Traveling Merchant (Book 1): Merchant

by Seymour, William J.

  “My family. Leave them out of this!”

  A fist as hard as a stone crunches into the sweet spot between Merchant’s stomach and chest. Air, blood, and life forces its way from his lungs, and the men let him drop face first into the dark puddles.

  Gasping at breath he can’t find, thick liquid fills his body, and he struggles to breathe as he drowns in three-inch water.

  Arms wrench his shoulders, and they pull him back to his knees.

  Coughs send a black spew across a perfect uniform.

  “Leave them out of this!” Merchant screams, though the words ring hollow in his own ears.

  The general wipes at his chest, drips of vomit and mud running rivers down his legs.

  Merchant sucks in the humid air. His lungs scream as he struggles to bring in enough to stay awake.

  “You are the one who brought them in when you refused your orders.”

  Fingers pinch his cheeks and crack a tooth. More blood floods his mouth, and he coughs droplets all over the senior soldier’s face.

  “We knew where they were so we knew where you would go. Tell us now, and we’ll spare you the nightmare.”

  Pain sears its way across Merchant’s face. He tries to mouth the words, but his jaw will not connect and his tongue is swollen.

  “Fuck’en A, boy. Spit it out already.”

  “My family.”

  A shadow runs in from behind the soldiers who stand watch. Water drips from his dark poncho, and his face is obscured by thick cloth.

  “General!” The stranger salutes.

  “For fuck’s sake, can’t you see that I am busy here?”

  The soldier doesn’t answer. His hand remains stiff against the cowl of his coat.

  “Get on with it then,” the officer barks.

  The general turns away, and Merchant’s head slumps. He watches as his blood mixes with the temporary river they are all standing in.

  “They are coming, sir,” the messenger says with a voice that is not his own.

  Merchant recognizes that tone. Familiar and far too cocky to be from a soldier.

  “Who is coming?”

  “The infected are coming for you, demon. I can smell their hunger.”

  Merchant lifts his head and Snake-Eyes stares with his dead eyes from the heavy cowl. The tattoo on his neck continues to blink, and the general turns back around.

  “The infected are coming, demon,” Snake-Eyes says again.

  Light flashes across Merchant’s vision, and everything goes dark.

  Merchant snaps awake, the echoes of the memory still screaming in his ears. He pushes himself up until he is seated, bones aching, cracking and stiff. The sky is a lighter shade of blue in the east, the first warnings of the new day that will soon arrive.

  Cold ash swirls in the morning wind, its bitter bite scratching the skin of his bald head. Next to him, the women snores. Her breathing is shallow and even. The oily barrel of her weapon remains silent, the stock and trigger inches from her resting hand.

  “They are here, demon. I’m going to laugh when they tear you apart,” the ghost brags, and the snake eyes on his throat blink.

  He sits beside the woman, knees pulled to chest, he claps with excitement.

  The air is silent. Merchant can feel his nerves on edge, razor sharp and ready to pounce. Nothing approaches. Rough canvas soothes his burning skin and various collected belongings rattle as he pushes himself to his knees. His hand grips his bag tight. Such a burden it has become, but only he can carry it.

  Like a tidal wave, they attack from both sides of the shelter. He is on his feet in a flash and driving into the first wall of bodies as they turn the corner.

  Crazed men and women scream.

  Frantic wails of hunger and rage.

  The first dies, head spun until his chin rests between his shoulder blades. A second wraps Merchant in a bear hug, muscles squeezing tight and bones cracking.

  Merchant’s skull crunches cartilage and infected blood sprays across the frozen ground. More monsters barrel in. Dirty hands grabbing for limbs and clothes. Merchant kicks and one falls, knee twisted and bone ripping through skin.

  Pressure builds, and it becomes harder to breath. A woman screams and attackers rage. Teeth, rotted into points and bleeding gums, are bared, and a man snarls.

  Boom!

  Red mist floats in the air and the body staggers. Shoulders shake before the headless form falls with a thud. Merchant bends forward and tumbles into a roll. The iron embrace that has him breaks his descent. Arms loosen. Head cracks against jaw, and he is free.

