Chapter Nine: Rusty Ray and the Seekers
1
One Week Earlier.
A Christian tune played on a battery operated CD player.
Don’t hide from Truth
Don’t hide from His Grace
You’re not a stranger
Your best friend was born in a manger
Guitar chords played and the head of Rusty Ray moved with rhythmic motion as he pulled out a pair of blue latex gloves from a red box. They came out like thick gummy tissues. He pulled them on with a skillful snap. He wore a blue surgical coat, one he’d taken from the Horry County Hospital, along with the rest of his equipment. He walked over to a surgical table. He smiled down at a middle aged man, who screamed and pleaded through a gag; the man's face was white as a ghost.
Rusty Ray shook his head back and forth and said with a comforting tone, “Don’t worry, Holiness is calling. His Love has chosen you for the sacrifice.”
Rusty walked over, grabbed a surgical mask and a Plexiglas eye protector from a long metal table. He stood in front of a mirror and fastened them both with pride. He smiled under the mask. He walked back to the steel table and lifted it up to an incline position.
The song continued:
Don’t let doubt cause a stumble
Don’t fall from Grace
Everyone feels up against sin’s wall
His love never changes
Show faith Holy Grace
He took a pair of scissors with long and sharp blades with large finger holes. “My daddy always said, Rusty Ray, you gotta be strong to use these. Daddy, God rest your soul. I’ve grown up and my fingers are nice and strong.”
A bright light shined down from above and the man on the gurney, tied and gagged, let out a shrill of pain as Rusty Ray slid the scissor blades into warm gut; it sliced in like it was going into butter. “Stay still now. Only take a minute.” Rusty snipped up through the bundle of nerves at the solar plexus and into the beefy weave of muscle and tendon above it.
The dying man’s blood streamed, dripped, and plopped into a collection basin at the foot of the surgical bed. The blade cut into the sternum; the man gargled blood. Rusty cut down hard with a heavy crunch, and the man’s rib cage tore open like flesh wings. Snip-CRUNCH, snip-CRUNCH, snip-CRUNCH—the bones split and the muscles sheared; the lungs freed and Rusty Ray started in on the trachea.
His love never ending
graceful Hope for all
saves the beggars and the bankers
crooks and murderers
Jesus saves em all
“Remember Rusty Ray, anybody can use the electronic machines to cut, but real blue collar autopsy doctors use shears.” Rusty imitated his father, “daddy was right. It’s all in the hands.” He slapped his latex gloved palms together, causing blood to fart in a few directions.
Rusty Ray grew up in a strict two story brick house with parents that sang on the church choir down at St. Johns Methodist in Murrells Inlet every Sunday. On Wednesday nights, he helped his mama put on her make up and go down to church bingo. Little old ladies grabbed his cheeks and patted his bottom.
But what Rusty Ray loved most were the days his daddy took him to work. Daddy broke the rules for his little Rusty, and took him into the autopsy room every Thursday afternoon, right after school. His mouth always salivated when the bones crunched and the blood squirted. His eyes never left his daddy’s skillful hands as they cut through the stomach lining, on up through the chest cavity. Daddy even let him make the marks with the blue pen. What joy that brought Rusty; like a morbid Picasso, he savored every stroke as his eyes burned with passion under the white florescent lamp.
2
Behind Rusty, a large mahogany door swung open. A shimmering of light came in from the musty hallway, and in came Billy Wagner; he held a women. She was tied and gagged, dragged across the room by two Billy and another Seeker. Billy had a ridiculously large grin on his face, even as sweat beaded and dripped; he said, “Guess who we got?” Billy and the other Seeker lowered her to the floor. The room was now dark, except for the batter powered florescent bulbs glowing above the dying body.
Billy grabbed the woman’s thick Afro and pulled her head up so that her chin pointed towards the ceiling. “Rhino’s little nigger whore. Can you believe it? I’ve wanted some of this chocolate pie for soooooo long!” His mouth watered and a little drip of saliva went down his chin as he licked the right side of her face like a dog in heat.
