Dominion – Chapter 1: King of the Dead

Hello, everyone! This is my tenth year of posting to XNXX, so to celebrate, I am proud to present my masterpiece of terror! I mean it, this is my darkest story yet. Do not proceed unless you were a fan of such stories like Seed of Horror and the Man of Sin. This is not a horror story, this is a story of horror. But I hope you do enjoy and please leave feedback!

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Prologue

One hundred years ago, the war against the undead began. No one knows where it originated from, but a virus blossomed somewhere in the USA, spreading so fast that even trying to identify Ground Zero was a fruitless endeavor. The infected would lose all sense of sanity, their memories and feelings eclipsed by madness and a hunger for flesh. The disease took hold through access to the blood stream, most often through bite wounds, completely corrupting the host in a matter of seconds and robbing them of their humanity. From there, they would have one single mission: spread, spread sickness and Death. They ignored all injuries, their absent heartbeat, even their own rotting flesh. While the human race tried to protect their egos by calling it a war, really, it was assimilation.

“Zombies”, pop culture had jokingly anticipated their arrival for decades. Countless movies, books, and videogames gave generations a glimpse into the horror that could be set loose if the dead walked. But contrary to cinema, the true undead could not be dispatched with something so simple as a bullet to the brain. Even after decapitation, the body moved in search of life, severed limbs crawling like insects. Dismemberment was the only option, followed by incineration for good measure.

Cities became bloodbaths, the threat bursting into people’s homes and feeding on their flesh. Highways turned into graveyards of abandoned cars, left behind during the panic. The steel boxes served as tombs for the stubborn and the fearful, those who had hoped that the undead clawing at their windows would grow bored and leave, only to succumb to infection or death. One by one, governments fell, the lights following suit and leaving everyone immersed in the darkness of night.

Twenty years and more than half of the world population later, the zombies died out, taking the last vestiges of stability and unity with them. Without the threat of the undead to unite mankind, the next thirty years were utter chaos, people fighting over the bloody and ashen remains of the old world. Warlords and religious sects ruled and madness infected the survival instinct. The old religions were either replaced or reinforced, faith both lost and given to those who had survived the nightmare of the undead. On altars made of junked cars, animals and humans were sacrificed in the hope of preventing another catastrophe, the rituals presided over by 21st century kings wearing broken Rolex watches and crowns made of CD shards. Sources of food and clean water became the subject of wars, with gasoline and ammunition worth more than their weight in gold.

But despite the bloodshed and madness, the human race could begin recovering and repopulating, and despite fifty years of chaos, the rebuilding process began. Drawing upon the knowledge of the old world from stories and records, humanity made the journey back towards the modern era, with former nations resurrecting one after another. Now, in America, mankind is walking the very same paths as in the 20th century, with people having to relearn and rediscover the knowledge and tools needed to establish basic commodities and infrastructure, while the rebuilt government works to settle the lands that remain without law and order.

A century after the occultation, human society is finally on an upswing. Cities are being reclaimed, ‘surviving’ being replaced with ‘living’, the future becoming a little less uncertain every day. But despite the fragile calm, the world is still engrossed in fear and confusion, and it is when chaos and order are in an equilibrium that evil evolves and a new nightmare takes the scene.

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King of the Dead

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There is no light of Heaven

Nor the raging flames of Hell

Only eternal darkness

In which the Old Gods dwell

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The man looked into his glass, watching the surface of the liquid shimmer from his breath. Through it, he could see all of the lines and scratches in the wooden counter. It was old, definitely prewar. A lot of the tavern had been renovated with the reclaiming of the town, but the new owner appeared to have taken a liking to the old counter, probably trying to give his bar some “character” that would draw customers. Despite a century of neglect, it had aged very well. There were several other people in the bar, all of them armed, a remnant of the apocalypse that humanity had survived. The last zombie died around eighty years ago, yet it was common in rural areas to carry a blade large enough to hack off a limb, as well as a gun to defend against any remnants of the chaotic years that followed.

There was music playing from an old stereo, classic rock. Though in this era, it was technically “antique” rock. In the corner, above the bar, a TV was showing the evening news. The news anchor was wearing a nice suit but missing a tie. Some things from the old world weren’t brought back to the new one. But the man wasn’t watching the news, nor listening to the music. He didn’t seem to even notice or mind the stench of cigarettes and the taste of bathtub liquor. His attention was focused on a large silver coin he was flipping back and forth across his knuckles.

The man was in his mid-twenties with long, dark hair. He had a large build from a lifetime of brutal training, but a handsome face, a fitting canvas for the smirk he wore as he stared at the coin. It was a smug grin, the kind that would anger some, unnerve others, and attract a few. It worked, drawing a cute little number to the seat next to his. Short blonde hair, blue eyes, an inviting cleavage, she drew the attention of every man in the room.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around here before,” she said. She then ordered a drink from the bartender.

Seeing her, the man’s gaze sharpened with desire burning within. “I’m just passing through, heading north.”

