Immune: Thomas, #5

By Aaron Abilene

Thomas's journey through the zombie apocalypse continues.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Syphon Creative
• Release date: Feb 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224009343

Book preview

Immune

Thomas, Volume 5

Aaron Abilene

Published by Syphon Creative, 2024.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

IMMUNE

First edition. February 20, 2024.

Copyright © 2024 Aaron Abilene.

ISBN: 979-8224009343

Written by Aaron Abilene.

Also by Aaron Abilene

505

505: Resurrection

Balls

Dead Awake (Coming Soon)

Before The Dead Awake (Coming Soon)

Carnival Game

Full Moon Howl

Donovan

Shades of Z

Deadeye

Deadeye & Friends

Cowboys Vs Aliens

Ferris

Life in Prescott (Coming Soon)

Afterlife in Love (Coming Soon)

Island

Paradise Island

The Lost Island

The Lost Island 2

The Lost Island 3

The Island 2

Pandemic

Pandemic (Coming Soon)

Prototype

The Compound

Slacker

Slacker 2

Slacker: Dead Man Walkin'

Texas

A Vampire in Texas

Thomas

Quarantine

Contagion

Eradication

Isolation

Immune

Pathogen

Bloodline (Coming Soon)

Decontaminated (Coming Soon)

Virus

Raising Hell

Zombie Bride

Zombie Bride

Zombie Bride 2

Zombie Bride 3

Standalone

The Victims of Pinocchio

A Christmas Nightmare

Pain

Fat Jesus

A Zombie's Revenge

505

The Headhunter

Crash

Tranq

The Island

Dog

The Quiet Man

Joe Superhero

Feral

Good Guys

Devil Child of Texas

Romeo and Juliet and Zombies

The Gamer

Becoming Alpha

Dead West

Small Town Blues

Shades of Z: Redux

The Gift of Death

Killer Claus

Skarred

Home Sweet Home

Alligator Allan

10 Days

Army of The Dumbest Dead

Kid

The Cult of Stupid

9 Time Felon

Slater

Bad Review: Hannah Dies

Me Again

Maurice and Me

Breaking Wind

The Family Business (Coming Soon)

Lightning Rider : Better Days (Coming Soon)

Lazy Boyz (Coming Soon)

Sparkles The Vampire Clown (Coming Soon)

From The Future, Stuck in The Past (Coming Soon)

Honest John (Coming Soon)

She's Psycho (Coming Soon)

Vicious Cycle (Coming Soon)

Romeo and Juliet: True Love Conquers All (Coming Soon)

Hunting Sarah (Coming Soon)

Random Acts of Stupidity (Coming Soon)

Born Killer (Coming Soon)

The Abducted (Coming Soon)

Broken Man (Coming Soon)

Graham Hiney (Coming Soon)

Paper Soldiers (Coming Soon)

Zartan (Coming Soon)

The Firsts in Life (Coming Soon)

Giant Baby (Coming Soon)

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Also By Aaron Abilene

Immune

Sign up for Aaron Abilene's Mailing List

Also By Aaron Abilene

Immune

Written by Aaron Abilene

The city, once a vibrant tapestry of human endeavor, lay in ruins—a decaying carcass under a sky smeared with the ashen fingerprints of a world that had burned itself out. Skeletal buildings jutted into the air, their steel bones exposed and rusting, like monuments to an age of folly. Nature, indifferent to human plight, clawed back the land; vines ensnared crumbling facades, and trees erupted through concrete, their roots prying apart the foundations of a fallen civilization. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and mold, mingled with the stench of decay—a perfume of desolation that clung to the remnants of the city like a shroud.

Through this post-apocalyptic wasteland walked Thomas, his massive frame casting long shadows across the broken pavement. At 6 foot 8, he was a monolith among men, muscles coiling beneath his skin with every deliberate step he took. His tattoos, a tapestry of intricate designs inked in black and shades of gray, snaked over his arms, chest, and back—each one a badge of survival, a mark of battles won, both against the living and the dead.

Thomas! A voice broke the silence, its owner unseen amid the tangle of nature's reclaim.

Speak, he commanded, not pausing in his stride, his voice echoing off the derelict structures.

