Humanity's Death: A Zombie Epic (24 page)

The groan of the half conscience woman caught
Rusty’s attention. He let Billy go and ordered him to go fetch
little Todd Zacker and have him come back and take the the zombies
to the holding area.

“Sur…sure thing… I’m real sorry. I will seek
only the City of God. I promise.” Billy said.

“I believe you. Now run along. I am ready to get
this next sacrifice underway.”

3

An hour later Rusty Ray was peeling off his blood
covered apron and changing into his brown, monk robe. The woman
proved an easy sacrifice. She screamed a bit but didn’t fight
nearly as hard as he expected. He was ready for a bath and a meal;
it’s what he always did after a sacrifice.

He'd met with a representative with the Militia
a few days prior and was just biding his time till Duras ran off on
his little mission in the woods. Ever since the attack on the
gates, Rusty knew this was the time to act.

And for the next week he bided his time. He
stayed mostly to himself and avoided contact with Duras. Finally,
the time came; Duras began preparing for the attack on Okona; and
Rusty went to his final meeting with the Militia; creeping silently
and unseen out of the city.

“I can hand you a city. A defendable city. One
that will bring power to your Militia.”

“What makes you think I want torture you?”

“Look into my eyes Lieutenant. Without me, you
will not defeat Duras. He is many things, but a complete fool he
certainly is not. Take caution if you move without my proper
knowledge. Perhaps you should radio ahead and ask your Captain what
you should do with a man that is offering you the keys to the City
of God!”

The Lieutenant sat back in his chair and crossed
his arms. “OK. We’ll do it your way.” He grabbed Rusty ray by the
brown cloak and raised a short dagger against Rusty’s throat, “if I
find out you are lying to me, I will shove this dagger into your
brain. Do you understand Holy Man?”

“You’re a most agreeable man. Indeed. Just
listen to what I have to offer.”

The Lieutenant listened.

“Duras has a weakness. He is obsessed with a man
that lives in the woods. They’ve feuded on and off for nearly a
year. I have no idea why; but I do know it’s how we kill him.”

The Lieutenant pushed back into his chair,
relaxing. “I’m listening.”

“Duras is getting ready to attack. He’s going to
burn them out. We must be ready when he does. The city will be open
for the taking.” Rusty crossed his arms smugly.

“Do you think I am going to keep you alive for
helping us?”

“I think that is for your Captain to decide,
Lieutenant!” This caused an uncomfortable expression on the
Lieutenant's face.

Rusty looked at him sternly, “Think about
something for a moment… consider how religion benefits the Militia.
Think about how it benefits your captain. You need men like me to
facilitate the introduction of stable society. It is how we
maintain power over the remaining population and fulfill the
purpose God has honored us with.”

“I hear you. I just want to make sure I
understand you correctly. You are sayin, this Duras guy is going to
march out of his gates with all his men and go play in the
woods?”

“Exactly! And that’s when we must strike!”

“I agree Rusty. Take a team out there and
bombard the poor bastards with artillery.”

“We will bring back the Glory of God. Mark my
words Lieutenant together we will conquer the world all over
again.”

“
What’s all
this
we
stuff?” The
Lieutenant showed Rusty the dagger “What makes you think that I
need you? Or your pathetic fucking religious bull shit? I never
liked your kind before all this and I sure the hell don’t like you
now. You misunderstand the purpose of the Militia.”

“You do not know the city. I know routes that
can lead you straight into the heart of the city. Trust me!”

The Lieutenant let out a light chuckle, then
with a thick southern drawl, “You keep on talking like you really
believe you have a chance of surviving this encounter.” The
Lieutenant reached out and struck the dagger’s hilt against Rusty’s
forehead. Rusty fell back, stunned.

The
Lieutenant marched around Rusty, picked him up, and held in a bear
hug, “you have given me all I need! Swear loyalty to me right now
or I
will
rape your
happy little
ass
.”

With blood running down Rusty's face, “I swear
only to God! Do what you must!”

