The Human Condition: The 11:11 Series, #2

By Raven Rollins and Rick Rollins

When the world ends and the government has collapsed, who will be left in charge of the human race? Will it be the selfish or the selfless? Can you afford to be selfless? What are humans truly capable of when they must fight to survive?

 

In this second novella of the 11:11 series these questions are answered for Alan and Alexis, and the answers are terrifying. What would the world be like if the only people left to lead humanity were the same people who picketed the funerals of soldiers, teachers, and babies? What type of society would these people establish in a world without rules, left unchecked and in power? Alan and Alexis carry on to scrape together the remnants of their pasts across the devastated wasteland of Los Angeles, unaware of the magnitude of death's grip on the city. As they fight the unending hordes of the dead they will discover that their real enemy is very much alive, and that evil comes in many forms.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Raven Rollins
• Release date: Mar 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9798223635482

Book preview

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Contents

Copyrights

Acknowledgements

Quote

1.ONE

2.TWO

3.THREE

4.FOUR

5.FIVE

6.SIX

7.SEVEN

8.EIGHT

9.NINE

10.TEN

11.11:11

12.TWELVE

13.THIRTEEN

14.FOURTEEN

15.FIFTEEN

16.SIXTEEN

17.SEVENTEEN

18.EIGHTEEN

19.NINETEEN

20.TWENTY

21.EPILOGUE

22.The Book of William Singer

23.PART ONE

24.PART TWO

25.PART THREE

26.PART FOUR

About the Authors

Other Works

Copyright © 2013 by Raven Rollins, Rick Rollins, The Sirens Network

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact [include publisher/author contact info].

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Book Cover by Raven Rollins

3rd Edition 2024

Acknowledgements

Special thanks to Brian, who brought our vision for the cover to life. Also, a special thank you to our fans who bought the first book, making the second book possible.

For my family, by relation and otherwise, and for my wife, whose stubbornness matches mine perfectly. -Rick

To my mom, who sculpted me into the woman I am, and to my husband, who constantly keeps me on my toes, and always leaves me wanting more. -Raven

But honestly, I just don't know what anyone's thinking. To me, that's scarier than any half-rotten ghoul trying to eat my flesh. – Robert Kirkman

ONE

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So this must be what it's like to be totally fucking fucked, Alan thought in a panic as his muscly arm strained against the chain that attached him to Randy, who still lay in the dirt where he fell. The chain didn't give as he shouted into the light above them, Come on, you psychotic bastards! This isn't right! Get us out of here!

The dark figures above said nothing, and neither did the crowd staring down into the pit the pair found themselves in. They stood in a deep hole in the pavement, a cavernous recess of dirt in the center of an old parking lot about twelve feet deep. The top was surrounded by a series of crudely assembled chain-link fence panels, with two gates opposite one another on the hole's edge. It was hard to see anything, despite the sunlight coming down into the arena. It was about sixty feet across, and probably half that in width. The dirt floor was solid now, whatever happened to create it was now forgotten. It was stained with pools of dried blood in several dark patches and sported claw marks across its dirt walls. They had been dumped unceremoniously into it from the gate above and behind them by their captors. Two men had slid them down a ramp from an old U-Haul truck to land hard in the dirt below.

The crowd above made no noise, except for Alexis. She was to their left, shackled to a light pole in the parking lot with ten or so other women. She screamed at the top of her lungs and yanked against her chain, but the other women in her group were silent and looked down at the pavement. A man in a plaid shirt walked up to her and slapped her hard, knocking her to the concrete above and out of sight. Alan started to scream something, but they were opening the other gate. Another U-Haul truck backed up to it, and a man's voice rang out through the crowd's silence from a megaphone. Alan recognized it instantly as anger boiled inside him. The man's thick Southern accent dripped with egocentric insanity as he spoke.