Another group has been spotted, east of the river bend. They bear no allegiance, the hidden informant reported, deference lacing their tone like poison in wine.

Then they pose a threat. They must be reminded who rules these lands. The words left Thomas's lips without hesitation, his conviction resonating through the empty streets.

His thoughts turned inward, a fortress of self-assurance amidst the chaos. *I am law. I am the hand that protects and crushes. Without me, this anarchy would consume what little is left.* Each tattoo on his colossal frame was a story, a reminder of the order he'd forged from bedlam.

Thomas paused before a building mirror-like in its many fractured windows, catching a glimpse of his reflection—a titan draped in the vestiges of a world that had died. *They may fear me, but it is because they do not understand. Fear is the brother of respect.*

Shall we gather the enforcers? The informant’s voice pierced his reverie.

Indeed, Thomas replied, flexing his hands, feeling the power course through him. We will send a message that cannot be ignored.

As he continued forward, stepping over a twisted piece of rebar that had once held up more than just rubble, his eyes traced the lines of his own tattoos. There, wrapped around his forearm, was the image of a phoenix rising from the ashes—symbolic of rebirth, of new life from destruction. *That is what I offer. A chance for rebirth. For those who follow, there is hope... for those who oppose, there is only despair.*

Understood, my king, came the response, almost a whisper now, lost in the growth that engulfed the world.

Good. Gather them, Thomas's words were final, his presence alone enough to quell any doubts, his towering figure receding into the embrace of the overgrown urban jungle, leaving behind the sense of an indomitable force moving through a world waiting to be molded by his indelible will.

The sun hung low, a dull copper coin against the ash-choked sky. Its feeble light barely penetrated the dense canopy of twisted vines and leaves that had claimed the skeletal remains of skyscrapers. Below, in the shadows of this broken world, humanity clung to life by mere threads frayed and worn.

Remember Westgate, Thomas's voice boomed as he addressed the huddled mass of survivors in the remnants of what was once a grand plaza. His words echoed off the crumbled facades, a reminder of his unyielding authority. Those who sought to defy the order we've built here.

Among the crowd, eyes wide with terror, no one dared meet his gaze. They remembered Westgate well—a vibrant community that rose in defiance, only to be crushed under Thomas's heavy boot. The rebellion had been swift, its participants bold, but none were a match for the behemoth that quashed their spirit. The ruins of Westgate stood as a stark testament—a graveyard of resistance turned to dust.

Scavenge, hunt, defend, he instructed, his tattoos shifting with each powerful gesture, the inked lines telling tales of battles won and enemies felled. The living obeyed, scurrying away like rats from a lion, while the dead, those reanimated by some perverse twist of fate, lingered, silently acknowledging their master through hollow gazes.

Thomas watched them disperse, his clenched fists a testament to the control he wielded—control born from fear and solidified by strength. In this new era of darkness, might was the only currency, and Thomas was the richest man alive.

Water rations are depleting faster than we anticipated, a weary voice reported from behind him. Thomas didn't need to look to know it was Marcus, his second-in-command, a man whose loyalty was as unwavering as his own resolve.

Then we dig deeper wells, Thomas replied without missing a beat, his mind already strategizing the next move. And if the earth is dry, we take from those who hoard.

Always another plan, Marcus murmured with admiration laced with dread.

Survival doesn't pause for contemplation, Thomas retorted, his interior monologue silent but potent. *Adapt or die. That is the law now.*

As they walked through the decrepit alleyways, past the derelict vehicles overgrown with greenery, the stench of decay filled the air—a reminder of the state of society, where death was a closer companion than hope. In every shadowed corner and crevice, the desperate and the destitute eked out an existence on scraps and prayers.

Tell me, Marcus, Thomas began, his deep voice cutting through the oppressive silence, do you ever wonder how many more winters we can endure? How long before the thread snaps?

Only when I forget who leads us, Marcus replied, his tone a mixture of awe and genuine belief. You've forged a kingdom from chaos, my king. If anyone can sustain us through this purgatory, it is you.

Thomas's eyes scanned the horizon, the outlines of toppled buildings etched against the dying light. Beneath the façade of the indomitable ruler, there stirred a sliver of doubt, quickly smothered by the fire of purpose. *I have become death, the destroyer of worlds, to save what little remains.*

Let the others forget the warmth of the sun, the taste of clean water, he declared, his conviction spreading like a contagion. But not us. We will forge ahead, and I will lead the way.

