by Black, D. S.
Pinky had had big dreams. His daddy supported him. “Do what makes you happy, Pinky. Only way to live.” His daddy was a regular at the local southern Baptist church, but the old man went because there wasn't much else to do. Pinky never heard his daddy talk about gays or any other hot political topic. Sometimes Pinky would help his daddy make meals for the poor at the soup kitchen in downtown Marlboro. His daddy taught him that helping people was the only path to God, and hate was a guaranteed path to hell, especially hate done in the name of the Lord.
Now, forcing the memories from his mind, Pinky clunked down the stairs, turned right and walked the few feet to the kitchen entrance where he found food ready and laid out. There were a lot of commotion already, as there was every morning. His daddy was dead, Mr. Cole was dead and Martha, along with her pink cotton panties; but looking at the people standing in his kitchen, seeing them laughing and talking as the early morning sun shined through the kitchen windows. Pinky knew that life wasn't meaningless, and there was plenty to fight for.
5
For breakfast, the girls cooked bacon, eggs, biscuits and gravy—a good ole fashioned American breakfast. Pinky ate heartily while listening to the chatter of the girls. There was Thelma with her ancient and wise eyes, and Carla with her swinging hips and heart shaped buns. These were the cooks of the community. They loved to cook. It’s what they did before the shit flew, and it’s what they did after. They could shoot, but only if they had to. All they wanted was to cook, cook, and cook some more. And of course, they enjoyed a good gossip even in these dark times.
“So, I hear Sally Sue been sneakin up to the barn with that skinny fella Lou,” Thelma said.
“Can't be! That man's twice her age!” Carla said.
“Ladies... you really should let folks just live their life. Especially here at the end of the world,” Pinky said.
“End of the world? Gee golly molly! It ain't the end, Pink! We'll pull through. You just wait and see,” Martha said. Such positivity brought a smile to Pinky's face and he realized he loved this place, these people.
“I think those folks in Washington will come down one of these days, or hell even if not; after you boys get rid of those Militia thugs, we'll just replant the whole damn human race from pretty Carolina,” Thelma said and gave Carla a wink. “And you know Pink... Carla here sure is fit for the job, don't cha think?”
Pinky nearly choked on his eggs and Carla's face turned beat red.
“You hush, Miss Thelma! Such naughtiness! Who woulda thought!” Carla said.
Pinky, shy by nature gave Carla a quick look and then put his attention back on his plate. He'd certainly taken a liking to Carla over the past year, but nothing had come of it... yet. Sometimes the end of the world doesn't breed fast romances like the movies might have you believe. Before the Fever, Carla was the daughter of the Honorable Judge Sanders. The Sanders family had been friends with the Satterfield’s for memory on end. Old Southern Money, as some liked to say stuck together, but before all this went down, Carla never showed any interest in Pinky. She'd dated the jocks, especially Mike Trinca.
Trinca had been a Yankee, but a hell of a quarterback. He had long arms, broad strong shoulders, and stood at almost six five. His hair had been dark and flowing, teeth white and natural.
Course, Trinca didn't make it. Pinky heard the story and it made him not only admire Carla's ability to cope and stay positive but also made him love her. She'd seen Trinca die; he died in horrible, yet honorable fashion. Pinky never liked nor disliked the guy, but nobody deserved to get torn apart like that.
If it was any consolation, he died a hero. Which makes sense, given what Pinky remembered about the guy. Sure he was a cocky fellow, but he was also someone that would stand up for the geeks and losers when bull headed bullies pushed them around. He never helped at the soup kitchen, but he volunteered for Habitat for Humanity building homes for the poor. And had it not been for Trinca, Carla Sanders wouldn't be making Pinky's breakfast every morning. The boy met his death at the hands of a whole mess of walkers and gave Carla the time she needed to escape.
Carla was also the reason Pinky didn't go on so many runs as he once did. He liked being close to her. He liked the way she smiled, laughed and wrinkled her nose. So, he stayed close to the farm as much as possible, plowing and planting.
