Merchant
Traveling Merchant Book One
William J. Seymour
Copyright © 2018 by William J. Seymour
All rights reserved.
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To Those Who Will Always Believe In Me. Even Through All The Darkness
Contents
1. Year: 2027
2. Five Years Ago
3. Five Years Ago
4. Five Years Ago
5. Today
6. Five Years Ago
7. Today
8. Five Years Ago
9. Today
10. Five Years Ago
11. Today
12. Five Years Ago
13. Today
14. Five Years Ago
15. Five Years Ago
16. Five Years Ago
17. Today
18. Five Years Ago
19. Today
20. Five Years Ago
21. Today
22. Five Years Ago
23. Five Years Ago
24. Today
25. Today
26. Four Years Ago
About the Author
One
Year: 2027
Location: Middle of Nebraska
Empty.
Alone.
The world is silent and dead. Only Old Man Winter calls your name, and then even he forgets who you are.
White tornadoes cross the road, and then disappear into the dark shadows of night. Cyclones of ice and sand skirt across a field of white snow and the cracked asphalt of Interstate 80. The tiny storms bounce between the rusted skeletons of cars and trucks that line the ditches and fill the fields like gravestones burned beneath mounds of white and shadow. Road signs sag and droop in misery and pain. Snow piles on their rusted edges, claiming them like it does everything else.
A golden beam of light sways with booted steps. Brittle snow crunches with each step but quickly reforms and fills deep impressions.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Merchant continues forward, head tilted to the ground. Stinging particles of ice pelt his bald scalp and weather-worn face. Jacket pulled tight to ward off the worst of the storm.
“You’re going to die out here, demon,” the ghost who trails him taunts.
Thick canvas Army bag shifts higher onto his shoulder. Heavy jacket ballooning open and steam rising from dark, exposed skin beneath a thin cotton T-shirt. Merchant does not bother to respond.
“The infected are going to find you and tear you to pieces,” the specter whispers, his lifeless breath tickling the back of Merchant’s ear.
A grunt escapes sealed lips. The steps of worn leather boots beat a rhythm over snowy pavement.
“I can hear them coming. Their hunger pulls them to you. Don’t expect me to help. I’ll be laughing as I watch you scream for mercy.”
Laughter like a cackling bird echoes into the night.
Glancing over his shoulder, Merchant watches the hazy figure of the dead man ripple in the wind. Dark hair and empty eyes, a void against the pale skin and snake head tattoo that blinks upon his neck where the empty sockets of his skull no longer work.
Nothing follows him but the cursed dead.
A solitary figure pulled across the abandoned bread basket of a county gone to Hell.
“You can feel them, can’t you?” the bastard ghost continues.
Like an itch he can’t scratch, Merchant grits his teeth and continues to ignore the annoying asshole.
A small flicker of light, yellow, but still only a speck against a veil of black, dances with the shadows.
Merchant stops. Cold fingers of ice and water run down his spine. His eyes search the light ahead. Still too far away to be noticed, he could avoid them if he wanted to.
North or south of the I-80 interstate is nothing but empty plains. Skirting whatever that light is by at least a mile would be easy. The worst he would find is isolated pockets of the infected. Those are avoidable. They will slow him down if they get the chance. Some will fight him every step of the way. If there are enough of them, he’ll be forced to backtrack a few times but, eventually, he will find his way back to the highway and be one step closer to his destination.
The other option is to continue forward. Boots to the frozen asphalt, he will find the source of the light, and to it be drawn like a moth to a flame.
“Another victim awaits us, demon,” the ghost’s voice sings within his head.
Puffs of breath escape his lips, a white cloud in the beam of his flash light. Merchant continues on his way.
Golden flames in the world of the dead.
Long shadows dance in an alcove formed beneath a toppled billboard pitched at a hard angle against skeletal oak trees. Branches stripped bare by weather and war. A hundred yards away from the highway, Merchant can feel the pull of his path trying to drag him back and on his way. He ignores it, as he often has to.
Merchant stands silent in the darkness, and the wind begins to sing a sorrowful song. Starting low, it reaches a high pitch and the temperature puckers the skin as it continues to drop. He does not move, the shadows and storm hiding his presence.
Watching.
Waiting.
A solitary figure moves behind the thin flames. A body only a tenth the height of the shadow that stretches across the torn advertisement.
Repent for he is the Lord
Words painted in golden letters that peel away like cheese beneath the teeth of a grater.
Canvas strap digging into his skin, Merchant steps away from the deep shadow and approaches calmly.
His footprints fall deep in the shin-high snow. He does not bother to call out for welcome or warning.
Crunch.
Crunch.
