by D. S. Black
Okona led them and loved them. He fought beside them. He was ready to die for them, and they for him. A bond brought by the pain of a shared lose; the world they once knew eaten alive by black hearts that never beat, the zombie scourge that never wanted a break, and would always roam, seeking, in a never ending hunger, a feast that feeds the white hot burning in their soulless eyes. Eyes that will not stop, save for a bullet, knife, any blunt force available. But let them bite you. Let them cut you and your life will cease to exist. You will rise a hungry heathen of the night and a pasty and hot piece of deathly flesh.
During the day the sun cooks zombie flesh and the stink of the body’s erosion is easy to catch on the wind. A gift form nature.
They've guarded their lives inside these trees ever since the beginning.
Okona sat, staring at a windy wall of darkness, and spoke, “Into this world I plunge, disciplined, motivated, and unstoppable. I am the reckoning for those that stand against decency. I will take this world back! I am the rational, the powerful, the unending fury of stamina and action. I am the Mighty, Incredible Okona.”
Beside him, a stack of comics rested beside a candle with dark smoke rising from the recently lit wick. He smelled the night air, breathing in, letting the air fill his lungs, and then blowing out slowly. He breathed in again, this time in short and fast jerks of air, Whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…” Then exhaling, “whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh”
A week had passed since he’d helped Jack Teach escape the bowels of by Duras’s hell. He'd gotten out of there and headed back to the trees for safety; he'd hoped he see Jack and his family again; hoped they were OK, fighting the good fight.
Above him, Leaves and branches shivered. He stared at the timeless bark and let his mind ponder. How long had this tree been here? How longer would they be here? How many good men had walked by this tree? How many bad men? Did such concepts have any real meaning? Good? Bad? Just social constructs. That’s all.
“What do you think? Is all morality nothing more than a social construct?” He asked.
Chris sat not far from him, lying flat on his back. “Sure. May be. What happens when society dies? Who makes the rules? Or their any rules? You’ll go mad thinking about it, that’s for sure. Just survive and try and cling to what’s left of our humanity.”
“What we define as humanity is still only a social construct.” Okona said.
“Then I suppose the strongest group will dominate the construction process.” Andre added. He sat Indian style reading a comic with a small pin light.
“What about the biters?” Okona asked. “Where do they fit into the new social construct?”
“The new Norm. That’s for sure.” Tasha said. She sat, leaning against a tree. Her eyes were closed, breathing in the peace of night.
Silence took over and they stopped talking. The breeze blew again, this time harder than before.
“Do you smell that?” Okona was on his feet now, staring into the night smelling for any scent of death. “I smell a hoard.”
Tasha's boots softly clunked against the log floor. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a tight pony tail. The darkness hid the redness glowing in her cheeks. Her green eyes, elf like pointy ears, slender and firm arms moved over to stand by Okona. “Let em come. I’m ready.” She said.
After a while the smell drifted in another direction. They relaxed, high in the safety of the trees. So far, they'd never met a zombie that could climb a tree.
5
Large nails were driven into the tree’s thick body. Okona’s UTG 547 Law Enforcement Tactical Vest hung, beside it a pair of black FREETOO Men’s Full Finger Tactical Gloves. Perfect Point throwing knives were strapped to his leg. A Smith and Wesson .45 rested on his right hip. And, of course, a sharp and deadly short sword in a black sheath laid waiting to be strapped to his back.
He laid back and stared at the invisible wind blowing the tree tops above and listened to the conversation happening behind him.
“What do you miss more than anything?” It was Andre speaking in his rough smoker's voice (though he'd given it up after the Fever, go figure).
His brother Chris responded, “Easy. Krispy Crème donuts.” Chris's broad shoulders rested against an oak log. His long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His hands connected behind his head and created a cradle for his neck.
“Still a fatty.” Andre said. Andre was Chris's older brother. He was a short man with a stalk build. His eyes were sharp and his face was lean; his skin the color of blackened ash.
