Table Of ContentLen 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 ud‐
der 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 ec‐
ho 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 wit‐
hin 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, me‐
tal 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 de‐
ath.
“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 bat‐
tle.
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 clo‐
sely monitored, Tangier was safe.
The heavy armory door swung open and Leon stepped out in‐
to the cool March sunlight. He tilted his face to the warm sun,
then rubbed the tense muscles on the back of his neck to reli‐
eve the tension. What he really wanted was a pair of pretty
black hands to massage his troubled thoughts away. He wonde‐
red what Halle Berry was up to these days. Since movies we‐
ren’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 retur‐
ning 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, so‐
me-times 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. The‐
re 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 Che‐
sapeake 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 chop‐
per’s military green skin was dull but clean. Great care was ta‐
ken 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 communi‐
cation 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 se‐
tup 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 suc‐
cumbed to the reality that it would never work again. The simp‐
le 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 ce‐
ased 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 be‐
come 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 ho‐
nest 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 final‐
ly 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 re‐
al food tasted like. She had forgotten much in the past two ye‐
ars-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 ca‐
ring 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 ho‐
ped that a little small talk might coax him into a meaningful
conversation with her.
“Anything new?” she asked, expecting the usual answer.
Jim squirmed in his seat and then replied the same as al‐
ways: “No.”
He fell silent, leaving Amanda to think up a new topic to ke‐
ep him talking. Anything was better than another silent meal,
she thought, stirring her eggs once again.
“That radio’s never going to work,” she said finally. “Have
you thought about looking for other survivors? There hasn’t be‐
en a creature near the complex in months. It should be fairly
safe.”
Jim’s eyes widened and an exhilarated look washed over his
face.
“Yes, I’ve thought a lot about it. Tangier Island,” he said. “I
want to go to Tangier Island.”
Amanda’s jaw dropped. Well, you’ve done it now, she tho‐
ught. This was not the conversation she had hoped for when
she began asking questions. She had opened a big can of
smelly, walking-dead worms.
“No, no. That’s not what I meant. Not Tangier Island, Jim,
it’s too far.” How quickly he had turned this around. “It’s too
dangerous and, besides, it’s been a year since you got that
message. How do you even know that the person who sent it is
still alive? For God’s sake…”
“I don’t know. That’s the point. They never acknowledged
our reply. I don’t think the radio was sending, even then.”
Amanda dropped her fork with a clatter that mirrored her
jangled nerves. She had suddenly lost what little appetite she’d
had. Her head was spinning and now she had to win an argu‐
ment with one of the most headstrong men she’d ever known.
“So that’s it? You want to risk your life and what little happi‐
ness may be left to us because you’re stir crazy? Jesus, Jim,
why?”
“If there’s someone alive there, I have to know,” he said.
“We all do. We can’t go on forever here. Eventually, we will run
out of sup-plies. Tangier Island would be the ideal place. If the‐
re are survivors, there’s a good chance they’d be there, maybe
even hundreds of them. We have to know. This is important.”
“No, goddamn it.” Her voice quivered as she stood up. “We
don’t have to know anything; you do!”
She stormed away and left a perplexed Jim sitting there all
alone.
3
The helicopter rose in the crisp spring air and Leon felt the
familiar churning in his gut, which returned every time the bird
took off.
There was no approval or clearance for takeoff. The sky was
free of traffic. Not so much as a single airplane had been seen
flying over the island since the first couple of months. No pla‐
nes, cars, or people were where they were going. No living
ones, anyway. They were going into the pits of hell once again.
God how he hated this part.
The airport diminished beneath them as they rose higher.
Leon stared out the window, hoping the scenery would relieve
his upset stomach. The churning finally settled down after the
chopper leveled out for their flight to the mainland.
Leon watched the island as it dropped away behind them,
noticing for the first time how green everything had become
since win-ter. The blue-green waves of Chesapeake Bay glim‐
mered in the sunlight and occasionally a wave caught the sun‐
light just right and sent flashes of brilliant, blinding light up to
him.
