Humanity's Death: A Zombie Epic (7 page)

The twins retreated, screaming for help that
didn't exist, and slammed the shack door behind them. They ran into
the small living room and hid behind the couch. For a moment
everything went silent. They looked at each other; their matching
blue eyes filled with fright. Their breath came in short, scared
gasps; the room was as cold as a freezer.

They both peaked above the tip of the couch and
stared at the front door. A dark mist began to seep underneath the
door. All the windows were darkened by black shadow. The shack
began to shake violently. The door swung open. They stared in
frozen horror. It wasn't the Eye crawling in through the door. It
was Papa. His face was white death. His eyes burned with dead man's
fury. He was a lifeless and hungry ghost of a man. He spoke, but
not with his voice. It was the whispering voice of the Eye. “Come
here my sweet treats. Time to taste my little cunts. I'm hungry.
Hungry as the hippo. I want your insides!”

Tears poured from their eyes. They couldn't
move. The couldn’t scream. The dead old man moved closer, crawling
with blood dripping, creating a bloody trail. They held each other
now.

They held each tight as they could for the last
time.

Chapter
Three: A Ghastly Return

1

Back in the pontoon, the swampy trees surrounded
Jack. In them, a gloomy darkness seemed to scream loneliness. Down
the narrow river the pontoon sped; and all around the innumerable
trees, with their thick trunks, hid what might be an unseen fear—a
hidden violent multitude, just waiting, hungry for the taste of
flesh. In that solitude, there was nothing to do but sit still and
think. Think about what was happening all over the world. How bad
was it in other nations? What about the west coast? How much of the
population now roamed flesh eating zombies? Can any of the Old
World be saved, resurrected from this deathly squalor?

Jack looked at Candy. Her head was down, staring
at the floor of the boat. He could sense her sanity cracking like a
dam about to flood the once fertile, happy lands of her mind.

His glasses slipped down; he pushed them back
up.

Was his sanity slipping as well? Would his mind
come crashing down like a shattered wine glass against dark, black
stone?

He watched Andrew guiding the boat. The thin
shoulders of his cousin were hunched; an unseen weight pressed upon
them.

A flock of black birds screamed out of the trees
to Jack's right; they flew high in the sky like a ominous black
cloud. He thought of Jenny from Forest Gump asking God to make her
a bird so she could fly far far away. The birds were safer than any
human; that was for certain; able to fly and go as they pleased;
the world now belonged to them and the dead; it belonged to the
crows and the gators, the wild things of the night.

The black water swirled around the boat. The sun
was rising like a hell's beacon; a fire strip across the sky. His
stomach rumbled; he hadn't eaten in almost twenty four hours; at
least not a decent meal, he'd only picked at the food Okona gave
them. He felt weak and tired. He wanted to sleep.

Up ahead, he could see their small swampy
home.

2

Back at the shack, the trees enveloped Jack in
lonely shadow like a forgotten ghost. He watched his cousins enter
that rickety home. Candy’s maddening scream made him jump. His neck
tensed and his heart pounded. He ran for the house. His feet
crunched into leaves and soft swampy earth. Her screams persisted—a
loud tearful bellow, hell's siren call.

Jack darted in. His heart stopped. My mind went
numb.

Candy laid on her knees screaming out of her
mind. Andrew sat in a corner not saying a word, just watching, void
of emotion.

Two little girls, piled on top of each other,
ripped open; and Jack's dear ole granddad, dead as can be, savoring
their entrails, one bloody handful at time.

Jack fell to his knees, his glasses slipped off
and cracked on the blistered wood floor. He saw his reflection in
the broken glass; and stared back at his shattered self. He saw his
hand reach down, and remove his pistol. He held it by his side, and
stared with hopeless eyes. He breathed in deeply as he lifted the
pistol with a shaky hand, placing it against his temple.

Hidden deep within a swamp, far from the world
outside, he still couldn’t save them; in a world set with only
tragedy, horror, and depravity—no man can live, no humanity can
shine. In a world where the living and the dead walk, there is no
place for good men to stand.

He knew it had to end; so he squeezed the cold
steel trigger.

