Humanity's Death: A Zombie Epic

by D. S. Black

  Always remember, good people don’t die, they resurrect.

  Just then, a loud crack came from behind her—

  She tried to turn around—

  Blackness.

  Chapter Eleven: Allies

  1

  Okona walked out of the tree line holding a long stick with a white flag. He silently prayed to himself that he wasn't about to get shot for a delusion or a hallucination. They had tracked Duras and his men, silently and stealthily.

  “We could kill him right now. Be done with it! This is fucking madness!” Tasha had said as they moved through the trees. “Over a fucking vision?”

  “It was real. I'm telling you it was real! Jesus! In the world where the dead walk, ghostly experience is beyond belief?” The look on his face ended the conversation and she held up her hands in exasperation.

  “If he kills you...”

  “It’s going to work. Trust me.”

  And so they did. Tasha, Chris, and Andre waited, watching from the darkness beyond the tree line.

  Moon light shined down on Okona's head; the trees rustled behind him from a gust of wind; that’s when Duras turned and saw him.

  2

  Duras, Vice, Rhino, and Ice Man stood a quarter of a mile from the city behind broken down cars and buses. They were only two hundred yards away from the vast low state wilderness. At first he was sure it was some kind of trick. The bald fuck was walking right towards him, wide open, holding a white flag, visible under moon light. Vice, Rhino, and Ice Man shouldered their rifles, ready to kill. Why Duras held his hand up to stop them; why he felt a moment of trust for the bald prick; he wasn't sure, not then at least.

  There was something in Okona's eyes that stayed his weapon; the full moon above shined brightly.

  “Not another step!” Was all he could think to say in that moment. He stared into Okona's gleaming eyes. There was an absolute certainty in them. He couldn’t believe it, but he felt a stab of respect for the man. Somehow he knew it wasn't a trick. Some feeling inside him told him this was preordained. This had to happen. Whatever this was.

  “It’s a trick Duras!” Vice said. He had every reason to think it was a trick, Duras thought. But it wasn't.

  “If this is a trick, it’s a mighty stupid one. And if he isn't alone—and I doubt he is—it means they tracked us and could have killed us already. Let's hear him out.”

  3

  And so they did. Okona explained the story of the encounter with his wife. Eyes rolled and disbelief was apparent, but in the end, what could be said? When the dead walk, when the Old World is gone, when death is around every corner, what choices were left? When a drug crazed, heavily armed, heavily maned militia spreads throughout the Palmetto State like a human virus dead set on killing and rapping on a scale Duras's Seekers could only dream of, what else could be done? It was an alliance of necessity, of survival. Born of strange and paranormal activity, this small band of survivors didn't know the hell that awaited them in Columbia, didn't know the bond that would grow between them, had no idea that after that day, the need to survive, to save those they loved, would bind them in a union of fellowship and courage.

  And now, poised and ready to attack, both groups (formerly and bloodily opposed to each other) entered the city.

  At the about the same time the rape of Rusty ray came to a close, the battle for the City of God began.

  4

  Lieutenant Thompson sat with his feet high on the large dark wood desk. He was still in the main cathedral in the center of the city. He was feeling quite proud of himself. He'd sacked the city and hardly lost a man. He'd bagged a few women, and ordered them escorted back to Recon 3's camp, where they would then no doubt be taken to Columbia.

  Would Cap be upset? Oh yes. Furious more like it. But fuck him. He didn't just take a major objective with only a small platoon, now did he? No sir. And the Mountain King would hear about this; and then Thompson would get his promotion to Captain.

  At least I damn well better. If not, then maybe I get a few of the boys together and have ourselves a little revolt. Maybe send the Mountain King Cap's head on a silver platter. HA! Wouldn't that be a sight!

  Thompson felt like nothing could stop him. He'd played a game of fine chess indeed. He'd used that holy roller, then turned him into his own personal fuck toy and sent him out into the dark night to die a good Christian death.

  “What a fucking loser! HA!” He jumped out of the chair and walked over to the large double door entrance. They'd been propped open to let the summer night breeze come in. He stared out at the dark city. I love the smell of gun fire and blood. The smell of screams and fear! OH YES!

