by Black, D. S.
Intermission: The Fever Brings the Killing
The Stayer Family
The Stayer family set on their large veranda porch drinking ice tea, freshly made mind you. These are good Southern folk and they love their sweet tea on warm summer evenings. This would have turned out just like any other day had the Fever not struck the little town of Clearwater, SC on that particular day. Dan Stayer was a loving father and an all-around sweet Southern gentleman; at least that's what most of the folks over at the local Baptist church would say about him.
“That Dan is a check mark for this county.” The churchgoers often said. They’d loved him quite a bit, and on the day the Fever hit many of them came to see Dan on his porch. Nathan Stayer was sitting next to his dad drinking his own glass of ice tea. He didn't tell his dad, but he occasionally put a shot of Southern Comfort in for good measure. He was a boy of only fourteen, but he had the alcohol tolerance of many a fine wino. His mom, Sissy Stayer was a plump woman with red cheeks and a lovely laugh. “That Sissy drags laughter everywhere she goes” so said the churchgoers; they called her “their Sissy.”
Lindsey Stayer was ten years old with golden elf hair, the greenest eyes on God's little globe, and fair skin that would have given the boys the hots had she lived to see puberty.
“Is that Hank?” said Dan Stayer.
“Think so, hun. Hey there Hank! Whatcha doin?” said Sissy.
“Well look a there! It's Susan Peterson! Hey, Susan! How are ya?” said Dan.
“That fella don't look too hot dad,” Nathan said.
Dan stood up and walked down the porch to greet his friends. “Well, goodness you don't look well Hank. What—HEY! HEY! WHAT THE SAM FUCKING HILL!” Hank grabbed Dan's arm and bit into his forearm. Blood spurted up in a beautiful spray of red, contrasting nicely with the blue sky and the green shrubs around the yard.
Down the street, the storm alarm blared from the local fire department. Dogs howled in almost every yard in the neighborhood. On the porch, Sissy screamed.
Nathan lunged from his seat. “Get off my mama! You crazy bitch!”
Susan Peterson paid him no mind and dug her teeth deep into Sissy's hand, and then went for her face, knocking them both over onto the gray veranda. Nathan grabbed Susan and yanked her up, then held her by the shoulders and stared at her face. “Jesus mother of—”
She wasted no time chewing his face, taking his nose off almost entirely with one bite.
Lindsey was only ten but understood the situation quite quickly. She ran into the house, slammed the door and locked it. More of their friends from church were showing up, and soon the house was surrounded by dead churchgoers.
With her family dead and more of the freshly arisen pounding on her doors and windows; little Lindsey Stayer ran like a wild elf into her father's study and grabbed the nine-caliber pistol from his unlocked desk drawer.
A window broke in the living room and she heard the sound of death marching into her home. “Jesus forgive me, for I have sinned.” She then raised the pistol and placed it under her ten-year-old chin and pulled the trigger. The bullet sent her sweet bloody brains flying against the white stripped blue wall in a spatter of bone and blood.
The church going zombies soon found her little body and consumed her twice as fast as they'd eaten her parents.
Thus, came the end of the locally loved Stayer family of Clearwater, South Carolina.
Cry Baby Bridge
Teddy drove his corvette. In the passenger seat sat Lucy Goldstein (Miss School Spirit). In the back sat Eugene Harris and Brandy Day. An Abercrombie and Fitch shirt clung to Brandy’s large double D breasts. Eugene wore goofy green and black glow in the dark sunglasses.
“Turn the top down, Teddy!” said Eugene.
Sublime's What I Got jammed on vibrating speakers.
“That’ll blow the fucking top off! Num nuts!” replied Teddy.
