going in anyway. One way or the other, today is the day I show my worth to the Militia. So, break out thick lines Piper. It’s time to prepare for battle!”
While the men snorted their White Mist, the flies continued to buzz around the tent. The men no longer gave a shit, and Thompson smiled. The smell of Randy’s rotting corpse was like coffee to his brain. He felt alive because he was alive. He’d taken a life. He’d brought suffering to someone who had never had to want for anything. It was justice. Primal, natural justice. And Randy was just the appetizer. There was an entire town waiting for the slaughter. He hoped there were some little boys. Some good, healthy young lads in need of some discipline. Cap may not like it, but who gave a rat’s ass. After he takes the City of God, what’s the point in following Cap’s orders? Why not kill the son of a bitch, and take his command? The soldiers don’t care who gives them their White Mist, and if that shit head Mullinax, or the cowardly elusive Mountain King had a problem with that—then a revolution within the Militia might be the answer.
The Incredible Okona and His Comic Warriors
1
The Lowlands greenery is a vast landscape shadowed in darkness. Hot fog clings to the trunks of trees. A hot summer night breeze blows. The stench of death rides the breeze; the death is always there now, like the lingering smell of a dead rat; the smell of the dead mixes with fresh flowers, oak, hickory, ash, and the sweet honeysuckle. Okona dreams of better days. Days when the world wasn’t a ruinous asshole. When he woke every morning to the sounds of children. The sounds of his wife washing her hands in the bathroom. Her warm nightgown taking shape over her petite body. Her blonde hair flowing
down her back. The way she hooked her hips to the left as she brushed her slightly coffee stained teeth. The soft smell of her skin as she rubbed Hot Moon lotion over a healthy body. Her hands bony, but strong, feminine yet assertive. Proud but always wise. Well … almost always. She had the (eventually fatal) habit of caring more for others more than for herself. The old, the young, the disabled, the mentally ill, retarded, and so on. She lived in a world of volunteerism, where self-sacrifice was the name of the game; he remembers her. Happy thoughts pity his soul and darken his nightmares. Sitting under a green canopy, he remembers her well. The day he met her. She was fourteen, him sixteen. She was a dancer at Miss Prancy’s Dance Studio and him, a rich nerdy kid from George Town. The memory isn’t as vivid as he wishes; such are things when recalling old teen memories. The feeling of seeing her for the first time. The soft texture of her skin looked surreal to him. Her dancer abs and her dancer legs; her long blonde hair, blue eyes, and bright white smile. She was proud of her body. Okona, a youthful, thin and lanky boy who wore Abercrombie and Finch like it was going out of style. He wore the designer clothes in an awkward kind of way, like they made his skin feel strange. Like he didn’t quite belong in them. He wore them anyway because that’s what everyone else wore, and that’s what the girls liked. At least the hot preppy girls, whom he truly enjoyed seeing in their hot nighty tighties. And Aquiel was all that and bag of chips. Her family might have been Jewish, but they were pillars of the coastal community.
Okona tried to clarify the memory not just the image, but that feeling inside his stomach. He remembers when she told him she was Jewish and how strange it seemed that a Jew could have blue and blonde hair. He’d later learn that Jews are not a race. In fact, he’d learn in college that race is a social concept not rooted in biology, but knowing she was a Jew gave her a certain uniqueness. She wasn’t a Christian like everyone else he knew. They were secular and so was he, despite his mother’s objections.
“Just keep the atheist stuff to yourself!”
“Keep believing in fairy tales, Dear Mother. For me and my household, I follow Reason.”
She crackled loudly and drank a sip of her wine. His father sat in a massive leather armchair reading a novel.
His father looked up and said, “He gets it from the Jews. Quite secular.” His father reached over with his right arm and took a coffee mug off the table beside the armchair. He sipped it, his bifocals maintained their position. “I blame you, Dear. Please teach the boy some Presbyterian manners.” His father had a way of laughing that sounded like an acute burp, especially after he surmised; he’d told a fine and dandy joke. The old Man graduated from the Naval Academy, class of 78. He’d spent four years as a JAG officer and then left to start a private firm: Oats & Henry Law.
“Tell me about her, Okona. Everything!” His mother spoke with her normal pretend-I-truly-care tone.
“Did you hear, ma?” Okona spoke with his best hill-Billy accent, “Gaa’aawwwd’s dead!”
His mother cackled again, this time spilling red wine onto her white blouse causing a stain that resembled blood. “Oh, my!” She rose up in a slightly drunken manner. She looked at him with a sly smile, then said, “I’m asking Pastor Hendrix to talk to you.”
A few days later Pastor Hendrix rang the bell. His parents were gone, and he knew the good pastor was coming. He had plans for him. Clever as they come, Okona enjoyed a good prank. He never pinpointed where this fascination with pranks came from, he simply accepted it and pranked as often as he could. And, gee golly, Pastor Hendrix and his mother gave him a real hung dinger of an opportunity. He believed this would go down in history as one of the best pranks ever. This would bring him fabled YouTube glory. Last year, he’d begged his mother to buy him a Cannon Rebel T5. She did of course, and he was quite pleased. Now the camera waited for Pastor Hendrix to walk in.
