Traveling Merchant (Book 1): Merchant

by Seymour, William J.

  The ridged body rolls over like a log, all stiffness and bulk.

  “What do we have here?” Snake-Eyes asks, peering over Merchant’s shoulders.

  The Queen of Clubs and the Joker.

  Merchant rolls the blood-stained cards through his fingers. The queen’s eyes bore into him as she turns to face him, and then back again. He does not see any other cards scattered through the carnage.

  “Let me guess, we now have to go get her.”

  Snake-Eyes sighs.

  The morning is bright when Merchant turns away from the death and the blood. Around them, the world is silent beneath a crystal-clear sky. He puts the cards gently into his pocket.

  “Where do we start?” Snake-Eyes asks.

  Picking at his teeth, he stands beside Merchant, who tilts his head toward the ghost.

  “What?” Snake-Eyes shrugs. “It’s not like I have much say in the matter.”

  Merchant says nothing as he begins to pick his way back toward Interstate 80.

  “Are you going to at least fill me in?”

  “First, I’m going to get what belongs to me back,” Merchant replies.

  He does not turn to see if the ghost follows.

  “Then what?”

  Merchant does not answer.

  Four

  Five Years Ago

  The sky is a deep shade of red. It darkens at first, and then grows lighter as his eyes open and his vision clears, returning to the bright blue of late summer.

  Crack.

  Another strike of the hammer drives the nail deeper. Iron scratches bone, Merchant screams, and he can feel his throat bleed. The rod cracks the insides of his arms. His shoulders are stretched, limbs pulled tight, and they force him to hug the trunk of the tree in reverse. Railroad spikes pin his limbs to the oak. Both arms split, dark blood running rivers down the sharp bark to the saturated soil.

  He tries to fall, but gravity has lost its control.

  Crack.

  The tree shudders, and he vomits blood and bile over his chest. Bright rivulets bead on his brown skin. Red jewels that glisten in the sun, sparkling as they chase rivers over his cramped muscles.

  His vision goes red and the darkness closes in.

  “Now, don’t you start dying, yet. We can’t have that until we are done with you,” the general says.

  Adrenaline is injected into Merchant’s shoulder by the man they call the Dog Breaker. His heart beats like a drum at a rock concert. A car engine revving in his chest, he can feel the bone stretching against the pounding.

  Crack.

  Wood chips fly, and Merchant screams. Strength is gone and all the muscle in his legs give away. Fire erupts through the skin of his abdomen. Razor wire cuts deeper, holding him tight. Blood and other fluids drip from his shirtless torso down over his belt.

  He can’t fall.

  The binding pulls tighter. The blades dig beneath his skin. Merchant grinds his teeth, and blood drips from his lips.

  “I’ll tell you,” he whispers.

  Crack.

  The tree fractures again and several leaves float lazily to the ground. Merchant’s eyes roll back into his head. Sweat drips down his face. A slap rocks his head to the side, the pain lost to oblivion.

  He’s awake.

  “You’ll what?” the general asks.

  A hand pinches Merchant’s lower jaw. He can see the blood and spit pooling in the officer’s palm.

  “I’ll tell.” Merchant struggles to speak, and the wire pulls tighter. More blood spews. “You.”

  The general smiles. He pulls his hand away, and then wipes the gore across Merchant’s face.

  “We are past that, my boy.”

  He turns and walks back to his folding chair. One of those cheap ones you get at the army surplus tent. With a smile from ear to ear, he sits down and crosses one knee over the other. Turning his hand, he wipes blood onto a white handkerchief.

  “You lost your chance for a quick ending. We have other ways of find out. Now it is time for you to pay for your insolence.”

  The man nods.

  Crack.

  An explosion rips through Merchant’s arm as the force drives the nail completely through and the hammer head cracks bone. Torture wins, and Merchant falls. Bark soaked with his life, tears through the bare skin of his back, and the razors sear through his midsection and into his chest.