Rusty Ray’s face turned dark. He walked over to the metal table and laid the blood dripping scissors down. He took in a deep breath. He stood for about five seconds with his back to Billy, then let out of loud and intentional sigh. “Billy” he started. “Come over here for a moment.”
Billy looked a bit worried. “You ain’t mad are Rusty? I was just havin a little fun. Nothing to be upset about.”
Rusty Ray did not turn around. The lights bulbs buzzed and glowed against his back; his back was covered in fresh blood. His face was a dark shadow. “Come over here, now.”
“Rusty? I’m—”
“I want say it again.”
Billy s walked over; his footsteps echoed in the mostly silent room. Then his knees shook as he walked over to stand beside Rusty Ray. Billy stood there with his head down, looking at the bloody scissors on the table. “Rusty..”
The body on the table jerked against its harness. Billy turned, and that’s when Rusty Ray reached down and grabbed the scissors, turned, and pulled Billy by the back of his shirt; he reached around to Billy’s front, and pressed the blades’ tips against Billy’s throat.
The body on the table now convulsed, and a growl erupted from its chest and bellowed out of the mouth. The thick leather straps held the once living breathing man down tightly. Rusty Ray ordered the other Seeker out of the room. As the man walked out, the light from the hall lit up Billy and Rusty’s faces. Billy was a few inches shorter than Rusty, so his head reached just to the bottom of Rusty’s chin. Billy’s face was distorted in horror, with lines running down that made him look twice his age. Sweat had soaked through his clothes, and his chest heaved up and down in fast and panicky gasps.
Rusty pressed his pointed chin against Billy’s skull, moving it around in cruel circular motions; Rusty flirted the blade against Billy’s throat.
On the floor, the woman's bosom heaved up and down with inclusions rhythm. A little light reached her face, but most of her was covered in shadow.
Rusty pushed Billy up against the operating table; Billy’s belt buckle clacked against the metal’s edge. The dead man jerked and moaned on the table, trying with all his might to careen its teeth to bite Billy. Its teeth clicked together, its eyes burned a white cauldron of hell fire, a blackened diseased smell came from its mouth; Billy started to cry.
The hot florescent burned down on them like a Broadway spot light. Rusty Ray spoke: “Do you see that creature there? Do you know what its purpose is?”
Billy said nothing; he only listened with fearful breathing.
Rusty continued. “Its purpose it to serve God, our Holy Father. Do you know what your purpose is Billy?”
This time Billy said, with his throat pressed against the blade tips. “To serve God.”
“That’s right Billy. We have two choices. One is to serve the City of Flesh, the other is to serve the City of God. When you seek out fleshly desire, such as licking that whore and feasting on the hope of satisfying your sinful sexual desires, you are not seeking the City of God, Billy, you are seeking the City of Flesh, the City of Sin, the City of Man. And that domain is only temporary. The City of God is eternal.”
Billy said nothing; he wept; his tears dripped and plopped onto the dead man’s jerking leg. The creature continued to howl like a demonized wolf, the woman on the floor still lied without a sound, except for soft breathing; Rusty Ray continued as he pressed the tips of his bloody scissors deeper into the soft flesh of Billy's throat. “My mother was a holy and devout woman, Billy. She served
the Lord her whole life and made sure I read all the classics, everything written by the early church fathers and the saints. There is a couple of passages that I am very fond of. Its quite fitting for the evil that has befallen you and this city. It was written by St. Augustine in the year 410, in his divinely inspired City of God.”
Rusty Ray’s eyes closed and he spoke like he’d practiced this sermon countless times:
“Two cities have been formed by two loves: the earthly by the love of self, even to the contempt of God; the heavenly by the love of God, even to the contempt of self. The former, in a word, glories in itself, the latter in the Lord. For the one seeks glory from men; but the greatest glory of the other is God, the witness of conscience. The one lifts up its head in its own glory; the other says to its God, "Thou art my glory, and the lifter up of mine head." In the one, the princes and the nations it subdues are ruled by the love of ruling; in the other, the princes and the subjects serve one another in love, the latter obeying, while the former take thought for all. The one delights in its own strength, represented in the persons of its rulers; the other says to its God, "I will love Thee, O Lord, my strength."
