Humanity's Death: A Zombie Epic

by D. S. Black

  12

  Back at the compound, a large gathering of people waited at the front entrance. It was a personal D Day welcoming party. Shouts of victory roared.

  It was nearing mid-day. The sun was hot and the sky was clear. The humidity dripped down Duras's neck. His head hurt. He forced himself to ignore it.

  He helped unstrap the bleeding fools from the top and hauled them down.

  “Crucifix! Crucifix! Crucifix!” the crowd shouted.

  Hatred, pain, and sadness covered their faces. Bankers, lawyers, and school teachers screamed for the death of these men. Did they ever believe they would come this far down the evolutionary ladder? It happened so quickly.

  Barney drove up in the Gator with crucifixes tied to the back. The faces of the prisoners were sullen and drained. Blood oozed out of their gunshot wounds. The crowd pelted them with pebbles.

  Holes were dug for the crucifixes. Duras took some large nails from the back of the Gator and a hammer. The first one screamed bloody hell while Rhino and Ice Man held him down and Duras hammered the first nail through his wrists. The next two begged for mercy and forgiveness as the hammer nailed them. The final one looked Duras in the eye. “You're not Christian. God's gonna treat you to some serious hell fire!”

  “May be. Too bad He can't save you though, uh?” He said while he drove the nails into him.

  They rose up into the sun. Their bodies dripped with blood. The cries lasted throughout the day, but began smoldering out as night came. The entire town was out to see the spectacle. Lawn chairs were brought out. Food was being cooked. It was a celebration for the lives lost and the redemption brought in their names.

  Duras sat staring at their dying bodies. They would turn soon and he would finish them off. A warm hand touched my shoulder then rubbed the back of my neck. “Hard day at work hun?” Mary Ann said.

  “Just another day at the office.”

  “The office of the dead.”

  “At least I get to work outside now.”

  “Comic book store owners didn’t get to work outside?”

  “Not so much.”

  “What’s for dinner?”

  “I think Barney is cooking some pork.”

  “The white meat.”

  “That’s whats for dinner.”

  “We buried them while you guys were out.”

  “I heard.”

  “Sarah Ann sang a song.”

  “Was it good?”

  “Dreadfully appealing. Some Celtic tune she learned while studying in Ireland.”

  “History. Is she still keeping that journal?”

  “Everyday.”

  “I’m sure she has painted me as tyrant.”

  “Would you have it any other way?”

  “Who the hell does she think is going to be around to read it?”

  “I guess it helps her from losing her mind.”

  “That and the wine. I can’t count the amount of dead men and living I have had to kill in order to keep enough wine for her to drink.”

  “Everyone has their sins.”

  “What’s yours.”

  “You of course. You and your dungeon hideaway I have to keep up with.”

  “Listen.”

  “Don’t. I understand.”

  “That’s why I love you.”

  “Love. Is that a new word?”

  “I just made it up. Do you like it?”

  “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

  She reached down and kissed the top of my head. “You would use a bath.”

  “Me? I can smell you from here.”

  “Hush you. I smell like roses.”

  “Dead roses.”

  “Everyone is dead.”

  “We are all dead, yes.”

  “Dead and dying.”

  “Cold and alone.”

  “Hollow as stone.”

  “Is stone hollow?”

  “Why not?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  “Rhyme, meter, and meaning do not matter in the day of the dead.”

  “Fried chicken. I used to love it.”

  “Here comes the pork.”

  They ate the pork side by side and said nothing as the night grew older. The stars shined bright and the world was at ease for a few hours. The prisoners had turned and were growling for flesh.

  Mary Ann grabbed his arm, “Not yet. I want to watch and listen to them for a while.”

  “Getting sentimental are you?”

  “The moans of the dead will do that to a woman.”

  “So I hear.”

  “I hear God’s hell in their moans. It’s what awaits us.”

  “You know better.”

  “Yeah. This is hell. This is hell and heaven combined.”

  “Maybe it will snow this winter.”