“Come on Pastor! God’s great glory is calling!” Okona shouted from the second-floor balcony staircase. Wildness gleamed from his face, his eyes burned with passion. This was it, his greatest moment. After this, the world would bow to his feet and the women would call him the great god from above. At least that’s what Okona’s teen mind saw as the pastor turned the knob. He stood on an old Victorian staircase. Beautiful deep and dark wood shined under the glow a stately dome light. Okona waited with a string in his right hand. The string led to a metal bucket. In the bucket there was—
His parents walked up behind the pastor. He saw their dark frames through the clouded glass cut out at the top of the door and heard them talking. “I decided it's best if we talk together. Everyone!”
“More the merrier!” The pastor said.
My thoughts exactly, Preach! He steadied himself and focused his eyes (glory!) and prepared to tug the steaming pile of horse shit, pig shit, and a variety of other shits. He took them from Old Man Barnaby’s big farm. The farm was large with an assortment of foul, pigs, horses, and smelly shit. Tommy and Mary Barnaby owned the farm. They'd left for a rare vacation; Okona thinks someone said Baltimore. Although he hadn't the slightest idea of what fun existed in Baltimore; he took the shit home and lugged it into the kitchen where he added water, creating a whirling bucket of brown stank water.
The door opened, and he pulled the string—
Later th
at afternoon, sitting in the Sheriff’s office, listening to his father screaming, telling him how lucky he was that no one was going to press charges—he wondered if it was all worth it. His parents and the preacher had to go to the hospital and receive a round of shots to protect them from an assortment of diseases that may have picked up from being smothered in feces. The pastor was a forgiving man and agreed to not press charges if Okona did one year of volunteer service for the church. His mother didn't speak to him for over a month, and had it not been for the one million and counting hits on his YouTube channel, Okona may have regretted the prank. He certainly learned never to put people's health's at such a serious risk by pouring real shit on them, but by the time his one-year service to the church was over, his mother had let the subject drop. And he had over a million YouTube subscribers and many other prank videos made. He'd signed up for YouTube's ad revenue agreement which partnered with Google ad services; after two years he was making nearly one hundred thousand dollars and counting.
2
With the money, he took his Jewish Princess out to eat, to movies, and during their spring breaks throughout high school; he took her on cruises. In the summer, they'd drive his Mustang convertible up and down the east coast, visiting sea towns and loving life. There was never a question to whether they'd marry. By the time they both entered Coastal Carolina University, they were engaged. And by the time they were graduating they'd been married for over two years, had a beautiful home, and were getting ready to give birth. Life was great.
After the birth and things settled down, was when Okona decided he wanted something a bit less extravagant than his (by then a million dollars a year) YouTube channel. He'd always make pranks, but he wanted something local, something and somewhere that he could mingle with good people. That's when he decided to buy a comic book store.
“Come on! You know how much I want a comic store. Even more than YouTube fame.”
“This is the first I’m hearing of it. Not much of a good idea to me. How much could you possibly make running a brick and mortar comic store?” He loved his wife; she didn't care for gods and religions; she cared about helping people, doing her part to make a better world, but she also loved money; after all, money was the god that allowed her to be the caring humanitarian she was.
“It’s not about the money. It’s about the atmosphere. I can still do my pranks and have a really cool place to hang out.”
“I guess I don't really have a choice, do I?”
He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “That's right, babe. But hey! I'll give any profit the store makes over the charity of your choice.”
Her eyes lit up, “Really? I knew I married a good guy. Even if you aren't Jewish.”
That night after putting the baby to bed, they went to the bedroom where passionate love overtook them. Clothes tore to the floor, nails dug into backs, and moans of sweet honey pleasure filled the room. He considered every moment with her a small miracle. His pranks, his entrepreneurial spirit, both paled in comparison to the love he held for his wife.
She was smart and wise, kind and passionate. She was the also the first to tell him not to tangle with Tommy Morrow.
3
When he first met Tommy “Duras” Morrow, the sun was high in the sky, burning down on the world. Duras was unloading boxes from the back of a van as Okona walked up. “You really should consider packing up and moving to another town,” Okona said. His arms were crossed; he smiled.
Duras, with his dark brunette hair pulled back into a ponytail turned around, his thick arms muscling a large box with ease, his head bent slightly as he spoke. “Do I know you?”
“I’m the guy who just bought the place across the street. The place you almost put under.”
Duras barked a loud laugh and then set the box on the parking lot's asphalt and put his hands on his hips. “And I guess you think you are gonna turn the tide against me, huh?”
“My funds are almost endless these days. This is purely a hobby for me, but I take my hobbies very seriously and I never lose. Never.”
“Why set up shop here? Why not take it somewhere you don't have competition?”
