by Black, D. S.
Okona intended to find it.
7
Duras moved carefully, keeping an eye, ear and nose out for zombies and militiamen. Mary Jane continued to interrupt his thoughts. He now knew he loved her; there was no doubt left. He was scared; scared because he might lose her.
Then the screams came. The howls of dying men, women and children. Up ahead, he saw rising flames; his city was burning.
The screams continued to scratch against the night like fingernails on a chalkboard. He, Vice, Rhino and Ice Man crept closer to town, hunkering down behind a few wrecked cars. Duras saw the shadows of Militia soldiers moving through the streets. He could smell the death. The blood. The pain. His people were dying. Mary Jane was dying.
“Jesus,” Vice said as he stared through a small pair of binoculars. “This is bad.”
“Don’t state the obvious. How do we fix it?” Duras said, trying his best to keep his wits.
“Don’t know if we can, Duras. We migh—”
“No!” Duras said in a forced whisper. “We take the town back!”
“How the hell are we gonna do that? We got hardly any ammo. Those guys are packing serious shit down there. And they look crazed as hell. We're out gunned and out manned.”
“Fuck!”
“We have to wait it out and hope for the best. It's all we can do!” Vice put his hand on Duras’ knee. “It's all we can do, boss.”
“Back to the woods? We can watch everyone die from safety and comfort.”
A mean glare crossed Vice’s face, “Don’t think I want to save Sarah Ann? Huh? Hey! I like her just as much as you like Mary Jane, but we can’t save them!”
“You’re a fucking coward!”
“If you go out there, you’ll die. Duras, don’t…”
“What about you two? Don’t look away! You gonna let all those people die?”
“It’s better than a fucking suicide mission!” Ice Man said. His normally beautiful blonde hair was now mashed down in clumps of sweat, dirt and blood. Duras stared at the city. He slumped against the car and put his face into his palms. “Please God just let Mary Jane be OK.”
A Sweet Treat
1
Mary Ann was far from OK. Though the blood had started to dry, she had a nasty gash on the back on her head. She was sitting on a chair in the Catholic cathedral’s main entrance. It was dark, except for a few torches which had been lit.
Lieutenant Thompson surveyed her with dark eyes. He was smiling, but underneath that smile, Mary Ann knew was a level of sinister which few humans had ever reached.
“You’re a lucky lady. What’s your name?” Thompson asked, almost friendly.
“Fuck you. You murdered my sister.”
He laughed. The other men in the room laughed as well. Their voices echoed off the high ceilings and large walls.
“Don’t be a fool. I’ve chosen you as a special gift. You’re to be Cap’s sweet treat. Take her away. I want her there before the sun rises.”
Mary Ann was hauled away. Her screams of protest doing nothing for her failing strength. She was dragged out into the city streets. Blood was everywhere. Men were piling the dead bodies of people she’d learned to love over the past year. Kids, women, old men. All dead! Her sister was in one of those piles and would soon be burned, turned to ash. Mary Ann let her tears come. She didn’t care that they men escorting her laughed. She wanted to die. She didn’t care to think about what supernatural strangeness had occurred in that dark alley. She knew the ghost stories just like everyone else. Just another fucked up element to an otherwise completely fucked up tale of woe.
The moon was high above, the stars glimmering brightly, but down here on earth was pain and grief, loss and hate. Mary Ann didn’t know where they were taking her, but she knew where ever it was, it was just one more step towards another horror.
The men escorting her suddenly stopped. Gun fire was heard in the distance. For a moment, the briefest of moments, Mary Ann gave herself permission to hope. Duras was still alive. Duras would save her; save her from these horrible men and the horrible future they wanted her to have.
2
Thompson was quite pleased. The City of God was now his, and his plan to lull Cap into a false sense of security was sure to work. At least long enough for him to make his move, and take Force Recon by surprise. He’d sent Mary Ann to Cap as a short-term appeasement. Cap was a sex addict, and loved new women. This one wasn’t as young as he normally liked, but she was beautiful. Thompson would never fully understand why men wanted women. He had seen her firm body, her nice figure, firm buttock, but it did nothing for him.