Let these filthy unwashed prove themselves worthy of their squandered life, he said, and the crowd roared as he continued. Let these lovers of sin answer for their unfit lives, before God, whose hatred has shown light on their wicked ways. Let the doom of these people mirror the doom of their sin-loving civilization. Another roar from the crowd. Let them be baptized in the fire, and conquer the Wicked Dead, or be claimed by the fruits of their own sin. God has made it clear that the wicked can be cured if they repent, and abolish the nature of their sins. Again, the crowd roared, and Alan tried to move around the floor of the pit to see the man speaking, but couldn't. Randy was still unconscious from the drop, and the chain connecting them at the wrist wasn't long enough for Alan to move more than a few feet from where his friend was lying. The crowd died down again, and Alan screamed up at Alexis.

Lexi, it's gonna be okay! he shouted to her. It was a halfhearted consolation, and they both knew it wasn't true. Alexis rose to her feet again, and Alan could see the chain that connected her to the pole. She stared hateful daggers at the man who struck her but said nothing. The voice came through the megaphone again.

Now, if these filth-loving sinners and fornicators and adulterers and murders and baby-eaters reap the crops they have sown and defeat the Dead, they will be worthy of having a choice to renounce Satan and remove his blackened stain from their spiritual hearts. This is the will of God, and if their survival is his will, then they will survive. If they do not, we will have more Wicked Dead with which to continue to test non-believers. Let this trial in the Pit continue to fulfill the prophecy of the One True Hateful God! Release the Wicked Dead!

His speech finally concluded, the mob exploded in cheer, praise, hymns, and prayers as they swayed back and forth, hands raised palm to the sky and their eyes closed. Some chanted together insanely, eyes rolling back in their heads as they reached out to Alan and Randy. Some of them were even children, no older than eight or ten, screaming with hatred and yelling profanities at Alan and Randy, calling them whores and everything else they had heard their parents say God hated. Alan wanted nothing more than to get out of that hole, but there was no escaping. The chain attaching the two men at the arms was solid, and the lock bolt was welded shut around their wrists.

There was no breaking it, Alan knew.

Even if he could have removed it, the fanatics above would certainly kill him and probably Alexis and Randy as well. The other truck's ramp slid down into the pit, and two men opened the back of the truck door. It was too high up to see what was inside it yet. He looked to Randy, whose tall frame was shifting slightly in the floor of the Pit. He rushed over to him and tried to lift him to his feet. The large black man was too big for Alan to lift alone, so he yelled to his friend and shook him hard.

Dammit, Randy! Get your ass up! We're in real trouble here! he shouted, slapping Randy's shoulder as he shook him. Randy groggily rose to his feet and supported his weight against the dirt wall. As they stood, Randy and Alan turned to face the truck ramp again. Now visible in the back of the truck gate, four zombies were slowly walking to the ramp. The genders of these dead were impossible to determine. They were rotted beyond recognition, now just husks of jerky-like skin caked with dried blood and dirt. All the hair was gone, and their faces were more like skulls with leather stretched over them. Their teeth and eyes were bleach-white, as were the tips of their fingers where the skin and muscle had given way to bare bone. One by one, they reached the edge of the ramp and gazed down it. When their milky white eyes fell to rest on Randy and Alan, their jaws hung slack, and their rotted hands reached out. They began clanking forward hard on the truck's metal cargo surface, the exposed bones of their heels hammering down as they advanced. They slipped in tandem on the edge of the ramp and cascaded down it mindlessly to land in the dirt. Above Alan, a shadow flashed through the sunlight, and something made a sound in the dirt in front of him.

His vision focused on what was tossed down: one dirty, worn baseball bat, and one rusty machete. Alan and Randy exchanged glances and scrambled for the weapons. Randy snatched the bat, and Alan's fingers found their way around the cracked plastic handle of the old machete. The dead were rising to their feet now, clawing their way up from the dirt to have dinner. Their bones popped and twisted as they rose, and the stench hit Alan's nostrils aggressively. They never took their eyes off the duo, and drool mixed with blood dribbled out from between their teeth. They bumped into one another clumsily but gradually shambled to their feet one by one. An unholy scream gargled up from their decayed throats. Alan couldn't believe what he was seeing, or what was about to take place. He looked at Randy, and his face was a mixture of fear and anger. Randy nodded, and they turned to the dead. The voice of their captor came again through the air above the din of the crowd.