Pinky thought after the Militia was dealt with, he'd make his feelings known to her. He feared getting too close to her till those pigs were done with, but he also knew somewhere in his mind that he'd already gotten too close; he wanted her. Wanted her in all the ways a man naturally wants a woman. He wanted to make love to her; stay up late and listen to her prattling; wake up to her deep green eyes.
Now he watched her as she cleaned the dishes.
He stood up. “Let me help.”
6
After the dishes were cleaned, Pinky told the ladies to have a wonderful morning. He went out to the front porch and trotted down the steps onto the front lawn. He walked with happy glee, the beautiful Carla Sanders still on his mind.
“Hi, ho! Pinky!” It was Larry Pratt. Larry was an ancient old man, nearing the ripe age of ninety-five. Larry never left the farm, for obvious reasons and he willingly tied down one of his wrists every night just in case he died and turned. This morning the old man had his corn cob pipe in his left hand and was waving with his right. Other than his deceased father, Pinky never met a man that knew more about farming and general gardening than Larry Pratt. Larry's green thumb had been well known in all the southeast, seeing he'd won multiple gardening competitions.
Pinky met him with a smile and a hearty handshake. “What's on the agenda today, old man?”
Larry looked up to the sky as though to survey the potential for rain. “Looks like a good day to do some weeding. I say there be a mighty fine rain comin soon. Prolly in a day or two. Best to clean out the weeds before then.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Pinky said.
In the distance, Pinky saw the early morning patrols heading out, and the third shift patrols heading in. Pinky didn't operate his farm like a military camp, at least he didn't want to; but no one argued about the need for disciplined fence patrols and lookouts. If you saw a horde coming early, it was a lot easier to deal with them, quickly and as silently as possible. They had a large stash of silenced automatics just for that purpose. The farm was surrounded by a wilderness of large oak trees. The trees created a natural barrier against the rest of the world. The fences only added to the security. Beyond the fences were a labyrinth of strategically placed booby traps. Some as simple as cans on a string, others as elaborate as catch nets that yanked the person into the air and held them there. There were also hidden holes that dropped down almost fifteen feet.
“Did you eat breakfast yet, Larry?”
“Had me a touch of toast earlier.”
“Go on inside and have the girls cook you up something. They’ll be getting the third shift patrols food ready and will make you a plate.”
“When you gonna grow some balls and make a move on Carla?” Larry asked this with a sly grin and a wink.
“Just get your food old timer,” Pinky said and clapped the man on the shoulder (not too hard), then walked out to talk with the third shift patrols.
7
Pinky liked the man in charge of the third shift patrols. Johnny “Rainmaker” Hudson was a full-blooded Cherokee who'd been adopted and raised in Marlboro county till he joined the Marine Corp at eighteen years old. He was towering six feet four, dark-skinned Native American with a loud and commanding voice and laugh. His hair was buzzed military style and his eyes were like dark black crystals of knowledge. He was charismatic by nature, and he let off an amiable and trusting feeling of good cheer everywhere he went. The tall Native American never went on patrols with a lot of gear and today was no different. He had on camo BDUs, a tight black shirt that showed his muscles in all their shimmering beauty. A nine-caliber pistol on his hip and a AR15 strapped against his chest, looking
like a play toy in contrast to his wide and bulky shoulder, and bulwark of a chest. The man spoke with nearly impeccable English, “Pinky! I'm glad to report the night proved quiet and uneventful.”
Pinky walked to him and shook his hand. “Good to hear, Johnny. I sleep soundly knowing you're out here watching out for everyone.”
“It’s a pleasure. Now, if you don't mind, we need some grub. It's hungry work guarding against the dead.”