  Back on his feet. Dodging arms and punching for throats, he moves without exhaustion. Another bark of the shotgun. Blood and tissue fly, and more bodies drop.

  Angry words threaten. Snarls and screams answer. Space begins to fill. Merchant can’t push them back. One falls and two fill in. Jacket is pulled until it hangs from one shoulder and shirt is ripped. The taste of blood fills his mouth, and he can feel it running down his arms.

  Heads, shaven or going bald, sway as the bodies push forward. The entire world has come for them. Merchant’s fist cracks against jaw. A tooth goes flying, and the man smiles, blood streaming between the new gap.

  “Let me go!” the woman screams.

  Merchant turns. They have her lifted into the air. Arms and legs kicking, she bites a finger. Blood flies with the falling digit.

  Pain floods through Merchant’s body. Fist to stomach, he topples to his knees.

  They are dragging her away.

  He deflects the next arm and spins the body away. Light erupts across his face. Wood cracks, and Merchant falls. The strength drains from his body, but her screams continue. He tries to push the ground away.

  The branch snaps against his back. Arms will not move. Blood and dirt fill his mouth. Her voice is only an echo.

  She is gone.

  Merchant turns his head.

  They look down at him. He snarls.

  The world goes dark.

  Three

  Five Years Ago

  Light breaks in like a thief in the night. A tiny hole beneath a steel door. His personal little secret. Unnoticed and forgotten.

  Merchant watches the little stream of life flicker as booted feet march past. Pain has finally turned to numbness. Everything in his body is torn. All his bones are broken and the taste of blood is in the air.

  In his mouth.

  On his tongue.

  Part of him wonders if there is still any left in his body, or is he a ghost living his hellish punishment until the end of time? But that can’t be correct. The explosions and gunshots, men screaming and dying, ended hours ago. Or was it minutes? He can’t tell.

  The enemy was coming. It’s all he knew before they threw him into this cell.

  He can’t stretch his legs. Seated, his knees press up against his chest, making it hard to breathe. Laying down on the cold, hard earth relieves the pressure, but the moisture trapped within his tiny room chokes him anyway.

  Why don’t they kill him and be done with it?

  He deserves death. He needs death. He wants it more than he did the first time he was with a woman. Every fiber that still works within his body is on fire and begs for its final release.

  Men talk on the other side of the steel. Unimportant bullshit about duties they are forced to do and whose ass is being kissed to get a better seat at the table. Merchant wishes they would just be quiet. Let him die in peace, but then he’d be alone. In the darkness with nothing but his thoughts and memories that call to him from the shadows.

  His wife and children running from the front porch of their home. Down the cobblestone path he took a summer to build. Bright eyes and happy squeals. His wife in that flower sun dress she always wore even in the dead of winter. Whenever he would arrive home from deployment, there she would be, cloth swirling in the air. His very own Marilyn Monroe. Deep red with purple lilac flowers printed along the side up to where the fabric gave way to her bare shoulders. He could
still smell her perfume. The way it enveloped him whenever he wrapped his arms around her petite frame, burying his face into that spot on her neck that made her purr and hold him tight. The warmth of her red hair falling over his smooth scalp and across his face.

  All of this was gone. They were dead, and it was because of him.

  Merchant wants to kick, lash out, but he is on the ground like a child. He hasn’t the strength to move nor the tears to cry.

  When would they come for him? Would they come for him or was this his sentence? To die a slow agonizing death behind reinforced walls where no one will find him for years if he is lucky?

  He takes a deep breath, and his mouth fills with the taste of dirt and iron.

  No, they will not leave him here. The general is not done with him. He smiles at the thought. If he has anything left, he will use it against that man. They know the strength of his body is gone. All of them are certain they have broken his will and wait for him to be putty in their hands.

  Pain and torture, he has endured. God knows he has done enough of it in his own time. Now, he will watch them burst with frustration. Things he can barely imagine will be done to him, but he will resist. He must. It is all that he has left.