He had his writing pad out, and was sketching different strategies for attacking Force Recon 3. He hoped to catch Cap with his pants down, in the most literal of senses. If they moved out in the next couple of hours they would arrive in just enough time for Cap to of met with the woman, and taken her to his tent to enjoy. Cap took his time with his new victims. Thompson new this from countless screams coming from Cap’s tents. From countless women and girls, Thompson had brought back for Cap to rape.
“Sir?”
Thompson looked up from his sketching, and saw what he’d been wanting. One of his men stood at the entrance to the large cathedral holding a young boy, no more than twelve.
“Leave him.”
The boy was pushed forward and the soldier left, closing the large doors behind him, trapping the young child with Thompson.
“Come to me. Tell me your name.”
The boy walked over to Thompson. His hair was dirty blonde, his eyes a deep blue. His body was thin, yet lean. Just how Thompson liked it.
“What’s your name?”
“Derrick.” The boy said with a whimper. A tear soon followed.
“Oh, come here. Don’t cry. You’re in good hands now!”
Thomson jerked the boy up, causing the child to scream. He threw him over the desk, and began pulling his pants down.
“NO! Stop!”
“Fight me! Yeah! I like it! It’s time for little boys like you to learn to fuck! I had good teachers growing up. I plan to give you the same lessons!”
The little boy’s legs kicked for freedom, but lost the fight against the much stronger man. His pants were ripped from his body, and his little underwear exposed to Thompson’s leering gaze.
“My dear God. It’s been far too long since I’ve seen such beauty. Such perfection. Derrick, I’ve lived under a tyrannical master for too long. A piece of shit who told me the love between a man and boy was wrong. Even as he raped and murdered girls your age.”
The boy cried, tears gushing down reddened cheeks.
Thompson’s heart throbbed at the site of the little boy’s firm buttock. His mouth drooled. His mind slushed in ecstasy. He gave the boy a harsh open palm slam on the right ass cheek. The boy screamed. Thompson’s cock begged for release. He unbuckled his pants, and let them drop to the floor. His underwear went down next, allowing his impressive cock the freedom it longed for. He leaned over the boy, massaging his length and girth against the boy’s ass. “You’ll never be the same after this, young man.” He whispered softly into the boy’s soft ear. The boy’s manic sobs only increased the joy coursing through Thompson’s body.
“Get ready to scream, boy. Thompson’s getting his sweet treat!” He pulled the boys underwear to the side, just the way he always preferred it. Something about the soft cotton fabric clinging so delicately against the youthful skin drove him wild. He saw the small opening to the body, and it was almost enough to push him into orgasm. He controlled the impulse, and pressed the tip against the boy’s rectum.
“Time to scream! Time for Thompson to get his sweet trea—”
An explosion followed by a folly of gun fire and yelling stopped Thompson before he deflowered the boy. He grabbed the boy by the hair. “Don’t you move, Derrick. Stay right here while Daddy Thompson deals with something.”
Thompson pulled up his pants and underwear, fastened his belt, found his g
un, and headed out to learn who or what made the lethal mistake of fucking up his fun time with is new boy.
Allies
1
Okona walked out of the tree line holding a long stick with a white flag. He silently prayed to himself that he wasn't about to get shot for a delusion or a hallucination. They had tracked Duras and his men, silently and stealthily.
“We could kill him right now. Be done with it! This is fucking madness!” Tasha had said as they moved through the trees. “Over a fucking vision?”
“It was real. I'm telling you it was real! Jesus! In the world where the dead walk, ghostly experience is beyond belief? You heard the stories. Just because we haven’t seen it, doesn’t mean it’s not real.” The look on his face ended the conversation and she held up her hands in exasperation.
“If he kills you...”
“It’s going to work. Trust me.”
And so, they did. Tasha, Chris and Andre waited, watching from the darkness beyond the tree line.