Through force, through intimidation, if need be, Marcus affirmed, knowing full well the gravity of their path. Because without power, without fear, we are but whispers in the wind.

Exactly, Thomas concluded, his towering silhouette a monument to his reign—an emperor of ashes, commanding respect from both the living and the dead.

The desolate landscape lay before Thomas like a broken chessboard, each shattered remnant of civilization a square upon which he maneuvered. His dominion was an empire of rust and ruin, but it was his, carved from the chaos with the precision of a predatory beast. He stood alone on a jagged precipice, surveying his kingdom, his massive form a dark silhouette against the blood-red dusk.

Rumors have been circulating, my king, a voice cut through the stillness, its owner unseen in the shadow of the crumbled walls below. Some speak of defiance in the southern sectors.

Thomas turned, his gaze cutting to where the voice had resonated. A hint of a smile played on his lips as he spoke, his voice a low rumble. Defiance? Or desperation?

Both are dangerous in their own right, came the reply.

Then we shall extinguish both, Thomas declared. He descended from his perch, muscles rippling beneath his tattooed skin, each step deliberate and full of purpose. He approached the informant, a wraith-like figure emerging from the gloom.

Show me, Thomas demanded.

A nod, then movement, the two figures disappearing into the shadow-streaked labyrinth that was once a thriving city. They moved silently, passing ghostly silhouettes of those too afraid to draw breath too loudly.

In his mind, Thomas revisited the moment he had crushed the spirit of a rival faction—his hands, instruments of his will, had wrapped around the leader's throat, squeezing until loyalty replaced the light in his eyes. The memory fueled him, a reminder of the necessity of his actions.

Here, the informant pointed toward a dilapidated structure, half-swallowed by creeping vines. Inside, murmurs of dissent echoed faintly against the crumbling walls.

Watch closely, Thomas whispered, his tone laced with ice as he pushed open the door. The room fell silent, the occupants frozen like deer caught in the glare of an oncoming storm.

Your whispers carry further than you think, Thomas boomed, stepping into the dimly lit space, his hulking frame dwarfing the rebels. And I am not deaf to treachery.

Mercy, my king, one stammered, falling to his knees.

Mercy? Thomas echoed. The word hung in the air, hollow and devoid of promise. With a swift motion, he seized the man by his collar, dragging him close enough to feel his tremors. Mercy is a luxury of the past.

With calculated brutality, he hurled the rebel against the wall. The impact was a punctuation, a full stop to any thoughts of insurrection. The others watched, petrified, as their comrade slumped to the ground, a stark testament to the cost of defiance.

Let this be a lesson, Thomas growled, his tattoos seeming to writhe with his fury. Cross me, and your fate will be worse than death.

As he exited, leaving the rebels to their newfound understanding, Thomas allowed himself a brief introspection. Power was not just taken; it was wielded, shaped by fear and obedience. He could feel the weight of their eyes on his back, the dread he instilled mingling with respect—a toxic brew that ensured his rule remained unchallenged.

Spread the word of what happened here, he instructed the informant without turning to face him. Make sure it reaches every ear within these broken walls.

Of course, my lord.

Alone once more, Thomas let the mask of the tyrant slip slightly, revealing a glimpse of the burden he carried. To rule was to walk a solitary path, paved with the stones of harsh decisions and unwavering resolve. He knew the darkness of his reign would be a heavy cross to bear, yet he shouldered it willingly—for in this post-apocalyptic wasteland, only the strongest could carve out a semblance of order from the chaos.

As Thomas strode back toward the heart of his dominion, the ruins of a once-thriving city bowed beneath his shadow. The skeletal frames of crumbled buildings reached out like desperate hands, vines and moss claiming brick and steel in nature's relentless siege. This decay contrasted starkly with the fortified palace that rose in the center, an oasis of opulence amidst a desert of despair.

Your orders will ripple through the streets by nightfall, murmured Silas, his voice as smooth as the silk robes he wore, a privilege of his station as Thomas's chief strategist. His eyes, cold and calculating, never left Thomas's form, searching for any hint of the next command.

