by Black, D. S.
At this point in the story, with the kid’s listening intently, Fernando stepped in. “That’s when with death staring me in the eye, I saw my deliverance behind the wheel of a fully loaded gas tanker, barreling full throttle down a steep hill, heading straight for the Militia’s strongest position. I swear to you, as hard as it might be to believe; I saw Zarina’s eyes behind the steering wheel, heard her voice in my head, screaming for me and the boys to take cover which was exactly what we did, and then: KABOOM!”
The kids always jumped at this, and then laughed, and cheered loudly.
Zarina took back over the story. “I opened the truck’s door, jumped, and rolled hard. Hitting the ground, scraping my shoulder and back, but alive. I got up, fired with both my pistols—”
“Headshots galore!” Fernando broke in, a feverish smile on his face. “I ain’t never seen so many headshots in all my life, not even in Counter Strike.” He got a few claps and nods from the boys who knew what Counter Strike was. “Then me and the boys joined her, taking the left flank while she killed the right all by herself. By god when it was over, nothing left standing but us and Zarina, I knew I’d met someone touched by the supernatural”
“American boys, and their imaginations! How true, but not completely. It took no Magick to drive a tanker, or make ‘headshots.’ Just stern nerves and a papa who raised me to shoot,” Zarina said winking at Fernando.
Zarina turned to the kids, and raised her voice, letting passion ring out in the darkening sky. “And what have we done with the Militiamen since those days? Strung and hung, dead and gone! Militiamen crying, begging, dying at our hands!”
A chorus of owl hooooooos met the rising moon, the children screaming.
Zarina now walked, moving through the kids like a phantom, spreading her power, passion, and sending the kids into another round of hooooooos.
“Who do the Militia fear?!” Zarina screamed, her face a mask of wild, mystic energy.
“MUDCATS!” The child warriors answered.
“Who calls on the power of the moon and earth!”
“ZARINA! MUDCATS! ZARINA! MUDCATS!” They were all on their feet now.
“Then let it begin! Let us call on the powers of earth and moon, fear and joy, hate and love, darkness and light, let’s LIGHT THIS NIGHT UP!” With a fast jerk of her wrist, a spark jumped from her hand and landed in the camp fire, creating an inferno of flame, lighting the faces of the children.
The music of death played inside her mind, her eyes beamed the light of Magick, with a touch of insanity. She barked marching orders as her mad eyes glowed. “Gather the candles! Gather the hemp! Bring me the blood! Tonight is the night! Feel no fright!”
They stood and began gathering the materials, screaming the words of Zarina the Huntress, Zarina the Witch, the children screamed: “GATHER THE CANDLES! GATHER THE HEMP! BRING HER THE BLOOD! TONIGHT IS THE NIGHT! WE FEEL NO FRIGHT!”
Over and over the mantra continued. Owl hooooooos, young eyes bright with excitement and a wild confidence. Zarina had done something to these kids since those early days, even to the bold and courageous Fernando. It wasn’t Magick, but she’d driven a powerful mental wedge between their fear of the New World, and their ability to fight against the Militia and stare ghosts and zombies dead in the eye, while boldly proclaiming: bring it the fuck on!
Her accent may have been littered with the occasional broken English, but it didn’t stop their understanding of what she said or did, and they needed no words to tell them her Magick worked. Her actions spoke louder than words. Her powers the only evidence they needed. She was their Night Mother, as she once told them. The mother they needed in the here and now, not to coddle them with nursery rhymes, but to engage them, prepare them for the dark forces at play, loosened by whatever caused the Fever, cracking the surface of reality, opening gateways leading to places none of them could go, not even her.
7
The full moon rose, shining down, casting its ancient power across Zarina’s face. Her eyes sparked with blue and violet light. Around her, circling her, stood the child army. Torches burned and crackled in their hands, casting medieval light across the landscape. Owls watched from the trees, offering the occasional hoo, hoo, hoo, their ancient wise eyes watching the drama unfold. On his knees, mumbling through the gag. Zarina stood over him. She held a dagger. Moon light glistened off the blade.
