by Black, D. S.
As did the Militia. All in the name of the Mountain King. His men, his army of drugged ants, moving through the region, murdering, raping, kidnapping and then indoctrinating young men, dragging them and their supplies back to the king. Back to the foundations of evil.
There was more to the story to it than that. There was some darker and stronger evil at work. Zarina sensed a powerful and malevolent presence everywhere she went, and the feeling had nearly overwhelmed her while spying on the Militia. Only her spells, and her protection pendant had kept her body and sanity intact, not to mention warding off and keeping her safe from mental invasion by whatever force ruled this stretch of earth now.
She’d only a few direct dealings with the supernatural, and certainly nothing as powerful as whatever she felt lurking and moving, no doubt making a sick, strange, and unholy nest for itself in the black shadow that nestled like a satanic cloud behind the casino. Zarina had seen ghosts, both before and after the Fever, and had dealt with them, even banished and cleansed homes in her old village; driving out mean-spirited haunts that had no place among the living. These were things she never told her father; he’d have insisted she stay away from superstition and stop playing games, even if his eyes betrayed the unease and fear that came from denial of the obvious belief he had forced deep down inside his subconscious, locking it away like an unwanted step child.
As she walked, she thought about her father. He was alive. That, without a doubt she knew. If he was dead, she would have felt something, a jarring of her soul. What would he make of the New World? Where was he holed up at? Back at the village? Moscow? She doubted he would stay in a large city like Moscow which undoubtedly was now populated by large masses of the dead.
She trudged up a steep mountain hill. On her left was a steep drop, guaranteeing death for anyone or anything that was unfortunate enough to take a tumble. This was not possible for Zarina; her footing was sure and steadfast, her breathing unlabored and smooth. Poison ivy grew in bunches along the unbeaten path, but Zarina’s sturdy jeans kept their itchy touch out of reach. The path was unbeaten, but a skilled tracker could see the hints of her boots, even as she strode over the land as nimbly as a mythical elf. Even the small brushings of her clothes against bush could be picked up by a trained eye. It’s why the camp was protected by much more than just guns and sharp eyes.
The day burned hot, sweat licking at her neck, running down her chest, circling around small B cup breasts, and pooling at her belly button. The mosquitoes weren’t as bad at this altitude, but they existed and offered enough of a problem for her to have to swat at the air every twenty steps or so. The faster she moved, the harder it was for the blood suckers to taste her, so she picked up her pace.
The trees offered shade, but bars of sun light shone through, occasionally lighting upon her face, exposing her dark, mystic, slanted eyes, well rounded cheeks that always had a hint of red. It was hard to see for most, but if a person looked closely and hard enough, they might see the strange glow which stayed with Zarina, an aura so strange most people in the Old World would dismiss as nothing more than a trick of light.
3
She made her way back to camp. A camp protected by Magick, just as her mind and body was also safe via the means of forces hard to understand and even harder to master.
She stepped over an invisible barrier, what to the naked eye, was nothing more than a crunchy welcome mat of pine needles between two large stone pillars with jagged points reaching twenty feet or more toward the sky. Here was where she’d laid a spell, which thus far had kept evil spirits and dark hearts from discovering those who lived beyond the pillars. A spell which would need to be renewed tonight, when the full moon shined like a cold, fierce eye.
A short distance away, a natural stream flowed over a high embankment, clean and clear water rushed down in a harmonious and life-giving waterfall; splashing, swirling, and feeding a small pond inside a canyon, surrounded by rock face. Rock and grass covered the ground around the pond and tents, thirty in all were set up evenly on the pond’s small beach head. Rocks had been moved and arranged in Circles of Protection around each tent.
Zarina walked into the canyon camp, and was greeted with smiles and laughter. The laughter of children. Nearly forty kids sat under the warm sun, and twenty more were on patrols outside of camp, ensuring nothing, dead or alive, supernatural or human approached unchecked.