“Where today?” Hal asked, glancing at Jack who was seated
next to him, a pen clenched between his teeth, reading some
maps.
“Go up by Crisfield,” Jack said, “then turn west toward St.
Mary’s County and follow the coast north for a while. We’ll see
from there.” His eyes never left his maps. He turned them to
the left, then to the right, as though trying to find the best ang‐
le to view them. He flipped from page to page trying to find the
right one.
Leon rolled his eyes in disgust. He’d seen this same scene
played out many times before. No wonder they hadn’t found an‐
yone yet. They’d be lucky to find their way home.
Jack finally threw the papers aside and drank from the cup of
coffee hanging in a cup holder next to him. His creased face
and graying hair showed every bit of his fifty-two years. He had
become hard like a rock since the plague, but his strength
didn’t lie in calculations. He was a soldier, an unstoppable for‐
ce once he got started, Leon thought, though not the sharpest
knife in the drawer. If there were anyone he’d want in a foxhole
next to him, it was Jack. Just don’t ask him to count the rema‐
ining bullets.
Leon had been on many missions like this one with Jack. He
knew when to take chances and when not to. But when some‐
one needed help, Jack was the first one to offer it. He’d give up
his life to save another. Salt of the earth and everyone knew it.
Leon was always glad to have him along.
The chopper continued to fly north along the path Jack had
lain out until they reached Crisfield. The familiar sight of the
Mormon temple came into view, its tall golden steeple still as
pristine as it had been two years before. The rest of the buil‐
ding was in shambles, like most churches now. When things
had gotten bad and people were left with nothing else, they
had turned to the churches, temples, synagogues, and mosqu‐
es, hoping their religion would save them. Doing so had only
made them easy prey for the blood-thirsty ghouls that surroun‐
ded the buildings like dogs herding sheep to be slaughtered.
Leon thought that religion had caused the situation to get
out of hand as much as anything else. Many maintained the
outlandish idea that God had somehow willed the dead to rise
and attack the living, that it was the resurrection foretold in
the Bible. Religious zealots had whipped the easily-led masses
into a frenzy of Bible-thumping idiots shouting, “God’s will!”
Faithful flocks refused to properly incapacitate the bodies of
the dead. They saw it as a contradiction to “God’s will.” Others
thought resurrected family members or friends were still, at le‐
ast on some level, themselves. Nothing was farther from the
truth.
Those misguided herds of humanity had, in large measure,
caused the downfall of mankind with astonishing speed. It had
taken a mere two months for eighty-five percent of the world’s
population to be annihilated, most of whom then joined the inc‐
reasing numbers of walking dead. It was a desperate situation.
But they were safe on Tangier Island, at least until the ghouls
learned to swim.
Leon shifted in his seat. He didn’t want them to set the chop‐
per down. Sometimes they did, sometimes they didn’t. He was
hoping this was a time that they wouldn’t. It was never a good
time on the ground. You could never really tell from the air
what was below. They had been nearly overwhelmed on two
past occasions when a safe landing had looked feasible, but
then hordes of the things had emerged from buildings and fil‐
led the streets.
Leon was in no hurry for another adventure. He breathed a
sigh of relief when they flew by Crisfield and turned west to‐
ward St Mary’s City.
Their flight path took them over Smith Island. The view cre‐
ated a sense of normalcy in this world turned upside down.
Traffic moved on the island roads below, mainly bicycles beca‐
use there was a shortage of gasoline. But life moved on with at
least some of the past’s regularity. People strolled the side‐
walks and slipped in and out of trade shops in a manner impos‐
sible to imitate anywhere else, at least not anywhere that they
had found.
A group of no-nonsense locals on the island had been the
first to take things in hand to rid the place of the walking dead.
Once the situation had been handled, they began broadcasting
