Humanity's Death: A Zombie Epic (14 page)

They hovered over their mother, watching her
toss and turn till the early light of dawn sent bars of light
through the windows; they watched her wake up; they watched as—

4

Candy opened her eyes. Sweat pressed the black
spandex shirt she'd grabbed from the army surplus store against her
body. The horrible dreams she'd had over the night were slowly
fading as all dreams do. But the two translucent girls standing
beside her bed did not fade; they were real; she was now going to
have to accept that fact. She didn't understand how any of this was
possible; but did it matter? Ghost daughters were better than no
daughters. She rose up and swung her feet over the bed; she would
face this New World one step at a time; the hurt wasn't going away
anytime soon, but she was gonna make herself find a reason to keep
breathing.

(
murdere
r!)

(
babykiller!

And seeing those men yesterday, and killing them
(she'd never thought in a million years she could kill so many damn
people without losing her mind) meant that more may be on the way;
there was just no way around it; her and Jack couldn't stay here,
even with Jack hurt the way he is. A well-organized party could
find them out here, even with gators and miles of swamp protecting
them. “Ladies” she said to her girls. “What's on the agenda? Any
news from the dark side?”

“Time to leave mama.” Tamby said.

“My thoughts exactly.”

“You have to find a man named Pinky.” Hannah
said.

“Pinky? Who the hells Pinky?”

“We don't know. But you have to find him.”

“Where is he?”

“We don't know. We just know you got to find
Pinky. We just know a little.”

Candy rubbed the rest of the sleep out of her
eyes and stood up. “Well. We'll just figure it all out on the way,
I suppose. Time to get Jack up.”

5

After a brief breakfast Jack and Candy (and her
ghostly girls) left the swamp for the last time. They had no clear
idea of where they were going, but as they traveled inland small
intuited nudges seemed to guide their direction; as though some
unseen hand or force propelled them onto a set path. They had no
idea of what was happening at the City of God, of the battle
between Duras and Okona; nor did they know that the Militia was
stronger than they could imagine.

But the unfolding of events were already well
underway, and sooner than later, both Candy and Jack would come
face to face with dangers that can freeze hearts and minds in
terror; their fortitude, their sanity, their mind and body were now
on a collision course with their inevitable destiny; for a long
year they hid from the horrors of the New World, finding that their
luck held out for a while; but all luck runs dry like a sun
battered creek during a long drought; with their family dead and
gone, the season that would test their ability to survive was now
upon them.

Intermission:
Dead Letters

1

To anyone that survives,

My name is Dale Thomas. I'm a news caster at Fox
Carolina. Or at least I was. Three weeks have gone by since the
Fever started. I'm holed up in the news station with a few of the
reporters and production crew. The power went out a week ago. Food
is getting short. They know we're in here. Those affected by the
Fever stand outside the station like vultures, just waiting for us
to leave. There are also... how shall I say... well... ghosts.
That's the best I can do. There simply is no other word for the
things I have seen.

Jesus...I just heard a gun shot.

Donny Evans shot himself. That's the gun shot I
spoke of. Others are seriously considering “opting out.”

I don't know if anyone will ever read this. But I've
always thought it important to keep a record of important events. I
actually have a personal journal at my house, though I doubt I'll
ever see it again. I'm going to give you (whoever you are) the best
account of what happened (at least from my vantage point here in
South Carolina and the news reports given to me) that I can.

The first week most people didn't quite understand
the seriousness of it all. Most assumed the government had
contingency plans. And they were right. FEMA had plans, plans that
failed in the face of such a stealthy virus (or whatever it is.) In
the first few days, our station received numerous reports from our
Washington headquarters. The CDC (Centers for Disease Control) was
hard at work finding the root of the Fever (as it so ambiguously
came to be called) and the best in medical science worked day and
night trying to finding a cure. The reports soon claimed that the
Fever resulted from a Ebola vaccination mutation and originated in
Africa.