Moonlight shined down on Okona's head; the trees rustled behind him from a gust of wind; that’s when Duras turned and saw him.
2
Duras, Vice, Rhino and Ice Man stood a quarter of a mile from the city behind broken down cars and buses. They were only two hundred yards away from the vast low state wilderness. At first, he was sure it was some kind of trick. The bald fuck was walking right toward him, wide open, holding a white flag, visible under moonlight. Vice, Rhino and Ice Man shouldered their rifles, ready to kill. Why Duras held his hand up to stop them, why he felt a moment of trust for the bald prick; he wasn't sure, not then at least.
There was something in Okona's eyes that stayed his weapon; the full moon above shined brightly.
“Not another step!” Was all he could think to say in that moment. He stared into Okona's gleaming eyes. There was an absolute certainty in them. He couldn’t believe it, but he felt a stab of respect for the man. Somehow, he knew it wasn't a trick. Some feeling inside him told him this was preordained. This had to happen. Whatever this was.
“It’s a trick Duras!” Vice said. He had every reason to think it was a trick, Duras thought. But it wasn't.
“If this is a trick, it’s a mighty stupid one. And, if he isn't alone—and I doubt he is—it means they tracked us and could have killed us already. Let's hear him out.”
3
And so, they did. Okona explained the story of the encounter with his wife. Eyes rolled; disbelief was apparent, but in the end what could be said? When the dead walk, when the Old World is gone, when death is around every corner, what choices were left? When a drug crazed heavily armed, heavily manned militia spreads throughout the Palmetto State like a human virus, dead set on killing and raping on a scale Duras's Seekers could only dream of, what else could be done? It was an alliance of necessity, of survival. Born of strange and paranormal activity, this small band of survivors didn't know the hell that awaited them in Columbia, didn't know the bond that would grow between them; had no idea that after that day, the need to survive, to save those they loved, would bind them in a union of fellowship and courage.
And now, poised and ready to attack, both groups (formerly and bloodily opposed to each other) entered the city.
4
Duras, Vice, Rhino and Ice Man went left; Okona, Tasha, Andre and Chris went right, agreeing to meet at the front door of the towering cathedral, in the center of it all. Duras had seen that the Militia was already starting to leave the city, taking random women as they went. He once again thought of Mary Jane and shuttered with rage at the thought of her held captive. He still had no idea that Rusty Ray and the Seekers helped orchestrate the invasion, but he had a dim hunch that someone in the city was to blame. The timing was far too perfect. They knew where they were and struck them accordingly. There was just no way to do that without inside help. An inside job.
He couldn't stop a smile from crossing his face as he thought about the 9/11 Truthers. No way a tower can fall from an airplane. The pancake theory? That was just a front story sent out via Popular Mechanics; just another New World Order printing press controlling the sheeple with propaganda. That all seemed like a million years ago. The Iraq war, Afghanistan. Years later, Benghazi, the 2008 housing bubble—all ancient history.
The night shrouded their movements through the city. This was their turf after all, and Duras meant to use it to their advantage. The Militia had left an occupying force behind. They now patrolled the city in five-man teams; heavily armed and seriously high as kites, jacked up on a powerful upper.
But even better, they seemed overly confident. Probably hadn’t had much resistance; they’d probably been able to run through the state unchecked.
Not today. Today they fucked with the wrong group of survivors.
Duras wanted to find Mary Jane, but his mind was already telling him it was too late. She was gone. They'd taken her. He pushed these thoughts aside as he saw a patrol moving toward them. Time to take out the trash.