The
Lieutenant ripped Rusty’s clothing and forced him into positions
that Rusty never imagined. Tears dripped from Rusty’s face. He
screamed, his religion dying with every hefty thrust the hardened
Lieutenant gave—salty tears streamed out, hot salty semen streamed
in. Soldiers stood around watching; their eyes bulging with drugged
delight. Soon they’d all have a go with dear Rusty. And in Rusty’s
mind, an even darker reality dawned:
maybe there isn’t a God
.
God please hear me. Please God stop them. Please.
It hurts like you cannot know.

“Cry little Rusty! CRY! CRY! CRY!” a solider
said as he mounted Rusty, thrusting hard into the rear.

OUCH! OH GOD! PLEASE MAKE IT END! WHAT HAVE I DONE!
PLEASE!
Then out loud:
“God HELP! HELP ME!” This brought a thunderous round of laughter,
clapping, and jeering. A large bag of white powder opened and lines
spread out on a small table nearby. While lines were snorted by one
soldier after another, poor Rusty dripped blood from regions that
would never be the same. A look of desolation and madness covered
his face. His eyes stared blankly and blinked after each cruel
thrust. Then his mind slipped back into a sweet and warm memory.
Sitting at his mother’s kitchen table, her big tubby behind pushed
up towards the heavens while she removed biscuits from the oven.
She placed them on the counter and began lathering them with
butter; she’d melted the butter in a blue acrylic bowl with gold
crosses painted on the sides. She’d made it at her pottery class;
that was nothing compared to July 1996. While most kids his age (12
at the time) hyped about Independence Day, starring Will Smith;
Rusty Ray prepared for his for trip to Christian Day Camp. His mom
didn’t let little Rusty watch TV, or go to movies. She’d been top
of her class at Bob Jones University and she sure was not going to
ever let her baby boy see vile, sinful filth (even though her and
Mr. Ray enjoyed a private collection of BDSM porn).

“
Rusty! Who
tha fuck’s your god now sissy boy!” The Lieutenant screamed,
causing Rusty to snap back to his current and most painful
conundrum (oh how he wished to taste his momma’s biscuits).
No biscuits today
Rusty! No biscuits for you! OUCH! OUCH! OUCH!!!!!

4

The Lieutenant was William Thompson. Before the
Fever, he was a bored banker; he dreamed of moving up the corporate
ladder. His ambitiousness carried over to the New World and helped
him move fast in the ranks of the Militia. He learned brutality was
the name of the game.

His orders were to scout the area, find
weaknesses in the city's defense, and then report back to his
Captain. The Militia wanted the city as in tact as possible. The
leadership wanted it as their coastal base.

Thompson is part of Force Recon 3. His Captain,
along with the rest of Militia Recon 3, were further inland. He
coveted his Captain's position, and thought that if he took the
city with his small platoon, the powers to be would promote him.
And this may very well have happened.

But sometimes superior force is not enough the
win the day, because not all variables are predictable. Sometimes
what appears as an advantage can turn against you in the blink of
an eye. And in a world where supernatural forces are emerging as an
influential force in human history; all bets are off, and unlikely
alliances can occur.

The ambitious Lieutenant Thompson would soon
learn that first hand.

But for the moment he leaned back in a large
leather chair with his feet planted on a large dark wood desk. He
was quite proud of himself. Even before the Fever, he was almost
always proud of himself. On top of being an ambitious banker,
Thompson was a card carrying Republican, and a starch defender of
male superiority. His father taught him that women were exactly
what the Bible said they were: property; the atheist liberals were
the ones confused, trying their best to bring America to the level
of Sodom and Gomorrah. Thompson didn't believe that the Bible was
much of a book (as far as reality is concerned), but he did agree
with its position on women and men. He considered it the natural
hierarchy; anything else was not necessarily an abomination to God;
more like, it was an abomination against Father Nature. Fuck Mother
Nature in the ass.

Thompson was also a closet homosexual. The only
reason he kept it in the closet was because he worried about losing
respect within the macho man banking environment. Unlike the
rainbow flag carrying sissies, Thompson considered himself a Tiger.
“I'm a wild and dangerous sexual Tiger, taking what I want, when I
want, from who I want.” And as Rusty Ray found out, Thompson was a
sadist to the extreme.

