Humanity's Death: A Zombie Epic (19 page)

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.

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.

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.