It was the eve of summer, school just let out and these fresh high school graduates drove their way into Union, SC. They had no idea that the Fever had just started to spread and that the paranormal world was now interlaced with their reality. Hard liquor on their breaths and not a worry in the world. Just good ole Americana at its finest. Teddy's daddy, a high-strung drunk, who happened to be a hardass Spartanburg County judge, bought Teddy the Chevy Corvette convertible for his high school graduation present. Teddy's future looked bright, a shining star ready to explode in a fury of blinding greatness. A cliché of a boy if there ever was one—high school quarterback, honor student, and all around nice guy. Everyone loved Teddy.
Especially Lucy Goldstein. Against her father's wishes, she'd fell in love with a gentile. Her dad the defense attorney, Larry Goldstein spent his life keeping potheads out of hard jail time and spent the rest of his life worrying about his daughter’s virginity (though Teddy popped that cherry back in Junior year) and just couldn't accept that his little girl grew up faster than a sexy little bean sprout.
The rivalry between the Goldstein’s and the high strung judge created the growing grounds for a modern Romeo and Juliet, and Teddy and Lucy loved every minute of it; just kids being kids, enjoying youth, never realizing bloody death waited at Cry Baby bridge.
The warm Southern breeze whipped through open windows bringing in the sweet smell of Palmetto honeysuckle. The stars shown bright and a full moon cast the world in sublime light. Trees, ancient and wise sat watching in large sections on either side of the road.
The wheels of Teddy's Corvette rubbed hard on the asphalt and down the road the young graduates drove. Just another day for fun and laughter, for remembering the past four years of house parties, prom nights, and football games. A true blue slice of American beauty, red white and blue pie. A tasteful treat and a final goodbye—a toast to true friendship and romantic love. Up ahead, cast in mist and shadow, Cry Baby Bridge waited; hungry for youth and flesh—the evil that had dwelled there now unleashed to forever exercise its dark fury.
Cry Baby Bridge has always been known for its hauntings. It’s said that the bridge is haunted by a mother that killed herself and her baby. Others say that the woman and baby were murdered on the bridge by a sinister force; a poltergeist some had submitted. The reports also claim that if a person pulled onto the bridge at night the engine would cut off and the baby could be heard crying and the mother might charge the car.
As the teen lovers would soon find out, all the stories had an element of truth.
“Pull onto the bridge, Ted!” Eugene said.
Eugene Harris. Teddy's best friend and wide receiver for the Broom Centurions. A tall and lean six feet three Eugene blew past the competition on the field and the classroom. A master of numbers and headed for a bright future as a CPA; a womanizer who loved only one girl, a romantic at heart, a lover in the bed. Yes oh yes! Eugene Harris, with his blue eyes and blonde hair; thin, round rimless glasses made female hearts beat fast and panties fly off even faster. Not that he wanted those panties, he only needed his Brandy. Her warm soul, her soft brunette hair, her double Ds. Eugene came from the other side of the tracks, as they used to say. Born and raised in a little town called Drayton (just a pimple on Spartanburg County's ass), raised by a lifetime mill worker and a homemaker grandmother. His hard work ethic won him a scholarship to Presbyterian College, where (had the Fever and Cry Baby bridge not interfered) an accounting degree waited.
As Teddy rolled onto Cry Baby Bridge a deep fog suddenly rose up and swallowed the car. The temperature dropped to freezing levels, and the Corvette’s engine died; they rolled and stopped on the middle of the old bridge.
“Teddy, stop playing,” Lucy said; her voice quivered with fear.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“And I don’t think he has a fog machine. Holy shit! What is THAT!” Eugene said, pointing; a strange shadow was moving in the fog; it seemed to not just move in the fog, but to be an actual extension of the fog itself.
“What is it? I want to leave. Let’s go home! I don’t like this anymo
re!” Brandy said; she was shaking and shivering all over; her nipples hard and elongated.
“She’s right Teddy. Let’s go. PLEASE,” Lucy said.
“OK. OK.” Teddy said; he turned the key—nothing; not even a stutter came from the engine.
“It’s dead. The engine is fucking DEAD!” Teddy sounded like he might piss his pants; his voice was shaky from shivering against the freezing temperature.