3

Candy’s mind was slipping. Her thoughts a grave yard
of growing instability as she dragged Jack to his bed. He was
bleeding badly; but he’d done a poor job of killing himself. She’d
seen failed suicide attempts like this before. A gun to the temple
was not always the best way to do it. The gun can slip just a bit
and only leave a nasty graze. She quickly applied a bandage, but
did nothing else then.

She walked back into the living room. Her
thoughts wheeled quickly through her mind. Grayness threatened to
take over; her moral compass was cracking; right and wrong, good
and bad losing any real meaning. Her police uniform was in tatters;
a symbol of a torn past.

She carried the bodies of her girls and Papa
outside one by one. Andrew brought a can of gasoline and handed it
to her. She said nothing. She poured the contents over the bodies.
Andrew handed her a box of matches. She opened it, took one out,
and struck it against the side of the box. She threw it onto the
bodies and flame engulfed in a fast whoosh.

Andrew was crying. Candy just stared; her
thoughts darkening as quickly as the bodies of her family. She
watched them smolder; their white skin turning dark black. The
smell was abominable; but she breathed it in, refusing to try and
avoid the dead perfume of cooking flesh.

The black smoot now covered her face like a
black, smudgy mask. Her red hair now showing through black dust.
Her soul now tainted with the decay of the New World.

4

Jack awoke, his vision a blurry haze of unimaginable
pain. His entire face screamed for mercy; and the world was black
from the right side over. He laid in his bed, surrounded by the old
wood of the swamp shack, and the always present swell of the dying
world. He had no idea how he'd gotten there.

What had happened? How was he still here? These
questions rushed through his mind for only as long as the throbbing
pain allowed. He let out a low bellow of agony. The memory of Papa
chewing on the remains of the girls sparked in his psyche. How did
he allow this to happen? His life is over. It is a forgotten
memory. Part of the world that once was, and will never be again.
His hopes, dreams, and worst of all, he feared, his humanity, his
wonder and joy, forever lost in the dark haze of a darkening,
insidious world.

He tried to move, but to no avail. The pain
swelled once more. He couldn’t move. He didn’t want to breath,
though his body forced the air in and then out, causing grief mixed
with self-hate to plunder his soul, his mind, his heart, every inch
of him calling out, without saying a word, to please just let him
rot, just let him die now.

“Candy.” He barely spoke; it came out of a
hoarse whisper.

But she heard him none the less. The door
creaked open, and in she came carrying something in a brown bottle
with a white screw on lid. She didn’t say a word. In his now left
sided vision, mixed with the pain of failed suicide, he saw her
battered police uniform; it was covered in dirt and the stench of
swamp water; clotted portions of smoke smut blackened the once
pristine and pressed uniform. The odor of a recent fire followed
her, and lingered with her every step. Her face was emotionless;
her eyes unresponsive, her cheeks smothered in dark soot. She
walked with impatience, and stood over Jack for a moment, staring
down with blank eyes, almost as though he didn’t exist. He felt her
firm grip on his chin, and a bandage tore from his face. He
screeched in agony.

“Shut up.” She said and forced his face in the
opposite direction. The sound of the brown bottle's top twisting
open, and then the striking sting and smell of alcohol smothered
his face. His legs jerked, his hand gripped the dirty sheets, and
he cried tears of discomfort, hate, and suffering.

She wrapped a new bandage on his face; he then
heard an old wooden chair scratch against the splintered floor;
candy plopped down beside him. Her stare focused on the floor, and
her elbows met her knees. Jack stared at the top her head; her
filthy red hair, meshed with sweat, blood, and soot, half clung,
half dangled from her scalp.

“Candy…” Jack murmured.

“I have to go into town. Your wound is gonna get
infected soon. The humidity, the moisture causing it to fester.
That's the last of the alcohol and bandages.” She said.

“Where is Andrew?”

“He's waitin outside. I have to go now.” She
stood, and walked out of the room without another word.

He laid helplessly, unable to fathom his idiocy.
His mistake. His bamboozled attempt to end it all in the face of
that scene. Oh god. He ate them. He was gone. Papa. The girls. All
gone. Forever. Never see them again. The pain. The horror. The
filth he lived in now. The world is gone forever. Nothing. Left.
Gone. Yes. He will die. Soon. He hoped.

