Humanity's Death [Books 1-3]

by Black, D. S.

  The soldier now imitated a little girl's voice. “'Don't hurt me! Please! Please!' HAHAHAHAHA! I love how the little one’s squeal!”

  What creates such evil in men? What spawns such brutality? Okona thought these things but had no answers. Then he turned, gave Tasha, Andre and Chris a wink, and stepped around the corner.

  “Gentlemen? Mind if we have a chat on this lovely evening?”

  The men just stood for a moment, stared at each other, then looked back at Okona.

  Meanwhile, Andre, Tasha and Chris swiftly worked their way around the other side of the building.

  The soldiers didn't have much of a chance once the bullets flew.

  7

  Duras heard the gunshots coming from the other side of the city as he moved with blood-soaked rage, cutting through the remaining Militia's men. Guts spilled, skulls erupted, and they pushed harder and deeper, until he reached Mary Jane's Apartment. He entered, kicking the door open with a heavy boot, and screaming her name. No answer came, only the sounds of gun shots somewhere outside.

  He left her apartment, made his way to her sister's. He found Sarah Ann’s body, and then saw Vice's eyes.

  8

  Vice had spent his years prior to the end of the world in the Army corps of engineers; that’s why he'd been in charge of building the fences that kept them all safe for over a year. He wasn't perfect, but the man had heart, albeit a bit perverted; but none the less he fought like an eagle. He now held his dead girlfriend and tears streamed down his battered face. All the goodness that lived in her was dead, and the pain ran through him like a shot of hell fire. Even with all his failings—the attraction to younger girls, the heavy drinking—she had loved him. He cried like a child. He held the corpse in his arms and screamed to the roof, begging God to take him instead. He never knew he loved her so much, not until now.

  Now she was gone forever.

  9

  Okona never saw the last set of soldiers until it was too late.

  “Get down!” The steaming stream of a rocket launched toward them. A heavy explosion erupted. Okona was knocked unconscious, almost dead. Andre laid against a townhouse apartment, nearly thirty feet away. His face was missing, only a bloody skeletal face remained. His body was ripped apart from the torso down, his stomach splayed open, guts falling out. What skin that was left, was horribly charred.

  Tasha was furthest away and remained relatively unscathed, but was left quite dizzy. Her vision was unfocused and for a moment she thought it was Okona's bald head moving her way. As the figure got closer, she saw the insane eyes of a man much taller than Okona, and much bigger. The man's face was smeared in blood and ash. He carried a large ax in his right hand. His belt was filled with shotgun shells. The shotgun itself, a Mossberg 20 gauge, strapped hard against his back. The man had hold of a woman. Even in the frenzy of the moment, Tasha recognized her as Duras’s girl. Tasha had helped Okona scout the City of God many times, and had seen the two of them from a distance.

  Tasha reached for her pistol but only found burned leather. The pistol had been blown off. From behind her, she heard running footsteps. She tried to turn, but strong arms mangled around her neck, tightening into a sleeper hold. The world went black soon after and the men carried her off with them.

  10

  Duras found them like that. With Vice’s help, he carried Okona and Chris into the main cathedral and dressed their wounds.

  Okona came to and spoke. “I think they took her... Tasha...”

  “They did, but we’ll get her back,” Duras said. “They took my Mary Jane too.”

  Rhino and Iceman entered the cathedral dragging a man; he kicked and screamed as they tied him to a chair.

  Okona and Duras stood above him, their faces dark with smoke, blood, and rage.

  Duras looked at the name on his uniform. “Listen closely, Lieutenant Thompson. I'm gonna give you five seconds to spill what I want to know. Then I'm gonna cut you open nice and slow.”

  Lieutenant Thompson looked up, his face black and blue; his eyes wide and scared. His sweet treat gone. Thompson’s Revolution dead. His dreams, hopes. His revenge against Cap dying where he sat; but, Thompson wanted to seed doubt in the hearts of these men. These bastards who had successfully ruined all he had planned. He looked up at Duras, dark eyes glowering with all the strength he could muster. “We were just the first wave. A scouting force. We weren’t supposed to attack, but we did. And when Cap learns about what happened here, he will come and finish the job. You are dead men! It was your own damn people that helped us! FOOLS! FOOLS!”