Then came the laughter, followed by a crying baby. The baby was whimpering and then bawling, off and on, crying then screaming; shrieking as though something was ripping into its small body.
More laughter.
Lucy’s car door rushed open. She didn’t even have a chance to scream; some force jerked her from the car; a dark shadow moved quickly and efficiently; she disappeared into the fog; her screams followed, helpless and squealing; her blood shot out of the fog and painted red against the blue corvette.
“Oh, Jesus. Oh God. Please help—”
There was a woman standing in front of the car now; she was tattered and battered, bloody and crying; she withered in and out of sight like a loose light bulb; she stared at the kids sitting in the fancy sports car; she was shaking her head back and forth as if to tell them there was no hope, no chance to escape this paranormal fog of death.
A week before this dreadful night, Brandy had sat with her father telling him all about how excited she was about going to PC with Eugene; how they would marry after they graduated and both had good jobs; how the future and world was their oyster; how nothing could stop them from achieving romantic, spiritual, and economic greatness; how hard work and determination was all it took to make it in America, the greatest nation in the world. Her father had been supportive and told her to go after her dreams and never look back; she had kissed him on the cheek, then gone and called Eugene; told him how wonderful life was; how great their future family would be.
Now Brandy shivered in the back seat, crying tears that froze on her face; she had her head buried into Eugene’s chest; holding him, praying God would intervene; or that she would wake up and all this would be a nightmare.
Instead her door flew open; she felt frigid hands grasp both her ankles, she had time to look up at Eugene’s face; his face was blue and pale, frozen tears against his cheeks, he stared at her with trembling lips; she was torn from him and pulled out into the fog; her screams came in dreadful echoes of horrible death; her hot blood splattered and steamed against the cold Corvette’s body; some of the steaming blood landed on the gray leather seats where Brandy had been only moments earlier.
Now the woman standing in front of the car was screaming; her baby howled with her; the mad sickening laughter bellowed with them in a horrific chorus that shattered the sanity of both Teddy and Eugene.
Eugene opened his door and stumbled into the fog, it didn’t take long; he was snatched up and impaled with something long and sharp; the blade gutted him like a screaming pig, before he died he saw what his life could have been. It flashed through his mind in less than a second—two story brick house, two kids, two cars, taking his family on yearly vacations, making love to Brandy in their California king bed—then it was all gone and blood was gushing out of his stomach, his mouth, and his eyes were bulging; then they closed and all thoughts ceased to exist.
At the sound of Eugene’s screams, Teddy jumped out of the car and made a dash for it; he entered the blinding fog; he tripped and fell hard onto the bridge’s old wooden frame; he felt the cold hand grab him and pull him to his feet; he was turned around; the dark form he saw had no face, it moved through the fog like a black cloud.
Hot blood spurted from Teddy's chest as an eerie green ax cleaved into him. “Dear god.” Were his final words.
The baby cried, its volume rising to an ear shattering pitch. The dark form laughed and reality shook.
Then all was silent, the fog lifted. The bodies were left on the bridge; by morning the area (and the world) would be filled with zombies, and those once young, innocent high school kids would get up and leave Cry Baby Bridge, hungry and growling for flesh.
Okona’s Jeep
1
Okona drove a Jeep Wrangler with Chris riding shotgun. Directly in front of them was Duras in another Jeep Wrangler. Ice Man, Rhino and Vice rode with him. The Jeeps were taken from Jeep Land of Myrtle Beach just a day before.
That's one thing Okona always thought the writers of the Walking Dead series seemed to neglect—car lots. Hundreds of cars for the taking, all brand spanking new.
They set out from the coastal region and headed towards Columbia shortly after the Battle for the City of God. For what it was worth, they won that battle, but still lost the city. The fences were destroyed. The dead soon took it over post haste, but the trek to Columbia was to prove a daunting task, even for men as stout as Okona and Duras. A year in the New World hardened them, but against both a group of drug crazed soldiers and a world of flesh eaters, even the hardest of men can find themselves on the losing end of the stick.
