Chapter 107: Thunder

WilyKat lies fitfully upon a makeshift bed of spruce boughs in the oppressive darkness of the moonless night. The thick needles prick at his skin as he thrashes about, his heart racing. Each twist and turn is a futile attempt to resist the nightmare that has plagued him since receiving the vision from the Sword of Omens.

Each night, the vision comes for him.

The vision was forever burned into WilyKat's memory. It was as if he were watching from behind, a mere spectator. The Thundercat was on its knees, its head hanging forward, its spotted black fur matted with blood. Mumm-Ra stepped forward, towering over the defenseless Thundercat. Suddenly, Mumm-Ra looked up as if sensing WilyKat watching. Mumm-Ra used his magic to suck the life force from the Thundercat at his feet. The once muscular frame withered into a skeletal husk.

That's where it begins.

Then it changes.

Shadowy, blackened hands of ghouls reached out from the stygian abyss, their bony fingers grasping desperately for the shriveled Thundercat carcass, their nails digging into the brittle skin, tearing it to pieces.

Then, the location changes from some other planet to Earth. A small outpost community is under siege by a growing number of growling, hungry, decaying zombies.

Two brave souls face off against a relentless horde, fear and determination in their eyes as they fight against impending collapse. They battle not for themselves but to shield the ones they love from the gaping maws of the undead.

Arterial spray fills the dark air like sinister, warm rain. The squelch of innards falling on the ground, combined with the howls and groans of the undead as they feast on the fallen, attracts more ghouls.

Screams of pain echo out into the cold ether.

Suddenly, WilyKat jolts awake, the cool earth pressing against his palms as his claws sink deep into the soil beneath him. A pulsating red glow fills the small clearing in which WilyKat hides. Eerie shadows dance in the otherworldly light. Heart pounding, he reaches for the Sword of Omens, the Eye of Thundera calling to him. Steadying himself, he raises it before his bloodshot eyes, "Sword of Omens, give me sight, BEYOND sight." At that moment, he feels the ancient magic of the Sword surrounding him.

As the guard curls upwards, the Sword unfurls its spell, opening portals that reveal glimpses of what is and what could be.

Through them, he watches helplessly as a horde surrounds a settlement. The walls begin to tremble under the sheer weight of the relentless zombies. With a chilling groan, the undead masses surge forward, their decayed arms stretching and clawing at the air as they try to reach the defenders atop the wall.

The vision changes.

The screams of survivors are silenced. He watches feet dragging through dark puddles of sticky liquid. He sees bloodthirsty ghouls hunched over the crumpled forms of the brave defenders, their lifeless eyes staring at him.

Then, it all ends as fast as it began.

The Sword of Omens returns to its slumber.

WilyKat knows what he must do.

Before it registers, he finds himself racing through the dense brush of the woods, a subconscious pull guiding his every move. The cool evening air brushes through his fur.

He is keenly aware of the sounds surrounding him: the rhythmic chirping of nocturnal insects and the rustle of small animals. As he dashes onward, startled birds burst from their night perches, angrily squawking as they retreat to the darkened sky.

Then, it all goes deathly still.

An ominous quiet ignites something instinctual within him, sending the hair on his body to stand on end. Yet, he is undeterred and continues racing on.

As he navigates through the shadows, he hears the unsettling moans of the undead as they begin filtering through the trees. His nostrils shirk as the smell hits him, the fetid aroma of death and decay.

WilyKat breaks through the forest, emerging in a field of knee-length grass. The undead trample large swathes of vegetation into the ground.

Realizing he had approached from the back of the settlement, he quickly advances toward the front, using the shadows of the encroaching forest to obscure his movements.

A makeshift wall encircled the community, constructed from an eclectic blend of materials: recycled fencing, wooden beams of varying size, large panels of plywood, several rusted shipping containers marked the sides of the main entrance, even old box trucks whose tires had been flattened long ago made up the bulk of the wall. The rest comprised hundreds of car tires stacked tightly and filled with dirt, rocks, and debris, and raised hunting blinds stood as guard towers at the corners.