  Thompson cackled loudly, a man's final cry.

  “Who! Who! You bastard!”

  “The Hoods! Rusty! That's who! You're dead! You are DEAD!”

  “Enough!” Duras took his bat’leth and swung with all his might. The blade went deep, slicing half way into Thompson’s neck and bone. Duras dislodged the blade with a grunt, reared back, and swung again. Lieutenant Thomson’s head came off and toppled to the floor, his dark eyes never leaving Duras even as it rolled, coming to a stop. For a moment, Duras was certain the Thompson’s mouth was forming words. Then all life left the face, the lips went slack, and the dark eyes stared blankly. Duras walked over, raised his boot, and brought the heel down with enough force to crunch the skull. He raised his leg, and brought his boot down again, this time crushing through the skull, turning the brain into useless pink mush.

  “He's talking about the Seekers,” Okona said to no one.

  Duras turned and looked at Okona. “Yep. Thompson was right about one thing. I’m a fool. I let a worm like Rusty Ray work his sick rituals, accepting it like it was nothing more than an interesting game. Just another part of the New World to accept.”

  “Boss, look at this.” Vice walked up and handed Duras a map. Duras took it, and the paper rattled in shaky hands.

  “I found it on him,” Vice said.

  Duras looked at the map. It was clear where the Militia was held up, and where their next mission would take place. The map made no mention of Force Recon 3’s mobile base of operations. Cap was only an hour’s drive from them, but they had no way of knowing that.

  For the rest of the night, they rested and prepared to leave. By the time they left at morning’s first light, a horde was moving into the city.

  “The City of God?” Okona said. “Now it’s the City of the Dead.”

  And so, the survivors left the city and ventured out into the unknown. Their destination: the Militia’s largest stronghold in Columbia, SC where nearly five thousand drugged soldiers waited.

  Book Two

  Road to Columbia

  Corporal Mullinax

  Five thousand strong, drugged loyal men ready to die for the Mountain King. Teddy Mullinax was not on the White Mist, but his loyalty to The Mountain King never wavered. Years of cop work had made him a man who followed orders no matter what they were, or who they hurt. Bashing skulls, busting ass; just another day on the job.

  Standing in his office overlooking The Militia’s Columbia base, Mullinax took a pull from his cigar and puffed the smoke out. He watched the soldiers running drills.

  His office once belonged to head manager of the Carolina Gamecocks, inside William Brice Stadium, a massive eighty thousand seat capacity football gridiron. When Corporal Mullinax first saw the stadium (after the Fever had come), he was just a captain in The Militia. He had led a large squadron of soldiers who cleared the east wing, which overflowed with walkers.

  His head of command at the time, Commander Bruce Williams died trying to take the west wing. Through brave leadership and a no bullshit command strategy; along with loyal, heavily drugged soldiers, Mullinax saved what nearly turned into a world of chaos. For his deeds, The Mountain King quickly gave him a field commission, and Corporal Mullinax was officially in control of The Militia’s Columbian base.

  The responsibility did not fall lightly on his shoulders. He knew what it meant. He was not just in charge of clearing Columbia of zombie
s, but also spreading The Militia’s power base down to the coast. America may not exist as it once did, but The Mountain King wanted to move forward by controlling state borders. No need to rewrite a map that could serve as the basis for the New World.

  Now, as he stood looking out at the vast beauty of the stadium, the faded green of the field, the paled white lines of old yard markers, his confidence regarding taking the coast was in considerable doubt.

  Reports from Recon 3 were dismal. They’d failed to take the so called City of God—a name that brought rage to the atheistic ears of Corporal Mullinax—and had lost an entire regiment in the process.

  “Unacceptable failures.” He’d told Captain Miller, who the men referred to as Cap. “The coastal base meant a lot to the Mountain King. This is a major fuck up, Miller. Over!”

