by Black, D. S.
“Their training is still underway, but I see no issues.” Bright said, his eyes locking onto Spade’s. “They are loyal. If not out of fear, then out of self-preservation and a natural desire for power and control. We will take Columbia again. I only wish I could lead the charge.”
Spade shook his head, as though trying to rid himself of a bad memory. “The price we pay for the powers we have. Who knows? Maybe the professor will discover a way to give us the ability to travel far beyond Dead Zone Black.”
Bright put his hand under his chin thoughtfully. “Can you imagine? We’d never lost Columbia if I had been in charge down there, and we would have the coast by now; but with our dependence on normal humans, all that’s been gained is losses.” A foul look took over Bright’s face. His hand dropped from his chin. A scowl of rage with a hint of helplessness took over. A terrible combination.
“Don’t fret,” Spade said smiling, slapping his desk. “It’s not all a loss. We’ve gained the professor, a trained research scientist with a PHD in microbiology.”
Bright folded his arms, almost pouting. then said with a deep melancholy voice: “Let’s hope she lives up to her abilities. On another note, King; we’ve lost more men.”
Spade’s teeth showed, grinding together. He knew this might come up again. A small trouble, but an annoying one. Like an itchy pimple you can’t reach. Always just out of touch and sight.
Spade forced himself to calm down, and allowed his chin to relax. “Who are these rebels? These marauders! No evidence found? Nothing to track?”
Bright slowly shook his head back and forth, never breaking eye contact with Spade. “They move like ghosts. Whoever they are, they understand guerrilla warfare. They take men straight out of the patrols. Stragglers. Ever since the episode with the tanker, we’ve lost men to these fools.”
“Fools?” Spade said. “Fools don’t haunt our steps so skillfully. These fools fool your trackers, and even yourself. Don’t look distraught,” he said holding up a hand when Bright lowered his head in shame. “Whoever they are, they’ve fooled more than us. The Voice cannot track them either. Something is protecting them.”
Bright raised his head in surprise. “The Voice said this? It can’t see them? Nothing?”
Spade rose from his chair, moving quickly and fluidly over to his friend and general. He placed a comforting hand on Bright’s shoulder. “I didn’t want to worry you with it. There is so much more to think about, and after all, they have only conducted small hit and run attacks. A campaign of fear and terrorism. We can endure them, at least until we find them and kill them once and for all. Whatever is protecting them cannot last forever.”
Bright stared straight ahead. “I hope you’re correct. I sent trackers out, and they came back confused and disoriented, as though they’ve lost their way, unable to use a compass properly. Not able to recall where they’ve been.”
“Intriguing,” Spade said moving back to his chair, sitting down, leaning back, rubbing his chin, stroking his curiosity. “Even with all our powers…Clearly we are not the only humans who possess supernatural abilities.”
This spiked his interest, but he didn’t have time to ponder who was out there with the power to hide from not only him, but the Voice as well. Whoever it was had the ability to play with nature, turn the world’s natural power to their advantage; but whoever it was didn’t have the numbers to take them on directly, or else a battle would have taken place a long time ago.
“Do you think this Duras and Okona may be our bandits?”
Spade shook his head. “Doubtful. From what I gathered exploring the professor’s thoughts and memories, they wouldn’t use a hit and run strategy, nor do they have supernatural abilities. They are brute force type of men.”
Bright smiled. “Then they will make easy prey. Men with loud mouths and proud egos desire direct conflict, not hiding in the mountain; picking at us like pigeons in a park.” He laughed a scary odd noise.
“Then bring them to me. Alive!” Spade stood up. “I look forward to seeing the professor’s face when she sees her lover locked away.”
Bright rose from his chair, gripping his thick black belt. “She will fall in line, as they all do. You are my king, my leader. I live to serve you.” He stood in front of the Mountain King, and bowed, lowering his head in submission.
Spade laid a hand on Bright’s head. “Go! Be swift in your duties. Bring me my insurance.” A dark light emanated from Spade’s hand, rushing over Bright, immersing the man in a pulsing blackness. The room turned dark, the lights flickered on and off, and a deep rumble shook under them.