The community is little more than a collection of a dozen quaint Cape-style homes on a small cul-de-sac. Outside the wall, the houses that once lined the streets are now little more than foundations. Someone had taken the time to ensure the remains of the neighborhood were gathered into piles of neatly sorted and stacked building materials.

The street into the settlement looked surprisingly well-maintained, showing signs of repair and upkeep.

Now, a growing group of zombies was pressing against the gate. WilyKat could see survivors—men and women—mounting a defense. The thrum of bow strings repeatedly sounded as the survivors shot arrows at the heads of the zombies, and others thrust long spiked poles into the skulls of the nearest ghouls.

Barely discernible over the groaning of the undead, WilKat could hear the cries of children inside the small settlement.

He watches as the volley of arrows decreases until he hears the last arrow released on its deadly flight into the gathered horde.

The massive gate shudders as the undead slam their bony hands against it.

One by one, the defenders disappear from the top of the wall.

The gate trembles.

He watches as two men stay atop, continuing to strike at the undead with the long pike poles, thrusting them down into the heads of the nightmarish creatures.

The gate bows, creaking ominously as the onslaught continues.

The echoes of the frenzied shouts from behind the wall rose.

The gate quivers.

WilyKat knows what comes next should the gate fail.

A cacophony of sounds assaults WilyKat's ears: the groaning of the undead, the creaking of the wooden gate, and the yelling of the survivors.

WilyKat steps out of the woods, unsure of his next move but knowing he must do something.

The Sword of Omens called to him. It guided his hand to the hilt. The cold metal felt alive as it pressed into his palm, and he wrapped his fingers around it. He carefully draws the Sword from its sheath, the Sword directing his movements.

He swiped the Sword through the air, invoking its power. "Thunder!" he commanded, and the blade ignited with a radiant glow, lengthening as its magic grew.

WilyKat slashed again. "Thunder!" Energy waves pulsed outward, the atmosphere crackling around him, and the Sword blade grew.

Once more, "Thunder!" he boomed, the Sword extending.

He raised the Sword high above his head. "THUNDERCATS! HOOOO!" The words roared, a rallying cry that reverberated through the air. Flocks of birds fled their night perches and ascended into the darkened sky as his voice echoed across the landscape.

The atmosphere crackled with energy as a massive, ethereal, shimmering red projection of a roaring Thundercat burst from the Eye of Thundera, a summons to any that could hear its call.

The undead turned as one and advanced on WilyKat as he stepped onto the road.

___________________

Elsewhere, not far from WilyKat, in a secluded part of the forest, a mysterious figure lay swathed in shadows, his body clad in black as if sculpted from the darkness. The mask concealing his face bore a striking resemblance to that of a cat, with sharp features hinting at a life filled with hard times. His hands and wrists were wrapped tightly with tattered strips of fabric, stained with dirt and darker things.

In the stillness of the forest, he lay asleep, oblivious to the world around him.

His dreams are filled with visions of cats and cat-people. They turn dark as something enters them. No, not something, someone. Tattered rags hang from the creature's body as it raises its desiccated arms. Energy swirls around the beast. It is older than humanity, something primal.

Red eyes turn toward the dreamer, who recognizes evil in its purest form: malicious, hostile, cruel, and corrupt.

Suddenly, a jolt of energy surged through him, pulling him instantly from the depths of sleep.

His eyes snapped open, ablaze with a fierce yellow light that pierced the darkness.

A wave of confusion washed over his features, etching deep furrows across his brow as he grappled with an instinctual pull that seemed to call out to him, a deep, resonating, primordial pull that gripped his soul, a call he knew he must answer.

Springing to his feet, he ran into the woods, abandoning his meager belongings. The dense wilderness seemed to respond to the urgency of an unknown force, as branches seemingly parted and foliage swayed aside as Mother Nature recognized a long-forgotten ancient call. He sprinted through the wood, heart pounding, guided by a power older than the magic that had ensnared him in its curse.