A child army. Their faces strong, hard, and fearless from a year of survival against the Militia, zombies, and entities that would have once darkened their dreams.
Fernando Wild approached her. He was born and raised in South Carolina by a determined immigrant mother from Mexico and a hard-working American construction engineer. He spoke with his father’s thick southern accent, “Zarina! Hot damn! Bout fucking time you got back here.”
He smiled at her, both the same height, and held out his brown hand. She took it and shook it; she liked this kid. The leader of what he called The Mudcats, an homage to his little league baseball team, many of the players still alive and part of his child army.
“You smell like shit,” he said.
She ignored his insult. “Are we ready for tonight?”
“Hells to the yeah, woman. You think I’m some kind of slacker? My daddy taught me how to shoot, skin deer, build shit, but sure as hell didn’t teach me to slack off.”
“You Americans… prideful and full yourselves,” she said followed by a laugh, and ruffled his hair.
“Damn! You know I hate that! And you probably got shit in my hair.”
“Any news before I take a bath?”
His face was youthful, yet ancient, a combination the New World forced upon him. His eyes were dark brown, full of passion, spice, and confidence. He was only twelve, but had the Old World survived, Zarina was certain Fernando would have grown up to be quite the ladies’ man. As it stood now, not many ladies existed for him to grow up with.
“Nope! Just like the weather, it’s all the same,” he said.
As they walked through the camp, Zarina nodded at the well-armed kids, listening to Fernando’s report. “Patrols ain’t seen shit. They killed a bear though, and I salted the meat. Plenty left. Made Jerky out of some of it, and I make damn good jerky. Anyway, no sign of the Militia, zombies, or ghosts. Your devilry works.”
“The devil does nothing for the Magick I use.” She looked down at him, her eyes sparked bright blue for a moment, her gaze shrinking the boy, a reminder of her power.
“Don’t bite my head off. Damn! Sorry. My momma always said women like you pave their own path to hell’s deepest pits. Playing with forces better left alone.”
She smiled, then laughed, and started walking again. “Your mother spoke correctly, at least to some degree. True Magick is no game. Magic, spelled m-a-g-i-c is silly parlor tricks, pulling rabbits out of hats, flowers from the cuff of your sleeve, or using mirrors to play tricks on people’s perceptions. But, magick, spelled m-a-g-i-c-k, is ‘the real deal’ as Americans like to say.” She stopped again, took him by the shoulders and looked into his brown eyes, “the power of the natural world should only be harnessed by someone—”
“By someone like you. By a natural witch.”
“You speak true, my American comrade. So true.” She let him go and they continued on their way.
They’d reached the shore of the pond. Zarina felt the mist from the waterfall against her face, it cooled her skin. The blue water shimmered in the sunlight, and her body begged for immersion. A little boy, no more than eight ran up to her. He handed her a small leather satchel.
“Thank you, Donny. How have you been?”
“Just fine, Zarina. Some of us worried about you while you were gone, though; but Fernando told us to keep a lid on it, and remember the New World can’t kill a witch.”
She laughed, took his hand and said: “Go tell the others I’ll come and speak to the entire group later. Me and Fernando must talk a little more, and then I’m washing this stink from my body.
”
The boy turned and ran back to the tents, where Zarina saw the trusting eyes of the kids. Kids? Who was she kidding? The Fever claimed their childhood just as it claimed the lives of their parents. They were baptized into adulthood via pain and blood.
She turned back to Fernando, who was staring back at his army. He loved them. He’d die for them. She knew this just looking at his face, but she also knew from direct experience. She’d seen his brilliant courage while under fire, and the heart and determination that kept him and those under his command alive.
“You found all we needed?” She asked.
“We had some trouble finding the black candles, but we got em. I led a fast trip into town. Found a supply of them in some natural herbal store.”
“Ran into problems?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle. A few walkers, but no Militia.”
“And what about the blood?” She asked.