  “Corporal, I’ll find another location for us down here. Mark my words, and like I said; this was Thompson’s fault. That piece of shit betrayed us. Over!”

  “Excuses don’t mean shit to me, and they mean even less to the Mountain King. Find a location, Miller. Over and out.”

  That conversation happened only an hour ago, and it took two cigars and three shots of whiskey to bring his mind back under control. Mullinax’s past was a litter of temper tantrums which had cost him dearly on many occasions.

  But after the Fever and the introduction of the Militia, he’d vowed to suppress his rage, and bring control to the world. He promised himself, his men, his superiors, that Order would be restored. The New World would be shaped by the dictates of the Mountain King, and Mullinax would gladly enforce those rules, no matter how barbaric they seemed—even to a man with a past filled with blood and abuse.

  The reason he beat his Old World wife was because he’d had a shitty day at work. Long hours, often boring and seemingly meaningless, not to mention thankless, put Mullinax in a seriously dangerous mood. Beating citizens happened, but not as much as he’d like. Modern day cell phone cameras, in conjunction with social media had made police abuse much harder to get away with. So, like many cops domestic abuse was his way of dealing with the stress of protecting the public. It wasn’t secret that career cops often suffered strained marriages, which most likely than not led to divorce, which led to heavy drinking and burnout on the job.

  Mullinax never wanted that to happen. Back then, he loved being a cop. Being in charge on the streets. Being the man with the gun and authority to use it as needed, depending on when he decided he felt threatened; but with the rise in anti-police groups and other morons, he had found the job more and more stressful. And when his wife had not kept his food hot and ready for him, or when lying in bed she was cold and distant, all the rage he’d gathered and stored throughout the day dealing with drug addicts, losers, punks and gang bangers, blew up inside his house and he let his fists do the talking.

  But that was then, and this was now. The Fever had brought on a new age, the New World. The Militia had breathed life back into him, given him a new purpose. The Mountain King was his new boss. Mullinax gave all he was to the Militia. He dared not fuck this last new chance at living a life that was worth a damn up.

  So, he strode out of his office; cigar clamped between brown tobacco stained teeth, and went out to take a closer look at his soldiers.

  They were a fine lot, hard core men who cared not for the comforts of the Old World, only for their new found dedication and loyalty to the Militia. The White Mist kept those two qualities firmly in place. The White Mist, Mullinax new had more than just chemicals compiled by a chemist. The white powder had a touch of the supernatural. Something that was brewed in the Mountain King’s fortress. Mullinax never asked questions about that. He took it on face value that the Mountain King had a plan, and that that plan had a magical power behind it.

  There was a time when Mullinax would have laughed at the notion of ghosts and the supernatural, but after a year of service in the Militia and living in the New World, he knew better than to always trust his senses, and had learned to never underestimate the strange times he lived in.

  The Dead Zones. The odd barriers were something to see. The weird bluish green glow; the frightening noises he heard when he put his head as close as he dared to. The fact that the men he ordered into the strip of supernatural had come out the other end raving mad, and not even a strong dose of White Mist brought them back. And then there were the men still stuck there, forever caught in whatever hellish nightmares lived there.

  The Militia had encountered numerous ones, and had them labeled and mapped. He’d sent the men through the barrier on I-20, but there were others, varying in size and shape.

  They’d learned their lesson, and stayed clear of them if possible.

  Now, his focus was to find a way to fix the major fuck up that had happened down at the coast. Should he go down himself, and take a large army with him? They had yet to secure all of Columbia from the dead, so that was not an option. He would have to put his faith in Captain Miller.

  He was safe for now. The Mountain King hadn’t been happy with the bad news, but he hadn’t been overly angry either. Setbacks were to be expected, after all.

  Plus, he was close to securing Columbia and the surrounding areas. Two months at the most. Regular search and destroy missions had thinned the herds out quite a bit, but the fuck heads were like roaches, and kept on coming; never seeming to run out of new faces. Most of the population were either dead, or walking around as zombies now, and that meant they’d be at this job for the rest of their lives.

