by D. S. Black
In that moment, sitting on the cold floor, tears drying against his face, he decided he needed a change; and this time he was going to go through with it; he'd leave and go live with his brother. He'd file for divorce and let the cards fall where they may. One more day of this and he'd have to kill himself.
But he never saw his wife and daughters again.
The next day the world as everyone knew it came to an end. The world of bossy, cuckold wives and spoiled daughters was replaced with zombies and paranormal mayhem.
6
Tasha's last name was Mayer and there was a time when her step mother and father tried to set her up with Tommy Ranger. He’d picked her up in an old rusty 85’ Ranger. His real name was Tommy Mathews; but he’d spit a wad of tobacco at your feet if you dared call him anything other than Tommy Ranger. It made her think of Tommy the Green Ranger from the Power Rangers (the original by god!), save the fact that Redneck Tommy (as she so fondly enjoyed saying around her POS step dad). Tommy was was as ugly as a dried plum on a hot summer’s eve roasting away on scolding concrete, stepped on by little kids, and carried off only to peel off and fall into the dark and dank sewers.
He was ugly, that’s the point.
She’d never seen him as uglier than on a hot Saturday in August; right before her senior year was starting. It was the third date and she wore a funeral black dress with shiny black shoes, blindingly polished. Dove white stockings ran up her petite, athletic legs and her hair was pulled back in a skin tightening pink hair bow. The bow glowed under the sun like a pink emerald. Moments before, actually two hours and thirty-three minutes before, she’d sat down in gaming chair and turned her attention to Left 4 Dead 2. She logged into the Steam servers. It was in those moments and those moments only, that she found peace, a sanctuary of fictionalized mayhem. Here she killed, maimed, and slayed. She found true peace and happiness while playing the role of Coach, killing her way through the rush of zombies. “Front! FRONT! Hunter! 12 OCLOCK!”
“I see em! We got it! We got it!”
“Smoker up top!”
“Oh shit! Here they come!” The ominous scream of zombies rushed into her headphones and she and her team took formation, watching each angle. Nobody was gonna touch her teammates, her friends. Novy, RandyJackson, DETECTIVEJOHNKIMBLE, and of course: FOULSLUT. While killing as FOULSLUT nothing could stop her. They played advanced team matches. And if you know anything about the Left for Dead franchise—advanced team matches are not for weak and cowardly gamer; its a testing ground for those that wanted to prove just how premium bad ass they really were.
No cold lockers at school. No shitty rich kids. No snot nosed prissy whores to deal with.
“Bitches.” She spoke after the match, “Just dirty whores.”
“Don’t let em bother ya!” DETECTIVEJOHNKIMBLE said in a thick southern accent. The all caps were on purpose. “Life’s a dance, ya learn as ya go. What do ya say we finish up with a round of Survival?”
“OK. I’ve got one more then I’m out.” She said.
“Prolly means at least two more.”
“No, I’ve an appointment with my destiny. At least my parent’s version.”
“Yo! You gotta mop that shit! Finish the floor with his face!” Said RandyJackson. Yes, that Randy Jackson; the famous consumer of that doo doo weed; though on this particular day Andrew was not over to enjoy it with him; and though Tasha new Randy lived close by, they'd never actual thought it was necessary to meet in person.
“I know.”
“GODDMAN! Fuck, yo! I hate when girls be frontin with rednecks! Uh! Uh! Uh!” He mocked the southern accent then blurted, “but yeah, you better drop that fool. You know yous my wife.”
“No way cowboy! She’s ridin back into my stable.” DECTECTIVEJOHNKIMBLE said.
“Oh Jeez le weez… boys… I’m totally not worth it.”
“Shit! You da bomb!”
“My heart jiggles every time you speak.” DECTECTIVEJOHNKIMBLE said.
“Jiggles?! WTF, YO! Retarded hillybilly!”
The only sound that came back over the speaker was harsh coughs, caused by a bong rip of some of that doo doo weed. Then, “FUCK YEAH, LETS DO IT! SURVINAL BITCHES!”
And, as always, Novy was silent and mostly ignored. Most of the time, they forgot she was even there. All that mattered was that she kicked some serious ass once the game started.