He bursts through the darkened forest to see the undead attacking a small village.

He stands to one side of a well-maintained road, the town lying at the dead end of a cul-de-sac. The rest of the planned community had been torn to the ground, little more than foundation slabs and stacks of bricks marking where the homes once lined the street.

In the middle of the road, a man faced off against the hungry horde. Their face was hidden behind a mask, bearing a red sigil on its forehead. It was a symbol he had seen in his dreams, a roaring cat. The fighter's eyes glowed a pale yellow as if lit by some internal light source. They wore a uniform of olive green and midnight black, yet there were hints of something metallic. The warrior swings a gleaming sword; even from the distance between them, he can see the curling guard wrapping protectively around a gleaming red stone. No, not a stone, an eye. The other hand was a massive clawed paw, the color of a tawny lion.

Something instinctual told him that it was this person who called to him.

As WilyKat fights the attacking ghouls, something in his periphery catches his attention; a black cat looks back at him from the tree line. The cat seems 6'5" and has at least 250 pounds of massive muscle. It carries no weapons, and its eyes lack the shine of the big cats.

The Sword tells WilyKit they will be the first of the new Thundercats, then urges him to focus on the battle.

The newcomer rushes into the fray.

The primal growls of WilyKat mix with the hungry groans of the undead, sending waves of terror crashing over the survivors who can hear them behind the town's walls. With each slash of the Sword of Omens, WilyKat dispatches a ghoul to the ground.

At his back, he hears the grunts of struggle from the black cat as it uses not its claws but its fists to strike the undead. He catches glimpses of the anonymous fighter as they battle the ghouls. Any creatures that get close enough to try to lock their jaws on the attacker find themselves struck down in a fury of ferocious blows, their teeth never getting close enough to sink in.

Desiccated hands stretch outward, and blackened nails, like beastly talons, strain to latch onto WilyKat. Broken, jagged teeth snap at the empty air, desperate for a taste of fresh flesh. Undeterred, he continues to dispatch ghouls, one after another.

WilyKat dares to look at the stranger fighting alongside him. He watches as the fighter unleashes an uppercut on a zombie that snaps its head back with such ferocity it is nearly torn from its shoulders.

The thunk of an arrow sinking in the decayed forehead of a shambling gray corpse brings his attention back to the fray. Cracked teeth had nearly sunk into his shoulder, and now the body lay crumpled on the hard earth, the shaft of the arrow swaying like grass in the wind.

The sounds of combat attract more ravenous undead from the surrounding wood. The gates no longer bow against the weight of the mass of decaying flesh, leading the terrified occupants of the small town to begin retaking their positions on top of the walls. The villagers' calls add to the cacophony of noise. More arrows start flying through the air as those gathered atop the protective barrier fire their bows, targeting the approaching undead to lessen their numbers.

WilyKat and the black-clad warrior press on, their movements fluid and determined as they battle the ever-diminishing horde. A growing number of the once-mighty swarm of ghouls lay on the ground, having been given over to true death.

After what feels like an eternity, the last of the horde finds its end, collapsing lifelessly to the ground, the top of its head missing. WilyKit surveys the scene, panting heavily from the exertion. He glances at his fighting partner, who sits on a nearby tree trunk, his breath calm and smooth.

As the swirling dust settles, WilyKat looks at the stranger. Hidden beneath a feline mask, pupil-less white eyes look back at him. WilyKat asks, "You're human?" as confusion sets in.

The masked figure straightens up and spits at the ground, dark liquid falling from his knuckles as he tightens the tattered wrappings around his hands. "Yeah, what of it?" he replies, his voice low and gravelly.

"Why did you come here? WilyKat questions.

The stranger's gaze narrows, grunting, "You tell me." A flicker of challenge ignites in his eyes.