  He grabbed his crotch and squeezed. “Why didn't I keep the holy roller for a day or two. Damn.”

  The large stone steps in front of him led down to the cobblestone street. Beyond that were town houses, dark and without life. He could hear the sounds of his men somewhere in the black distance. They were laughing. He'd told them to break up into two groups and sweep the city once more before settling in for the night.

  Thompson still had his green BDUs on, but no shirt. His skin was a dark tan. His hair black and cut short. He looked like a young version of Ben Affleck.

  He sat down at the top the steps and leaned against a large pillar. He closed his eyes. He was drifting off, ready for a few hours of deep, restful sleep (he'd found he could sleep in just about any position).

  Then he heard the first gun shots.

  5

  Duras, Vice, Rhino, and Ice Man went left; Okona, Tasha, Andre, and Chris went right, agreeing to meet at the front door of the towering cathedral, in the center of it all. Duras had seen that the Militia was already starting to leave the city, taking random women as they went. He once again thought of Mary Jane and shuttered with rage at the thought of her held captive. He still had no idea that Rusty Ray and the Seekers helped orchestrate the invasion, but he had a dim hunch that someone in the city was to blame. The timing was far too perfect. They knew where they were and struck them accordingly. There was just no way to do that without inside help. An inside job.

  He couldn't stop a smile from crossing his face as he thought about the 9/11 Truthers. No way a tower can fall from an airplane. The pancake theory? That was just a front story sent out via Popular Mechanics; just another New World Order printing press controlling the sheeple with propaganda. That all seemed like a million years ago. The Iraq war, Afghanistan, years later, Benghazi, the 2008 housing bubble—all ancient history.

  The night shrouded their movements through the city. This was their turf after all, and Duras meant to use it to their advantage. The Militia had left an occupying force behind. They now patrolled the city in five man teams, heavily armed, and seriously high as kites, jacked up on a powerful upper.

  But even better, they seemed overly confident. Probably hadn’t had much resistance; they’d probably been able to run through the state unchecked.

  Not today. Today they fucked with the wrong group of survivors.

  Duras wanted to find Mary Jane. But his mind was already telling him it was too late. She was gone. They'd taken her. He pushed these thoughts aside as he saw a patrol moving towards them. Time to take out the trash.

  Then another memory occurred to him, this one like the blast of a psychic Colt 45. It came from another place, from another time. It wasn't really one memory, but many memories overlapping each other all at once. He stumbled and fell. Vice grabbed him before he could crash onto the ground. What in hells bells is happening to me? He saw faces, millions of faces, dead faces. Black faces, burned and battered. Children, mothers, fathers. They wore ripped and torn garments. He recognized the slave clothing from the middle nineteenth century. So many black faces. So many lost lives, butchered right here. Right here in this city. He was walking on a killing field. He saw the whips whipping down on the backs of slaves. He saw the screaming women as dirty old men raped them with Southern brutality. He saw a little girl's throat being cut in front
of her daddy. He felt their pain, it whirled through him like an angry tornado. A tornado full of dark and blood stained history. The black faces cried out to him, their eyes bulging with despair. He heard the sinister laughter of the slave drivers, the plantation owners, laughing, mocking their cries. He saw families torn apart, carried away, never to see each other again. A whirlwind of agony, ancient and persistent screamed in his mind. Why hadn't he felt it before? All the stories he'd heard. All the tales of ghostly horror that blossomed after the Fever hit, after it all went to shit, like the dead had had enough and now, finally, their pain would be heard once and for all. It didn't matter, because just like that—

  The faces disappeared. Vice slapped him hard across the face. “No time for this now, boss!” Vice spoke with a hasty whisper. “They’re coming.”

  Duras pulled himself up and shrugged off the thoughts of dead and butchered slaves like a person does with a nightmare shortly after waking up. Hot sweat dripped down his face. He tasted hot copper. Blood dripped from his lower lip; he'd bitten it. Soldiers were coming; he heard their footsteps. The click of their boots on cobblestones echoed in the night. They laughed.