Tasha sat staring at screen as the next map slowly loaded. She took off her head phones and let them fall over the back of her neck. She reached over and took a glass of three-hour old Mountain Dew and drank it in gulps. The green liquid streamed down her gullet and filled her stomach with the sweet nectar of gamers: caffeine.
The doorbell rang. She looked at her watch. Grim agony clutched her soul. She’d forgotten all about Redneck Ranger. He was right on time. She groaned loudly and rose from her chair like a dead girl standing. Downstairs, the sound of Riker Mayer (oh, THIS is my beloved stepdaddy, I’m pretty sure he wants to fuck me!) opening the door and greeting his chosen man with a firm handshake and a stupid joke (you know what a probate is? A professional masturbator! HA! HA! HA!).
Not this time. This time the animated redneck, with spittle flying into Redneck Ranger’s face, said: “Gonna make me proud son?” He spoke with eloquent perversity. The Redneck Ranger had looked shyly at the floor for a moment, cheeks glowing red. “Oh hell boy! I’m just fuckin with ya!” Riker moved in close. “But just in case...” He strangely and erotically forced a Trojan condom into Redneck Ranger’s tight jean pocket. The younger boy forced himself to let the man shove the condone deep, with two fingers. Then felt the fingers slip out. The boy looked more than embarrassed; he was red as roses. Redneck Ranger shivered while Tonya watched. She wondered to herself: Gay. Oh yes. Which one is gayer? Step dad.
She reconsidered: may be a tie.
She walked over to the upstairs bannister and shouted in a modest and temperate tone, “I’’ll be down in just a minute Tommy.” She heard Riker crack another joke before erupting in caricature like laughter, probably overcompensating for a lack of something. She’d monitored his pornography use regularly. The old man loved, well, HER. At least if the only qualifier is a cute, petite body, aged 18. She’d thought about turning him in; but the porn wasn’t illegal; only perverted and he’d never laid a hand on her, only his glaring eyes. Like the way he’d watch her while she went for a glass of milk only in her towel. She could feel his dark and hard eyes examining her, wanting to shred of her virginity. He never touched her though.
The knowledge of a forty-five-year-old man wanking while fantasizing over her dripping wet, freshly showered body—kinda gave her the creeps. Better to monitor and feel puky, then not know what those crazy old man eyes viewed every night at ten o clock after her mother had gone to bed.
7
Gun blasts and what sounded like artillery shells snapped Tasha and the rest of the Comic Warriors out of whatever day dream slumber they were in. They immediately grabbed their weapons and armed themselves. The sounds were coming from a little way off. Somewhere in the dark trees a war had started.
Chapter Eight: Militia Interference
1
If Duras knew that a blood thirsty militia was planning on cutting him down after he left the safety of his city; he may have thought hard and long about not chasing after revenge. But ever since Okona first stepped into his life, Tommy “Duras” Morrow had wanted nothing more than to kill the guy. His sleek bald head, his narrow, intelligent eyes, his youthful smugness infuriated Duras.
Now, loading the Humvees up with ammo, he had a moment of hesitation. A feeling. It only lasted a moment; but in that moment, Duras felt like he was stepping into a gulf that would swallow him and all that he loved. He shrugged the feeling away and focused on the job at hand. He knew where Okona was laid up. High in those fucking trees just waiting to be burned out. The old hate resurfaced and the thought of Okona's burning, charred corpse brought a delightful smile to his face. He was goi
ng to clean the past and create a new future. A future without bald and arrogant assholes. And who knew? After he finished today's task; he might just marry Mary Jane. He'd though about it quite a lot. More than he'd ever tell his men, that's for sure. His wife was dead and was never returning. And he loved Mary Jane. He thought it a bit pretentious to have an apocalyptic wedding. On the other hand, why should romance die? Just because the dead walked and ghosts roamed? He'd even found a diamond to give her during a food run. It was in a Zale's jeweler store. They'd raided the Waccamaw Mall and came away with a nice load of dried food goods from the food court. Raiding malls proved dangerous business these days, since so many of the walkers seemed to congregate at them—drawn there by some lingering instinct from the Old World.