The hungry cries of the zombie on the metal surgery bed screamed out. Its eyes bursting with white flame and its face turning pale like a fleshly ghost with hints of decaying green. Its lips curled up above the teeth and the mouth clicked open and shut, trying like hell to break free of the leather head restraint. Rusty Ray pressed the tips harder against Billy’s throat and poor little Billy stained the front of his pants yellow; his salty, terrorized tears gushed from his eye sockets. Eyes that were filled with utter terror. Eyes that stared at the creature that so desperately wanted to eat him alive, and the cold breath that stank of rotting gut and stomach acid plumed into his face; Billy vomited the hot contents of his stomach out onto the zombie's crotch.
Rusty Ray never lost a verbal step, holding Billy in place, “And therefore the wise men of the one city, living according to man, have sought for profit to their own bodies or souls, or both, and those who have known God "glorified Him not as God, neither were thankful, but became vain in their imaginations, and their foolish heart was darkened; professing themselves to be wise,"--that is, glorying in their own wisdom, and being possessed by pride,--“they became fools, and changed the glory of the incorruptible God into an image made like to corruptible man, and to birds, and four-footed beasts, and creeping things." For they were either leaders or followers of the people in adoring images, "and worshiped and served the creature more than the Creator, who is blessed for ever." But in the other city there is no human wisdom, but only godliness, which offers due worship to the true God, and looks for its reward in the society of the saints, of holy angels as well as holy men, "that God may be all in all."
Rusty took in a deep breath and exhaled above Billy’s head. The dead man howled and jerked against the restraints, violently wanting to tear into Billy. Billy’s tears continued, pouring, dripping onto the dead man’s jerking body, streaming down the dead skin, onto the metal table; then streaming down and plopping into the blood filled collection trays.
Rusty Ray felt what he considered the power of God running through his veins. His adrenaline pumped strength into his lungs and vocal cords. He was alive and living for the Lord, just like his mother told him to. If she could see him now; if only she could see him now. God almighty, only if she could see him now!
Rusty Ray took in another deep breath and continued, “but the earthly city, which shall not be everlasting (for it will no longer be a city when it has been committed to the extreme penalty), has its good in this world, and rejoices in it with such joy as such things can afford. But as this is not a good which can discharge its devotees of all distresses, this city is often divided against itself by litigations, wars, quarrels, and such victories as are either life-destroying or short-lived. For each part of it that arms against another part of it seeks to triumph over the nations through itself in bondage to vice. If, when it has conquered, it is inflated with pride, its victory is life-destroying; but if it turns its thoughts upon the common casualties of our mortal condition, and is rather anxious concerning the disasters that may befall it than elated with the successes already achieved, this victory, though of a higher kind, is still only shot-lived; for it cannot abidingly rule over those whom it has victoriously subjugated.”
Rusty Ray’s heart trip hammered in his chest; his mind was on fire with the image of him as the new St. Augustine. He’d made his mother proud; if she could only see him now! He was the Lord’s new and most important representative left on earth; he knew that for sure. He’d always knew that. He always knew that voice that whispered into his ear while he slept as a child, was not some crazy creation of his subconscious, but the voice of God. The Voice. The Voice that told him he’d one day stand against all the evils of this world and stand as God’s earthly judge against the wicked and the powerful; it would be him that would show them that that power was nothing more than a pathetic paper tiger when confronted with the real power that only came from Christ and the mighty Trinity of God and the Holy Ghost! His time had arrived and now he spoke so loud that it overshadowed the screeches of the zombie; Rusty's voice echoed off the walls. His eyes burned with holier than thou tenacity; he stared into the hot light of the fluorescent bulbs with eyes bulging out like he’d been shot in the heart with a dart filled with adrenaline; red veins on the white of his eyes pulsing, his pupils dilating, growing large and strange in the white light; he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt— he was staring at the eyes of God. He screamed out loudly and proclaimed the final Augustine passage with busting gust; as though Christ himself set in the corner judging, “But the things which this city desires cannot justly be said to be evil, for it is itself, in its own kind, better than all other human good. For it desires earthly peace for the sake of enjoying earthly goods, and it makes war in order to attain to this peace; since, if it has conquered, and there remains no one to resist it, it enjoys a peace which it had not while there were opposing parties who contested for the enjoyment of those things which were too small to satisfy both. This peace is purchased by toilsome wars; it is obtained by what they style a glorious victory. Now, when victory remains with the party which had the juster cause, who hesitates to congratulate the victor, and style it a desirable peace? These things, then, are good things, and without doubt the gifts of God. But if they neglect the better things of the heavenly city, which are secured by eternal victory and peace never-ending, and so inordinately covet these present good things that they believe them to be the only desirable things, or love them better than those things which are believed to be better,--if this be so, then it is necessary that misery follow and ever increase.”