“The girls are waiting,” he said, and clapped Johnny on his massive shoulder and thought just how lucky he was to have this man. Johnny had led the team that flanked and killed the Militia group sent to test the farm's defenses. The Militia learned that day that all the heavy drugs in the world couldn't create a group of men able to defeat Johnny Rainmaker. Pinky figured the Militia decided losing more men just wasn't worth it, at least not yet. That was six months ago, and Johnny himself led the occasional spy teams out to monitor The Militia's movements.
“It’s only a matter of time,” Johnny had said shortly after returning from a reconnaissance mission. “They are building their forces up at an alarming rate. People are joining them because they are scared, and the drugs they give them are strong. Once they take the drugs, they're hooked and officially belong to The Militia. Dark days are ahead, my friend. Dark days indeed. We’ll have to move against them sooner or later. Because I promise, they will eventually come for us again.”
Pinky had lit a cigarette and stared up into Johnny’s black crystal eyes. “We won’t let that happen, Johnny.”
Johnny smiled. “You know those things will kill you, Pinky. Don't you read the surgeon general warning on the side?”
“These days dying of lung cancer is hardly a pressing matter. And these are hand rolled; no surgeon general required.”
Johnny had laughed at that.
And now, as Pinky watched Johnny Rainmaker walking towards the large antebellum farmhouse, he once again felt a deep gratitude and love for the man.
8
After talking with Johnny, Pinky took a walk. He preferred walking alone; it gave him time to think. The heat was stifling, even at this early hour. It was just after eight in the morning, the humidity thick as butter. He checked the fence line for kinks, breaks, and any signs of tampering. So far so good. They'd built watch posts every fifty yards, twenty feet tall with a small sitting station on top. He waved at the occupants as he walked by.
As he walked, he thought about the Militia. It had been six months and they hadn’t attacked again. Johnny had scouted them and saw they were working their way down to the coast and bringing many hostages back, all women of course. They kept the women as sex slaves. This bothered Pinky a great deal. His own ancestors had owned slaves, on this very farm. It wasn't a history he was proud of, but he didn't ignore it either.
There was also something else. There were sightings. Not everyone saw them, but he had and so had Johnny. The ghosts of dead slaves. It wasn't every day, but it happened enough to cause some worry and fear among the residents of the farm. Not Johnny though. The big Native American seemed delighted and honored to be among the people to see them. Johnny told him there was nothing to fear from them. Johnny said they may even prove helpful, and until Pinky turned to go around the next bend, he never really understood what Johnny might mean by helpful.
When he turned and walked into a section of the farm that was shaded by large oaks, the shadows long and wide enough to make you think you'd stepped into another realm; the temperature dropped considerably; he saw her. She was standing next to a tree. Well, not quite standing, more like hovering just a few inches off the ground. She wore a battered dress, with holes shredded into it. He knew what she was. She was a dead slave, dead for more than a hundred years. She couldn't have been more than ten years old.
Pinky's heart thudded against his chest, and a cold sweat started on his forehead. He was scared. He'd been scared every time he'd seen one of them, but this time was different. This time, the ghost was staring at him, aware of him and that had never happened before. Before, it was always as though the spirits were reliving a past moment; like a rip in the fabric of time occurred, offering the modern observer a glimpse into a past event, an event that was always happening without end.
Johnny had said to him. “Never fear them. Spirits are rarely evil. If they communicate with you, which is very rare indeed, then it is almost always for the good not the bad. Of course, there are exceptions to that rule.”
Now Pinky stood, frozen in place as this dead slave girl, both fully solid, and yet transparent. In and out. In and out. Like she wavered from one-time frame to the next, or one realm to the next—dead to the living, living to the dead. Pinky hoped like hell she was not one of Johnny’s exceptions to the rule.
The ghost spoke: “They’re coming. You must help them, so they can help you. They’re in trouble. You have to help them.”
Pinky stood for a moment not sure of what to say, but he had to say something. He heard Johnny in the back of his mind: they are here to help, Pink. Don't fear them.
He spoke. “Help who? Who's coming?”
