Solo - Short Living Dead story

Note: The character in this story first appeared in a black and white comic book published in 1992. The story was "Necro Cops," and the comic was Codename: Heavy Metal. I wrote the story at the behest of the artist (Steve Likens) and used the title he'd suggested. The publisher's only two stipulations were that the story be "along the lines of George Romero's Night of the Living Dead, or Dawn of the Dead," and that it have nudity. We were told we'd be given our own title (the first installment being a backup story) if "Necro Cops" proved successful. I wrote two more installments (drawing the second story in the series, myself), but, although we later heard that the comic had indeed been a success, no second issue was forthcoming- let alone our own title. I was very fond of the characters I'd created, and hated to see them fall by the wayside, but there seemed to be nothing I could do about it. Then I discovered The Homepage of the Dead. What better home for Solo and the rest of the gang…?

He moved quietly for a man so big as he worked his way to the heart of the city. He avoided the bomb craters that pockmarked the streets, keeping to the shadows between the crumbling buildings. He paused at every corner to assess the situation before continuing on. It was warm, and his black skin glistened in the fading light. He paused at the mouth of an alley to contemplate his next move.

He had seen black smoke rising from the center of town earlier in the day, which meant that someone was in trouble. Though he preferred to go it alone, he couldn't find it in himself to ignore a fellow human being in distress. He looked up, but saw no smoke: whatever had been burning burned no longer. He lifted one heavily muscled forearm to wipe sweat from his brow. Maybe he was too late… He reached around to massage the back of his neck to try to relieve some of the tension he felt. He tilted his head from side to side. Veins stood out like cables on his thick neck. He ground his teeth.

Damn, I need some rest, he thought. He sighed and lowered his arm, stood gazing out at the rubbled street. Scars criss-crossed his V-shaped torso. He was naked to the waist but for a pair of machetes that he carried strapped to his back: the straps formed an X across his broad chest. He wore, also, a pair of threadbare camouflaged pants belted at the waist and black, military-issue boots.

The street before him was silent; nothing moved; even the air was stagnant. There were darkened doorways on either side of the street. A hundred hiding places… He ran a calloused palm back across his Mohawk haircut. If he wanted to reach the source of the smoke before nightfall, he would have to chance it. He eased out into the street. His dark eyes scanned his surroundings intently. The once mighty metropolis had been reduced to a lifeless necropolis: mounds of rubble were all that remained of some of the buildings; others stood ready to crumble at a moment's notice.

Solo moved along the wall nearest him and stepped into the first doorway he came to. There he waited, watching the surrounding buildings: if anyone- or anything- had seen him, he would know soon enough. He took a slow, deep breath and held it; let it out.

His head jerked toward the sound and he saw a zombie staggering from the darkness of a doorway. It was coming toward him, skeletal arms outstretched, mouth working hungrily; it groaned. He gritted his teeth as he reached back over his shoulder and slid a machete free. The blade had been honed to a razor edge. He crouched, watching the zombie make its way toward him, and the anger that drove him began to build. He hated the dead for reasons he could not codify except to say that they were dead. Seeing them walk like living beings infuriated him.

The zombie stepped, stumbling, over a mound of rubble. It had been a pizza delivery boy and it still wore its ludicrous little paper hat (albeit faded and tattered, now). A scabrous wound at its throat had apparently proved fatal. It clawed the air greedily as it drew near. Solo sprang, the machete flashing out in a quick arc. The zombie's head spun away from its body; the body stumbled and fell, blood pumping from its stump of neck, and lay twitching on the ground.