Rusty stopped and took in a deep breath. The dead man howled; Billy wept; the black woman on the floor began to wake up.
Billy’s pants were stained dark yellow. Rusty pressed the blade a little deeper against Billy’s throat; the light above glowed bright in Rusty’s dark, pulsating eyes; Rusty's voice dialed down to a low and smooth whisper. “You see, Billy. We live in a City of Flesh ruled by hypocrites that use the name of God to control the inhabitants. These rulers are arrogant and put all their faith in human reason and wisdom. Duras and Mary Jane are sinful deviants and their time is coming; but, Billy, you still have a chance; if you are willing to turn your mind towards the gates of the City of God. Duras marches to war with the barbarians in the wilderness, and this, this, my dear Billy boy, is the moment Duras's foolishness catches up to him. His fleshly desire for revenge and conquest has driven him out of the city, leaving it for us to retake in the name of the one true God, and make it the true City of God. There is one thing that Duras is right about. The rapture was never a real thing. There is another six years of torture for those still living and breathing and we must endure and follow God’s way. Duras and Mary Jane have fallen in love with all the desires of Earth and taken many with them, but us, the Seekers, we seek out the Ci
ty of God, Billy.”
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 liber
als 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.
The hospital snuggled close to the east coast and hot summer air tinged with salty sea blew into an open window. The white curtains flapped with the breeze and little Rusty Ray sat holding his momma’s hand. His mother lay on the hospital bed drugged and dying, her eyes dark, hollow caverns of misery. The final solution, or as the nurses called it, END OF LIFE MEDS. Rusty always smelled her black and dying breath, that smell that meant cancer’s victorious dominance over life was near at hand. The cancer ate her alive, from the inside out, and there, with little Rusty watching, as she rested her final minutes, a hospice care worker came in to check every 20 minutes. She was in her forties but looked eighty; her was body frail and pale; her smile faded to a painful grimace. He’d watched her take her final breath; he said a prayer as she died; he asked God to take her soul and put her by His side.
But the pain of losing his mother was nothing compared to what he felt now. Rusty Ray laid on a cold floor shivering with blood dripping from his anus. Dried semen covered his face like glaze from a Krispy Crème doughnut. The invasion for the city was over; Duras and company were currently under artillery bombardment.
Rusty now understood something he never understood before: there is no God. There is no holy direction. Only death, bloody, black death. All the sermons, the bed time stories, ALL OF IT—lies. He saw his past now as a collection of pointless dabbles, encounters that led him to this very predicament. Rusty lay for a long time before a few soldiers picked him up, took him out into the night, and threw his worn and torn body into a nearby ditch. He splashed into the gully and lay staring at the sky. His eyes black and without hope or clarity of sight. The sun was rising in the East, a new day. A day without God, without hope, without any meaning, rhyme, or reason. Lies, all of it. Monstrous LIES!
Rusty Ray felt a powerful surge of anger pump into his veins. There was a God. He was only angry. He couldn’t blame God for this. He pushed himself up on one side and screamed. “To God be the glory!”