Ensure they echo louder than the cries for mercy, Thomas replied, his boots echoing on the marble floor that lay pristine, an affront to the filth beyond these walls. His thoughts churned with plans and contingencies, the machinery of rule that never ceased its grinding.

Of course, my liege. The deference was etched into every syllable, a testament to the fear and loyalty that Silas harbored—loyalty born from witnessing Thomas's raw power shape this fractured world.

Mara, the enforcer, fell into step beside them, her massive frame a mirror to Thomas's own. The clink of the chains at her belt sung a hymn of obedience—a sound well known to those who dared cross their king. They won't forget the lesson taught today, she said, her scarred face splitting into a grim smile.

Good, Thomas rumbled, the timbre of his voice carrying the weight of his authority. Fear is the chain that binds them to me.

The lavish dining hall awaited, a stark bastion of luxury where his inner circle convened. A long table set with fine crystal and silverware glittered under the chandeliers' glow, a mockery of the darkness that clung to the world outside. Servants, silent and swift, attended to the lords and ladies that sat waiting, their finery a spectrum of defiance against the backdrop of ruin.

Your throne awaits, sire, intoned Jasper, the young scribe whose quick wit and swifter quill had earned him a seat among the elite. His devotion to documenting Thomas's reign was matched only by his eagerness to please.

Let the others wait, Thomas commanded, his gaze sweeping over his council—a tapestry woven from threads of ambition and fealty. They were the chosen few, handpicked to stand by his side, to share in the spoils of a world reborn from ashes.

Tell me, he began, his voice cutting through the soft clatter of utensils and whispered conversations, what news of the outer districts?

Discontent simmers, but your might presses it down, answered Lucius, the master of spies, his voice a hiss that slithered through the air. And we've heard whispers of a cache of supplies—untouched, ripe for the taking.

Then we shall take it, Thomas declared, seated now upon his throne, a chair that seemed carved from darkness itself. We feast while others starve, because we have the strength to claim what is ours.

A silence fell, a reverence for the truth laid bare. Here, amidst splendor that mocked a world in shambles, Thomas's word was law, his desires the pivot upon which the fate of many turned.

Remember this, he thought, the burden of power a constant companion in his mind, In a kingdom of dust and death, it is not just about ruling—it is about remaking the world in your image.

Indeed, my lord, Silas agreed, as if privy to Thomas's internal musings. We are the architects of a new era, built upon the old world's bones.

Then let us build, Thomas proclaimed, his voice resonating with the certainty of a man who knew no equal, a monument to our indomitable will.

Long live the king, the council echoed, their voices a chorus of allegiance in a symphony of survival—the melody of a world reshaped by the iron grip of one man's resolve.

Thomas stood at the parapet of his fortress, his colossal silhouette a monument against the blood-red sky. Below him, the ruins sprawled like the bones of a once-great civilization. He remembered walking those streets, hand in hand with his daughter, laughter floating on the air that now carried only whispers of ash. The memory came unbidden, a specter from a life long dead.

Father, look! Her voice echoed in his mind, her small finger pointing to a puppy stranded amidst the rubble. The gentle giant that he was back then had lifted the trembling creature, offering comfort, a sanctuary in his arms.

Such kindness, he thought, a flickering candle in the darkness of his transformation, such weakness.

His reverie shattered as the clatter of approaching footsteps announced unwelcome news. Silas, his most trusted advisor, arrived breathlessly at his side, urgency etched into every line of his face.

Rebels, my lord, Silas gasped out. To the east—armed and advancing.

Let them come, Thomas rumbled, his voice the grind of tectonic plates. They will break against these walls as waves upon rock.

Your confidence is... inspiring, Silas stammered, but their numbers are not insignificant.

Numbers? Thomas scoffed, muscles tensing beneath his ink-stained skin as if ready for the battle to come. I have toppled greater foes on lesser days.

Indeed, Silas conceded, but they wield weapons scavenged from the old military caches. They could—

Could what? Thomas interjected, turning his piercing gaze upon Silas. Pierce this fortress? My fortress? Or perhaps you fear they aim to pierce your heart?

Never, my lord. Silas bowed deeply. I merely caution prudence.