Duras pushed the memories out of his mind and focused on the current moment. “Lite the fires boys! Lets bring em hell!” Duras stood, one foot standing outside the Humvee, the door angled open. They'd driven up to the edge of the wilderness. The sun was lowering and darkness began to shroud them in ghostly shadow. The tree line stood tall and crookedly ominous, like giants threatening to pounce. They charged into the woods head strong, moving swiftly yet stealthily. Duras led from the front. He wanted to taste Okona's blood. He'd wanted this moment since the first time the bald bastard showed up in his parking lot. Make em pay with blood. On his left ran Vice, armed with gasoline soaked arrows (minus the sparklers). On his right was Rhino and Ice Man, armed with automatic pistols on either hip.
In another group, many of his other men moved like black shadows. The City of God was left undefended.
The night grew dark as they moved through the trees, getting closer to the wooden fortress. The ground was soft from the long heat of day, but the air was cooling around them as a storm front approached. The trees caste night's darkness around them like a nightmare. The wind whipped around them and blew their unkempt hair. Hoots and howls came from all directions, dark voices in the night echoing malcontent and hatred. The wind now came from all directions, a screaming hell.
“Not far! The gates are close. Take up position. Vice! Lite em up!”
Before Vice could soar his first burning arrow, the Militia's artillery shells turned the world around them into a thunderous hell. Most of the other group of men were turned into hamburger in the first volley. Their shrieks unheard over the falling shells.
Then the zombies came in full force. A tidal wave of death. Another volley of artillery shells crashed into a large oak near Duras. A thunderous roaring of branches came pouring down.
A massive, burning branch fell on top of Duras, trapping him under flaming wood. His mind went blank as he lost consciousness.
2
Okona heard the sounds of the artillery blasting in the distance, but his attention was lost, caught in a dream state. He stared at his wife's painting like a magnet glued his mind to it. Something was moving in the painting. He didn't believe it at first, but as he stepped closer, he saw it more clearly. It wasn't something, it was someone. Someone moving in the painting. His heart beat hard against his chest. Somewhere behind him, Tasha yelled his name. She sounded a million miles away.
What is moving in the painting? How can this be? He stepped directly up to it and stared hard.
Can't be. No. My dear god.
3
Vice, Rhino, and Ice Man moved with speed. They felled the dead beasts one by one. They fought side by side, back to back, and killed their way to Duras.
“Its artillery shells! Somebody is aiming right at us!” Vice shouted into Duras’s ear as Ice Man and Rhino hoisted the branch up just enough for Vice to pull Duras free. He helped Duras to his feet.
“Where is it coming from?” Duras asked, his consciousness returning in a blaze of pain.
“Somewhere over there!” Vice said pointing int eh general direction where the City of God was.
Duras stared around; zombies were everywhere; like beacons sent from hell, their dead eyes glowed bright white in the dreadful darkness.
Duras didn't see any sign of Okona and had no idea the Militia existed. He only knew that something horrible had crept up on them and rained furious hell.
Vice stepped in and brought Duras out of his fog of uncertainty. “I suggest we try and circle around and flank em! Lets get the fuck out of here!” More shells erupted into the hoard as Duras and and his company ran through the trees, slaying dead men as they went.
“We’re earning it today boys! Holy fuck!” Vice said as he and Duras stopped and stood back to back and fought off a small horde of 6 zombies. In front of them, Ice Man and Rhino stood over the bodies they had slayed holding their swords high in victory. They were shouting: Bring it on! Bring it on! Bring it on!
The shells were now behind them, but still blasting hard against the earth.
The dead thinned out as they moved swiftly through dark, shadowy trees. The trees towered in the darkness. A cool wind blew and swirled the rotting flesh in a swirl of decaying stench. Above the trees, darkness towered in dark clouds of black smoke.
Artillery shells continued to explode as Duras followed behind Vice. Their boots dug in the wet earth; damp air filled their lungs. Their hearts beat at the same rhythm, and a look of vigilant rage covered their faces. Darkness surrounded them, but at that moment, they were a unstoppable phalanx, a rising glory of determination.