Chapter
Four: Candy and Andrew

1

Candy stood at the edge of the embankment, staring
out into the dark trees.

“Its OK Candy. Everything is going to be OK.”
Andrew began, “we’ll get through this. Just you wait and see.” He
reached and pulled the engine’s cord. It rumbled alive.

Candy watched as her brother guided the pontoon
away from the bank and back into the dark water. He turned and a
cheesy smile spread across his face. His thin arm rose, and he gave
a wave. She forced half a smile. He disappeared upstream. She stood
for a moment longer and then turned away and moved to the Humvee.
Her tattered uniform clung to her body and sweat soaked through the
material. Her mind was also drenched; soaked in anger and
confusion; a desire for revenge that seemed impossible to obtain.
In twenty-four hours she'd lost her husband, twin daughters, and
grandfather. To make all this shit stain that much worse, Jack
would die if she didn't find antibiotics. She walked over to the
Hummer, climbed in, and slammed the vehicle’s door shut.

The narrow dirt road stretched long in front of
her. Both her hands gripped the steering wheel while her knuckles
turned white. The suspension kept her steady as the Humvee moved
over uneven ground, pot holes, and marshy wet spots. The Cyprus
hung high on both sides of the road. The tree’s boughs closest to
the road dangled over and early morning fog created a dark misty
tunnel.

She pushed a
button on the CD player panel. Loud guitar music blasted the sounds
of
For Whom
the Bell Tolls
. She
reset the song to the beginning and rolled down the window and for
a brief moment she closed her eyes. Her eyes popped back open. Her
look was stern, and hard lines ran down her face like dry
rivers.

She turned the music to maximum and rolled down
all windows. She screamed. She screamed again; the noise sounded
both and chocked; scared and wild like some primitive beast was
being unleashed. The shadows from the trees dashed across her face
followed by streaks of sunlight. The road that led to highway 17
came into view. She floored the pedal; tears staring down her face,
filling in the hard lines as bawled madly. The opening to the two
lane black top came into view; she didn't slow down; the Humvee
screeched and nearly flipped as she pulled the wheel hard to the
right, steering onto the asphalt road.

The music
blared; her pain swirled. Old homes were on either side of the
road. Most had no siding; there were a few trailers, an ancient
road side vegetable and fruit stand; then came into view, near the
edge of the street, a hoard of five dead men jerked their heads up
at the sound of the roaring Humvee. She came to a screeching halt.
She breathed heavily as she watched them move toward her. She
climbed out and slammed the door behind her, walked around the
back, and popped the trunk open. In front of her was an AR15, an
AK47, and a blood stained axe. She chose the axe. The Humvee sat
idling,
For
Whom the Bell Tolls
set
to repeat.

Her chest heaved and she smiled with a wicked
pleasure; she wanted blood and she was going to have it right now.
The sun glistened off her white teeth. She marched with rage filled
steps and drove the ax through the skull of a nearest zombie. The
small hoard moved for her. She kicked one of them, causing a domino
effect; they toppled over onto each other like drunk fools. She
ripped the blade out the split skull, stepped up the next dead man
like she was going to bat, and swung hard, cleaving the head off.
Another one lunged toward her and she met his momentum with the
flat head of the ax crushing its face. She twisted around in a fast
swirl and swung the blade with torrid hate, sending its head
tumbling onto the road. She screamed. She challenged them to eat
her. Mocked them. Laughed at them. And screamed again; her
civilized mind seemed to have gone on vacation; or maybe it was
gone for good.

Dead teeth
snarled and low growls garbled out of their mouths. Their rotted,
greenish black arms reached for her. The ax removed another head.
She tossed the ax and it clanked against the road. She removed a
sharp, 8 inch Kabar fighting knife from a thigh holster. She ran
back to the Humvee, reached in and changed the song to
Ride the
Lightening
. Andrews
expensive sound system vibrated, contrasting loudly against the
vast silence of the apocalyptic roadside.