In a smaller circle surrounding Zarina and the Militia man, black candles burned brightly on top of smooth white stones. Under her feet, carved in the dirt was the symbol of the water goddess and the horned god.
She turned and looked at the children. They answered her stare with a loud hooooooo. She turned back to the captive, removed his blind fold and gag. He looked up at her, and started to cry.
“Please… god, I’m so sorry. For everything I did. Fear. It was fear that made me do it. They would have killed me to. They killed my girls and my wife. What more could I do? What option did I have?”
“You could have died with honor and pride. Died fighting for your family,” Zarina answered.
A chorus of hooooooos followed.
“You answer for your crimes tonight. For the crimes of cowardice and evil. For the madness you and your comrades tainted this once great land with.”
“Oh, please! I could join you! I know about the Militia! I know things!”
She ignored him. “Look! With this blade we take charge of our protection and destiny. Tonight is the night! This is our blood sacrifice!”
She grabbed him by the hair, and before he protested, she slit his throat. The gushing blood was met with another volley of hooooooos from the children. Zarina dipped her index finger in the pouring blood, and used it as ink. She put the blood words on a piece of note book paper:
cruel and evil power, demons surrounding my camp
Mountain King
She tied the paper around a white stone using hemp rope, and chanted:
“I evoke the Lord Shango and Lady Power Oshun. To be protected from the Mountain King and ye demons and eyes of the outside world.
With this Magick charm I bind you. For me and my camp to be free and protected from you demons and the Mountain King.
With my power and might
by the power of the Lord Shango and Lady Oshun.
I bind you Mountain King.
I bind you demons and cruel spirits.
This very night,
I now seal this charm and shield you from my thoughts, sights, and movement.
With this charm,
I take you out of my mind and shield my camp with the thorns of Shango.
You have no power over me.
This is my will and so mote it be!
Shango! Shango! Oshun! Oshun!”
A powerful wind whirled around the camp, rushing against them, blowing their hair, tossing dirt, forcing them to squint their eyes. An odd and mystic electricity buzzed around them. The pond and waterfall swirled, bubbled, and screamed with Magick, the water looking like a large tub with jets.
Zarina walked a few steps, picked up a black candle, and poured hot wax over the hemp wrapped stone and paper. The circle of kids opened for her as she walked over to the pond’s shore. The children followed her, their eyes raptured, their hair blowing with the mystic wind.
Zarina reared back, and threw the stone into the violently swirling pond. The stone plunked just in front of the waterfall. The water erupted, sending a large spray high in the night air. A sudden BOOM! threatened to knock them all over as a fresh gust of wind rushed around the camp, blowing out the candles, never leaving the perimeter, permeating the area with protection.
Then….
Silence. Darkness.
The children and Zarina let loose a horrific and joyful hooooooo.
The Voice
The Voice, as the Mountain King called It, had no true form. Its history was ancient, and mostly forgotten. Ages ago, the Mesopotamians called It by other names, then the Egyptians, the Greeks, and Romans. Then
the Dark Ages proved a fruitful time for the Voice—offering It mountains of souls to feast upon, and easy hearts to darken, manipulate, and use for Its foul fun. But, never before had It possessed this kind of reach, this kind of power, this much freedom of form and connection with the human species. Before, it could only exist for short periods of time in the living realm, consuming what It could before returning to darkness. It didn’t understand the Fever, or why the event had given birth to a new reality, a breach of the old separation between spirit realms and the living world, but here It was, and the time was ripe with hot souls to consume, and new powers to practice. It had learned It could travel for some distance, though it did ask a lot in return—draining It of strength and energy, which would have to be replenished with more souls.
Now fully charged, and ready to fulfill Its promise to the Mountain King—do Its part to stop the forces working against Its plans—It pushed out of Dead Zone Black, what had now become home sweet home, and blasted Its mind over land and water, lakes and rivers, searching, seeking the fools who stood against it.