The world may fall around them; they may hang on a by a mere thread, the world gone to shit. But they marched on and fought for glory, for the world’s ending, for lost love; while marching through the fog of war, Duras, Vice, Rhino, and Ice Man were the four horsemen of the apocalypse.
4
Tony Piper clunked artillery shells into the launcher. BAM! Another one inserted. BAM! Clunk. BAM! Tony worked like a mad man. His arms moved, his legs bent, but his mind felt only the mad exhilaration of the White Mist. The white powder wasn’t meth. Nope. Something new, exotic, and more powerful. Tony heard it all came from the Mountain King. All praise the Mountain King. Creator of White Mist, that mystical powder, so fine, so soft as it enters the nostrils.
Tony keeps clunking the shells as his mind dances with raging obedience. Tony was no stranger to drugs before the Fever. Meth, coke, heroin, he loved it all. On his knuckles he’d tattooed ADDICT, each letter on a separate knuckle. Drugs purified Tony. Least that’s how Tony saw it. Drugs freed him from the norms of mainstream society. Tony new the truth. A truth the Mainstream didn’t want to accept. All their hopes and dreams. All lies. An illusion. “My drugs free my mind and body.” He often said. Once he’d taken a dog into the woods and stabbed it to death after smoking a few bowls of some fine Crystal. He'd lured Mr. Buttons out of his elderly neighbor's yard. Mr. Buttons was a neighborhood favorite. Mr. Buttons was part of the Mainstream. He’d let the dying dog lick his hand as it bled out, then he stabbed Mr. Buttons for the final time, directly into his eyes. Tony's cock was rock as hard the whole time. When Tony was twelve he took another neighbor's cat and hung it out in the woods and watched the creature gasp its last breath. The cat was part of the Mainstream.
Tony felt lucky. Since the shit hit the fans, life was good.
Clunk! BAM! Clunk! BAM!
Around Tony was Larry Burnett, Gary Mather, and Todd Snout. Insane goons, jacked up on White Mist.
Tony stopped dropping rounds and cracked his back. He felt a grotesque beauty only he understood. He was special. Just like his momma always sai—
The first bullet flew by Tony’s head and shredded Larry's face.
Tony looked out into the darkness, his eyes wide with—
(Fear?)
(Regret?)
Tony saw something moving out of the shadows. It wasn’t zombies, it was the faces of warriors; the whites of their teeth shining like beacons of destruction; a hot stream of urine streamed down Tony's inner thigh.
5
Duras charged from the woods, into a circular clearing, and saw the fear in the boy’s eyes. 18? 19? Didn’t matter. The blade of his bat’leth ca
ved into the Tony's chest; darts of blood to splattered. The boy fell to his knees, Duras press his foot onto his chest, and ripped the blade free.
A couple of feet away, Vice gutted the last man standing with a thrust of his blade.
Then it was quiet. They stood their breathing deeply. A cold moon shined a bar of light on Duras’ face. His eyes were wide and he breathed heavily, but comfortably.
Mary Jane.
“Mary Jane! We have to get back!”
“Calm down, lets think this through for a minute.” Vice said.
“Lets hope like hell these boys aren’t organized into something larger.” Rhino grunted.
Duras collected his emotions, then said “Some red neck militia, may be? Look at this patch.” The same patch Candy had found was sewn on to the sleeve of the dead solider. “Bet the bastards love this world. My god. How did they know we were here?”
“Somebody at camp probably told them. Had to of. They caught us on the move and flanked us hard.” Vice said.
“You’re right. A coincidence is never this precise.” Duras said.
“What now?” Rhino asked.
“If they are part of a bigger group, then the town is probably under attack.” Vice said.
“Lets go stealthily. Might be more out here.” Duras said.
6
Okona almost didn't believe his eyes; the voice came out of the painting. His wife's voice. His dead wife. He saw her standing on the painted rope bridge. But it wasn't painted anymore. It was real. The painting had somehow come to life before his eyes and there she stood, waving for him to step closer... closer...then—
He was in the painting. Somehow he really was; she stood right in front of him.
“Hello my love. Did you miss me?”
“What? How can this be?”
She reached up and touched his face. He felt her hand caress his cheek.