An empty can of beans came hurling and cracked Rusty Ray in his temple, cutting into his flesh. For a moment he saw a flash of hot white, felt the hot blood dripping, tasted the red power of life sipping into the corners of his mouth.
Then it was 1990, and a hot and cool wind whipped in through the open windows of his father’s recently purchased Corvette. The red Corvette that meant more to Daddy than living, breathing people. Even his father’s love for the dead could not compete with that fucking red Corvette. Black and tan leather seats, convertible top. His father drove with his chin held high, his salt and pepper hair blowing in the wind, his dark shades resting comfortably, his palm on the gear—Daddy never believed.
This realization hit Rusty like a ten-pound hammer and he jumped back into consciousness. The soldiers were gone. The sun now burned high above. His skin was burned and red, with blisters forming. The puss pushed up from his skin like ready to pop domes. In the distance, about thirty feet off the right, stumbling and jerking down the road, was a horde of zombies; their eyes bursting with death’s whit
e glow. They stopped, and in unison, sniffed the air; they smelled Rusty Ray.
He heard their grumbling and smelled the rancid decay rising from dead skin in gagging wisps of hot air. “Daddy never believed! Daddy never believed! DADDY! NEVER! BELIEVED!” Rusty screamed at the world, at his past, at everything he never experienced, the boys and girls holding hands, eating shakes at Buster’s Ice Cream; Rusty saw them now with absolute clarity; the tan skin of the soon to be class of 01, the bully jock boyfriend, with his shitty smears and big muscles. Rusty saw the world in a way he’d never seen before. A world without a mystical force controlling the heavens. No. Just a primal, sloppy mess. Rusty saw it clearly. The evolution of mankind, the clear lack of a guiding hand, the branching of this species into that, the spawning of new and tropical life, the beautiful majesty unfurled upon his mind’s eye.
He saw glory and wonder, insights that he’d never before considered. He stood up and pointed a trembling finger at the approaching horde. His clothing hung, tattered and bloody. His face was dry as a desert with long lines of broken skin, like dried up tributaries. His pants were completely missing. His white Fruit of the Loom briefs still hung, mostly ripped and torn—a clear rectal hazard zone.
The horde inched closer, jerking this way and that, growling under the humid July sun. Then Rusty’s mind jumped again, back into a dark recess of his mind. There was his mother and father. His father’s eyes were glued to a new Laser Disc system. 1988. Little Rusty saw the television. The Nightmare on Elm Street played vividly. His father drank a bourbon and scotch and watched Freddy butcher young girls. The room was dark, save the glow of the TV. Every few seconds his father would smile. His nearly broke into tears of joy at the sight of Johnny Depp’s guts spraying out of a pristine white sheet hole. His mother sat in a Lazy Boy, with a Walkman playing the sounds of Carmen (the bringer of such tunes as “Comin' On Strong”, “The Champion”, and the unforgettable, “A Long Time Ago...in a Land Called Bethlehem.”) Her eyes were closed and her hands folded neatly in her lap. A cancerous lingering of cigarette smoke trailed towards the ceiling, where it moved across the room like a misty nightmare. His father cackled and finished off his drink and poured another.
The world came back into view. Rusty stood, half naked, his ass blistered and raw and shriveled like a sun burned red raisin. The horde nearly upon him, their stenched bodies in direct view. “Daddy never believed!” He screamed at the hungry, growling faces. “DADDY! NEVER! BELIEV—
The first one took a deep bite into his right shoulder. Its dark green and yellow teeth dug into Rusty’s burned skin. Hot blood filled the hungry creature’s mouth with oozy pleasure. The zombie wore a tattered green hemp dress with a blood stained peace symbol. On the back of the shirt said: LOWCOUNTRY JAM FESTIVAL. Another one grabbed his left arm, then the brunt of the horde came in, stumbling, yet fast, quickly taking Rusty down to the ground. Hands tore into his belly. They pushed their arms deep, removing organs, making deep sucking sounds, and chewing with great lust. Rusty screamed and screamed. Horrible and fatal cries that no one heard, save the dead.