“A one of a kind fat ass.” Chris agreed. “But look at me now. Pure muscle.” He flexed his biceps. They weren’t as much muscle as they were lean pieces of blackened beef with long stretch marks and loose skin, like pieces of black flesh jerky.
“That’s what the end of times will do to a man.” Okona said; still staring into the swell of black night, his eyes locked onto something deep in the night.
“Always with the philosophical gibberish. Can’t you spare us one night?” Tasha said. She had sat down beside Okona.
“Not on your life.” Okona said.
“Indeed!” started Tasha said. The moon light lit her demon green eyes as she spoke, “Okona is born a philosopher. He will die a philosopher.” Her eyes glowed like a mystic’s magic ball. She wore a tight BodyArmor green long sleeve shirt. A scar ran down the right side of her face. In her back pocket, an issue of The Walking Dead graphic novel coiled, snug against her ass. Before the shit hit the fans, Tasha was Tasha Lonely, a sad girl that sketched dark fantasy characters while in her final year of high school; though she was pretty enough to make any high school boy want her.
Tasha focused was on the dark rattling night. Staring out into the windy darkness, she saw her step father’s drunken face laughing while watching a 52 inch Samsung. He sat in a black recliner, shoving Bojangles fried chicken down his throat. He’d never touched her, but the way he looked at her sometime really gave her the fucking creeps. The guy was a career military man working as a recruiter at the local mall. What in god’s name her mom ever saw in him, will always be beyond her comprehension. The man was slender everywhere except his beer gut, that protruded out like a small baby bump. In the darkness, she saw his face laughing like a eerie ghost lost in timeless madness.
Somewhere in the distance a pack of wild dogs howled. The trees shivered with a fresh gust. For nearly five minutes they all sat without saying a word…
Tonya moved closer to Okona and took his hand, “Probably sees a pack of dead heads. I don’t smell anything.”
“Me either.”
Behind them, “Yep. Krispy Crème. What a great place.” Chris said.
Chris wasn’t really thinking about Krispy Crème donuts. The thought of a sweet and warm donut oozing white crème with chocolate on top did nothing to shake the memories of his daughters. His beautiful and wonderfully smart and sweet girls. Seven-year-old twins. They loved Beyoncé and Taylor Swift. Chris loved his girls like they still breathed.
He didn't know it, but his girls were roaming 17 feasting on guts. Chris didn’t see that though. All he saw, while the moon glistened like a shiny round donut across his charcoal black face, was taking them for ice cream at the local Frosty Freeze. Tara enjoyed a hot fudge Sunday while Daria slurped on a vanilla shake. Their youthful eyes radiating confidence and pride.
"The new Star Wars is coming soon, girls."
They enjoyed their desert while tapping messages to girls like Tammy Snidely, who had already grown breasts and was considered hot stuff by the boys at Socastee Middle High. They took the time to stare at their father, giving him a pitied look, one of the identical twins said, "mom says grown men that watch Star Wars are losers."
The other twin chimed, "you DO NOT want people to see you as a loser, dad. I'm just saying..."
Chris had looked away from his girls that day and let them go back to their digital doodling. The last thing he wanted was to think about his wife. He would have never told his d
aughters, but he hated their mother. The kind of hate that added fifty pounds of fat, high cholesterol, and a blood pressure reading that puts a man on Metoprolol.
His wife was a sharp dressed public prosecutor raised by a father who hated "nigger lovers." Her first act of rebellion was to fall in love with a gangly thug, but after high school, and after her daddy gave her the boot, she'd met Chris in college.
She was gorgeous and blonde, a real delight. Chris studied business (and comics, of course) while she studied history and law. They’d met at a college campus kegger. Loud music had blared and a motley band played drunk on the stand. The house was an old Victorian era mansion. A real splendor to see.
“Hey there.” She’d said that day.
“The names Chris. How about this party?”
“Life could be worse. Here we are enjoying ourselves while little black boys and girls run around naked playing in the fucking sprinklers!” Her face turned red and tears puddled around her eyes.
“Calm down! Jesus Christ!”
She put her hands on her hips and stared him dead in the eye. “You're clearly are a poser.”