The individual gives no notice to his approach, or they hide it well. Slumped shoulders cradle a head hung low above the fire with an old trucker’s cap pulled tight against brown greasy hair. Long strands break loose around ear and neck. Winter coat, light-brown but stained with road grime, stretches over knees pulled close against chest.
“Find your own hole to die in. This is mine, and I will blast you from here to Hell and back if you think you are going to take it from me,” the woman says.
Merchant, ten feet away, stops with his toes in the light and his back still to the darkness.
Slender shoulders, now noticeable, move under the heavy jacket. Her arms crusted beneath ash and the fabric frayed to fibers around gloves with missing slots where the thumb and middle finger now burn red and threaten frostbite on her right hand.
“Hell I’ve seen,” Merchant says before taking a step forward. “I don’t plan on going back.”
She cocks her head to the side, one eye the color of steel peering out beneath a brim shredded to the board.
Tap.
Tap.
The double-barreled end of a sawed-off shotgun stares at him from beneath her jacket, ready to bark violence. Her lack of fear tells him whether it is loaded or not.
“We don’t always get what we plan want, stranger.”
Merchant nods his agreement before putting one hand up, palm out and shifting his canvas bag across his shoulder.
“Do you mind if I sit down?”
“Not much for listening, are you?”
“I’ve done my fair share of it. Never ended well,” Merchant says as he scuffs at the ground with a boot in much better shape tha
n the ones she wears. Clearing a last bit of snow that has not melted, he turns back the way he came. “Why start now?”
He sits down beside her, placing his bag between them. The barrel shifts on her knees but is not pulled away.
Ashes swirl around him, the smoke pungent in his nose, but welcomed.
“What do you want?” she asks, head tilted back to the ground and eyes on the fire.
“Fire is an easy thing to see out here. Will draw the attention of everyone and everything for miles,” Merchant says, his hands spread inches from the hungry flames.
“For miles?” She chuckles. “Only the infected can see out there in that mess, and if they even get a sniff of me, I’ll fuck their night up really good.”
The shotgun slides from her knees and finds its resting place by her side, inches from the hand she flexes for warmth.
“Infected aren’t the only monsters out there tonight. Still, the warmth is nice to have, even if it’s only for a little while.”
“And who the fuck are you? Preaching to me like some god-damn know-it-all.”
“Traveler, that’s all. Making my way west.”
“Fuck the west. Nothing but disease and death.” She spits into the fire. Sizzling phlegm mixes with the crackle of the burning fuel. “Why the fuck would you want to go out there?”
“It’s where I have to go.”
“Thought you said you don’t take orders from anyone.”
“Not an order. I’m going to get something that was taken from me.”
The woman shifts her seat on the hard ground before tossing another piece of dried board on the fire. A pile of wood, more sticks and bits of furniture than lumber, sits in chaos behind her. Another hour of flames, maybe two before they are left with embers and the rapid embrace of the storm.
“That is all there is left in this life. Take what you can and forget about anything you lose. Must be damn important if you are going to risk your life trying to cross this hell. Remember these words or you’ll be dead before you get the chance to regret them.” She blows snot from her nose and wipes the bit still stuck to her face with the back of her hand. “What’s your name or should I just forget you?”
“Does it matter?”
Her head tilts again and those eyes of hers, almost silver beneath narrowed lids.
“No, it doesn’t.”
She grunts and wraps her arms around her chest.
“You got any food?” Merchant asks.
He pulls his coat open enough to get his hand deep inside.
“No. You have any?”
Merchant glances around their tiny shelter. There appears to be nothing but her and her shotgun.
“Isn’t much, but you can have a piece if you want it,” he answers.
Hand length piece of jerky in hand, he watches her eyes glance at the meat, and then turn back to him. Not as hungry as she should be.
“What do you want for that? I’ve got nothing you don’t see in front of you, and if you have even the simplest thought of trying something…”
Her hand slides back to the shotgun.
“No price. I have enough for myself to get where I’m going. If you want some, you can have what you need.”
She eyes the bag that sits between them. With a huff, she reaches for the dried meat.
“I’ve told you a little about myself. What brings you out to the middle of nowhere? Something you want out here by yourself that you can’t find in the cities?” Merchant asks before placing a small piece into his mouth.
Dry and salty, the jerky is getting harder to soften as the weeks go by.
“Ha, there isn’t anything I want from anyone or anything,” she scoffs.
Shifting her seat, she turns until she faces ever so slightly away, the back of her shoulder to Merchant but still keeping him within her sites, she pulls herself into a tighter ball.
“Everyone wants something. Deep inside they know it’s there.”
“Fuck off, Preacher. You can take that shit somewhere else tonight.”
“Can’t do that. Storm is growing stronger and you have the only fire for miles. You can call me Merchant, if it is all the same to you.”