“Cause I like a challenge. I've hired on the old owners. With my cash and determination, you really don't stand a chance, Tom.”
“Jesus! What's with the adversarial tone, asshole? And the name's Tommy, no boy calls me Tom. Friends call me Duras, but you're no friend.”
“Just my way, old man. Just the way I am. You'll see that soon enough. Now enjoy your day.”
Okona had walked off without saying another word. He'd done what he came to do. He stoked the embers that would now turn into a wild hot fire. A fire that would catch the attention of the entire township. He loved a good attention getter, and he decided running Duras out of business and promoting his wife's favorite charity was a good plan. A damn good plan.
4
Okona sat alone, high in the trees with a windy breeze flapping against his red cheeks. He rubbed his hand over his bald head. His back rested against the old bark of a tall oak. The green above was thick and lush, but in the night wind, the leaves and branches moved with a windy echo like an invisible wave of power; a hypnotic spell, while he stared, feeling the agony of a man that lost more than his mind wanted to bear, but chooses to march forward, undeterred by the death that surrounds him.
He spoke affirmations, “I am the stealth that moves with the wind. I am the unconquerable, the impenetrable, the redoubtable, the resilient…” Okona spoke with a whirlwind of soft and harsh passion. His words spoke out into the darkness, a whispered prayer to the black night; not far away, hunkered in the darkness, sat two men and one woman just as determined as Okona.
Okona led them and loved them. He fought beside them. He was ready to die for them, and they for him. A bond brought by the pain of a shared loss; the world they once knew eaten alive by black hearts that never beat, the zombie scourge never wanted a break and would always roam, seeking, in a never-ending hunger, a feast that feeds the white-hot burning in their soulless eyes. Eyes that will not stop, save for a bullet, knife, any blunt force available; but let them bite you. Let them cut you and your life will cease to exist. You will rise a hungry heathen of the night and a pasty and hot piece of deathly flesh.
During the day, the sun cooked zombie flesh, and the stink of the body’s erosion is easy to catch on the wind. A gift from nature.
They'd guarded their lives inside these trees ever since the beginning.
Okona sat, staring at a windy wall of darkness and spoke, “Into this world I plunge, disciplined, motivated and unstoppable. I am the reckoning for those that stand against decency. I will take this world back! I am the rational, the powerful, the unending fury of stamina and action. I am the Mighty, Incredible Okona.”
Beside him, a stack of comics rested beside a candle with dark smoke rising from the recently lit wick. He smelled the night air, breathing in, letting the air fill his lungs, and then blowing out slowly. He breathed in again, this time in short and fast jerks of air, Whoosh … whoosh … whoosh … whoosh…” Then exhaling, “whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh”
A week had passed since he’d helped Jack Teach escape the bowels of Duras’s hell. He'd gotten out of there and headed back to the trees for safety; he'd hoped he see Jack and his family again; hoped they were okay, fighting the good fight.
Above him, leaves and branches shivered. He stared at the timeless bark and let his mind ponder. How long had this tree been here? How longer would they be here? How many good men had walked by this tree? How many bad men? Did such concepts have any real meaning? Good? Bad? Just social constructs. That’s all.
“What do you think? Is all morality nothing more than a social construct?” he asked.
Chris sat not far from him, lying flat on his back. “Sure! Maybe. What happens when society dies? Who makes the rules? Are there any rules? You’ll go mad thinking about it, that’s for sure. Just survive and try and cling to what’s l
eft of our humanity.”
“What we define as humanity is still only a social construct,” Okona said.
“Then I suppose the strongest group will dominate the construction process,” Andre added. He sat Indian style reading a comic with a small pin light.
“What about the biters?” Okona asked. “Where do they fit into the new social construct?”
“The new Norm. That’s for sure,” Tasha said. She sat, leaning against a tree. Her eyes were closed, breathing in the peace of night.
Silence took over and they stopped talking. The breeze blew again, this time, harder than before.
“Do you smell that?” Okona was on his feet now, staring into the night smelling for any scent of death. “I smell a hoard.”
Tasha's boots softly clunked against the log floor. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. The darkness hid the redness glowing in her cheeks. Her green eyes, elf-like pointy ears; slender, yet strong legs moved over to stand by Okona. “Let ‘em come. I’m ready,” she said.
After a while, the smell drifted in another direction. They relaxed, high in the safety of the trees. So far, they'd never met a zombie that could climb a tree.
5
Large nails were driven into the tree’s thick body. Okona’s UTG 547 Law Enforcement Tactical Vest hung, beside it a pair of black FREETOO Men’s Full Finger Tactical Gloves. Perfect Point throwing knives were strapped to his leg. A Smith and Wesson .45 rested on his right hip. And, of course a sharp and deadly short sword in a black sheath laid waiting to be strapped to his back.
He laid back and stared at the invisible wind blowing the tree tops above and listened to the conversation happening behind him.
“What do you miss more than anything?” It was Andre speaking in his rough smoker's voice (though he'd given it up after the Fever, go figure).