  He can see his guts. They pile on his legs that buckle beneath him. Death waits for him, but it won’t stop the pain. Adrenaline keeps his eyes open. Men laugh as he tries to scream, but his blood-flooded throat chokes him.

  Minutes feel like hours, which stretch into days.

  Time seems to stop, and the world begins to darken. Slowly at first, the edges of the grass beneath his legs and the leaves above his head all lose focus. Merchant coughs but can’t bring anything back in. He is suffocating in his own blood. More of him spills onto his lap. Bright pink, and then a deathly pale. All he can taste is blood, and his lungs burn.

  Merchant cannot breathe.

  Blood and spit drool from his lips.

  He does not have the strength to lift his head. His eyes lock on the darkness that is pooled on his legs.

  The end is here.

  He does not fight it.

  “Oh, by the way…” the Dog Breaker says.

  Rough fingers lift Merchant’s chin. The pinch of his skin is pressure lost to his exhausted senses. Blurry eyes roll around like marbles but settle on the soldier’s face. A deep scar runs from corner of his left eye down into his bootstrap goatee. His overcompensating cologne is stronger than the stench of death.

  “We’ll send our condolences to your wife and kids. The news will devastate them. Especially that wife of yours. I’ll personally make sure she has a strong supportive shoulder to cry on. Now don’t you go dying with that weight on your shoulders. She’ll be in good hands.”

  Breaker drops Merchant’s chin, and it falls with no resistance.

  Death has arrived.

  There is no mercy.

  Bloody boot prints in the snow. The sun high overhead with thin, wispy clouds following the trail of the storm that is now history. Three pairs. Two walk with regular steps, unhurried, and even-paced. The third lags behind. The first do not slow. They leave the other. To struggle, straining beneath the weight. They leave him to die.

  Vehicle-sized hills litter the horizon. Smooth lifts beneath the white blanket, perfect and serene. Fresh drops of blood sprinkle the path that zigzags between them. Still red and diminishing. The man is healing, or almost dead.

  Merchant follows. Each impression is drawing closer to the last. A weak leg drags behind, the weight becoming unbearable as now they can no longer lift the bag. The curse is pulled like treasure, creating a ditch that weaves left and right through the snow.

  Where are they going?

  There is nothing for miles. Dead towns, empty and forgotten, litter the open lands of Nebraska. He has seen enough to know only memories haunt the skeletal buildings and worn-down rock.

  A brisk breeze whips across the field. The sting of sharp ice against his skin a refreshing bite as he continues pushing forward.

  “Can you smell them, demon?” Snake-Eyes asks.

  The ghost’s nose turns up to the sky, his empty sockets dark, and his neck blinks.

  “I don’t need to smell them,” Merchant answers.

  “They smell like death walking. I can barely breathe their stench is so thick, and I don’t even need to breath anymore.”

  Merchant looks over at the ghost, who smiles a tooth-filled grin. That spot he always picks at is back again.

  “So, you are telling me you could find them if it wasn’t so easy already.”

  Snake-Eyes disappears, and then materializes twenty yards ahead, hands on hips, jacket open, and chest puffed out.

  “It’s not like they haven’t put a fucking sign out for you already, but yes, I can smell them. Can’t you? The damn bastards probably haven’t bathed in years.
”

  “All I smell is the open air, and all I hear is you admitting something you should have told me back before we got into this mess.”

  Merchant walks through the ghost, his body nothing more than a momentary ripple of ice running through his veins. Snake-Eyes shutters and tries to wipe himself clean.

  “I hate it when you do that.”

  There is no reply from Merchant.

  “Who said I should have told you anything? You are damn lucky I even talk to you. The others do nothing but moan and bitch and complain. See, I’m different. You should feel damn proud to have me around.

  Merchant stops.

  “Come on, big man. Say something. I want to hear what you have to say,” Snake-Eyes taunts from behind Merchant’s ears.

  “Shut up, won’t you.”

  “God damn unpleasant is what you are.”

