Part 1: Red Sand
"I walk through the fire, for you. Your fever, it cools me." - Scott Kelly, The Ladder in my Blood
The Sun beat down on the Earth like the wrathful stare of an angry god. To many humans, the desert had been the epitome of hell; hot and mostly lifeless. But for many of Earth's denizens, it represented perfection. It was the only part of the world that was still mostly pure, a stark contrast to the bustling metropolises that seemed to be filled with little more than violence and deceit. The hot Sun was a pure metaphor for the Dawn, the day when the new order had arose from humanity's ashes.
Across the plain could be seen two individuals; a man and his horse. They strode across the hard ground, a mixture of sand, gravel, and crushed bones. Melekath and his horse Aburson were on their way to the nearest city to trade some goods and meet with relatives. He was clothed from head to foot in the garments similar to what had been worn by Sahara nomads. Of course, this was technically the region once known as the American Southwest, but a beating desert is a beating desert. He carried a belt with several pouches around his waste, an assault rifle slung over his shoulder, a pistol one on hip, and a dagger on the other, plus there was a small knife in one of his boots. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes. Across Aburson's back were numerous goods to be traded. At first glance, there was nothing too strange about the pair. But upon looking closer, one could see their eyes shimmering blood red, a sign of Plagas infection. Underneath their veneers were deadly parasites that could emerge at any time to do battle. Plagas were the dominant lifeforms on Earth, but they did not go unchallenged, and they had to remain on guard at all times. Then again, everyone did.
It has been a while since I've seen my relatives in Godface, thought Melekath. Unlike many Majini, his family was scattered across North America continent. That did not mean that he would not make the rounds to visit them every couple years. For a Plaga, one's clan was the most important thing in the world, even more important than one's own life. The Kitabu Cha Mngu, the Majini holy book stated that one's family "was part of one's soul, bound by Mokoroth before time." To ignore one's family was not only anti-social, it was offensive to the gods. Thus Melekath was almost always on the move to visit his relatives, making the life of a wandering trader perfect for him.
Melekath noticed several beings off in the distance. Taking out his binoculars, he tried to make out what they were. Their awkward saunter and rotted skin were dead giveaways; Zombies, and not sentient ones. Millions of these undead things roamed the Earth; they were little threat by themselves, but if they swarmed you, you could be in trouble. As none of them appeared to be the swift-footed Crimson Heads, they were little threat. If he stayed far enough away, they might not even notice him. But there was no profit in that. Zombies often carried small items from their past lives that could be pawned at market. Grabbing his rifle, he moved towards them.
"Hey, shitskins!" he yelled. He wanted to get their attention so they would all move his way and would thus be easier targets. They turned towards him and began moving in his direction, moaning. He took aim at their heads and clipped off several rounds. Within a matter of seconds, it was over. He moved towards the corpses carefully; these things had tendency to get back up even after you thought you had put them down. As none of them were moving, he started rifling through their pockets. There were a few cell phones, a pocketknife, a small mirror, and some coins that could be melted. There was tons of paper money; it was all useless in the market, though he kept some to use as rags.
As night fell, he set up a camp for himself. After eating dinner and feeding Aburson, he poured out a liquid made of antifreeze and boric acid into the fire. The fire then blazed green. This was done as a ritual in honor of Ulo, Majini god of wanderers.
A little ways on, he saw more figures. They were not regular Zombies, as they all moved purposefully and without a limp. They were members of the Cult of Omnium. They only wore thin rags for protection, and carried no other personal goods. They did not beg, though they occasionally stole; they mostly lived by scrounging. Their philosophy was the since life was little more than suffering, there was no use in trying to work a better life for yourself. They accepted any hardships that came their way without complaint; what made them really unique is that they did not fight back when they attacked. In a world where violence seemed to be the only certain thing, self-defense was a necessity, and yet the Omnites rejected this. This made them easy prey for the monsters that roamed the wasteland, but they didn't care; indeed, they saw death as relief from suffering, although they strictly rejected suicide. They felt that accepting all that came your way gained the favor of the gods and led to a happy afterlife. To try to struggle to make you way in the world, they believed, disrupted the divine plan and only made things worse.
Most of them appeared to be enlightened undead (or Endead for short; Zombies that possessed intelligence), though there also appeared to be a Majini and a Tyrant. Unlike many religions, the Omnites did not discriminate on the basis of race, as they believed that suffering was a universal truth.
A few hours later, Melekath and Aburson finally arrived at their destination; the city of Godface. It rose up like a monolith to the cursed heavens, bearing the face of the king god, Mokoroth. Its grim facade was neither happy nor sad, but appeared simply to be resigned to the blackened world, a mute acceptance and nothing more
Fires and lights burned from the inside, either from dwellings or from random violence. Melekath moved towards the main gate.