Prudence... A ghost of a smile flitted across Thomas's lips as another flashback seized him. A time before brutality became his currency, when he'd embraced prudence and lost everything for it—the day he hesitated and saw his world set ablaze.

Prudence died with the old world, Silas, Thomas said flatly. His hands clenched into fists, recalling the flames that had devoured his past, forging him in their crucible.

Then how shall we proceed? Silas asked, awaiting the command.

Send word to the Night Watchers, Thomas instructed, his strategy unfolding like the wings of a predatory bird. Have them cut off the rebels' retreat. And prepare the Firebringers; their flames will remind these insects why they scurry in the shadows.

An ambush from behind and fire from above, Silas mused. Cruel. Effective.

Survival is cruelty, Thomas stated, his interior thoughts bleeding into his words. It is power. It is making the hard choices and staining one's soul so others might keep their hands clean.

Quite, Silas agreed, though unease shadowed his eyes, suggesting he knew too well the stains upon his own soul.

Go, Thomas dismissed with a wave, make the arrangements. I will watch from here as our enemies falter and flee.

By your will, my king. Silas retreated, leaving Thomas alone with the encroaching night.

As darkness fell over the land, Thomas pondered the irony of it all. He who had once healed wounded strays now orchestrated massacres. He who had cherished life now trafficked in death. Yet, even as the rebel cries reached his ears, a perverse pride swelled within him.

From compassion's ashes rose a kingdom, he whispered to the wind. My kingdom.

And as the first screams pierced the night, Thomas stood unwavering, a colossus amongst the chaos, the kind man swallowed by the king of both the living and the dead.

As the flames rose high into the night sky, casting an eerie glow on the shattered remnants of a world long lost, the living huddled in the shadows, their eyes reflecting the inferno that raged before them. They whispered amongst themselves, voices tinged with fear and reverence as they spoke his name—Thomas, the king who walked among the ruins as if he were a god descended from the heavens.

Look at him, one of the survivors murmured, her voice barely audible above the crackling fire. Even the dead pause at his command.

True enough, the shambling figures that once were men halted at the edge of the light, their hollow gaze fixed upon the towering figure that stood at the heart of the destruction. Thomas, with arms as thick as tree trunks and tattoos that told tales of battles won and enemies vanquished, regarded them with a steely calm. His presence was a fortress; his will, the walls that kept the chaos at bay.

Silence! The word boomed from Thomas's lips, a thunderclap that silenced man and monster alike. All eyes turned to him, drawn by the gravity of his authority. The dissenters have been purged. Their fate is a message to those who would defy my rule. There will be order amidst this ruin, or there will be death.

The crowd exchanged glances, their expressions equal parts terror and admiration. It was clear that Thomas commanded more than just fear; he had etched loyalty into their very bones with the force of his personality.

Remember this night, he continued, his voice a low rumble that seemed to emanate from the earth itself. Remember that I am the shield between you and the abyss. As long as I draw breath, no harm shall come to those who stand with me.

Amidst the throng, there was a collective sigh—a release of pent-up anxiety, for they knew that with Thomas, safety was assured, if only for a moment longer in this fractured world.

As the last echoes of his proclamation faded into the darkness, Thomas turned away from the sea of faces that looked up to him. He strode with heavy steps back towards the remnants of what was once a grand hall, his personal sanctum amid the desolation. His mind roamed inward, haunted by the ghosts of a past that seemed like a dream against the stark reality of his reign.

From compassion's ashes... he muttered to himself, the words catching in his throat. He knew the weight of the lives extinguished by his orders, each one a mark upon his soul.

Is this what power is? he questioned the silence of his chamber, his voice fracturing the stillness. A throne built on the bones of the fallen?

The flickering shadows cast by the torchlight seemed to dance in response, whispering to him of the journey that lay ahead. A journey not of conquest, but of redemption. Thomas knew the path would be arduous, fraught with internal struggles he had long ignored. To find religion, to confront his sins, meant peeling back the layers of the ruler to reveal the man beneath—the man he wasn't sure he recognized anymore.

Can salvation be forged from damnation? he pondered, his eyes tracing the intricate ink that adorned his body, each line a testament to a battle fought, a life changed, a sin committed.

Will the gods even hear my plea, or have I become too monstrous for even their mercy? The questions hung in the air, unanswered.

