Chapter 3: Tyranny of the Minority
Looking to the sky, most of the skinless zombies waited for some sort of benevolent object to fall from the sky and aid them in their suffering. If they weren’t watching the planes they were either asking for names or lying motionless. The sky was still dark and the only real evidence of the planes was the low humming sound coming from over the horizon. The engine of the planes grew louder and louder and soon they were close enough that even those who were once asking for the whereabouts of their loved ones couldn’t help but give the planes the time of day. Now the only sound was the burning of timber, the occasional crumble of some fractured edifice, or the screams of the soon dead. Some of the fortunate families emerged from their shelters to see the rotting world around them, but for them, the planes gave the same hope as it did for the skinless zombie dragging his decomposed leg. Now nearly all of the survivors were looking through the settled dust and the red glow of the sky. Large objects begin to fall from the sky and most of us were so delirious we began to run toward them. I never saw a care package explode before.
We scattered like children playing tag, trying to find some sort of safety. As I was running I saw Mr. Johnson staring at the horizon, watching the bombs explode destroying row after row of suburban homes. It was the greatest show on earth. I grabbed his shoulder’s and yelled, “Run, you god damn fool!” Déjà vu, all over again. He snapped from his trance and we began running down the main route away from the school and jumped through the yards of fire trying to get back to our shelters. Running through the yards I could feel the rubber on the soul of my shoe begin to melt from the intense heat. As we ran down the road we saw some other survivors funnel into a bomb shelter by the church. We looked at each other and without a word knew that was the only place that we could go. Personally, I’d rather die with many than live with nothing. We ran across the street from the yard we were standing in, and as the bombs became closer I thought that I wasn’t going to be able to make it. We started to slam on the rusted iron door of the bomb shelter screaming, “Let us in, let us in! Please for the love of God let us in!”. The door flung open and a figure from the darkness grabbed both of us with both of its hands and threw us to the cement ground. That was the first time I had been in a church in twenty years. The last time was when I married you.
The ground shook violently and the sound was like a thousand freight trains going passed all at once. I covered my head and curled up into the fetal position. The violence of the quake was terrifying. But then as soon as it came, it stopped. I did not want to move, I was pretty sure then that I was dead. I wish I was dead. One can only go through so much petrifying experiences before he takes his own life. When I began to regain composure, the sounds of crying echoed off the cement walls, the smell of urine and feces from those who had soiled themselves mixed with the sounds of agony and burnt flesh. I can’t remember if I was crying or not, I wish I was, but at least I knew I had pissed myself, so I was still alive after all. But if I had known that I was going to spend the next 21 days there, I would have stopped by the house to get another pair of jeans.
The Colonel had locked Marcus in the holding cell. The holding cell was a small room with no windows, not even a slit of light came through the crack between the door and the cement floor. Marcus sat up and rested his head against the wall, his wrists ached from the tension of the ropes. He rubbed his hands over his face and could tell that there was fresh blood pouring from his forehead. Someone must have hit him with the butt end of their gun because it was a precise gash. He ripped off a piece of cloth from around his waist and tied it around his forehead. He sat there, awaiting for his captors to bring him before the mercy of the King.
Marcus was fearful of the King. He knew that this could most likely be the last days of his life. The king was notorious for executing many who had done far less than he had done. But on the other hand, no one in his village had even seen the king before. Although many of the villagers at Sashaport had drawn caricatures of the king, most of the time it was a fat, cross-eyed buffoon who had shot himself in the foot with his own gun. Marcus sat in his cell, thinking about what he would say to the king, or if he would be able to say anything at all.
Soon the door flung open and a large guard’s silhouette engrossed the doorway, “Time to go”, he said in his baritone voice. Marcus got up and walked out of his cell. He was blinded by the light. But the noise, the sounds of cars, steal, and machinery were so loud he wondered how he could not have heard them from his cell. When he was younger, Marcus used to be able to hear their faint sounds, but he had no idea that they were this excruciatingly loud.
Once Marcus was able to see, the guard marched him from his cell down to the ground floor of the prison. The guard was almost seven feet tall and muscular. His hair was short and well kempt. He wore a bullet proof vest and helmet, but the vest barely fit him. Marcus wondered if he had any kids. “
“A man that sized should never have sex unless the woman is just as masculine”, Marcus thought.
As he walked passed, he wondered how many people were in the prison, it could have been overcrowded or desolate.
“Prisoner number 0204022, ready for trial” said the guard through his radio. “Hey, how’s the forehead Marcus?” he mockingly asked Marcus. Marcus’ head whipped around in shock that he knew his name. The guard let out a booming laughter. Marcus turned around and walked through the iron gates towards the guards waiting for him outside the holding prison. The guards outside the prison were much smaller and feebler. They did not wear anything bullet proof but the helmets. The strapped iron shackles around his feet and wrists and walked him outside of the prison, his next stop was the Kingdom Court. They took Marcus and put him in a secured cell on the back of a SUV. Marcus had never seen an SUV before, had no idea what it was or how it worked. But it explained the noise. It was loud, and the gasoline filled his nostrils so that he couldn’t breathe. But he did have a window. The world he was looking at as the car was rattling across the broken pavement was like a world he had never seen before. The buildings near touched the sky, there were no trees, only plains of asphalt and cement, there was no rivers, streams, or ponds, no animals but only insects, many insects. As Marcus looked, gazing at the unfamiliar world, he saw some villagers below the overpass. They were cleaning up the filth of the kingdom. He did not know what village they were from, but they were wearing metal chainmail and steal armor. They couldn’t have been the king’s men because there was an overseer standing behind them with an ax.
“Who would have thought punishment was stricter inside the Kingdom Gates.” Marcus jokingly said, with a hint of sincerity.
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