“Hector’s working on it. He’ll make it in time.”
“Then I’ll take my bath now.”
He turned to leave, then stopped with his back to her, “We missed you this week. Glad you made it back, Zarina. The camp wouldn’t be the same without you.”
He didn’t give her time to say anything. He strode off without looking back. She wondered if he picked up this bit of personality from his father.
Either way, she thought it was cute. She also knew he had a crush on her, but would never in a million years say anything to her about it. In that way, he was till just a kid.
A lonely, sweet kid.
4
Zarina stripped her clothes off, completely unconscious of some of the boys staring at her from the encampment. Let them look, if it suited them. All she cared about was the amazing, cleansing feeling the water gave her. She’d asked the water goddess Oshun to bless this body of sparkling blue, and Zarina felt the power and presence around her, filling her mind with comfort and ease. She swam to where her feet no longer touched (which for her, wasn’t far), then dove under, kicking her feet, pulling her body deep with the motion of her arms. She kept her eyes open, and saw the beauty around her. Rocks, fish, the soft mineral dirt on the bottom; she heard the ceaseless water fall, sending its life-giving nutrition down to the rippling pond. She rose back up, and erupted from the water, breathing in the fresh air, and feeling the sun’s warmth already start to dry her skin and hair. She swam back to the shore, walked over to where she’d left the leather bag, and removed soap and shampoo. She returned to the water, and bathed; cleansing her mind and body of the week of filth she’d lived in.
In the pond, the Militia existed far away, nothing to worry about. Just some men that had too much time on their hands. All negative thought left her, and she waded over to the water fall, letting the water pound against her like the greatest shower head ever made. She moved behind the falling water. There was a small island of rock, and there she pressed her back against the rock face, and stared at the veil of water. The little rock island had a mineral smell, but a breeze brought in the occasional smell of flower, grass, and all the beauty which existed in this little oasis.
She couldn’t see the kids through the water fall, but she heard them. She’d been with them for nearly eight months. If not for her, if not for that fateful day, this group of brave child warriors may have fell prey to the Militia. Turned into drug addicted soldiers, and released upon the New World as sick, deranged rapists and cold-blooded murderers.
If not for that day….
With that thought still echoing in her mind, she slipped off to sleep, naked and dreaming, hidden from view behind the waterfall.
5
She awoke to dying light. Shadows surrounded her. Her first thought was she was back in Russia, fallen asleep on a small rock island much like this one not far from her village of Zlatoust. Then she heard the murmurings of the children, and remembered the world she lived in. A world of death and pain. A world where the Hunt took on a new and wonderful meaning, even if that new meaning required trading in all the comforts and joys of the Old World. She stood up, her knees popping. She stretched her arms upward, listening to her spine crack into proper alignment.
She felt the cool mist from the thunderous water fall spraying against her nude body. She stepped into the falling water, and then jumped into the pond. The water woke her senses and refreshed her mind. She sprung from the water, and swam to shore.
A young boy met her at the shore, holding dry clothes and a metal cup full of water, boiled and clean. She drank it thankfully, and then dressed in a pair of jeans and a form fitting white t-shirt.
Moments later, “Zarina!” Fernando started. “The patrol’s back! They got what we need! Hells yeah!”
“Don’t mock Hell. Don’t tempt the chance it’s a real place,” she said joining him, walking side by side. Two warriors making their way to the camp entrance where Fernando’s little brother along with six other children, hardened child soldiers, escorted a gagged, blindfolded, and shivering Militia goon.
Fernando’s little brother, Hector walked up to them; his chest puffed out, pride smiling across his face. “Caught the shit head straggling, plucked him, and gagged him fast. Should a seen the turd’s face. Like Booo YOW! Done got caught fuck head!” Hector, brown like a bronze statue, barely breaching five feet, stalky and thick, ran up to the captured Militia soldier, kicked him in the shin, then laughed.
