Traveling Merchant (Book 1): Merchant

by Seymour, William J.

  She smiles at the thought of his face imploding as the shell rips through skin and bone. The taste of blood on her lips warms the fire inside of her that waits for its chance.

  More than three dozen infected mill around the open flames that crackle and snap into the cold air and angry wind. She hates them all. Men and women, all of them young and with different levels of infection. Some of them are barely holding on to the sanity that fights the disease. She can see their uncontrolled movements, spasms and growls that escape lips they bite down on every time an outburst escapes. They remind her of new puppies. Fighting their urges to run and be free, but needing their masters to keep them in line. Those very masters bark orders, words which carry threats of death and pain, and they use blunted weapons to strike unguarded skin as they force their untrained beasts to fall back and whimper. Huddling together at the very edge of the light, they move as one from cage to cage. Dogs they are, the whole lot of them.

  There are twelve other boxes like hers that she can see. All of them are spread in a wide circle around the bonfire. Those farthest, she can see only the tops through the six-foot flames, but they are all the same. The light of the fire dances with the shadows, but she cannot see if there is anyone inside even the closest. She has tried, and she continues from time to time. Staring, watching to see if any shadows move or any other captives make a sound, but the site is empty save for the angry voices of her captors.

  Half-walking, half-crawling, the pack of the tameless moves closer. They are hungry. Their need is so rich that it permeates the very air that surrounds them. She is the furthest from the fire, and they can barely hide their stares as they move as silently as their cravings will allow. Their masters do not give notice. Some stay by the fire, hands and arms extended to keep themselves warm, their attention no longer on those that have finally followed their orders of silence and obedience.

  She settles her eyes on the pack, her pupils, slivers over the edges of her blanket. There are four of them. Tender skin is swollen around joints that swell on knuckles and hands that are dragged through the snow. They crouch as their spines curl, and they draw closer. Lines of scars lace themselves around scales that cover entire limbs and render the left side of their face unmovable.

  The smell of sweat and rotting meat is close enough now that it turns her stomach. No longer human, she can feel the difference before they reach her cage. Animals smell better, this is the plague that has wiped out entire cities. This band of infected, smarter and stronger than anything she has ever bared witness to before, has wolves within their flock.

  Inching to the furthest corner of the cage without taking her eyes off them, she waits and they draw closer.

  “Come…here, beautiful,” the closest one croaks.

  His voice is scratchy. Vocal cords torn, he sounds like he coughed the words through lungs full of cancer.

  A face presses up against the bars. A tongue stretches out, saliva dripping and blood seeping between broken teeth.

  She rears her head back and spits. A direct hit splatters across the monster’s eyes. Four animals go wild, and half a dozen arms slam into the cage. Dirty, crusted fingernails scratch at the air between them. They almost have her. Wind tingles her skin as each swipe misses her by inches.

  They push harder, their skin bulging as they try to force themselves through the barrier.

  A hooked finger catches the edge of her blanket and pulls. Cover ripped from her grasp, the cold bitter air of the winter slices through her body like a hot knife. On instinct, she tries to pull her only protection back. A hand like iron snatches her left arm, and she is yanked forward.

  Skull slams against iron, and her world begins to swim. She can smell their breath on her. Spit begins to drip down her arms, and she fights her eyes that want to roll back in to her skin.

  Fire lances through her arms as teeth tear into flesh.

  “Ah!” she screams.

  Anger and frustration surge through her veins.

  The shriek forces the animal back. Skin flaps away from the bone of her right shoulder. Blood pulses out. Reaching up with her free hand, she grabs the one that has her by her left wrist and slams her forehead into cartilage and iron. Blackness swirls in her vision, but she is dropped. Monsters howl, and the blood lust is on. Her cage is shaken violently. Wool blanket rolling around, she cannot get her footing as the floor becomes wall and the wall becomes floor, and then reverses again.

  Crawling away, she digs her fingers and heels into the bottom of the cage. The frenzy of hands and fingers is endless. Blood drips from arms and faces with eyes that scream for her. The cage lifts again, and this time drops completely on its side.

  They are all around her now. Two jump on top while the others reach from the sides. Nails and fingers dig into her skin. One manages to spear her open wound with a finger, and she can feel it strike bone. Words she doesn’t understand escape her lips, and her frenzied call increases their need for her. All she can see is them reaching for her. The cage is now her salvation, the one thing keeping them from her.