  (just like the slave owners)

  Their voices were triumphant and stoned. Hearty sounds, the sound of victorious soldiers after the big battle. Duras felt a growl growing in his heart, reaching his throat, a rage that couldn't stay contained. He held his rifle, then laid it down. He pulled his bat’leth from his back and looked into Vice’s eyes. Vice smiled and nodded. The soldiers were damn close. They were coming around the corner—

  6

  Seth Taylor strolled heroically, high as the mountain wind. Dried blood covered his green camo. Him and the four soldiers walking with him were left in this place to keep it warm and cozy for the next wave of Militia soldiers that would come once they knew the area was secured. Seth had never felt so strong, so fucking powerful. Today had been one of the bloodiest days of his life and the drugs in his system only increased the orgasmic pleasure the screaming faces brought him. They'd never seem them coming, a slaughtering cake walk, baby. He'd raped a little girl (she'd looked about thirteen or fourteen), then he'd just blew her brains out, just like that. No big deal, still plenty of defenseless teeny boppers left in the world. Jesus though... she had been one cute little cun—

  Seth Taylor never saw another thirteen-year-old girl again thanks to the blade of Duras's bat’leth cleaving into his throat. The blood gushed and ran down the blade. A loud gun shot from Vice's pistol sent a bullet through the skull of one of Seth's comrades, ripping his face clean off. Ice Man didn't waste a moment manhandling a long, sharp blade deep into the heart of one of the others. Rhino had attached his bayonet to the end of his AK 47 and ran the tip into the final soldier’s chest and then pulled the trigger, pumping the body full of hot lead, sending spurts of blood flying out of the man's back.

  7

  Okona moved stealthily, feeling a strange newness about him. Since he'd stepped out of his wife's painting, back to normal reality, everything felt off key, as though reality's thin veil lost some of its solidity and pockets of supernatural and rather ghostly rays shined through dark light. Certain areas seemed to permeated with this feeling and this city was now filled with it. He'd been in here before of course, but never felt this. Something horrible happened on these grounds and the after images and feelings never left, only waited till the right time to reassert themselves onto living human tissue. It seemed the dead would never rest again in the New World.

  Okona led them through the shadows, staying close to the buildings as they moved. Voices up ahead laughed and cajoled, soldiers at play after battle. Okona held his hand up as they neared the edging of a town house. They listened.

  “Should a seen the little bitch. Runnin and screamin. I shot her dead and pissed all over her!” Deep, nasty laughter erupted. Okona thought he'd never heard anything so grotesque as that laughter. The laughter of evil animals. Of demonic spawn. Classless villains, drugged out of their minds; their humanity forfeited for soulless darkness.

  The soldier now imitated a little girl's voice. “'Don't hurt me! Please! Please!' HAHAHAHAHA! I love how the little ones squeal!”

  What creates such evil in men? What spawns such brutality? Okona thought these things, but had no answers. Then he turned, gave Tasha, Andre, and Chris a wink, and stepped around the corner.

  “Gentlemen? Mind if we have a chat on this lovely evening?”

  The men just stood for a moment, stared at each other, then looked back at Okona.

  Meanwhile, Andre, Tasha, and Chris swiftly worked their way around the other side of the building.

  The soldiers didn't have much of a chance once the bullets flew.

  8

  Duras heard the gun shots coming from the other side of the city as he moved with blood soaked rage, cutting through the remaining Militia's men. Guts spilled, skulls erupted, and they pushed harder and deeper, until he reached Mary Jane's Apartment. He entered, kicking the door open with a heavy boot, and screaming her name. No answer came, of course, only the sounds of gun shots somewhere outside.

  He left her apartment, made his way to her sister's. He found Mary Ann’s body; and then saw Vice's eyes.

  9

  Vice had spent his years prior to the end of the world in the Army corps of engineers; that’s why he'd been in charge of building the fences that kept them all safe for over a year. He wasn't perfect, but the man had heart, albeit a bit perverted; but none the less he fought like an eagle. He now held his dead girlfriend and tears streamed down his battered face. All the goodness that lived in her was dead, and the pain ran through him like a shot of hell fire. Even with all his failings—the attraction to younger girls, the heavy drinking—she had loved him. He cried like a child. He held the corpse in his arms and screamed to the roof, begging God to take him instead. He never knew he loved her so much, not until now.