  “Winter? Aren’t you becoming the optimist?”

  “A man has to dream sometimes.”

  “Be realistic. May be fall will come.”

  “The dying of the leaves, the turning of the season, nature’s symbolism at work.”

  The night moved along and a few clouds blotted out the stars from time to time. The dead men growled from their crosses as the moon cast their shadows along the pebbled streets. The streets were empty now. Everyone was gone. Only him and Mary Ann now. She held his arm, “Not yet. A little longer. Do you think they dream?”

  “I don’t think they sleep.”

  “You don’t have to sleep to dream.”

  “Just about flesh.”

  “May be more. When there is no flesh around.”

  “Then they just moan and groan in large groups.”

  “What will be here in ten years?”

  “Just a lot them.”

  “The dead inherit the earth.”

  “That’s a fact.”

  The night continued to dwindle until the early sun started to rise.

  “I wonder what’s happening in China.”

  “A lot of little dead people.”

  “Don’t be racist.”

  “All the PC squads are dead.”

  “I’m still here.”

  “I’m sorry. I love you little Asians.”

  “And we love you.” She kissed his cheek. “Now come on, I will help you finish them off.”

  Together, we gave them the final death and carried the bodies to the burning pits. As the sun continued to rise, the gasoline caught fire with the match I threw in. “What do you say we go up to my chamber.”

  She looked at him, “You know I love it when you talk medieval”

  “It’s time we let the dead rest.”

  Chapter Seven: The Incredible Okona and His Comic Warriors

  1

  The Lowlands greenery is a vast landscape shadowed in darkness. Hot fog clings to the trunks of trees. A hot summer night breeze blows. The stench of death rides the breeze; the death is always there now; like the lingering smell of a dead rat; the smell of the dead mixes with fresh flowers, oak, hickory, ash, and the sweet honey suckle. Okona dreams of better days. Days when the world wasn’t a ruinous asshole. When he woke every morning to the sounds of children. The sounds of his wife washing her hands in the bathroom. Her warm night gown taking shape over her petite body. Her blonde hair flowing down her back. The way she hooked her hips to the left as she brushed her slightly coffee stained teeth. The soft smell of her skin as she rubbed HotMoon lotion over a healthy body. Her hands bony, but strong, feminine yet assertive. Proud but always wise. Well… almost always. She had the (eventually fatal) habit of caring more for others more than for herself. The old, the young, the disabled, the mentally ill, retarded, and so on. She lived in a world of volunteerism, where self-sacrifice was the name of the game. He remembers her. Happy thoughts pity his soul and darken his nightmares. Sitting under a green canopy, he remembers her well. The day he met her. She was fourteen, him sixteen. She a dancer at Miss Prancy’s Dance Studio and him a rich, nerdy kid from the George Town. The memory isn’t as vivid as he wishes; such are th
ings when recalling old teen memories. The feeling of seeing her for the first time. The soft texture of her skin looked surreal to him. Her dancer abs and her dancer legs, her long blonde hair, blue eyes, and bright white smile. She was proud of her body. Okona, a youthful, thin and lanky boy, who wore Abercrombie and Finch like it was going out of style. He wore the designer clothes in a awkward kind of way, like they made his skin feel strange. Like he didn’t quite belong in them. He wore them anyway, because that’s what everyone else wore and that’s what the girls liked. At least the hot preppy girls, whom he truly enjoyed seeing in their hot nighty tighties. And Aquiel was all that and bag of chips. Her family might have been Jewish, but they were pillars of the coastal community.

  Okona tried to clarify the memory, not just the image, but that feeling inside his stomach. He remembers when she told him she was Jewish and how strange it seemed that a Jew could have blue and blonde hair. He’d later learn that Jews are not a race, in fact he would learn in college that race is a social concept not rooted in biology. But knowing she was a Jew gave her a certain uniqueness. She wasn’t a Christian like everyone else he knew. They were secular and so was he, in spite of his mother’s objections.

  “Just keep the atheist stuff to yourself!”