Before the Fever, Thompson made (after taxes) a
cool five hundred thousand dollars a year. As a single man, living
in a humble apartment, this gave him a great deal of disposable
income. A large chunk of which went to trips to Vietnam. He'd met a
man there who specialized in finding sadistic white men sexual play
things.

Thompson preferred white American boys, but
finding a supplier of underage sex in America simply wasn't a good
idea. Was it possible? Oh yes, you best believe it. But the local
law in conjunction with the FBI were a bit more adept at cracking
down on sex rings than the authorities in Vietnam; where the
American dollar went quite a long way in greasing the Communist
authorities. So he spent his month long vacation every year in
Vietnam, and the rest of the year in Charleston, SC where White
Privilege was a way of life.

Of course White Privilege was a myth, just ask
any of the many Republicans (or even the idealistic libertarians).
Blacks were simply more prone to violence by their very nature; to
hell with what the liberal sociologists say about race being social
instead of biological. Just more hippy dippy, liberal socialist
Marxist nonsense trying to invade American Republicanism; just
socialists trying to undermine the capitalist economy so they can
give welfare to lazy blacks (and, Thompson would admit, lazy white
trailer trash as well), so they can feed their ten kids while their
baby daddies drink cheap malt liquor from the local Kangaroo.

Meanwhile
the White Man, in his clean cut business attire, held the world
economy on his back like on the cover of Ayn Rand's
Atlas
Shrugged
. So what if the
white man might have a few extra perks; he by golly deserved it. To
make matters worse, Thompson saw that it wasn't just blacks and
lazy spicks eating up all his hard earned money; it was the other
half of the human race: women. Women wanted the White Man's money
to pay for baby killing operations like Planned Parenthood. They
wanted free contraception, equal pay, equal say; my dear god who do
they think they are? And, boy oh boy, friends and neighbors, those
crazy commie cunts were succeeding at dragging white America into
the gutters of liberalism.

Then came the Fever. If there was a God,
Thompson was quite positive the Fever was His way of putting an end
to liberal bullshit. The Fever opened new doors of opportunity to
the White Man. Now a proper society could be built. A society where
women were property, and blacks knew their proper place in the
racial, social hierarchy. The New World belonged to the White
Man.

“We are the ambassadors of the New Age. The Age
of Whitey. The return to proper order.” He said to himself. He was
alone in the cathedral and his voice echoed off the large walls and
high ceilings. He'd came in here not long after finishing his
business with Rusty Ray. “I think good ole Rusty may be a bit
sore.” He cackled loudly.

Unlike the soldiers under his command, Thompson
didn't do the White Mist. No one Lieutenant level and up did the
White Mist. Maintaining control was important, and one could not do
that high as a kite; the Mountain King made that very clear from
the beginning.

Not that he'd met the Mountain King. Few
actually had. Only the Colonels and a few of the Captains. And only
the Mountain King chose the Captains and Colonels. Thompson wasn't
sure what it was about the men that became Captains and Colonels in
the Militia; it was something about them that was the same; he
thought maybe they were all former law enforcement, but didn’t know
that for sure. It was a though they'd all belonged to the same club
before the Fever. What club that might have been, well, Thomson
didn't know for sure. But, by god, if sacking this fucking city
didn't earn him the right to a promotion, then nothing would.

5

Rusty wanted to
die. All hope in God disappeared somewhere in the middle of the
gang rape. Five of the soldiers still surrounded him; their
perverse shadows darkening his face. The pale moon shone against
their backs. Ripped camouflage and blood stained skin caste in the
dead of night, a mixture of hatful madness. All five of the
soldiers removed their clothes, and before the first thrust, Rusty
blanked out and woke in a dark misty place deep in his mind. He
could smell the black cancer coming from his mother’s breath and he
knew he was in the hospital room at Coastal Memorial, July 2005.
The month that brought us
The Wedding Crashers
and
The Devil’s Rejects
; not that Rusty got to see them at the
theater.