  Now she was gone forever.

  10

  Okona never saw the last set of soldiers until it was too late.

  “Get down!” The steaming stream of a rocket launched towards them. A heavy explosion erupted. Okona was knocked unconscious, almost dead. Andre laid against a town house apartment, nearly thirty feet away. His face was missing, only a bloody skeletal face remained. His body was ripped apart from the torso down, his stomach splayed open, guts falling out. What skin that was left, was horribly charred.

  Tasha was furthest away and remained relatively unscathed, but was left quite dizzy. Her vision was unfocused and for a moment she thought it was Okona's bald head moving her way. As the figure got closer, she saw the insane eyes of a man much taller than Okona, and much bigger. The man's face was smeared in blood and ash. He carried a large ax in his right hand. His belt was filled with shot gun shells. The shot gun itself, a Mossberg 20 gauge, strapped hard against his back. She reached for her pistol but only found burned leather. The pistol had been blown off. From behind her, she heard running footsteps. She tried to turn, but strong arms mangled around her neck, tightening into a sleeper hold. The world went black soon after and the men carried her off with them.

  11

  Duras found them like that. With Vice’s help, he carried Okona and Chris into the main cathedral and dressed their wounds.

  Okona came to and spoke. “I think they took her... Tasha...”

  “They did. But we’ll get her back.” Duras said. “They took my Mary Jane too.”

  Rhino and Iceman entered the cathedral dragging a man; he kicked and screamed as they tied him to a chair.

  Okona and Duras stood above him, their faces dark with smoke, blood, and rage.

  Duras looked at the name on his uniform. “Listen closely, Lieutenant Thompson. I'm gonna give you five seconds to spill what I want to know. Then I'm gonna cut you open nice and slow.”

  Lieutenant Thompson looked up, his face black and blue, his eyes wide and scared. “We were just the first wave. A scouting force. We weren’t supposed to att
ack. But we did. And when Cap learns about what happened here, he will come and finish the job. You people are dead men! It was your own damn people that helped us! FOOLS! FOOLS!” He cackled loudly, a man's final cry.

  “Who! Who you bastard!”

  “The Hoods! That's who! You're dead! You are DEAD!”

  “Enough!” Duras took his bat’leth and swung with all his might. Lieutenant Thomson’s head came off and toppled to the floor.

  “He's talking about the Seekers.” Okona said to no one in particular.

  “Boss, take a look at this.” Vice walked up and handed the shaking Duras a map. “I found it on him.”

  Duras looked at the map. It was clear where the Militia was held up; and where their next mission would take place. For the rest of the night they rested and prepared to leave. By the time they left at morning’s first light, a horde was moving into the city.

  “The City of God?” Okona said. “Now it’s the City of the Dead.”

  And so the survivors left the city and ventured out into the unknown. Their destination: the Militia’s largest strong hold in Columbia, SC where nearly five thousand drugged soldiers waited.

  The Epic Continues

  Humanity’s Death: The Battle for Columbia

  Humanity's Death: The Final Solution

  Note from the Author

  This eBook is a forever free portal to my other books. I hope you enjoyed and thank you for reading. Please write to me with comments and typo discoveries. Facebook is probably the easiest and fastest way to reach me. Find out more about my other books at my Smashwords profile page.

  D.S. Black—August 16 2015-Sept. 8 2016

  About the Author

  D.S. Black is author of Humanity’s Death: A Zombie Epic, Humanity's Death: The Battle for Columbia, and Humanity's Death: The Final Solution. As a child and teen, he fell in love with horror, starting with R.L. Stine's Goosebumps series, eventually graduating to the works of Stephen King, among others. He always seemed on the outskirts of normal and acceptable behavior and thinking. During his twenties he smoked a bit too much weed and dropped too much acid; but by the time he hit thirty, writing books became a passion. He resides in Spartanburg, SC with his fun, wild, and lovable Rottweiler Commando.