But this claim was never substantiated. The report
also claimed that the Fever first showed up in the United States in
Florida, then Texas, then another case in New York. The reports
were simply too muddy and full of instantiated claims. It did not
take long to realize that no body (FEMA, CDC, NOBODY) knew what
caused the Fever, nor how to combat it.

Martial law was declared in all fifty states and the
borders shut down. No flights in or out. But given the fact of the
high level of violence, getting to and from an airport was
impossible anyway. People did not understand the nature of the
Fever, and when they saw a loved one become infected, they took
little to no measures to protect themselves before the infected
person “turned.”

During the first week the army and national guard
tried setting up refugee centers. But they were overwhelmed. Let me
reiterate on the level of violence and death. The Fever came fast
and turned people into monsters. They attacked and ATE loved ones
or anyone else. If killed, it had to be in the head (yes, just like
in the cheap zombie movies, can you believe it?). But killing a
mother, child, or father that had just turned was not easy for most
people. Reports of trying to contain family members started
circulating, followed by reports of the fool heartiness of doing
so. It simply was not in the cards to contain such a fast moving
virus.

After the first week ended, any resemblance of law
and order was a thing of the past. People (such as myself and my
colleagues) holed up wherever they happened to be. Reports of mass
suicides came in. Then massive explosions erupted all around the
Greenville, SC area and by the end of the second week all mass
communication ended. All we had here at the station was emergency
food rations and backup generators. The infected owned the streets,
day and night. You might here a helicopter from time to time, but
by the third week (and the current time of this writing) even that
had ceased. Our station's helicopter, along with the pilot,
reporter, and crew never returned. I'd like to think they found a
safe location, but given the current situation...

Now... the ghosts. Before mass communication ended,
varied accounts of paranormal activity started coming in, and
coming in fast. At first, even with the fact that the dead roamed
the streets, the idea of ghosts seemed like nothing more than the
scared imaginations of millions of scared people.

But Peter Dike changed my mind.

Peter Dike has been dead for twenty years. He was
this station’s manager back before Fox took over and I am staring
at him right now. He stands at the control station, just staring.
He doesn't talk to anyone, but he does walk around, smoking a
phantom cigarette, as though a major event is on the horizon.
Wherever he goes the temperature drops dramatically. Most of my
collegues just stay away from the control station now. But I cannot
help but watch him. Its certainly better than standing on the hot
roof watching the dead move in the streets, waiting to feast on the
meat from my bones.

I cannot even begin to try and understand why or how
such paranormal activity is happening. Is it a mass hypnosis?
God... I just don't know. I am a fucking new anchor not a
theologian or philosopher. I have to rest. I'll write more
later.

Its been two weeks since I last wrote. That puts the
initial outbreak at about five weeks ago. Things have gotten much
worse here in the station. Last night there was a rash of suicides.
There is only a few of us left. And of course Peter Dike still owns
the control center. I wish the bastard would at least talk to me!
I've tried to talk to him! He either does not see me or does not
care that I am talking to him. I don't know how much longer anyone
in the station can put up with the mental strain. I feel my own
sanity slipping. More later. Hopefully.

Its been a week since I last wrote. At least I think
so. I'm all that's left. The rest took their lives last night on
the roof. Some of them were not so good at blowing their heads off
and turned. As the earlier reports suggested, the Fever seems to be
inside all of us, waiting to assert itself. I locked the door
leading up to the roof, but they are slamming themselves against
it, almost nonstop. Sleep is now a forgotten dream. And my only
companion is Peter Dike.

I'm going to end it tonight. I doubt anyone will
ever find this letter. God knows I hope you do. But from the looks
of it, civilization is over.

Peter Dike can have the damn station!

This is Dale Thomas, Channel 12 news, FOX Carolina,
signing off! Have a good day South Carolina!

2

My name is Tommy Lister. I’m from Conway, South
Carolina, and this journal is for those that survive.