  “Keep believing in fairy tales Dear Mother. For me and my house hold, I follow Reason.”

  She crackled loudly and drank a sip of her wine. His father sat in a massive leather arm chair reading a novel. His father looked up and said: “He gets it from the Jews. Quite secular.” His father reached over with his right arm and took a coffee mug off the table beside the arm chair. He sipped it, his bifocals maintained their position. “I blame you, Dear. Please teach the boy some Presbyterian manners.” His father had a way of laughing that sounded like an acute burp, especially after he surmised he’d told a fine and dandy joke. The old Man graduated from the Naval Academy, class of 78. He’d spent four years as a JAG officer and then left to start a private firm: Oats & Henry Law.

  “Tell me about her, Okona. Everything.” His mother spoke with her normal pretend-I-truly-care tone.

  “Did you hear ma?” Okona spoke with his best hilly billy accent, “Gaaaawwwd’s dead!”

  His mother cackled again, this time spilling red wine onto her white blouse causing a stain that resembled blood. “Oh my!” She rose up in a slightly drunken manner. She looked at him with a sly smile, then said: “I’m asking Pastor Hendrix to talk to you.”

  A few days later Pastor Hendrix rang the bell. His parents were gone and he knew the good pastor was coming. He had plans for him. Clever as they come, Okona enjoyed a good prank. He never pinpointed where this fascination with pranks came from. He simply accepted it and pranked as often as he could. And, gee golly, Pastor Hendrix and his mother gave him a real hung dinger of an opportunity. He believed this would go down in history as one of the best pranks ever. This would bring him fabled YouTube glory. Last year, he’d begged his mother to buy him a Cannon Rebel T5. She did of course and he was quite pleased. Now the camera waited for Pastor Hendrix to walk in.

  “Come on Pastor! God’s great glory is calling!” Okona shouted from the second floor balcony stair case. Wildness gleamed from his face. His eyes burned with passion. This was it. His greatest moment. After this the world would bow to his feet and the women would call him the great god from above. At least that’s what Okona’s teen mind saw as the pastor turned the knob. He stood on an old Victorian stair case. Beautiful deep and dark wood shined under the glow a stately dome light. Okona waited with a string in his right hand. The string led to a metal bucket. In the bucket there was—

  His parents walked up behind the pastor. He saw their dark frames through the clouded glass cut out at the top of the door, and heard them talking. “I decided its best if we talk together. Everyone.”

  “More the merrier!” The pastor said.

  My thoughts exactly, Preach! He steadied himself and focused his eyes (glory!) and prepared to tug the steaming pile of horse shit, pig shit, and a variety of others shits. He took them from Old Man Barnaby’s big farm. The farm was large with an assortment of foul, pigs, horses, and smelly shit. Tommy and Mary Barnaby owned the farm. They'd left for a rare vacation; Okona thinks someone said Baltimore. Although he hadn't the slightest idea of what fun existed in Baltimore. He took the shit home and lugged it into the kitchen where he added water, creating a whirling bucket of brown stank water.

  The door opened and he pulled the string—

  Later that afternoon, sitting in the Sheriff’s office, listening to his father screaming, telling him how lucky he was that no one going to press charges—he wondered if it was all worth it. His parents and the preacher had to go to the hospital and receive a round of shots to protect them from an assortment of diseases that may have picked up from being smothered in feces. The pastor was a forgiving man and agreed to not press charges if the Okona did one year of volunteer service for the church. His mother didn't speak to him for over a month; and had it not been for the one million and counting hits on his YouTube channel, Okona may have regretted the prank. He certainly learned never to put people's health's at such a serious risk by pouring real shit on them; but by the time his one-year service to the church was over, his mother had let the subject drop and he had over a million YouTube subscribers and a number of other prank videos made. He'd signed up for YouTube's ad revenue agreement which partnered with Google ad services; after a two years he was making nearly one hundred thousand dollars and counting.