“A poser? Really? I’m black!”
“Black raised in a white environment. You’re a token the White Man uses to control the masses! You’re a fake!”
Somehow he'd convinced her to give him her number. And sometime later, he'd made the mistake of convincing her to marry him.
Shit days faded back to dead days…
“I’m sure most of the Krispy Crème aficionados died pretty darn fast.” Andre said. “Fat bastards.”
“I hope they died with a chocolate crème filled donut in their bellies.”
Chris and Andre had opened and operated the Comic Maze. It was their dream since childhood. The smell of fresh clean comics, old comics, and the sight of all the wonderful extras—Batman figurines, Superman posters and shirts, oh glory, did those brothers love their comics.
And so did Tasha. The Comic Maze had been her go to spot.
"Did you guys see the walking dead last night?" Tasha had asked. It was a overcast day; a perfect day for sitting around a comic store shooting the shit with other comic lovers. Not that any of them needed a rainy day to do that; it was as natural as breathing.
"Poor Lorie" Chris said.
"She'll be missed" Andre said.
"Well see her again. Those flash backs are notorious." Tasha added.
The door opened and closed as a man and two little girls walked in. The Bell jangled against the glass door.
"The guy on the bike is hot." Tasha said. She knew his name, but enjoyed pestering her two good buddies.
"He's so dirty though. And his name is Daryl"
"That makes him sexy. He's a sexy, filthy, sweet redneck." She said and smiled. She did think the man was hot. Greasy and full of sex appeal, oh yeah baby; she'd take grimy over clean shaven any day.
"What's a fat black man going to say to that?" Chris said and then crammed half a Krispy Kreme donut into his mouth. The white crème seeped out and he licked it up with his tongue.
“Have you guys read Crossed?” Andre asked.
“Whooooa. Getting a little too nasty.” Chris said.
“Comic book brutality at its best. Gore. Sex. Mayhem. You name it. Crossed has it!” Andre said.
“Not for the kiddies.” Chris said.
A man walked up to the counter with his son, “Crossed? Tell me about it. Oh! Don’t worry about him, he can handle a little gore.”
Chris looked at the man, smiled, and spoke. “OK. If you say so. Well… lets see… there’s some kind of crazy infection that turns people into sex crazed cannibals. Some scenes have women having their heads cleaved while getting raped. Babies get ripped apart.”
“What happened to the days of Super Man and Wonder Woman?” The man said.
“There still here! They can get brutal too” Chris said, his bright brown eyes nearly popped out of his black head. Comics. God he loves his comics. The pages, soft yet course, feed his body the soul food a man needs. He drank from the comic well early in life and never turned back.
At least till 2008. When American politicians took a back seat and let the Wall streeters take the country into a suicidal, economical nosedive. Business dropped. People stopped coming. People couldn’t afford the comics he and his brother so desperately loved and needed to sell. Chris's family depended on those comics flying off the shelves at break neck speed. He'd taken a huge mortgage on a massive three story brick country home with two ackers of land. Top of the line security. Easy credit, baby—the tale from the 2000s. People boozing on a never ending supply of easy smeasy buying. Desperate to get their hands on the best consumer goods and real estate. God did people go crazy for new homes.
Chris's wife, or as he as he’d say while in his comic store bubble, The Modern Bitch or the Spending Queen. Her eyes gleamed at the site of anything expensive. She especially loved black diamonds. Quite the spending frenzy took place during the epic spending years of 03 and 04. Knight’s Jewelry benefited mightily, raking in 20000 dollars in jewelry sales from The Modern Bitch. Or, better said, The Modern Bitch’s husband.
The man and his son walked away, exited the double doors, holding one open while another man came in. The man’s head was bald and shiny and he approached the front counter with a smile. “How do you do?” He spoke with the carelessness of a wealthy rearing. He spoke with confidence and absolute ease. He leaned into the counter with grace and cocky kindness. His glorious coffee stained teeth glistened in the sunlight shining through the wide and large rectangle windows. The windows surrounded the double doors, and the double glass doors were adorned with COMIC BOOK (left) and COMIC BOOK (right). From the front doors the store opened up into a rectangle running about one hundred feet. There were comic books covering every inch of the wall, the categories painted in the retro sixties Batman style. The seductive smell of new comic books perfumed the filtered air. Two large air purifiers blurred on either side of the rectangle of comic books. Two fans blew above, casting cool and clean air around those below. The front desk sat to the left of the front door way.