It wanted an easy target. Someone to eat up fast, and spit out with soul grit still in its formless teeth. It wanted to see a massacre. A large pile of death which would feed It on the go. Leaving Its home wasn’t easy, and It often had to return hungry, angry, and wailing for souls to consume. The king always brought It dinner, souls so zesty, better than It had ever had before; but it wanted more today. It wanted to consume some fast food, and watch the skin melt from Its victim’s bones, to hear cries of pain, the hurtful tears of dying men, women, and children.
It flew over Columbia, and surveyed the death and destruction. The king’s folly. The king’s failure. It had given him great power, and the fool could not even contain one small section of earth. But as much as It hated to admit the truth, it needed the king and his men. Needed the souls they brought It.
It pushed on till It reached a farm ripe with fresh souls to eat. It could smell them, taste their essence like the flavor wafting from a marinating steak. The feast was soon to come, the dead were walking this way; It could hear their moans growing closer.
Patience.
The Voice had found prey.
Jack Wakes Up Again
1
Jack opened his eyes. A large bay window with white curtains brought in early morning light. He lay in a soft bed, covered in white sheets and a chocolate brown comforter. The room was painted deep sea blue with white trim.
At first, he wasn’t sure where he was. His memory was foggy and fragmented. Slowly, his mind began to remember the big Indian carrying him to a truck and then being carried into a large farm house. People had been looking at him with worried faces; they had carried him to this room.
He felt his face. His entire right side was covered in gauze pad. It stung when he pressed down with a little pressure, but the dizziness and nausea was gone. At least for now.
He turned his head as the bedroom door opened after a light knock. A man with salt and pepper hair walked in. He looked to be in his early sixties; he wore rimless glasses and smiled brightly when he looked at Jack. “Well, awake and alert. That’s certainly a wonderful sign. You probably don’t remember me. I’m Doctor Brown.” The man walked over to the bed and pulled up a wooden chair. He sat down beside Jack, and removed a stethoscope from around his neck. “Let’s have a listen, shall we?”
“Where am—”
“I’ll answer all your questions. Right after I examine you.”
Jack let Doctor Brown do his work. Jack sat up. He flinched as the cool metal touched his body. A thermometer was inserted into his mouth and they waited. After about a minute, the doctor removed the thermometer and smiled. “Still a little high, but nothing like when you first arrived. And your breathing sounds good, no fluid in the lungs.”
“Please tell me where I am.”
The doctor smiled and said, “My friend you’re on the Pinky Satterfield farm. It’s an early Tuesday morning on what will soon be a scorching July day.”
“My sister!” Jack said, almost jumping out of bed. “She was taken! Taken by—”
Doctor Brown laid a comforting hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Your sister is not with the Militia. Pinky and Rainmaker rescued her.”
“Candy’s here on the farm?”
“Well, no. She went with a large group of men to attack the Militia’s strong hold in Columbia. They’ve been gone for almost two days now. That’s all I know for now, other than you need some breakfast and more bed rest. You’ve had quite a bad week.”
A soft knock on the door. “Good morning yawl. Why good golly molly, Jack. You sure look better than you did when they brought you in. I’ve got you some eggs, bacon, toast, and orange juice.” Carla Sanders said as she walked the tray of food over to the bed side stand. She wore a bright yellow sun dress; her hair was pulled back into a pony tail. She smiled brightly down at Jack, and the worry over his sister nearly disappeared completely.
Was this a dream? Was he still back in the Hummer dying of infection and fever? Where had this kindness come from? It was as though he’d stepped out of the meat grinder, the furnaces of hell itself to find himself in the presence of guardian angels.
As though reading his thoughts, Doctor Brown patted his knee. “Jack, you’re safe here. You’re among friends. I have complete faith your sister will return to you alive and well.”
“I’d say so! That girl looked like she might walk through hell fire and come out with the devil’s tail in her hand! Jack, honey don’t you worry,” Carla said.