  Men go silent.

  Hard tack boots snap together.

  The light, his tiny secret, burns bright until the darkness approaches. A slight graying that quickly becomes a daunting darkness as the pace quickens.

  How many are coming?

  Merchant tries to roll so that he is seated when they come for him. His muscles cramp and tear. He cannot move.

  Metal locks turn and dust falls onto his head. Hinges scream, and the scorching rays of the sun blind Merchant. Dried blood and dirt cake the hand that shields his eyes. All of a sudden, he is reminded how thirsty he is.

  “Get this piece of shit off the ground.”

  The orders are barked. Men hustle from both sides of the door. Shadows lost in the searing light as hands tear at his shirt and pull him from his cage.

  “Didn’t think we were done with you, did you?” the voice asks.

  Merchant doesn’t have the strength to stand. His bare feet drag across rock and hardened dirt.

  “The general has a few last things to ask you.” The voice is inches behind his ear. He can feel the breath, wet and sticky against his neck. “Play nice and we can end all of this. Keep up this silent bullshit and you can’t imagine what he is going to let me do.”

  The man chuckles.

  Merchant spits fresh blood at the dirt trail that passes slowly under him.

  “Fuck you,” he mutters as spit drips from broken teeth.

  “That’s it, boy. Keep fighting. They don’t call me the Dog Breaker for nothing,” the stranger says.

  Laughter fades as Merchant is carried away. Buildings pass, and the sound of soldiers marching and preparing begins to blow away with the wind. Lifting his head, he musters what strength he can to see where they are going.

  A clearing on top of a hill. A solitary tree sits atop the ridge. Peaceful in its simplicity.

  Why hasn’t he noticed this before?

  Seated in a simple chair beside the tall tree with its full, perfect crown is a shadow that waits. He knows who is up there, and he hasn’t the will to fight back.

  Blood melts snow. Bright red at first, but then dark and black as it pools below his face. Pain wrecks his body. Cuts and bruises swelling as Merchant pushes the ground away, lifting himself until he is seated.

  “Thought they were really going to finish you off there,” the ghost says.

  Merchant turns to look at the annoyingly dead man. With his wild sneer stretching across his face and that damn tattoo on his neck.

  Always blinking.

  Always watching.

  The ghost is seated where the woman had sat that evening. His translucent body flickers as he picks at dirt beneath his nails. Flicking, he sends the grime flying to disappear in the space between his world and the living.

  The sound of snow tumbling and falling breaks the silence of the day.

  Morning light burns its way across the sea of snow and ice. Like golden fire, the east is a flame across the entire horizon, and the temperature refuses to play her part. Merchant can feel the brisk frost biting at his skin and irritating his newly acquired wounds that decorate him like tattoos.

  Bodies lay scattered around him. Men, women, and some he cannot tell the difference. All of them no longer move. Torn parts lay scattered in the slushy red snow that surrounds the long-extinguished fire.

  “These bastards don’t usually get such an upper hand on you,” Snake-Eyes says. He gazes at the corpse he sits on. His attention draws Merchant’s to the figure lying face down, back blown apart. “If only I was still alive. I would have joined in on the fun. Kicked that sorry ass of yours.”

  A sigh like a disappointed child escapes translucent lips.

  A growl rolls from Merchant.

  Reluctant to accept a dead man’s opinion, Merchant moves to where the ghost sits and rolls the dead weight onto its back.

  Flesh, guts, and blood pull out as the lifeless sack of meat lifts from the icy turf. The bullet hit bone, exploding the man’s chest like a watermelon of tissue and gore.

  “Well, isn’t that interesting,” Snake-Eyes says.

  His face hovers over Merchant’s shoulder, and the eyes of his tattoo continue to blink.

  Infected skin stretches over the man’s body. Scales as tough as leather ripple the man’s left arm and up the side of his neck. The hole in his chest peels back with infection, muscle as hard as granite flexed taut even in death.