Then spade removed his hand, and it was over. Bright left the office, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Spade stood where he was for a moment, he wanted to paint. He needed to feel his creativity gushing out via the brush, each stroke calming his madness, his anxiety and fear over the current situation.
He left his office and made his way to his painting studio.
Mary Jane Meets the Chemist
Mary Jane hated Martin Manson the moment she saw him. Long skinny legs, poorly done tattoos up thin thighs. Jean shorts that hung loosely not from a style choice, but from lack of meat to hold them up. His waist looked like a person who recently left a concentration camp. His hair; blond, long and filthy, hung and clung to a stained white wife beater. He was leaning over a chemistry beacon; the sound and smell of cooking chemicals filled the room. He had on a gas mask and beckoned for Mary and Tasha to take their own masks from a rack filled with them just to her right. She put hers on and noticed him watching Tasha just a little too closely.
She was wrong. She didn’t hate him. She despised and wanted to kill him.
Once she had on the gas mask, she heard his nasally wretched voice speak in her ear loud and clear.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. These bad boys are all linked wirelessly. I got word about your arrival, and yours.” He added, looking at Tasha who said nothing, just stared at him with a face that had it not been masked, would have been one of clear loathing.
“Anyway, you’re the professional biologist, right?”
“I have a PHD in microbiology, yes.”
He whistled, letting her know he was impressed. She didn’t care about what impressed this piece of shit.
“What are you cooking?”
“I’m glad you asked! This is my masterpiece. It’s the White Mist.”
She looked and saw nothing worthy of the word masterpiece. She saw a crude use of equipment he clearly didn’t completely understand. She saw the ingredients strewn about the large industrial kitchen haphazardly and wondered how he’d managed not to blow this place up. She looked up and saw he was using the kitchen filtration system to vent the fumes. Better than nothing, but still dangerous given the highly flammable materials he used to cook up his meth on steroids; and she was quite certain the true strength of the powder came from the Mountain King, not this two-bit junky chemist. He belonged in prison (if only such a place still existed) or in a rehab center or dead. She preferred the last choice and made a mental note to help him along in that lethal direction as soon as possible. She had a hunch the king wouldn’t get to angry over losing him, at least if she agreed to cook up the Mist.
She and Tasha spent the evening listening to him brag about his amateur set up, about his old life as a dealer and hustler which he was very proud of. He told them how he’d once hated the Mountain King, who had busted him on more than one occasion, but his father had been connected and had kept him out of prison every time. He called it White Man’s Privilege, but used it in the positive, not negative connotation.
The man had a feeling about him. Some festering sickness, an evil always waiting to reach its potential. The way he stole looks at Tasha gave Mary Jane a pretty good idea about what kind of darkness lived inside Martin Manson. When he’d mentioned his Old World family, he’d spoken in detail about his two little sisters. Details such as waist size, breast size, and othe
r characteristics normal big brothers didn’t take notice of, or if they did? Certainly didn’t talk about it like they were about to bust a thick load in their pants.
Mary Jane was certain she was going to kill him. It made her think of Duras who would have agreed wholeheartedly, this guy needed to go. She felt something akin to pain at the thought of Duras. She missed him. More than that, she loved him. He was never perfect. She didn’t like some of the things he allowed to go on back at the City of God, especially letting that creep Rusty Ray have his way with innocent people found wandering outside the city, but for all his flaws, all his childishness; she still loved him.
Now hanging up her gas mask, preparing to go and eat dinner with the Mountain King, her thoughts touched upon memories of her time with Duras. If she had only had all this equipment then. Maybe she could have done something to help cure the Fever. Maybe she still could; she was going to try her best.
She worried about Duras. Where was he? Was he even alive? Did he have enough to eat? Enough weed to smoke?
“Something funny, Professor?” Martin Manson said, interrupting her thoughts.