Jack ate his food. He didn’t realize how hungry he was, more like ravenous. As he chewed into the bacon, Doctor Brown held a bottle of medicine. “I found this on you Jack. Hydrocodone is very addictive, but it certainly dulls the pain. How long have you been self-medicating?”
After washing down the crisp tasty bacon with a gulp of orange juice, Jack said, “Over a week, and you’re right; I’ve developed an addiction.”
“Not to worry. One week isn’t so bad. We’ll start weaning you off. Finish up your food and I’ll give you a spoonful.”
2
Jack fell back into a soft sleep. He stayed that way for three hours. He woke and felt much better. He wanted to explore this place, he wanted to know where he was exactly. They had dressed him in clean white pajamas. He walked over to the window. His bare feet felt good on the hard wood floor. The sun gleamed in, lighting against his beat up, bandaged face. He stared out at a large field full of growing plants. An older man was pulling weeds up. Some kids were helping him.
“Look who’s up. How do you feel Jack?”
Jack turned around with a smile on his face. Doctor Brown stood at the front door.
“I’m alive…and…well…I feel surreal.”
The doctor laughed. “That you are son, and feeling surreal is normal for what you’ve been through. Now come on down and have some lunch.”
Downstairs a few people were walking in through a large dark wood front door. It was the old man and the kids. The kids looked at Jack with curiosity, and Jack looked back at them. The old man regarded Jack with a high and lofty smile. “So, you’re the new fella. Glad to see you’re up and moving.” He walked over to Jack and held out an old and withered hand. Jack shook it and was amazed at the vitality in the old man’s grip.
As if he read Jack’s mind. “I’m old son, not dead.”
Jack was reminded of Papa, and he suddenly felt a stab of pain deep in his soul. As great as all this was, his family was dead; all except Candy, and where was she? Maybe she was dead to. She’d left to fight an army for god’s sake.
“Don’t look so glum, chum!” a short kid with cropped blonde hair said. “My name is Bobby Knight. You’re with good people now. I heard about your troubles but it ain’t too much to worry about. We’ve got good fences and we all can fight.” The kid was stocky, and did indeed look like he could put up a fight.
Clara came out of the kitchen. “Come on now kids! Lunch is ready an
d willing! Come on and get it.” She gave Jack a friendly wink and motioned for him to join them.
“Come on Jack my boy! I’ve got a lot of questions for you. Your sister told me a few things about you.” Doctor Brown guided Jack into a long dining room. A bright oak table was lined with chairs. The kids were laying out plates. If Jack didn’t know any better, he’d think he was about to sit down to a thanksgiving meal. The mood in the air was friendly; though if he looked closely, he thought he saw a little anxiety in their eyes; as though a storm of bad news could ruin this beautiful day at any moment, or worse yet, a storming of Militia soldiers.
No one would know that they lived in a post-apocalypse community by the food being put on the plates. Turkey sandwiches, coleslaw, baked beans, and everyone’s Southern favorite, sweet ice tea.
Jack ate heartily, cleaning his plate, drinking down the empowering sugary tea.
“Philosophy was your major?” the doctor asked.
“Yes, sir.” Jack said.
He was starting to feel right at home, but instead of feeling happy about it; he felt a dark shadow growing over his mind. And underneath his happy smile, he felt weariness growing. A hope for an end.
3
“I would offer you some of this wine, but it would kill the antibiotics.” The doctor and Jack now sat in large, overstuffed leather chairs. They were in a library, bellies full of food. The walls were filled with books. Books on philosophy, books on science, fiction books, biographies, autobiographies—books! books! books! Jack was in heaven. He never thought he would see these many books again.
The doctor sat drinking some Duplin Muscadine wine. He sipped it from a large wine glass with his legs crossed in intellectual fashion.
“It’s damn good to have another intellectual on the farm. I’ve engaged Pinky for quite some time. After a while, discussing the same issues with one person becomes quite the bore. I often find myself alone in here. Not that I’m actually alone, I suppose. I do have all these wonderful books.”