“Stick him in the shit box,” Fernando said.
“Let’s go numb nuts,” Hector said pushing the Militia man with the end of a pistol. “Time to smell some turds”
Zarina followed them to the Shit Box, a Port-a-Potty which sat almost half a football field away, in a cusp of trees. The side clearly read in white painted letters: SHIT BOX.
“We ain’t cleaned it in a few days,” Fernando said.
“Gonna stink to the high heavens, and it’s your new home away from home till tonight,” Hector added nudging the prisoner hard, causing him to stumble. The shit and piss, and occasional puke was hauled out of camp twice a week, taken to a cliff, and pitched down using large metal buckets. They may have been better methods, such as simply walking out of camp to do their business, but that would mean taking a chance of losing the protection of the Magick which guarded their small oasis. So, they stocked lime, along with other smell killing material, dousing the area around the Shit Box while keeping the inside as clean as possible.
They pushed him in, closing and tying the door shut by securing a nylon rope around the entire body of the box. The man sounded of suffering, a mixture of gagged begging, created no sympathy in Zarina, or anyone else at camp. The Militia had brought enough pain and suffering to those they encountered to last multiple life times. As far as Zarina was concerned, this was just punishment.
6
“Are preparations ready?” she asked.
“Ready and willing. Just gotta wait for the sun to go down,” Fernando replied.
“Very good. Dinner?”
“Bear stew.”
“Stewed with what?”
“Potatoes and jalapeno peppers. My mother’s recipe.”
“I thought we were nearly out of jalapenos.”
“We’re out now, but I used the last for you. Thought you’d like something special after a week of living in your own shit and piss.”
“Good man.” She ruffled his hair, and walked over to where large pots brewed over wood fired stoves.
She made herself a bowl of stew and then sat in a camp chair taken from Wal-Mart. Some of the kids armed, hard faces, took seats beside and around her; all eyes on Zarina.
A beefy kid, age eleven, Daniel Stout spoke up: “Zarina, tell us a story. Something special.”
Another kid, one of the few girls in the entire group, Mary Sutherland, age nine. Once very wealthy heir to the Sutherland Tea Company, said: “Tell us about how you met Fernando.”
Zarina took a sip from her spoon, swallowed the spicy meat and potato, smiled, looked over at Fernando, gave him a wink then
said to young Mary: “That story again? Do you not tire of it?”
“Noooooo. Never. Please tell us,” Mary said.
A chorus of please and tell us, tell us now, exploded around her. Zarina smiled widely, her thick cheeks full of good humor, raised one hand to silence the gathering army of children, and then began her story as the sun burned orange, falling gracefully behind the waterfall. Shadow darkened her face, and twilight flirted with the sky, turning the world around them a beautiful midnight blue.
“You receive the short version today because the night closes in, and there are things to do when the full moon comes tonight,” she said to staring, raptured young faces.
She told them the story they’d all heard many times before, just like now, huddled close, ears leaning in to catch every word. Fernando caught in a fire fight with men twice his age; men so drugged their eyes bulged from sockets, veins pumping rapidly and thickly against their temples, down their arms, and necks. Zarina seeing it all from a hill top, debating the odds of her successfully intervening. Witchcraft couldn’t defeat a hail of gunfire, at least not without proper circumstances and a little time to prepare. She didn’t have that luxury that day, but she didn’t think she could walk away from a dozen or so kids battling it out with deranged Militia soldiers. The leader, who she later would find out was Fernando, led with bravery and natural combat skill. He moved his child soldiers around broken-down cars, laying down suppression fire. He would later tell her this was something he’d learned from video games, but she knew better than to believe any game prepared the nerves for the harsh realities of battle. Only a true warrior could risk the chances of bloody and inglorious and hellish death.
She told of how he threw a grenade, killing two, and wounding three of the Militia. They were eventually pinned down against a building, the Militia closing in on all sides, death or capture imminent.