God hates sin, yet you love sin. We have his blessing, and it is our duty to purge you of Satan! God hates you! He has hated you your whole life, even when you were a baby! You have never known his grace, and today you will fight to earn it, he said, and the crowd grew silent, rising to their feet together. He began to chant, and the crowd joined him.

GOD HATES YOU! GOD HATES YOU! GOD HATES YOU! GOD HATES YOU! GOD HATES YOU! GOD... The chant continued as the zombies clamored toward them hungrily, and Alan squeezed the machete handle tightly. He couldn't understand what kind of insane people would do such a thing. He could not force himself to rationalize how people like this could be so ignorant, yet be so influential. He had learned to live in a world of the dead, and now he was in a world of equally dangerous and mindless living people.

They were being forced to fight the zombies so that he could gain the grace of a god who supposedly hated them just because they didn't go to the same shit-hole backwoods church as the idiotic cultists above that had captured them. It blew his mind, especially when things were so calm yesterday evening, just twelve hours ago. It truly amazed Alan how fast the world had gone to shit. It occurred to him that these people must have existed before the outbreak, and were probably only kept in check by the fact that police still existed.

He was not about to die for these idiots. He wasn't about to let them do anything to Alexis either. He would play their game. If they wanted a warrior, he would show them that this world had turned normal people into monsters in more ways than one.

He took one last look at the maniacally chanting dark shadows above him and gave them the finger. He turned to Randy, whose focus was now entirely on the dead, their flesh-peeled bones gleaming in the sunlight as they stumbled forward. Tears of rage began to cascade down his face as he raised the blade over his head, and Randy's scream mixed with his in his ears, drowning out the chanting of the religious psychos above them. They rushed toward the dead.

TWO

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The plane had been airborne from the Snyder runway for about an hour before they started to finally relax. The airport was long out of sight, and the mountains were in the distance ahead. The plane was old-school and analog, and Randy handled it like a pro. Alan moved to check on Alexis, who was sobbing quietly by the window, never having broken her gaze out of it after they left Skinny the way they did. She winced as Alan put a caring hand on her shoulder, and turned her red, tear-filled eyes to meet his. Her pretty face was hard to look at, as sad as it was. Alan said nothing, just squeezed her shoulder tightly, and gave her a look of regret as he moved on to look around the cabin of the plane. It was a military cargo jet, with seats along the walls and a huge walkway in the center. There were nets made of rubber throughout the plane, hanging from walls and ceilings to secure cargo in flight. There were several compartments on the floor, but nothing in them. Alexis's daddy's truck was strapped in tight, not having budged on their takeoff or after, and the back door of the plane showed Alan the end of his exploration.

As he rounded the tailgate of the truck to come back to the front, he discovered several wooden crates piled up under a tarp near the dividing wall between where the passengers sat and the cargo bay where Alexis's truck was stored. He removed the tarp and pulled open the lid of one, then sifted through its contents. Several small metal cases of ammunition packed in straw, from top to bottom. He grabbed a handle and dragged it to the floor of the plane, and looked again in the crate underneath it. It also contained ammo, as did the next one.

The final crate, however, was the godsend. Inside the straw packing, there were approximately ten to twelve M-4 military-issue assault rifles and an almost uncountable number of clips. At the very bottom of the crate was a small plastic case about three feet long. He removed it from the straw and opened it up to discover a single green metal telescoping tube about two and a half feet in length with the letters LAAW printed on the side. It had a small yellow sticker with an arrow pointing to one end, and the smaller portion had another sticker with an arrow in the other direction. Inside the lid was a piece of paper with instructions printed on it that indicated it was a single-shot bazooka, meant to take out small aircraft or armored vehicles.