  Merchant searches the body. Not that the infected carry identification with them, but it is a start. Pockets are empty, but some of the clothes are still in moderate shape.

  Infection attacks the brain and molds the skin into a tough living shell while the body starves on the inside. Whoever this was, he is still a big man, and a heavy corpse as Merchant works the denim along muscle and bone beginning to stiffen beyond help.

  “Our little mystery here keeps getting better,” Snake-Eyes says.

  He pops up, his body forming by the dead man’s head. He begins to pick at the same nail on his hand that he is always cleaning.

  On the left thigh, six inches from the knee, Merchant notices a bullseye of scarred flesh. Red, puffy, and oozing, the brand has never healed. Merchant lifts each leg, but there are no other marks.

  “Now who would go around branding the infected. Back when you hadn’t killed me, we couldn’t rid ourselves of them fast enough.”

  Snake-Eyes flicks another piece of dirt from his nails and watches it disappear.

  Merchant takes a deep breath. Regardless of the cold, the smell of rot and death is beginning to build and fill the area. He hates to admit it, but the asshole is correct. These infected are not the same. Looking down at the body, and then at the others scattered below the billboard, he can’t help but wonder how this is different.

  “Funny thing is, how they didn’t finish you off,” Snake-Eyes says.

  He’s walking now. Chewing on the tip of his finger and gingerly stepping over the stiff corpses and avoiding the pools of blood.

  “Why didn’t they eat you or something. I mean, I’m not gay or anything, but there seems to be plenty of you to go around. If I was hungry enough, well…”

  The ghost lets the thought hang, forcing Merchant to peer over at him.

  “What? I’m telling you I fucked more women than you can count back when my pecker still worked, but when a man needs to eat, he is going to find the biggest meal he can find,” Snake-Eyes continues, his arm sweeping over the horizon. “Out here, you are as big as they get. Unlike that girl they took, all skin and bones. You know, I wouldn’t have even spared her a glance before you threw me out that window. Now, I tell you, even some of these monsters look enticing.”

  The asshole taps at this crotch like he’s checking to see if there is anyone home.

  �
��The girl,” Merchant whispers and begins to look out across the horizon.

  Snow stares back at him with eyes bright enough to burn. An endless world of white.

  Flat.

  Boring.

  Dead.

  “Oh, don’t you go worrying that ugly cue ball head of yours, Mr. Clean. Wherever they took her, she is long dead,” Snake-Eyes says, and then picks at the space between his front two teeth. “What little meat there is on her is probably already rotting inside the belly of one of those half-breeds. Going to be nothing but a stinking pile of shit in a few hours.”

  Merchant spins around, his eyes hard and full of fire. Snake-Eyes sticks his tongue out like a child.

  “Too bad, though. She wasn’t much to look at, plus with that shotgun of hers, she had one hell of a kick, but I’d do her if I was still alive,” he continues. “Probably kill her, though.”

  “Shut the fuck up and go away for a while,” Merchant demands.

  “Can’t do that, demon. You know the rules. You killed me, and you carry that damn rabbit of my bastard son in that bag of yours. So, here I am to torment you until the end of time.”

  “I should have cut your damn head off,” Merchant says.

  “Hindsight is 20/20, and it’s a bitch isn’t it.”

  The smile on Snake-Eyes face grows longer, even the empty sockets of his eyes smile. Those tattoos on his neck do what they always do, blink.

  “By the way, where is that bag of yours? Wouldn’t want that gift from that little bastard of mine to go missing, now would we?” Snake-Eyes asks.

  His body fades away as a stiff breeze swirls through the alcove, picking up a tornado of ash and the iron stench of cooled blood. Merchant searches the ground around him.

  What would the infected want with a single woman and his bag? He knows they could not have gotten far with it. The burden is his alone to carry. No man, living, dead, or otherwise, can bear it for more than a short distance.

  He finds no trace of the Army canvas, but something else catches his eye. Beneath the stripped corpse, with its pale white flesh, untouched by infection, he sees a corner of paper. It’s not simple trash, nor did he pull it from the infected.