Apocalypse End: Reign of the Dead

228 Pages·2004·0.92 MB·English

by  Barnhart Len

Len Barnhart
REIGN OF THE DEAD II
APOCALYPSE END
Table of Contents

Part I - Tangier

Part II - Uncaged Hate

Part III - Plans Of Power
Part IV - Apocalypse End

Part I - Tangier
1

Leon Baltimore walked into the storeroom of the makeshift
armory on Tangier Island and stopped dead in his tracks. Jacob
DuBois, a recent immigrant from Louisiana, was swaying back
and forth on his knees, chanting a rhythmic cadence. His face
was upturned and his arms were outstretched, palms up.
“You think that’ll conjure up some big miracle?” Leon asked.
“That those bastards will just drop dead again and go away
with a little Who-do Voodoo?”
Jacob stopped swaying and looked at Leon’s black face. “‘It’s
powerful stuff, man. If it can raise de dead, it can work de
udder way, too,” he said with a heavy Cajun accent.
“Well, how about keeping your little rituals at home, Swamp
Man?” He pushed past the kneeling man. “Jesus Christ, just
what we need here, another freak!”
Jacob got to his feet and stormed out of the room. A loud
echo reverberated throughout the building as the door
slammed.
Leon shook his head ruefully and set about the task that had
brought him there; another recon mission. He hated them.
They always ended the same way, with dead air, dead cities,
and wasted time. Washington, D.C., and all of the suburbs
within flying distance, had been that way for some time now.
For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why they still
bothered to look.
Leon unlocked the gun cabinet and opened it. The armory
was damp and without the aid of a controlled environment,
metal was more prone to rust, but he’d seen to it that his
weapons were clean. A misfiring gun would not be the cause of
his death.
“I put my faith in you,” he cooed, stroking the barrel of his
favorite rifle.
His thoughts returned to Jacob. What the hell was he doing
in the armory, praying? It didn’t seem right.
Leon locked the gun cabinet and walked out, ready for
battle.
There were two ways to get on or off Tangier Island, located
off the coast of Virginia: by air or by sea. The ferry no longer
ran its daily route and as long as the sick and dying were
closely monitored, Tangier was safe.
The heavy armory door swung open and Leon stepped out
into the cool March sunlight. He tilted his face to the warm
sun, then rubbed the tense muscles on the back of his neck to
relieve the tension. What he really wanted was a pair of pretty
black hands to massage his troubled thoughts away. He
wondered what Halle Berry was up to these days. Since movies
weren’t made anymore, maybe she would help him out. He
smiled at the ludicrous thought.
The past two years had been more than most people could
cope with, and they’d had more than their share of trouble, but
had man-aged to survive. They were safe enough for now from
the walking plague of death that had invaded a thriving world
and turned it into an endless quest for survival.
Now he was ready to leave the safety of Tangier Island again
for another fruitless search for survivors. How he hated
returning from the hell out there with nothing to show for it
except a dark mood.
Leon slung his rifle over his shoulder and made his way to
the local tavern. He still had time to get a glass or two of Julio’s
apple wine before the trip-enough to ease the stiffness in his
neck. It wouldn’t hurt to calm his nerves, either.
The bright blue sign on Julio’s Bar proudly declared it to be
the most popular social club on the island, never mind that it
was the only one on the island. Money was no good anymore.
Barter was the new order of business.
Julio opened the tavern at his leisure, sometimes early,
sometimes late in the evening. Ten o’clock this morning was
not at his leisure, since the door was locked when Leon tugged
on it.
The anticipated tang of Julio’s apple wine teased the back of
Leon’s tongue, but he pushed the thought out of his mind.
There was plenty to think about with another impending trip
into the wasteland. He would come back when he returned.

***

The helicopter was readied for flight on the pad in front of
the airport’s main building. It was a modest airport, with one
main terminal and several maintenance buildings. There was
only one landing strip and it was long enough to handle only
smaller planes. Two hundred yards away, the tides of the
Chesapeake Bay licked the sandy shoreline.
The chopper’s rotating blades created a strong, steady wind
that tore at Leon’s clothing with a ferocity equal to that of the
tropical storm they had experienced a week before. The
chopper’s military green skin was dull but clean. Great care
was taken with the equipment on the island. There was no
replacing anything without great danger to those doing
recognizance.
Leon saw Hal Davidson and Jack Lewis in the doorway of the
main structure. They would be going on this futile expedition
with him. Hal would fly the big green bird and, as usual, he and
Jack would do the grunt work.
Leon tried to shake off his aversion to the trip and smiled at
the approaching men.

2
Jim Workman stared hopelessly at the guts of the
communication console in front of him. He had devoted
countless hours to get it operational again and refused to
accept defeat. It was ironic that the most powerful and
advanced communication setup within fifty miles had failed
shortly after their arrival at the Mount Weather Underground.
For more than a year he had pulled, poked, and pounded at
it in a futile attempt to get it operational. He had finally
succumbed to the reality that it would never work again. The
simple truth was that vital parts had burned out and there were
no replacements to be found.
Jim reclined in the swivel chair and glanced up at the video
monitors that lined the wall in front of him. Four of the screens
were dead and displayed blank screens. Two were still live.
One had a clear view of downtown Moscow, a desolate place.
The only movements were those of walking corpses.
The other monitor was of Washington, D.C., and that scene
was no better than Moscow’s. The other four screens had
ceased to function, one at a time, months before. More than
likely the satellites had spun out of their orbits or had simply
stopped working. In any case, they were cut off from anyone
who might still be alive outside of their safe haven.
Dr. Sharon Darney, their resident expert on the plague, had
once told him that the walking dead could remain mobile for
ten years, maybe more, before decomposition made movement
impossible.
Two years had passed and he couldn’t wait another eight to
find out if anyone else still lived. They had survived; others,
too, must have survived.
Jim knew it was time he stopped being as stale and stagnant
as the air they were breathing in the underground complex. He
needed to do something. Complacency had set in and it had
become too easy to shut out the outside world and hope for the
best. Surely there were survivors out there banding together to
regain control of the situation. It was time now to go and find
them.
Amanda would be against the idea. After all the horrors they
had been through, she would be content to stay right where
she was and say to hell with any other survivors. As they had
all learned, it was not just the well-intentioned, kind, and
honest people who had survived the plague. They’d all had
more than their fill of the other kind of survivors.
Being cooped up in the massive hole in the ground was
finally catching up to him. It was time to make a move.
Surviving was not living.

***

Amanda sat at the corner table in the cafeteria, pushing
powdered eggs around on her plate. She had forgotten what
real food tasted like. She had forgotten much in the past two
years-her life before the plague, old friends, and old loves. She
thought it was better that way, at least for now. Dwelling on the
past only brought sadness with it.
When Amanda looked up, she saw Jim and motioned for him
to join her. He sat down across from her in the familiar manner
of old lovers.
She couldn’t help but notice that his mood had not changed.
Lately he had become jaded, at times distant and isolated. He
would hide away in the war room for hours without so much as
an appearance for food or water. She was becoming worried
about him. This sullen behavior stood in such a stark contrast
to the ways of the person she had fallen in love with. The
caring and compassionate leader that he was only months ago
had become reticent and even a bit callous. She feared not only
for him, but also for herself. She loved him and now she may
have been losing him. The worst part of it was, she didn’t know
why.
Amanda finished chewing a forkful of the bland eggs and
hoped that a little small talk might coax him into a meaningful
conversation with her.
“Anything new?” she asked, expecting the usual answer.