  2

  With the money he took his Jewish Princess out to eat, to movies, and during their spring breaks throughout high school, he took her on cruises. In the summer, they'd drive his Mustang convertible up and down the east coast, visiting sea towns and loving life. There was never a question to rather or not they'd marry. By the time they both entered Coastal Carolina University, they were engaged. And by the time they were graduating they'd been married for over two years, had a beautiful home, and were getting ready to give birth. Life was great.

  After the birth and things settled down was when Okona decided he wanted something a bit less extravagant than his (by then a million dollars a year) YouTube channel. He'd always make pranks, but he wanted something local, something and somewhere that he could mingle with good people. That's when he decided to buy a comic book store.

  “Come on! You know how much I want a comic store. Even more than YouTube fame.”

  “This is the first I’m hearing of it. Not much of a good idea to me. How much could you possibly making running a brick and mortar comic store?” He loved his wife; she didn't care for gods and religions; she cared about helping people, doing her part to make a better world; but she also loved money; after all, money was the god that allowed her to be the caring humanitarian she was.

  “It’s not about the money. It’s about the atmosphere. I can still do my pranks and have a really cool place to hang out.”

  “I guess I don't really have a choice do I?”

  He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “Thats right babe. But hey! I'll give any profit the store makes over the charity of your choice.”

  Her eyes lit up, “Really? I knew I married a good guy. Even if you arn't Jewish.”

  That night, after putting the baby to bed, they went to the bedroom where passionate love overtook them. Clothes tore to the floor, nails dug into backs, and moans of sweet honey pleasure filled the room. He considered every moment with her a small miracle. His pranks, his entrepreneurial spirit, both paled in comparison to the love he held for his wife.

  She was smart and wise, kind and passionate. She was the also the first to tell him not to tangle with Tommy Morrow.

  3

  When he first met Tommy “Duras” Morrow the sun was high in the sky, burning down on the world. Duras was unloading boxes from the back of a van as Okona walked up. “You really should consider packing up and moving to another town.” Okona said. His arms were crossed and he smiled.
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  Duras, with his dark brunette hair pulled back into a pony tail turned around, his thick arms muscling a large box with ease. His head bent slightly as he spoke. “Do I know you?”

  “I’m the guy that just bought the place across the street. You know. The place you almost put under.”

  Duras barked a loud lough and then set the box on the parking lot's asphalt and put his hands on his hips. “And I guess you think you are gonna turn the tide against me, uh?”

  “My funds are almost endless these days. This is purely a hobby for me. But I take my hobbies very seriously and I never lose. Never.”

  “Why set up shop here? Why not take it somewhere you don't have competition?”

  “Cause I like a challenge. I've hired on the old owners. With my cash and determination, you really don't stand a chance, Tom.”

  “Jesus! Whats with the adversarial tone, asshole? And the name's Tommy. No boy calls Tom. Friends call me Duras, but you're no friend.”

  “Just my way, old man. Just the way I am. You'll see that soon enough. Now enjoy your day.”

  Okona had walked off without saying another word. He'd done what he came to do. He stoked the embers that would now turn into a wild hot fire. A fire that would catch the attention of the entire township. He loved a good attention getter, and he decided running Duras out of business and promoting his wife's favorite charity a good plan. A damn good plan.

  4

  Okona sat alone, high in the trees with a windy breeze flapping against his red cheeks. He rubbed his hand over his bald head. His back rested against the old bark of a tall oak. The green above was thick and lush, but in the night wind, the leaves and branches moved with a windy echo like an invisible wave of power, a hypnotic spell, while he stared, feeling the agony of a man that lost more than his mind wanted to bear, but chooses to march forward, undeterred by the death that surrounds him.

  He spoke affirmations, “I am the stealth that moves with the wind. I am the unconquerable, the impenetrable, the redoubtable, the resilient…” Okona spoke with a whirl wind of soft and harsh passion. His words spoke out into the darkness, a whispered prayer to the black night; not far away, hunkered in the darkness, sat two men and one woman just as determined as Okona.