Thomas sat upon his makeshift throne, the warmth of the fire unable to thaw the chill that crept into his bones. A sense of foreboding enveloped him, a prelude to the internal tempests that awaited him. And as the night deepened, so too did the shadows within his heart, whispering of the arduous road to atonement that stretched out before him—an odyssey not just for power, but for the very soul he feared he might have lost.

The relentless wind howled through the fractured skeleton of a once-proud skyscraper, sending whispers of dust and decay spiraling into the throne room where Thomas sat, brooding. His massive frame, like an ancient statue carved from living stone, seemed to absorb the gloom that pooled in the corners of the vast, empty space.

Your thoughts are heavy tonight, my liege, came the voice of Marrow, his closest advisor, as he stepped from the shadows. The man's lean form was in stark contrast to Thomas's bulk, and his eyes were sharp, missing nothing.

Is it so obvious? Thomas's voice rumbled deeply, barely rising above the wail of the wind. He remained seated, the tattoos on his arms writhing in the flickering firelight like dark serpents.

Marrow approached, the soft clinking of his scavenged metal adornments punctuating each step. To me, it always is. You ponder the future, the path less trodden—the redemption you seek.

Redemption... Thomas echoed, tasting the word. It was foreign yet familiar, like a relic of a bygone era unearthed from the rubble. Can a man stained with the blood of a thousand conflicts truly wash himself clean?

Even the deepest stains can fade in time, if one has the will to scrub them away, Marrow replied, his tone uncharacteristically gentle.

Thomas unfolded his body, standing up with a grace that belied his size. He moved to the edge of the throne room, where the city lay in ruins beyond the gaping maw of a wall torn asunder. But what if the fabric itself is frayed? Can a tapestry be restored when the threads are worn and broken?

Perhaps the question isn't whether it can be restored to its former glory, Marrow said thoughtfully, joining Thomas at the precipice, but whether it should be woven anew, with stronger threads.

Stronger threads... Thomas mulled over this, his gaze drifting over the desolate landscape. His dominion was built upon fear and order amidst chaos, but now, the pillars of his power seemed hollow, echoing with the silent screams of those he had crushed.

Things will not stay as they are, Marrow spoke again, as if reading Thomas's mind. There are murmurs, dissent brewing like a storm on the horizon.

Let them come. The words were spoken with a cool detachment, but inside, Thomas felt the stirrings of a different battle—one against himself and the monolith of his past transgressions.

Be wary, Thomas, Marrow warned. The challenge will not just be from without, but also from within. Your struggle for redemption will test you more than any rival ever could.

Then let it test me, Thomas declared, his voice rising with a newfound resolve. I will face whatever comes with open eyes. If I am to be damned, I will not go quietly into that abyss.

Spoken like the king you are, Marrow said, clapping Thomas on the shoulder—a sign of camaraderie few would dare show.

King... Thomas whispered to himself as Marrow retreated into the shadows. He leaned heavily against the crumbling wall, feeling the coolness of the stone seep into his flesh. The ink upon his skin, once a badge of honor, now felt like chains binding him to the ghosts of his former self.

Will they follow a king on a quest for salvation? he wondered. His giant heart beat a thunderous rhythm, resonant with the uncertainty of the path ahead. Each throb was a reminder of the lives taken and the weighty crown he bore—a crown that might yet be his undoing.

Or will they see weakness and turn their blades upon me? The question hung suspended in the air, mingling with the dust motes caught in a solitary beam of moonlight that breached the darkness of the throne room.

Let them try, Thomas vowed silently, his fists clenched with defiant anticipation. I will carve a new kingdom from the ashes of my sins, or I will fall trying.

In the silence that followed, only the howl of the wind answered, carrying with it the scent of storms to come.

The wind carried whispers of unrest as Thomas stood at the precipice of his decaying balcony, gazing over the wasteland that was his domain. The moon hung low and blood-red, casting a sinister glow upon the fractured earth below. His kingdom, once teeming with life, now lay in ruins, a hollow echo of its former glory.

Your Eminence, a voice called out from behind him, the scouts have returned. They bring news. It was Grail, his most trusted advisor, his voice a steady chord amidst the cacophony of the dying world.