Entry One:

Me and bobby fought off a whole lot of them jerkin
bastards. Barely got out. A real shit eater. don’t know where army
is. I don’t know what’s going on. Chaos round every corner. I saw
three women torn apart by a gang of men in dark cloaks. they
carried her off, half awake and screaming bloody hell. God help
us.

Entry Two:

Momma’s dead. Daddy’s dead. Saw it happen.

Entry Three:

Got bit today. I’ve seen people go fast. I’ve seen
em turn slow. It all depends on the person. aint got it in me to
kill myself. Ill join the Ranks of the Dead. god have mercy.

Entree Four:

Still alive. Don know how much time. If Mr. Keely
(my english teacher finds this): sorry for shit grammar. I done it
Redneck. Till the end.

3

Dear World,

Today I killed my mother. I smashed her head in with
her cast iron frying pan.

My name is Mary Beth Parker. I'm from Spartanburg,
SC. I'm sixteen years old. I go (or went) to Spartanburg High
School, where I am (or was) a junior honor student. This is the
last letter I will ever write. As I stated above, my mother is
gone. I had no choice in the matter. She chewed into my shoulder
and then went for my throat. I've wrapped my shoulder up tightly,
and the bleeding stopped. But the fever is getting bad. The news
station is calling it the Fever, with a capital F. I can't leave
the house. Its just too dangerous.

Why am I writing this letter? I guess I want to
leave something behind. I want my daddy to know what happened. He
doesn't answer his cell phone, and I worry the cell towers will go
out soon. My boyfriend, Darrel Harris, doesn't answer his either. I
fear the worst. It is an absolute hell out there. I think the world
is ending. So much for Jesus I guess.

I'm sweating bullets. I'm so hot. And dizzy. I laid
down in the dark for a while and felt a little better. That's when
I decided I better write this letter before I'm unable to. It all
happened very fast with my mother. She came in from shopping, and
said she'd been bit by a crazy man. She was bleeding badly, so I
helped her bandage it up. I told her we need to go to the hospital.
She said something was happening and it would be impossible. I
turned on the kitchen TV and the news showed me what she was
talking about. People attacking and eating each other. It was like
watching a horror movie. I stared at those images flashing on the
TV for I don't know how long, and then noticed my mother wasn't
talking. I turned around to her and she looked dead. I panicked and
ran to her, shook her, and screamed so loud. Then she looked with a
fast jerk, and I saw her eyes. Those dreadful eyes, like white fire
balls. Then she grabbed me, leaned in, and took a chunk out of my
shoulder. I pushed her away, tried to grab onto something, but only
knocked myself over along with a number of pots and pans. She came
at me, I grabbed the cast iron pan, and swung, swung, swung,
SWUNG!

I swear I didn't have a choice! I swear! I
swear!

I'm so dizzy. I wish daddy would come home. I think
I am seeing things now. It must be the Fever, because I'm looking
at grandma. She's standing right here, smiling at me. Grandma's
been dead for five years.

God, I'm so dizzy.

4

To my family, to my Friends, to my Country,

When I first joined the Army, I did it because I
loved America. I loved everything about her and still do. My daddy
was career Army, along with my granddaddy. My granddaddy fought in
world war two, my daddy Vietnam. I did two tours in Iraq, then
another two in Afghanistan before coming back state side. I never
married, because I was already married to America. I never, in a
million years, thought I'd witness her destruction. Not from
terrorism, not from an invasion, and certainly not from some damned
Fever. But, here I am. The last of my unit, holed up in this damn
stadium. It was supposed to be a refugee camp. A safe place for
citizens to come and wait this thing out. Who the hell were we
kidding? The dead walked through our lines like unstoppable plague.
We just didn't have enough fucking bullets. Those bastards
multiplied so damn fast...

And I did what I had to do. Or am I am lying to
myself? Some of those people... Jesus forgive me... they weren’t
all infected. The chaos. We just unloaded. Killing
indiscriminately. I still hear their screams. I’ll hear those
screams for whatever is left of my life.