“But there is nothing up north. You’ll only find backwoods savages up there.”

“Oh, there is plenty up there. It just depends on what you’re looking for.”

The bartender handed her a glass half-filled with an opaque liquid. She took a drink, leaving behind a smear of lipstick on the glass. “You might want to be careful flashing that silver here. The police won’t be able to help you if it gets taken.”

“I know how to keep it safe, but it’s not just the silver that gives it value.” He held it up, showing her the two sides. The coin had a glass lens pressed to its back. One side was a glistening mirror and the other was pure silver, engraved with a skull and incantations in a language that even before the war, few people knew about. “Without the glass, it’s just a piece of metal. Do you know how mirrors are made? A glass membrane is backed with a layer of a reflective substance, originally a mixture of mercury and tin. This is called silvering. Later, they were made using actual silver. In the modern age, the silver was replaced with aluminum.” The man eyed the mirror behind the bar. “That mirror is definitely aluminum.”

“I’m pretty sure the silver is the only reason anyone would steal it.”

“Only because they don’t know the true value of the mirror.” He then glanced up at the TV. It was a relic from the old world, but it still worked just fine. The news anchor was speaking with some government scientist about the possibility of the zombie plague returning. “Look at them, a hundred years since the undead rose and they still know nothing about them. They can’t even scratch the surface.”

The woman gave him an inviting look, knowing that there was more he wanted to say. She wanted to see if he had the courage to say it without needing to be asked and hoped it would be interesting.

The man smiled and held up the silver coin. “I know secrets about the dead. It was not a virus that allowed the dead to rise, it was the dead themselves. There is no light of Heaven, no flames of Hell, only the darkness of Purgatory, and when a hole is torn in that membrane, the dead pour back into our world. The “disease” that spread from person to person was really an ocean of spirits pouring into hosts. The darkness strips away all humanity. Once death has claimed you, your memories and feelings vanish, and you become an embodiment of hunger for that which you do not have: life.”

The woman rolled her eyes in disappointment. She had hoped he would be worth her attention, but he was just another religious nut. But when she looked back at him, she saw his gaze focused on her. The gleam in his eyes, that smirk on his face; they sent a shiver down her spine. The way he had spoken, it was not due to delusional beliefs or arrogant fanaticism; it was spoken in condescension, like he was explaining a fact to a child. He was indifferent to her reaction, or rather, it amused him.

“Relax, I’m just kidding.” He gave a hearty laugh, brushing aside her suspicions. “I love the different reactions people give when I start talking like that. It scares them, annoys them, or bores the hell out of him. Either way, it’s always funny.”

She laughed with him, and in her mind, laughed at herself for seeing things that weren’t there. He had just been smiling, that was all, and his sense of humor heightened her attraction. They began to chat, with more and more drinks being poured and consumed. The more she spoke, the more she drank, and the more obvious her intentions became.

“What do you say about getting out of here?” the man asked as the hands on his watch reached ever higher.

“You read my mind,” she purred. “I’ll call us a cab.”

“No need, I’m fine to drive.”

The man paid for their drinks and she followed him out to the parking lot, where light came only from the few lamps in the adjacent street. He led her to his pickup truck, built after the start of the reconstruction movement.

“I know of a nice motel nearby,” the woman said as she climbed into the truck.

“That won’t be necessary.”

Like a lunging snake, the man reached out and struck her in the side of the head with a solid punch. The force knocked her skull against the passenger door frame with enough force to draw blood. Her body became limp and the man bound and gagged her with a roll of duct tape. He then leaned out of the truck and jammed his fingers down his throat, forcing himself to vomit the alcohol he had consumed in the bar. He had only gone in there for a single drink, but in order to avoid her getting suspicious, he had to keep up with her. Of course, he had plenty of tricks to minimize the alcohol consumed, like pretending to drink, throwing up in the bathroom, and even pouring his drink into her glass when she was distracted. It was necessary, as he needed to keep a clear head for what would happen next.

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As the man drove further and further into the wilds of northern Maine, signs of civilization faded. Even before the war against the undead, the upper half of the state was an untamed sea of wilderness, crisscrossed by some silent roads. After fifty miles from the coast, a state line, or the Canadian border, civilization all but vanished. That had changed when the war began. People fleeing the undead, and later, the warlords and their armies, headed into seclusion, hiding in the darkness of the trees. In the labyrinths of rolling hills and smothering forests of New England, humanity regressed into a Lovecraftian nightmare. Violent religious sects were born, inbreeding became common, and the line separating humans from animals blurred. These days, the towns were islands of civilization in an ocean of savagery, the forests filled with people who didn’t want to be found.

The man was still smiling, excitement keeping him wired as the hours passed. Frequently, he would stop to consult maps, but nothing else deterred him from his goal. After a while, the woman began to stir, slightly concussed from the blow she had received. Her wrists bound and her mouth covered, panic filled her and she gave a muffled scream.