  The back of Merchant’s hand passes through the ghost’s head with a slap.

  “Look,” Merchant whispers.

  The path they follow turns sharply back toward the east. Snow stretches for as far as they can see. Their world lives beneath a foot of snow but for a thin stream of dark smoke that lifts into the air.

  “Where there is smoke,” Snake-Eyes says.

  “I’ll find what belongs to me.”

  Merchant turns and picks up the pace.

  Snake-Eyes mouths silent words that mock the big man, and with a shrug, he begins to follow.

  Five

  Today

  The smell of body odor, rot, filth, and blood chokes out all the air she can breathe. A stiff breeze bites at the exposed skin of her bruised cheek. Blood cakes on her scalp. She turns to try and take in as much clean air as she can.

  A ripping on the cord pulls her forward. There is very little strength left in her legs, and her numb feet cannot keep up. She stumbles, and her knees crack against frozen earth. Her muscles cramp, and the bones feel broken and splintered. Ice and snow burns through the skin of her bound hands.

  “Get up, beautiful,” a man barks.

  He yanks on her cord, and it does not have the effect he desires. Hands shift forward, and she topples until her face is buried in the snow. Her world goes dark and breathing fills her mouth with ice, and she begins to choke.

  A rough hand grabs the back of her coat, thick meaty fingers wrapping around worn cloth and a significant amount of hair. Searing pain ignites fires behind her eyes as she is lifted. Coughing, she struggles for breath as her neck stretches back.

  “You were ordered to get back onto your feet,” another man says.

  She can smell the rot in the man’s flesh. His breath is like week old trash, sour and pungent.

  Using what strength she can find, she shifts her leg until she has one frozen foot flat on the ground. The men do not help her stand. The tight grip on her coat and the rope that binds her to them forces her to struggle.

  “Don’t hurt the merchandise,” the first man demands, his voice deeper with less infection-scratched vocal cords.

  He gives the one who holds her from behind a strong shove. The smaller one stumbles and releases her without taking her with him.

  The others back away from the man who holds her leash. Her height doesn’t reach his wide shoulders, and the thick wolf hide he wears does little to take away from the bulging arms that stretch the thin fabric he calls a coat. Sun reflects off the dark skin of his shaven scalp, and his face is just as hairless.

  Infection scales look like pock marks on the left side of his neck and face, more teenage skin than disease on a man with enough scars across the rest of his body to look like he lost a fight with a bear.

  He gazes down at her, and she recoils. His grip on her binding strengthens, and she does not bother to pull against something she knows she can’t defeat.

  “You must keep up. We have been instructed to bring you unharmed, but we cannot afford to slow,” he says before turning around.

  The party begins to march, and another quick tug of her leash pulls her forward. This time, she is able to stay on her feet.

  “Who instructed you to take me prisoner, and where are we going?” she asks.

  Courage and anger boils deep within her. She yanks on the cords that bind her. Her weight and strength unnoticeable against the man’s bulk.

  “Hey! I’m talking to you.”

  Others look at her. Most of them with hungry eyes and infection that spreads further along their bodies. Twenty men and women keep pace around her. She cannot see any others tied up like she is. They are the largest infected she has ever seen, especially the monster who stomps one boulder of a boot after another in front of her. Besides the disease that mutates their skin, they look healthy, if only a little hungry.

  A few of the men, and at least one woman, lick their lips as they keep an eye on every one of her movements. She wonders how much longer until they give into those urges and she is their next meal.

  “I know you can hear me.”

  She yanks on the rope again, and this time the one who had picked her from the ground stumbles into her.

  “Keep moving, bitch!” he yells.

  A loud slap echoes across the open field, and she falls forward. Her eyes water as the world spins and the clear blue sky above her head rushes across her vision.

  The ground is unforgiving as she hits the snow. Bones crack, and the world begins to grow dark. She tries to lift her head, but everyone around her swims through the air.