All one had to do was extend the telescope, look down the sights, and press the fire button on the top. It stated clearly that the explosion would be roughly forty feet in diameter, concussive in nature, and the missile had approximately a one-hundred-yard range. He wondered how Skinny would have reacted to his find, but didn't dwell on it. He simply took the case and snapped it back shut, then carried it over to Alexis's truck. He opened the door and raised up the seat, nestling the case behind it. He went back over to the crates and shoved as many rifles as he could behind the old bench seat while still being able to close it.

He took two crates of ammunition to the bed and shoved them down inside after some arranging. The third crate wasn't going to fit, so he just started unloading clips and shoving bullets in them. The plane throttled on as he went busily about his task, escaping in the monotony of it. Before he knew it, he had filled roughly twenty clips with thirty bullets each and looked up to see Alexis standing in the cargo bay door. She looked better now and came to sit on the floor cross-legged next to him. Without speaking a word, she brushed her dirty blonde hair behind her ear and joined him in his task. He smiled but said nothing.

About another hour passed, and they carried on diligently loading bullets from cases into magazines, allowing their minds to rest. For that brief moment, Alan knew that in some screwed-up way, this was a moment of peace. They were flying over the chaos of the world below and had nothing to worry about except counting bullets and neatly stacking clips. Eventually, they had completed their little job, and neat stacks of clips littered the plane floor. A quick count showed they had right at one hundred magazines, a total of three thousand bullets. Alan glanced up at Alexis, who looked a lot better now. Her pretty blue eyes weren't red anymore and sparkled as she surveyed the work they had done with a glint of pride.

All well and good, but we don't have a spot for them in the truck. The bed is packed, and I put the guns for these behind the seat, he said. Alexis looked over at the truck.

And the other two crates? she asked. She must have been watching him for longer than he thought.

In the bed. There wasn't room for these. I don't even know why I started doing this, honestly Alan admitted sheepishly.

Well, let's look, she said and went to the truck. She lifted the seat and glanced behind it, then looked at Alan disappointed. Alan, why do we need nine of these rifles? There are only three of us. Alan blushed. He hadn't thought of it, really. Four made sense. You know, in case a gun broke or they lost one, they would have a spare for all those bullets. He was just grabbing everything he could. Alexis could see him struggling with the concept of his mistake and smiled at him. She reached in and removed gun after gun, shoving two of them into the bed between the other supplies and the inside wall. The rest she handed to Alan, who placed them back in the crate they came from.

Finally, she turned to him. I kept three behind the seat and put two in the bed, just in case. Now we have room for the actual bullets, you dork. He smiled then, and she did too. He started handing her clips, one of which she shoved in each rifle before placing them back in the truck. She then took all the remaining extras and put them behind the seat. After they were all packed, Alan looked at her and saw her stress had faded completely. The task had truly distracted her just long enough for her to rise above the trauma they had suffered, and Alan was grateful for it. She started to put the bench back in place and paused with a quizzical look on her face as she stared down behind the driver's side of the seat. She pointed to the case Alan had loaded earlier.

Alan, what is that? she asked. He paused briefly before answering.

A bazooka, I think.

Hmm.

Yeah.

Okay, she said and set the seat back and shut the door. Let's go check on Randy. Alan reached out and grabbed her shoulders, and she stopped.

Are you okay, Alexis? he asked. She sniffed and then hugged Alan tightly. He hugged her back, and they stood there for a long series of moments. Finally, she pulled away from him and looked up into his blue eyes.

I am now. Thanks, Alan, she said and brushed her hair over her ear. He turned away, and they walked into the cabin with Randy.

There y'all are, I was gettin' lonely, Randy said, and through the front window Alan and Alexis could see the mountains from earlier, and they were much closer now. They were about to fly right over the tops of them, and they could see the trees in vivid detail on the mountainside. In the distance, the snow went on for what looked like forever until it turned into clouds.

