Immune, p.1
Immune, page 1
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
Before The Dead Awake
Carnival Game
Full Moon Howl
Donovan
Shades of Z
Deadeye
Deadeye & Friends
Cowboys Vs Aliens
Ferris
Life in Prescott
Afterlife in Love
Island
Paradise Island
The Lost Island
The Lost Island 2
The Lost Island 3
The Island 2
Pandemic
Pandemic
Prototype
The Compound
Slacker
Slacker 2
Slacker: Dead Man Walkin'
Texas
A Vampire in Texas
Thomas
Quarantine
Contagion
Eradication
Isolation
Immune
Pathogen
Bloodline
Decontaminated
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
Lightning Rider : Better Days
Lazy Boyz
Sparkles The Vampire Clown
From The Future, Stuck in The Past
Honest John
She's Psycho
Vicious Cycle
Romeo and Juliet: True Love Conquers All
Hunting Sarah
Random Acts of Stupidity
Born Killer
The Abducted
Broken Man
Graham Hiney
Paper Soldiers
Zartan
The Firsts in Life
Giant Baby
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By Aaron Abilene
Immune
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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 th read 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.