  The lids of her eyes are rocks, and she doesn’t have the strength to keep them open. She tries to scream, say anything, but her mouth tastes like blood. The giant one stalks forward, and the one who slapped her stands defiant. All the other infected back away, most of them making noises like wild animals excited for the kill.

  Words escape the smaller man’s lips, but she cannot understand them. A fist the size of a man’s head cracks across jaw and temple. Blood erupts from a broken eye, and the victim falls to his knees. Her vision narrows on the sight of the mutilated man’s face.

  Destroyed, he looks up a moment before the fist of god hits him again. Skull fractures and crumbles inward. Lifeless, the body hits the ground beside her. She can see the steam rising from the snow before the others jump onto the fallen treasure.

  The sound of chaos reigns over the day, and the darkness closes in. She can feel hands that could crush her between individual fingers pick her from the frozen earth, and she is carried away.

  Dragged along like an animal, and now she is caged like one. Pain crackles through her skull, and the skin of her scalp is puffy and tender. She gently pokes at the wound at the base of her head and regrets it the moment the fire erupts beneath her touch.

  Cold air sends chills through her body, the feeling of a shaved head something new to file away with the years of misery. Pulling her blanket tighter across her knees, which she has tucked against her chest, she breathes beneath the cover and lets the tiny warmth of her breath warm what it will. The skin of her legs is like ice, almost as cold as the air that bites at her cheeks, and she has lost all feeling in her ass, which she can barely keep within the material.

  Snow continues to fall in large, fat flakes. Drifting from the darkness above, the pillow white softness lingers in the air before settling onto the ground. More than two inches has fallen since she was put into this cage, and she pushes herself as deep inside as she can. There isn’t enough room for her to stretch her legs. Pulling her knees up tight to her chin, the cold of the bars at the rear of her confinement bite into her through the thin wool she has wrapped around herself. Small mounds of powder fall in between the rusted bars, the green paint chipping away to show the aged steel beneath its orange glory. The snow is not deterred by the barricade. It is a slow-moving enemy of white ice that inches toward her in torturous slow motion.

  Shivers riddle her body beneath the material they provided her to cover her naked frame. It scratches at her skin. Old wool which is stale, stiff, and smells like it hasn’t been washed in years. Bits
of orange dye stick out between the dark blotches of blacks and browns. The material has seen better days.

  The bones of her swollen joints ache beneath skin that is bruised and sore. Though she knows she is freezing, she can feel the warmth that begins to burn in her blood. If these monsters don’t eat her soon, she’ll die of exposure before they get the chance.

  Her vision blurs beneath tears that freeze to her eyelashes. She can’t decide if she would rather have them kill her quickly and serve her for dinner, leave her to freeze here alone like a discarded animal or simply let the fever that will soon take her do its duty. She can feel death approaching like a welcomed friend. The end lingers on the outskirts of her vision, waiting for her to discover it just as she tries to distinguish the origination of the piss and body odor that fills the space beneath her blanket.

  Is it hers or the last bastard they had locked up behind these bars? She can’t even remember the last time she relieved herself. It no longer matters.

  Another spasm shakes her body, and she pushes aside the thought as she has a million others.

  A single bonfire burns in the center of the camp, but the heat does not reach her. Part of her begs to feel the warmth against her skin, to sink inside of her and warm the cold fingers that have wrapped themselves around her bones. Inching forward, placing her arms through the openings of the bars has done little. What little warmth she can find is quickly lost by the pain of a baton or stick smashed into her fingers. She blows more breath into her closed fist at the memory. The moisture is thick as blood on her fingers.

  The other part of her, the half that refuses to give up, is full of disgust and hatred. They want her weak, to beg and whimper. She will never give them that. She will fight until her last breath. If she could find her shotgun, her means of salvation, she would kill them all. That big one, the freak as big as a mountain took it from her. She can still see it tapping against his leg from where it was looped into his belt. One of these evenings, she is going to get it back. Even if she has to pry it from his dead hands, she will take back what is hers, and then she’ll empty it on the bark-like face of his.