How much farther until L.A.? Alan asked, confused by the nondescript sky and the convoluted control panel in front of him.

Been in the air for about an hour and a half, so we got about five and a half to go, give or take, Randy said, flipping a few switches and turning in his seat to face Alan and Alexis. Take a chair, stay a while, he said, smiling.

So what's the plan, exactly? Alexis asked, I mean, once we get to L.A., Alan thought for a moment, not having considered any actual logistics. They were both staring at him intently.

Well, we would like to try to make it to L.A.X., where we could unload the truck and head to the CDC outpost, Alan finally said.

How you know there gon' be an outpost? Randy asked.

I don't know if it is still standing, that's true, but I know there was one when my family was taken. I saw it on the news, he stated. It will most likely be in the Staples Center, or the Dodger Stadium. Somewhere big, where they can keep out the dead.

I wonder how bad it is, Alexis admitted. If the country was bad, the cities have to be horrible.

Well, maybe not. When I was in Dallas, the military was on point almost instantly for the outbreak. Maybe the L.A. boys locked it down before it got out of hand, Alan said hopefully. Randy snorted.

Pffft, you tryin' to tell me that some spray-tanned army boys from LA is harder than a bunch of crazy, gun-totin' ass hillbilly Texans? I doubt that, bud. They'll kill people in Texas just for litterin', let alone an excuse to shoot everything in sight, Randy said. Alan looked a bit distraught but remained strong in his resolve.

True, but in L.A. their first resort won't be to blow up the whole damn city, Alan retorted, and Randy's facial expression surrendered in agreement.

Okay, so we get to the airport, meet with the CDC, and just ask to be taken to your family. Is that right? Alexis asked.

Well, yeah, best-case scenario, sure, Alan admitted.

Okay, then what? Randy and I come live with you and your wife and kids in your nice house in the city? she asked sarcastically.

No, my house is probably already gone, he answered sadly. We will probably have to stay with the CDC and the government until they sort this whole thing out.

Alan, they aren't going to sort this out. The world has gone to shit, and you know it. I know it, and the government knows it. If your family is with the CDC, I doubt we will be allowed to stay. They will probably lock us out, assuming we are infected. And if we do get in, they probably won't let us leave. I have a bad feeling about this, Alexis said, and Randy raised his hand.

The man gotta know, Miss Lexi. We're gonna get your family back, son, and then we're gonna get out of L.A. and head as far into the country as we can with 'em. We're gonna find a house in the middle of nowhere, and start a little farm so we have all the food we can eat, Randy said. And, no crazy dead people comin' out of the woodwork tryin' to make us into dinner. And if they do, we can see 'em comin' a ways away. Alan and Alexis looked at each other, and it became apparent that neither of them had thought much about the long-term in all this. Alexis was just going with Alan and Randy because she had no one to go back to, and Alan was only thinking of getting his family.

He hadn't considered what he would do once he got them back. He had always assumed the government would swoop in and fix everything, put people back to work, and start to build homes, but that wasn't going to happen. Randy's plan made pretty good sense, even though Alan hadn't worked a farm a day in his life. He knew that if the world truly had ended the canned goods would eventually run out. The toilet paper would eventually run out. The lights would eventually go out. He had no idea how to survive in those conditions. It would be a shame if he rescued his family just to be near them while they ultimately starved to death, cold and scared in the dark. Alexis had grown up raising animals, sure, but she wasn't sure she'd be able to take in a crop of corn or know how to store it for the winter. All of a sudden they both wished they had read more about how to do that kind of thing, learned from someone, or at least watched a TV show about how to plant and grow something. Reality sank in, and at that moment they were very grateful that Randy was there.

Randy, I hate to ask, but do you know how to plant a garden? Because I don't, Alan said. The old black man gave Alan a disconcerting look and then sighed audibly.

Would I have said it, if I didn't? I had a really nice farm in Snyder. We grew tomatoes, squash, corn, beans, hell, just about anything you could eat, he said, and turned back to the flight controls as if Alan's question had offended his manhood.