_________________

In the suffocating darkness, two figures stand amidst the gruesome remnants of a horde of the undead. The stench of decay fills the air as an eerie silence takes over the landscape. They had fought valiantly against the relentless tide of ghouls that threatened to breach the gates of the beleaguered village. As they assess the aftermath, sweat-covered and weary, they ponder their next steps in this unforgiving world.

Just then, the solemn stillness was broken by the creaking of the heavy wooden gates of the community as they opened, their age-old hinges groaning in protest. Torches flickered like restless spirits, casting wavering shadows over the scene. A small group of men emerged in the dim light, their silhouettes stark against the darkness.

Most were armed with bows, the tips of their arrows glinting in the torchlight. Others clutched various hand tools, axes, picks, and sharpened stakes, their alert eyes scanning the darkness. They left the safety of their walls with the anxious shifting of their feet, each step carefully placed to avoid the remains of the undead coating the roadway in a grotesque slick of putrid liquid. A slight evening breeze rustled leaves in the distance as it wafted the stench of the undead away from the town.

An older man, his bald head glistening with sweat in the torchlight, steps forward. The flickering firelight accentuates the deep lines carved into his weathered face. A thick, gray beard frames his features, enhancing his rugged appearance. He wears faded brown cargo pants and a green button-down shirt. The rolled-up sleeves reveal arms covered in tattoos and sinewy muscle earned by manual labor rather than the gym. His body language is cautious but grateful as he extends a calloused hand to WilyKit. "Thank you," he says, his voice low and sincere. "I don't know what we would have done if you two hadn't shown up."

WilyKat hesitated momentarily. His time on this planet had taught him to conceal his striking amber cat eyes beneath the shadows of his mask, but tonight, he met the man's gaze directly. His eyes shone brightly in the reflected firelight. The older man's eyes widen in surprise, but it quickly passes as quickly as it appears. "You're welcome," WilyKit responded, his voice calm but resonating with strength and leadership.

"Please, come in," the man urged, "We don't have much to offer, but we'd like to repay you somehow."

WilyKat hesitated, his instincts telling him to leave this place.

Seeing the tension, the older man glanced uneasily into the creeping darkness. "We really should get in before any more of them decide to show up," his determined eyes scanned the night.

With a nod, WilyKat stepped forward, "Lead the way."

A relieved smile spreads across the man's face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Follow me," he says.

As WilyKat followed, he looked back at the black-clad stranger; with a slight huff, he stood and followed them inside.

Once inside the village, the gates close with a thud as a giant crossbeam is dropped securely, spreading a sense of relief over the villagers.

"I'm Chuck," the old man introduces himself, sweeping his hand toward the surroundings. "This here is Riverwood. What's left of it anyway"?

The village appeared to comprise little more than a dozen residences. Once a middle-class neighborhood made up of Cape-style houses with small one-car garages, some attached with breezeways between the home and garage lined either side of the street, the asphalt here looks as new as the day it was installed. The village houses showed well-planned reinforcements. All the first-floor windows were covered with brick or thick plywood, with shooting ports. Fighting positions made from stacked bricks and sandbags were on either side of the main gate.

Now, the condition of the homes outside the wall made sense. The occupants had been using the materials to bolster their community.

As the trio stepped further into the village, a handful of sharp-eyed residents emerged from the homes, like spirits summoned from the rubble. Children were among the men and women, a rarity in the post-ZomPoc world. Their eyes reflected a complexity of emotions: fear, distrust, tentative relief, and something WilyKit couldn't quite name.

It took a moment for him to realize they weren't looking at him but rather his companion.

A burly-looking man with a crooked nose stepped forward. Deep-set eyes glinted from under a heavy brow, and muscles rippled beneath his skin like a coiled snake readying to strike. The AR-15 slung to his back appeared almost comically small against his massive frame. WilyKit guessed he stood two inches taller than his new companion and boasted at least 20 pounds of muscle over him. The man's predatory gaze tracked his every move. A hint of wickedness hid behind the look. "You're Wildcat, aren't you?" he asked, his voice low and filled with intensity.