  But, order would be restored.

  That much, he had no doubt about; and with that thought guiding his steps, he marched down to the field to congregate with his men.

  Professor Mary Jane

  1

  Mary Jane's eyes, weary and bloodshot, hungered for respite. It was the day after the Battle for the City of God. Around each of her ankles hemp rope was wrapped and connected through the middle of her legs like chains. Her wrists were tied in the same manner; another hemp rope was tied around her waist, and connected to two other women walking single file in front of her. She recognized one of the women; the woman's name was Tammy, though the last name eluded Mary's memory. The other girl she didn't know. This girl was slender with long blond hair like soft silk. Her ears were a bit pointy, she reminded Mary of the elves from The Lord of the Rings. They were being escorted by a tall bald man and another shorter man who was stocky with dark, dangerous eyes. The tall bald man had a nasty scar zigzagging down his face like a pinkish fleshy river.

  The men were talking. “Cap will probably make us take em straight to Columbia,” Bald Scar said.

  “Yeah. Well, I sure hell hope he lets us rest a bit. Maybe even enjoy the girls.”

  “I need the fuckin Mist more than pussy.”

  “Damn straight. That last bit gonna wear off soon.”

  “They'll have plenty at Recon 3. Least they damn better. Sometimes I'd like to just take a bag and go. Take a girl and a bag I mean.”

  They both laughed at this. Then Bald Scar said, “Just don't let Cap get wind of that. You'll spend a week in the hole for sure.”

  The day was hot and humid with little to no breeze. Mary Jane was pretty sure they were on Route Six, though she was so dehydrated and tired she couldn't say for sure.

  “You'd like that wouldn't hunny?” Bald Scar reached over and grabbed Tammy firmly on her ass.

  “Stop! Leave me alone!” Tammy was crying as she pled.

  “Ohhhh. I like em hard to get. Keep screaming like that and I might take you right here on the side of the road.”

  Shorty said, “HA! Don't let Cap get wind you are trying the women before he does. That's bound to get you two weeks in the hole.”

  The blond girl didn't say anything, but Mary Jane thought she looked watchful. Tammy on the other hand was crying uncontrollably now.

  “Shut your whining, bitch! You want to attract a horde or something?” Bald Scar struck her on the side of the head. He pulled the punch at the
last second, but it sent Tammy to her knees.

  The short one helped her back up and told her to do as she's told. Tammy, though it must have been hard was able to stifle her crying.

  “Not long now, ladies. Just a mile or so. Relax and enjoy the heat.” Shorty laughed loudly like it was the funniest thing he'd ever said.

  They walked in silence for a while, then a whistle came from somewhere in the woods. Moments later, soldiers came from the tree line and led them down a dirt road.

  Soon they were at Recon Camp 3.

  2

  Mary Jane was taken into the camp. A man came out of a tent and introduced himself as Cap. The men that escorted them had went over to a table and were currently snorting the White Mist. The soldiers in the camp looked at them with horny drugged eyes, but Cap would have them first, as they were about to find out. They were taken into Cap's tent.

  “No! No!” The blond girl screamed and tried to fight as her clothes were torn from her body. Cap entered the tent and laughed as his goons undressed the girl. He looked at Mary Jane, who was now sitting on a green army bunk.

  “Take your clothes off.”

  Mary Jane hesitated. She was looking at the blonde girl now naked, and still trying to fight. The guards held her by both her arms. Tammy was sitting beside Mary Jane staring stupidly into nothing, her eyes glazed over. Mary Jane began undressing, knowing that to do otherwise would be pointless. She was stuck in this situation. Her only hope was to go along till something better came along. She didn't know if she'd ever see Duras again, but she knew she had to do whatever was necessary to survive.

  “Okona's gonna come for me! When he finds you, he'll cut your fucking balls off!” The blonde girl screamed in Cap's direction.

  Okona, uh? Mary Jane thought. At least she now knew where the blonde girl came from. The Militia must have attacked them to.