Then another memory occurred to him, this one like the blast of a psychic Colt 45. It came from another place, from another time. It wasn't really one memory, but many memories overlapping each other all at once. He stumbled and fell, Vice grabbed him before he could crash to the ground. What in hells bells is happening to me? He saw faces, millions of faces, dead faces. Black faces; burned and battered. Children, mothers, fathers. They wore ripped and torn garments. He recognized the slave clothing from the middle nineteenth century. So many black faces. So many lost lives butchered right here. Right here in this city. He was walking on a killing field, he saw the whips whipping down on the backs of slaves. He saw the screaming women as dirty old men raped them with Southern brutality. He saw a little girl's throat being cut in front of her daddy. He felt their pain, it whirled through him like an angry tornado. A tornado full of dark and blood-stained history. The black faces cried out to him, their eyes bulging with despair. He heard the sinister laughter of the slave drivers, the plantation owners; laughing, mocking their cries. He saw families torn apart, carried away, never to see each other again. A whirlwind of agony, ancient and persistent screamed in his mind. Why hadn't he felt it before? All the stories he'd heard. All the tales of ghostly horror that blossomed after the Fever hit, after it all went to shit, like the dead had had enough, and finallytheir pain would be heard once and for all. It didn't matter, because just like that—
The faces disappeared. Vice slapped him hard across the face. “No time for this now, boss!” Vice spoke with a hasty whisper. “They’re coming.”
Duras pulled himself up and shrugged off the thoughts of dead and butchered slaves like a person does with a nightmare shortly after waking up. Hot sweat dripped down his face. He tasted hot copper. Blood dripped from his lower lip; he'd bitten it. Soldiers were coming, he heard their footsteps. The click of their boots on cobblestones echoed in the night. They laughed.
(just like the slave owners)
Their voices were triumphant and stoned. Hearty sounds; the sound of victorious soldiers after the big battle. Duras felt a growl growing in his heart, reaching his throat, a rage that couldn't stay contained. He held his rifle, then laid it down. He pulled his bat’leth from his back and looked into Vice’s eyes. Vice smiled and nodded. The soldiers were damn close. They were coming around the corner—
5
Seth Taylor strolled heroically, high as the mountain wind. Dried blood covered his green camo. He and the four soldiers walking with him were left in this place to keep it warm and cozy for the next wave of Militia soldiers that would come once they knew the area was secured. Seth had never felt so strong, so fucking powerful. Today had been one of the bloodiest days of his life, and the drugs in his system only increased the orgasmic pleasure the screaming faces brought him. They'd never seen them coming, a slaughtering cake walk. He'd raped a little girl (she'd looked about thirteen or fourteen), then he'd blew her brains out, just like that. No big deal, still plenty of defenseless teeny boppers left
in the world. Jesus though ... she had been one cute little cun—
Seth Taylor never saw another thirteen-year-old girl again thanks to the blade of Duras's bat’leth cleaving into his throat. The blood gushed and ran down the blade. A loud gunshot from Vice's pistol sent a bullet through the skull of one of Seth's comrades, ripping his face clean off. Ice Man didn't waste a moment manhandling a long, sharp blade deep into the heart of one of the others. Rhino had attached his bayonet to the end of his AK 47, and ran the tip into the final soldier’s chest and then pulled the trigger; pumping the body full of hot lead, sending spurts of blood flying out of the man's back.
6
Okona moved stealthily, feeling a strange newness about him. Since he'd stepped out of his wife's painting, back to normal reality everything felt off key, as though reality's thin veil lost some of its solidity and pockets of supernatural and rather ghostly rays shined through dark light. Certain areas seemed to fester with this feeling, and this city was now filled with it. He'd been in here before of course, but never felt this. Something horrible happened on these grounds and the after images and feelings never left, only waited till the right time to reassert themselves onto living human tissue. It seemed the dead would never rest again in the New World.
Okona led them through the shadows, staying close to the buildings as they moved. Voices up ahead laughed and cajoled, soldiers at play after battle. Okona held his hand up as they neared the edging of a townhouse. They listened.
“Shoulda seen the little bitch. Running and screaming. I shot her dead and pissed all over her!” Deep nasty laughter erupted. Okona thought he'd never heard anything so grotesque as that laughter. The laughter of evil animals, of demonic spawn. Classless villains drugged out of their minds; their humanity forfeited for soulless dark.