"Yeah," Wildcat replied, standing a touch taller, hands relaxed at his sides, feet shifting almost imperceptibly.

The man extended his massive, calloused hand, a jack-o-lantern grin spreading across his face. "I watched all your fights. I'm a huge fan." He shook Wildcat's hand firmly. "Did some fighting myself," he reached unconsciously for his crooked nose as if remembering another time. "Never rose to your level. You're a legend."

"Thanks," Wildcat replied, a trace of humbleness breaking through his gruff exterior.

WilyKat looked at his companion, the name Wildcat rolling around his mind. He thought, "Wildcat. Clearly, he's human, yet he is the ally the Sword of Omens revealed to me. Could he really be part of the next generation of Thundercats?

"C'mon, let them be," Chuck interjected, stepping forward to shoo the giant survivor away. He turned to WilyKit and Wildcat, and his demeanor was that of southern hospitality. "Let's get our guests some iced tea," he gestured for them to follow.

"I could use some iced tea," Wildcat added gruffly. His eyes lingered on the big man as he walked away.

Silence fell among the trio as they walked away from the entrance. The only sounds were the quiet noises of the villagers drifting through the air. Tom stopped in front of a small home that had seen better days. Once, it had worn a coat of bright white paint with blue shutters; now, the paint had chipped and faded in some spots, revealing the wood beneath. Only one shutter remained attached, while the others had been used to reinforce the lower windows. The small front yard had been converted into several raised garden beds, a green haven among the decay of time. Though missing a few pickets, a white fence still wrapped around the property.

"Wait here," Chuck said, opening a small gate that squeaked in protest. He walked up the creaking steps of the porch and returned moments later with several folding chairs. Wildcat swung the gate for Chuck, and they arranged the chairs on the cracked concrete on the battered sidewalk.

Just then, a young man, possibly a teenager, approached with a pitcher of iced tea and several plastic cups held carefully in his hands. "Here you go, sir," he said respectfully, his voice barely above a whisper as he handed them to Tom.

"Thanks, Jimmy," Chuck replied warmly, but the young man's eyes were glued to the newcomers. "You run along now, Jimmy. Go take a post on the tower. We can't afford any more surprises," he added, giving the boy a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir," the young man stuttered before hurrying away, casting glimpses over his shoulder as he left.

"Nice kid, that one," Chuck remarked, watching the boy disappear into the shadows of the village." He lost everyone in his family," he began. He poured the tea over real ice, a luxury at the end of the world, offering one of the cups to WilyKit, "It's gonna be awful hard to drink through that mask, son."

"I'd rather keep it on," WilyKat replied.

"It's okay, son. We heard about you," Chuck assured him. "You're that cat man, aren't ya?" He pressed the cup into WilyKit's hand. "You just saved our asses, son, won't be no judgment here."

"Thundercat," WilyKat corrected with pride before carefully removing his mask. "Name's WilyKat." His caramel-colored facial fur shines under the pale orange glow of a tiki torch unceremoniously stuck in the ground. His sharp canines glinted as he spoke, and he shook his head, ruffling his majestic mane of rich red and cream-colored fur with two streaks of black running through the middle. His ears perked up, finally free from the confines of the mask.

"Shit, son, you ain't no lil' cat," Chuck said, a hearty laugh escaping him as he took in the majesty of WilyKat. Rob raises his plastic cup, "Here's to new friendships." Wildcat raises him as the pair looks at WilyKat, who slowly raises his own. "Cheers," Chuck says as he taps his cup against theirs, then sips his tea.

They spend the next hour sharing stories of their lives.

WilyKat regales them with tales of growing up on Thudera, the treacherous escape, crashing into Third Earth, and their eventual return to resettle on New Thudera before the attack that destroyed Third Earth as they visited. Absent are stories of the trip through a Stargate that spat the Thundercats out on Earth.

Wildcat told stories of his prestigious boxing career, the curse, his time with the Justice Society, the heroes he fought alongside, and the villains they thwarted.