She looked at him. His mask was off, and his face was a dry river bed of damage. Years of acne had scarred him. Years of drug addiction had emancipated his features. His cheeks sunk in like craters. When he smiled, she cringed. Yellow, broken black gums.
Manson noticed her facial expression. “Fuck! What pissed in your panties, bitch?” he said.
“Watch your words, Manson. I’m on the top of the king’s list of must haves,” she said, stepping closer to him. He stepped back, her face a piercing gaze of unstoppable hatred. “Don’t fuck with me. Don’t look at Tasha. I don’t need your help in here. In fact, I’m about to eat dinner with the king. I’m going to tell him you are only in the way. If you’re lucky you’ll live, but if your death is needed, I promise...”
She stepped up to his face, daring the harsh breath, the ugly features. “I’ll do the deed, Manson. I’ll hurt you in ways your feeble mind cannot even begin to imagine.”
Tasha walked up and stood beside her. “Listen to her, little man. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since meeting Mary Jane, it’s not to cross her, not to anger her, and certainly never underestimate her. For your sake, listen to her.”
He took another step away from them, creating about two feet of distance. “I…I…FUCK YOU! I been here since the early days! Who are you to come in a fuck with my parade? Uh? I been cooking for the king for a year!”
“Tell me what this is,” she said walking over to a microscope, its technical difficultness apparent by just looking at the futuristic device. “Look at your stupid face! This is a Nikon N-Storm Super Resolution Microscope. It’s one of the best in the field. I can’t stand the thought that your grimy, uneducated, retarded hands came near it! And how about this one? My god! You wouldn’t understand this with an IQ jump of fifty! This is a Q-Phase. It allows advanced holographic microscopy and phase imaging. Now this one…” she walked over to another metal table. “This is true ingenuity. This is a BioRAM photonic cell analysts machine. It allows individual cells to be fingerprinted without the need of fluorescent labels.”
She charged Manson, shoving her finger against his grimy sunken chest. “You know nothing! You get nothing! So, shut your trampy, dope head mouth! Get out of my lab!”
He stumbled backwards and fell over the entry door’s metal threshold. He landed on his bony ass and looked up; his face a mask of hurt feelings and anger. He stood, started to rush off, then stopped and said; “This isn’t over, bitch.” He ran off, not giving her the chance to say anything else.
“You okay, Mary?” Tasha asked, putting a hand on Mary Jane’s shoulder.
Mary Jane wasn’t mad. She was laughing. And the laughter was contagious. Her and Tasha held onto each other, laughing manically. When the laughter settled down, Mary said: “God what an idiot. Look at this place. It’s a mess! We’ve got a lot of cleaning up to do.”
“You think you can find a cure?”
“Tasha… I don’t know. I’ll try my best. This equipment is better than what we had at the university, but I think a defense against the king should be a priority, at least for the short term.”
“Defense?” Tasha looked at her with curiosity.
“I think he’ll let me take a sample of his blood, or whatever the hell courses through him now. I’m dying to see what makes him tick.”
“Why would he let you do that? Wouldn’t that make him suspicious?”
“He’s already suspicious… but, he’s also over confident and arrogant. Plus, he wants to know how to fight whatever this Voice is… and since the Voice changed him, gave him his powers, then it’s natural to assume a deep cell analysis of his blood will give some insight into what the creature is, and how best to fight back against Its supernatural abilities.”
“While doing that, you’ll learn a way to deal with the king and his guard?”
“No. We will find a way, Tasha.” Mary Jane said putting a soft hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Together, we’ll find a way out of this. Together, we’ll survive. Now let’s get out of here. We’ve got a date with the king, and I don’t want to be late. This! She said, pointing around the dirty lab, “can wait till tomorrow. Hey… what’s wrong?”
Tasha’s face suddenly looked sad. “Okona. I keep thinking about him. I miss him so much.”
Mary took Tasha’s hand. “If two men exist who can survive this world, it’s my Duras and your Okona. Don’t give up on him. He’s out there. Somewhere.”
Mary wiped a tear away from Tasha’s cheek, and hoped with all her soul that was true.