The little slave ghost hovered over closer to him. He nearly jumped, but somehow held his ground, though the sweat stung his eyes and it was freezing now. Not just cold, but cold enough to snow; he could see his breath yet his sweat kept coming.
“Look for a red head and a man with a scarred face. They are looking for you. The bad men are after them.”
“Where are they?” Pinky began to calm down. He was beginning to heed Johnny's words. Don't fear them.
“They're coming from the swamps. There are others too, but they are strong. The bad men can't catch them.”
“The swamps? Others? What others?” But she was vanishing slowly. “Wait! I need more infor—”
She was gone. Pinky stood there, panting. It was as though a paranormal bubble popped. The humidity rushed against his face, and he nearly fainted. He dropped to one knee, removed his cowboy hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. He sat there for about a minute, gaining control of his breathing. He removed a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, took one out, struck a match against the rough tree bark, and lit it.
He pushed his back against the tree and smoked.
9
Pinky sat there for some time. Thinking. Thinking under the shady trees. What just happened? He felt as though he'd stepped into a Stephen King novel, Bag of Bones perhaps. Who was the little girl talking about? The redhead and the man with the scarred face? Coming from the swamps? He knew who the bad men were. There was only so many men left as it was, and the Militia was as nasty as it gets. Redheads and scarred faces. That was the puzzle, and why did he have to help them? Why are they looking for me? He thought silently as he lit another cigarette.
What a fucking shit fest. He laughed and stared at the green canopy above. The temperature was always a few degrees cooler under this semicircle of trees, and this wasn't the first time he'd sat against this tree, smoked and thought. This was, however, the first time he had such strange things to consider. Johnny certainly would have a few things to say about this. And Pinky was looking forward to discussing all this with him, but not till tonight. Let the big man rest.
He suddenly missed his father very much. His father would know what to do. His father always had an answer, even if it was the wrong answer. “Just do somethin, even if it’s the wrong somethin.” His father had always said.
“What do I do, Dad? This is one strange puzzle,” Pinky said. Above him birds nestled and tweeted the day’s happenings; their wings making a fluttering against the leaves. A few acorns fell and bounced off Pinky's boot. He sighed, snubbed his cigarette, then lit another one and closed his eyes.
These past six months swirled in his mind. The death of his father. The pain that came with it, and the burial. The panic in the eyes of so many of the people living on the farm. The constant patrols, the never-ending scouting missions. The fear Johnny and his team might not make it back. The worry that the
Militia would overtake them.
And now this. It was hard enough knowing that the time to go on the offensive was probably far overdue, but now this supernatural shit? Pinky felt as though he had no control over anything, and he was right. The world has a way of tossing a monkey wrench in a man's plans. A way of carving a path that he must walk down like a bug attracted to a light.
Pinky was scared, but he was also excited. Maybe he was just a pawn in the larger scheme of things, but he knew that he was an important pawn, maybe even a crucial piece to this hellish puzzle.
10
Pinky had gone to college with big dreams and high hopes. He studied English but soon leaned over to a degree in History. History had a way of pulling him in the way that advanced English courses just didn't. He still loved literature though, and felt as though history lessons only help round his own writing skills. He graduated with a BA in History with honors. He then had a choice: study for a Ph.D. in History or a MFA in creative writing. He chose the MFA and applied to many schools—USC, Clemson, Hollins University even the Ivy Leagues—Harvard, Princeton, and Yale. The Ivy Leagues rejected him outright, but USC, Clemson, and Hollins accepted him. He chose Hollins because they ranked in the top twenty for their MFA program in the entire country. Hollins University was an all-girls school in Roanoke Virginia, but accepted men for all their graduate programs. This for Pinky was simply icing on the cake. He'd packed his bags and spent his first two semesters enjoying the classically beautiful campus with its views of the blue ridge mountains; its brown leaf littered grounds and its many, many women. Though many of the girls were a bit different, such as a robust lesbian community, and some enjoyed not shaving under their arms or legs; and down below would prove a hairy forest.