Well, then we have a plan. Get Sandra and the kids, get another vehicle, loot a Home Depot or whatever for seeds and tools, and then head out of town to find a good spot too, uh, you know, um...make a farm. Perfect, Alan said. They all relaxed for a second and then stared out the front glass at the horizon. The plan may have made Alexis and Randy feel better, but it only slightly mattered to Alan. All he could think about was getting to Sandra, Allie, and Matthew. He had been heartsick since he saw them taken by the CDC on a newscast in Dallas, and his mind had been twisted inside out from that day forward. Alexis liked the idea of a farm. It sounded normal to her, and she knew that if they did it right, she might be able to pretend that life was somehow back to normal again. Randy thought it sounded perfect if they made it out of Los Angeles in one piece. He decided it was best not to worry about it, and just focus on flying. In the distance, they could see more mountains, and what looked like a city. There were plumes of smoke and small lights flickering in the perpetual sunset in front of them.

Where are we, again?Alexis asked as they all stared forward.

Should be coming up over the top of...Las Cruxes, according to the map, Randy said. Alan and Alexis had never heard of it, but there it was. From the sky it looked cozy, nestled in a valley between two mountain ridges. As they got closer to the mountains, they could see the whole town from one end to the other. They were safe enough at that altitude, but what they saw was far from a safe place to land. The city was on fire; a ravine of death sandwiched between two lines of polar opposite beauty in nature.

There were military blockades on the roads, visible as small green specks from their height. Other small specks which they could only assume were civilian vehicles fleeing the city turned into slightly bigger orange balls of fire as they got closer to the small green specks below. Alexis swore she could hear the screams of an entire city at once, even though she knew that would be impossible from the inside of the plane at that altitude. As they coasted overhead, the valley of death got smaller and smaller in the distance. It was the same there as it was in Snyder. The city was being walled in and burned out, just like Dallas.

They wondered for a second as a group about what fate awaited them in L.A., but no one spoke up. Alan stared intently out the front glass, lost in thought. Randy took a long drag off his cigar and breathed out more of a sigh than an exhalation of the rich-smelling smoke. After an intense moment of silence, Randy's deep Southern accent broke the ice.

Well, what kinda TV y'all used to like? he asked. No one spoke right away, but eventually, Alexis answered.

I loved Stephen Colbert, actually. You know, The Colbert Report? she said. Alan turned to her, wide-eyed with interest.

Really? he responded.

Oh yeah. Somethin' about a funny man, she replied.

That fool is goofy as hell, Randy said smiling and then let out a large bellow of laughter. They all laughed, and the exchange continued. They spent the remainder of the plane ride talking about the world before the outbreak; favorite restaurants, television shows, books, songs, and things like that. Alexis loved country music, Alan loved classic rock, and Randy loved pop, of all things.

I'm gonna see if that Christina Agua-, Aggi-, well, whatever her name is, survived all this, and see if she needs a new husband, he said, and they all rolled with laughter. Alan talked about his house, and cars, and finally admitted that he hasn't been behind the wheel of a vehicle in more than a few years. Alexis called him Miss Daisy, and Randy told him not to worry, he'd drive him wherever he needed to go, and they laughed again.

You know, there probably won't be electricity for very long, if it isn't already all gone everywhere, Alan said.

No problem, Miss Daisy. We can get a couple of generators and put gas in 'em, and I'll rig 'em up to the house. Bingo, the lights stay on, Randy said. It sounded great, the farm they were going to have. Alexis talked about getting some cattle for it so they could have beef, and Alan's eyes lit up.

I can't wait to eat a steak. If I have one more can of baked beans I'm going to puke it up, he said. They continued to talk about all the foods they loved, from bad Thai takeout (which they assumed no one would miss) to greasy hole-in-the-wall diners (upon which reminiscing caused a simultaneous stomach growl) to the finer restaurants (which