RIZEN: Tales of the Zombie Apocalypse Read Free

below the isolationist pods of
the survivalists, was the White Fist -- a group of white supremacists who
intended to eliminate the non-white, non-Christian portion of the remnants of
humanity in their small corner of the world.  And they did a very close job of
it. The Hispanic populations to the south stood clear.  The isolationists, to
the north, of course kept to themselves.  And the White Fist grew.
    The Hispanics and blacks and Jews they did not kill,
they enslaved in the slums of their cities, erecting forges and processing
plants to aid in manufacturing weapons of new and simplistic design.  They made
bullets that fit the old weapons as well as the new ones, and ammunition had
become their currency of choice.  Those who would not barter with it could
certainly be shot down with it.  The White Fist was not discriminating in how
they used their bullets, at least.  Those who refused to work were shot, those
who fought back were shot, and those who they bartered with were forced to
adhere to the White Fist code.           
    In the summer of the fifth year after the world
moved on, when White Fist caravans started being picked off by raiders, the
response was swift and brutal. 
    Traveling in between the towns of Arya, Paradise Sun
and Caucasia, the caravans were going missing with increasing frequency. 
Search parties would be sent out and the reports that came back were of vicious
ambushes.  Ten armed guards, one heavy machine gun in the bed of a truck, all
taken out.  The men had been beheaded.  The vehicles had been blown up, leaving
dark clouds flying in the desert sky.  Their ammunition had gone missing.  Over
a dozen patrols went down like this, sparking a campaign of retribution by the
White Fist against the Hispanics to the south. 
    The raids were a perfect excuse.  The racists had
their bullets and their clouded judgment.  The war was started without
negotiation, without appropriate intelligence in advance of the attacks, and
without mercy. 
    Jacqueline hadn’t sleep a wink in weeks.  She stood
on her dirt bike under the darkening sky, staring out at the smoke stacks in
the desert through tinted goggles.  She felt sick knowing that there were
massive patrols of White Fist soldiers hitting Hispanic towns as she waited to
go into battle. 
    She knew that the former Mexican nationals would hit
back hard, but the racists were wicked fighters, and would take no prisoners. 
    Jacqueline knew all of today’s bloodshed was,
largely, her fault.  She and the two dozen others who had conducted the actual
raids that sparked this war.  Antonio had been the one who had drawn up the
plan, but at any time she could have pulled the plug. 
    Originally her group had been hiding up in Houston,
just surviving, and when they had heard about the new cities to the south they
decided to venture out and explore. 
    Jacqueline herself had escaped Caucasia, though
she’d been originally admitted as “a fine specimen for the continuation of the
Aryan race.” 
    The way they treated everyone else who weren’t of
the same skin color, the same blood… it had made her stomach churn and her
vision flash red with rage.  On her way out of town in the dead of night, she
had stabbed two guards before fleeing across the desert in a stolen jeep.  She
would have rather faced the zombies in the city then the monsters in this new
colony. 
    Jacqueline returned to the temporary camp that her
party had built in the dessert.  The survivors had been hiding out in tents and
sleeping bags, waiting for word on these new towns. 
    She called them to a meeting and they listened to
the vivid accounts of starving men and women stumbling through arid streets,
being marched to factories and fed only bread and water, if that.  The slaves’
teeth fell out from malnutrition.  Their eyes seemed to sink into the back of
their heads.  The children died quickly.  So long as slave numbers were up,
White Fist militia officers were