As Okona drove he thought long and hard about many things. Driving for long periods can do that to a person. The mind tends to wander from topic to topic, memory to memory.
Mostly he just thought and worried about Tasha. Was she OK? Was she still alive? Had they raped her? He found himself falling into a memory. The memory of those first few weeks, when so much hell was breaking loose. He'd lost his wife and son the first week. He'd found himself lost and without a lot of hope. He'd gone to his comic store, intending to kill himself among the comics. Maybe read a few before he did it. He drove through the madness—survivors moving to and fro, confused and scared, often being chased by the recently deceased—and made it to the comic store. The first thing he noticed were the three cars parked in front. He never would have guessed they would come to the store during such an insane time; later when he had time to think about it; he thought it actually made sense. The comic store was their safe haven. It had always been the place to go when the world was trying to push them over sanity's edge. It was a place of peace and intellectual freedom. A place to discuss the latest comics and TV shows.
And it's where he found Tasha, Chris, and Andre. They had enough sense to lock the door (they all had keys) and they saw him walking up to the double pane glass entry way and unlocked it. The power was out all over town, but he kept a generator out back and they still had electricity. Chris locked the door behind him after he was inside the store.
“It's like the fucking Walking Dead out there,” Chris said staring at him with wide and frightened eyes.
“Are you guys OK?” Okona asked.
All three of them nodded but looked scared out of their minds.
Tasha asked, “Where is—” She didn't have to finish. The look on Okona's face told her everything she needed to know. “I'm so sorry.” She embraced him and held him; her tears fell on his shoulder.
“What will we do?” she said into his ear.
In that moment he couldn't believe he'd come here to kill himself. He felt the power between them, the love and friendship. The need to love them and protect them. He said the next thing that came to his mind. “Survive. We're going to survive.”
2
Chris sat beside Okona in the Jeep. He stared out the window. They'd reached an open section of back country road and were finally making a little ground. Chris wasn't the same fun-loving guy as he'd been before his brother was blown to bits during the Battle for the City of God. He was withdrawn and said very little. He was going through the motion of surviving. He'd held his brother in his arms, the blood drooling over him in thick red streams. He'd looked into his dead scorched face and cried. His brother had been his best friend since forever. Chris's wife had been a cheating whore; his daughters were just like their mother, plain snotty little bitches (though he couldn’t help but love them).
It was his brother who gave him the comfort he always needed, and the store. The comic store was the haven that brought him the most joy. Back when he'd tho
ught he was going to lose it, was the darkest period of his life—well—until now. He remembered when him and his brother first opened the store. How proud they were. How well it all went for some time. He remembered how they would play video games during slow periods of business, laughing and eating Krispy Cream donuts.
Now all that was gone. All he had now was Okona, and maybe Tasha; if they could find her. He loved them both, but no one could replace his brother. No one!
He also had one more thing; one final comforting thought: revenge! Revenge against the barbarians who did this.
The feeling brought a memory to mind. A Star Trek memory of all things. Star Trek: First Contact to be exact. Captain Picard and his revenge against the Borg. The black woman with the short hair. She'd told Picard he'd become just another Captain Ahab chasing his whale, because the Captain hated the Borg. The Borg had stolen so much from him. They took his humanity and used him as a tool to kill. They'd killed many of his friends and millions of others, and Picard wanted revenge and by god Picard got it!
And so will I! Damn them! Damn them to hell! They killed my brother! They killed Andre! I'll have their goddamn heads for it! I'll snap their necks just like Picard snapped that Borg bitch's neck. I draw the line HERE! HERE AND NO FURTHER!
Wasn't the comparison apt enough? The Militia was spreading through the area like a virus, like the Borg. They used their drugs to assimilate men and turn them into soulless killers. But not for long, oh no... Chris may not have the starship Enterprise and her crew, but he had a merry band of survivors with a common purpose: kill the Militia, kill the fucking Borg!