Chuck has other stories to share, including his time serving overseas during Desert Storm, Operation Iraqi Freedom, Operation Enduring Freedom, and countless other locales. He tells of his recruitment into a special operations team, G.I. Joe, where he served as lead Combat Engineer.

"Well, gentlemen, I think it's time for me to hit the hay." he shakes each man's hand as they stand. "You'll find beds in the house across the street. No one else is using it currently." He nods to a tan house, a mirror image of his own.

"Thank you, Chuck," WilyKat says.

"Don't mention it."

Chuck turns to make his way inside.

Jimmy returns and pulls open the protesting gate, clearly in a rush. "Sir," he takes a deep breath. "Sir, something is out there." His hand visibly shakes as he points toward the wall.

Chuck freezes, "More zombies?"

"No, sir. Just... something," his eyes are wide in fear. "I don't know how to explain it; we can't see it, it's fast, and it keeps smashing into the gate."

Chuck turns toward WilyKat and Wildcat, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

"We'll check it out," WilyKat offers.

"I'll come with you," Chuck offers. "Just give me a second." He walks up the squeaky steps to the porch once more. When he returns, he has a giant sledgehammer, "This here is Ol' Betsy; she's seen some stuff."

WilyKat nods in understanding. They walk the short distance back to the gate.

Waiting for them is the imposing figure of the giant survivor from earlier. Now, he stands proudly, his muscular frame bare except for two spiked, studded belts that cross over his broad chest. A massive serpent tattoo coils intricately across his back, its sinuous form etched in dark ink. He wears blue camouflage pants, the fabric rugged and showing signs of extensive wear, tucked into polished black boots that gleam in the moonlight. In his left hand, he grips an intimidating-looking helmet, spikes running down the center of it.

At his side, a little girl, no more than five years old, clings to his right pinkie finger with a grip full of innocence and affection. Her wide eyes, sparkling with admiration, love, and fear, gaze up at him.

"Daddy," the single word, holds layers of meaning and emotion.

The big man kneels before her to meet her eyes, "Don't worry, darling. You go with mommy. Daddy's new friends will make sure I stay safe." His voice is deep and reassuring as he gently kisses her head. In response, she grabs him, wrapping her tiny arms tightly around him in her best attempt at a bear hug, squeezing as much love as possible into her father.

Nearby, a woman steps forward, her auburn hair neatly pulled back into a tight braid that accentuates the beauty of her face. Her chestnut eyes shimmer with unshed tears as they flicker between her husband and their child.

He places a large hand on her shoulder, the warmth and strength of his touch meant to reassure her, "It'll be okay. I promise."

He swiftly lifts the little girl in his arms and tenderly pulls his wife into a firm embrace that speaks volumes.

The little girl giggles, her laughter cutting the tension of the moment. "Family Hug!" she squeals in delight, her joy infectious.

Her mom gently takes her from her dad's arms, saying, "Come on, sweetheart, Daddy's got work to do. "She encourages her daughter and leads her back to their small home.

Chuck glances at the towering man beside him, "You sure about this, Bob?"

Bob's expression is resolute, "If you're going, so am I."

With a nod, Chuck pivots and raises his voice, commanding, "Open the gate."

The gate groans as the heavy bar is lifted, and with a reluctant creak, it swings open to reveal a pile of debris; rocks, small logs, and broken bricks litter the ground. The road beyond leading out into the empty darkness beyond.

The four men step out into the cool air, their breath forming misty puffs in the darkness. Jimmy, trailing behind, points out into the inky blackness, "It just keeps going past."

Chuck turns slightly, "Thanks, Jimmy." He squints into the night. "Close the gates," he commands.

"Over there," WilyKat nods toward the woods to the south, where something shines in the dark and disappears.

The heavy gates thud behind them with a finality that echoes in the quiet night. The sound of the massive crossbar dropping into place signals their departure from safety. The four stand exposed on the open road, adrenaline coursing through their veins once more, stealing their wits to face whatever is staring back at them through the darkness.