Chris finished licking his fingers, the Krispy glaze swirling in his belly. The bald man in front of him said, “I hear you’re selling this place?”
It was true. After the 08 crisis, he’d lost everything save for the store and the house. He barely kept the house. But it wasn’t just the Wall streeters that destroyed him. From the year 2013 till the Fever, Comic Carnival, right across the street, stole almost all of his customers. Chris said, “True. True. Oh so true. That mean yes.”
“I’ll take it!” He slapped out his hand. “The name’s Okona. I’ll not only pay you what you’re asking. I’d like to hire you as the full time managers.”
The joyous disbelief that crossed the brother's faces told the hard tale of business warfare with Tommy Morrow. The slow but steady demise of their customer base, till both pulled money from savings to keep the store open. Now this bald angel, with his bright and welcoming smile, saved them from financial ruin. Coffee and lattes? How could they compete against that? Thick leather couches and surround sound stereo? Video consoles with leather gamer chairs? Tommy had stacked the deck against the brothers and they grimaced every time he waved a huge and arrogant hand from across the street. Family life strained to near divorce, kids angry they lost tennis and dance. Just the night before, Chris had come home, feeling like he might crawl himself up to the door step. When he walked in, The Modern Bitch's glaring stood waiting. “You fat fuck! Worthless fat bastard!”
SLAP! He never raised a hand back at her and took his beating with as much dignity a grown man could muster under such domestically violent outbursts. “The girls hate you. Know that? Yeah, oh hell yeah, they sure do.” She spoke with sincere joy, her eyes savoring every painful jab. “’Why is daddy a loser?’ HA! That’s what they ask me!”
God kill me, he thought. Make it go away. He wanted to ask her why she didn't use that fancy law degree
of her to make some money. But that would only make matters worse. She volunteered her time to the local NAACP chapter; if Chris would suggest she do otherwise; well, he knew better than that. After the onslaught had ended, he retreated to the kitchen. The shiny clean white with blue striped floor, pure marble, stared up at him as he shuffled tirelessly to the refrigerator. His hand slipped weakly around the black handle. He held it there for a moment, sure the worst thing possible will prove true the moment he opened it. He just held the handle and stared at the photos on the fringe. Earlier in the day, his beloved had given the girls a project. He could imagine what was said.
“Your worthless father doesn’t deserve a place in our pictures. Does he?”
“No way!”
“Cut him out!”
And sure enough, his head was missing in all the family photos on the fridge. He still held the fringe handle. Sweat now beaded on his forehead and he breathed in fast and hard. He just knew the worst had happened. The only way this day could go fucking nuclear. He opened the door.
FUCK!!!!!
FUCK!!!!!
FUCK!!!!!
He stared down at the bottom shelf and they were gone. He fell to his knees and cried silently to himself. How could anyone be so cruel?
God hates me. It’s the only reasonable explanation. He hates me. She hates me. The girls hate me. She turned my angels against me. I could go get more. No. She’ll beat me senseless if I try to walk out the door.
The click clash of her high heels came up behind him. “Yeah, fuck wad!” She trotted up and leaned in close to his ear and whispered: “I tossed every last fat cake. All those chocolatey, cream filled donuts—GONE! HAHAHAHAHA!”
He placed his hands on the cold floor. The smell of her perfumed filled the entire room and lingered throughout the house. “Me and Simon are taking the girls to a movie. If you’re lucky. If you’re GOOD! I might bring you home another creamy treat.” A bright smile crossed her face as she swirled around, took the girls, and walked out of his life. He knew what creamy treat she was talking about and it sure the hell wasn't a donut. Simon was some asshole that she was giving her legal services to. Some street hood.