Old Feuds Die Hard
1
Duras swung his bat'leth, removing the head of a walker. More moved his way, moaning and groaning for his flesh. Around him and behind him, in battle formation, fought Vice, Ice Man, Rhino, Okona, and Chris.
They were moving house to house, taking any food they found, and then moving on. It was a dismal existence. After the Battle for Columbia, Duras’s mind was touch and go for a while. Mary Jane was dead; he was certain of it. How could she survive that incredible blast? Duras didn’t know what caused the explosion at the stadium, but he did know it saved his life while simultaneously dashing all hope of rescuing Mary Jane or Okona’s Tasha.
They’d been heated debates between him and Okona in those first days after Columbia, but they’d found an unstable peace.
But, not much longer.
Duras was sick of seeing the bald fucks head. Tired of sharing leadership with a subpar intellect. Chris wasn’t so bad, but he was no gem either. Both the men had run their course in the eyes of Duras.
That’s why with the council of Vice, he’d decided today was the day to part ways with their temporary allies. If they could do it without rage and bloodshed, fine. If not, then Duras felt no moral problem with ending Okona’s life with one swing of his bat'leth.
But for now, a horde called their attention, and every man was needed. They’d been in this house for two days and had allowed laziness to take over for a short time the night before. No watch was set, and all the men slept soundly only to wake up to windows cracking via the weight of the undead pushing their way in.
They’d fought out of the house into the yard, where they now stood their ground against nearly thirty zombies, and more in the distance. The sun cooked the earth, and the Carolina humidity put sweat on their backs, and made the decaying walking corpses stink to high heaven. It was like walking into a trash dump filled with rotting meat, like stepping into the aftermath of a warzone, bodies lying everywhere, but in this case; the bodies walked, growled, ate and consumed hot, living flesh. The Jeep was in the drive way, surrounded by the dead who flowed around it like ants marching around an obstacle to reach food. The world was the dead’s oyster, and today they wanted fresh meat.
Duras swung his bat'leth again, stabbing one tip into the soft skull of a female zombie. More like a little girl zombie, probably
no more than ten when she turned. She had on a blue and yellow sundress, stained with dried blood. Her eyes burned hot white, her mouth half missing, her jaw only partially intact.
As always, when Duras killed a child zombie a brief burst of memory of his own kids dashed through his mind. Late night Saturday movies, cookouts in the back yard, beach trips, snotty noses, flu shots, doctor visits, a pneumonia scare, his wife’s kind and healing hands, her soft skin, piercing eyes, flowing hair, and sweet hot breath against his neck during the late hours of the night—the echoes of the Old World ringing in his mind’s eye.
Duras felt spent. His life worthless. How long could he keep going? For what reason? He could only find one.
He wanted Okona’s head. Wanted to see the bald head go flying off those fucking shoulders, and watch the sun glisten off it as it soared through the air, landing, rolling, and coming to a stop in filthy dirt. Then he wanted to watch as Okona turned, and the eyes opened bright white and shining the light of the New World. He would then stomp the skull, spit, maybe even piss in the bloody and brainy remains.
Duras remembered when he was a good dad, a loving husband. When all he cared about was his comic book store and his family. Even then, Okona had fucked everything up nearly sending him into bankruptcy. And now, with his past dead and gone, the good father, the sweet husband, buried in the ashes of the Old World, Duras still had to see that bald little shit’s face.
2
Okona’s mind, like Duras’s, splintered—one moment maintaining rationality, hope, even against such devastating circumstances—the next, wrought with despair, grief, hate. Okona had few to pin the blame on except the Militia whom they had not seen a sign of since Columbia and Duras, his once most hated foe.
He also knew, though he did his best to hide his suspicions, that Duras had every intention of breaking up this group and parting from him and Chris. So be it, but Okona didn’t think he, or Duras would be able to end their relationship without bloodshed. Much had happened. Open mental sores screamed pain with no way to quell the noise. A breaking point neared, probably only moments, minutes, at most hours away.