He adjusts his seating until he is marginally comfortable beneath the rotting boards and lets his legs straighten. Putting his hands behind his head, he lays back to stretch what he can around the fire. Boots sticking outside of the alcove, he can feel the falling embers landing on the worn leather.
“It isn’t, and I don’t need anything or anyone. That’s what I want. Everyone can fucking leave me alone.”
Merchant can hear a sob between the subtle shivering of the woman’s shoulders.
She won’t say anything more tonight, that he is sure of. Watching with the corner of his eye, he can see her pull out a small bundle from her pocket and shuffle the contents in her hands.
Closing his eyes, he lets the voices of the dead echo in his mind.
Yes, everyone wants something. Even a lonely survivor in the middle of the end of the world.
Two
Five Years Ago
Rain pings off the tin roof.
Rat-tat-tat.
Rat-tat-tat.
The heavens above open, and all the rain in the world drops down in a single storm. Puddles boil, and the air is heavy on the tongue and wet in the lungs.
Merchant tastes the iron and salt of blood between his teeth and pooling within his throat. His mind is clouded, and his skull feels cracked from crown to base, his neck feels broken and swollen stiff. Legs weak, he wants to fall to the ground and sleep, but they won’t let him.
Angry men. Squeezing his arms, they pinch, and he grows numb, the beating of his heart throbbing beneath his skin.
Numbness.
He wishes his entire body was numb, but he feels like he has been run over by a transport truck. Heavy tires pulverizing his bones into fresh paste, but the torture doesn’t seem to want to end that quickly.
A dark figure approaches from beneath the metal canopy. His captors stiffen with attention, but he does not have the strength to imitate.
The shadow dissolves and starched shoulders remain flat as the officer approaches. Green uniform goes dark instantly as he steps into the weather, no hesitation, all determination.
Water drips from Merchant’s nose. Focusing his blurry eyes, a dark drop falls from the tip and splashes in the mud. The water is ice-cold on his knees, but he doesn’t have the strength to move. Ripples make their way through the puddle at his feet. One, two, a thousand. Tiny waves that carry with them all of life’s choices and the mistakes we must pay for.
“There is our man. Thought you could just walk out of here, didn’t you?” the general asks.
Merchant can’t lift his head. He can barely move his lips. The ripples continue to spread.
Dirty, wet fingers dig nails into the skin of his forehead and pull his face up.
“Answer your commanding officer!” The soldier holding him by the right arm screams.
Spittle and blood leaks from Merchant’s lips, and he forces a smile.
Lightning cracks across the night sky. Thunder, the canons of the gods, rattles the branches above their heads. Dark leaves flipping in the storm, shiny in the single light bulb that burns above the tin roof. Steam lifts into the night sky off the vintage green guard that sways in the wind. A moving sun in the dead of night.
“Never been a man of many words, have you, boy?” the general asks, squatting until his face is inches from Merchant’s.
Four stars blink on stiff collar with the next flash of light that turns the darkness above into a colorless gray. Twenty men with rifles and dark heavy rain coats shift uncomfortably beneath the monsoon.
“Loose lips sink ships,” Merchant mumbles, his voice tearing at the flesh inside his throat.
“What was that, boy?” The officer puts a cupped hand to his ear. “I couldn’t understand anything between all the bullshit coming out of your mouth.”
Light flashes befo
re Merchant’s eyes, but not from the storm. Fire lances through his skin, and blood rushes over his tongue as the slap rocks his face to the side. Strength drained, Merchant slumps in the men’s arms.
They struggle to keep him from drowning in the mud.
“Pick that piece of shit up. I’m not done with him.”
A boot crunches the vertebrae in Merchant’s back, and he is forced to arch until his face stares at the rain that pelts his swollen skin. Blood and water mix on his face and his heart threatens to beat itself from his chest.
“Who did you tell? Who is your contact?”
General Gordon Steele reaches and wraps his hand around Merchant’s throat. Tiny storms lance through nerves, and blood pounds beneath the pressure.
“Tell me, you little piece of shit, and we’ll end this quickly. No one knows you are here. As far as anyone is concerned, you went AWOL and ran home to your family.”
Adrenaline surges through Merchant’s body, and he finds the strength to push his head forward.
“Ah, I finally have your attention. It was so shocking to hear what you did to them when you returned home to find your wife with another man. A real tragedy.”
Merchant snaps his teeth, ignoring the pain that racks his jaw and cheekbones. Both men struggle to hold him up. He reaches, stretching his muscles as far as they will go to let him fall on the officer and chew his throat out.
The general smiles, his lips stretching and his bushy white mustache straightening across red cheeks.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Merchant says between inhuman growls.
“The dog can speak after all,” the officer says before slapping him across the face again. “There is no saying what I would do if you force me. Tell me who you talked to and where to find them.”
Traveling Merchant (Book 1): Merchant Page 1