  Shouts can be heard in the background, but she cannot distinguish between them and the thirst for blood as the four sets of hands try to tear her apart.

  Metal screams as it is torn apart. The door to her cage is ripped off, and the howling around her reaches a level she can no longer comprehend. Crawling as far away from the opening is all that she can think of.

  Pain lances through her back. Another set of teeth finds purchase as she reaches the back wall of her overturned cage. She screams but no one cares. Arms reach for her through the open doorway. Her instincts tell her to swat them back, fight them until the last drop, but she does not have the strength. Blood soaks her body. A river of red gore runs down between breasts and over her stomach. A pool of it steams beneath her, and another set of hands pulls her back and slams her against the wall again.

  Drained, she slumps forward, and hands wider than her shoulders pull her from her confinement by her damaged arm she can no longer move.

  Her vision is cloudy. She sees men beating those that attacked her like dogs, and the whimpers and screams are lost to the roar of the fire. An iron grip wraps around her neck. She can’t breathe, and the ground lifts away from her feet. Straining, she sees the face of the monster look at her. His fingers squeeze tight, and the bones beneath her skull begin to crack.

  Blood trickles from her lips, down her body, and the darkness takes her away.

  Six

  Five Years Ago

  “Awaken, my soldier,” a voice calls from the void.

  Warming, comforting, and soothing, the woman’s words disperse into Merchant’s mind.

  His eyes flutter. The lids are as heavy as stone, and he cannot keep them open. Like a long summer’s nap, he doesn’t want to wake up.

  “That is it. You are with me, and I am with you,” the sweet song beckons.

  Merchant lifts his head and lets it fall backwards onto his shoulders. He rolls his eyes, and the sleep breaks away. A bright sun burns high overhead, the golden rays broken by the thick canopy of a single oak tree that sits atop an empty hill. Birds sing in the air, a song of peace and joy. The breeze calls to him, its touch warm and soft. He can feel the small hairs on his arms move, and it comforts his body. He smiles and lets the feeling wash through him.

  “Welcome back, my general. Oh, how I have missed you,” her voice touches his ears gently, sending shivers down his body.

  He wants more, and the smile becomes a soft nibble onto his lower lip. Squeezing his eyes tight, he opens them to focus and look around. There is no one with him on this hill, his back pressed up against the solid trunk of the tree, its strength comforting as he sinks himself against it.

  “I couldn’t have chosen better myself,” her words are a song to his ears.

  But where is she? He turns to his right to take a peek around the tree, but he is held in place. An invisible weight sits on his lap, and he cannot move.

  “Now, now. There i
s no need to rush things,” she says from the opposite of where he looks.

  A woman steps from the shadows, and his heart begins to race. Deep brown skin shines in the summer light. Legs that reach the heavens walk gracefully until she is standing in front of him. Hair as black as night weaves down from her head, wrapping her shoulders and looking deeper, he can see all of eternity lost in the richness and volume. She smiles down at him. Thick, luscious lips that burn the brightest ruby red he has ever seen stretch and part to reveal brilliant white teeth.

  She kneels before him, her white cocktail dress hugging her curves tightly. She lets her eyes level with his. They are a blue he has never seen before. Lovelier than the sky above, there is a pureness in them, so genuine he almost wants to giggle like he would at the sight of a newborn baby. Swaddled and comforted in its first blanket.

  “Who are you?” he is finally able to ask.

  The words are a whisper, his voice a distant croak as if this was the first time he has spoken in a millennium.

  “That is not as important as why I am here, my fine soldier,” she answers.

  Reaching her hand forward, she lets one finger, with its nails painted a glorious golden color, trace the outline of his cheekbone. Fire, not the kind that burns, but the stuff that brings you to life, erupts in his body. He is drawn to her like he has never been to a woman before. She is a stranger to him, so full of mysteries, and there is nothing he wants more than to delve deep into the pursuit of all that he can find within her.

  “Tell me why. Whatever you want, you can have,” the words come unbidden from his lips.

  She smiles. Perfect white teeth bite down on that full bottom lip, and she pulls her hand back and begins to tap her own cheek.

  “Oh, if only it was that easy. My good man, you haven’t even heard what I offer yet.”

  “Anything!” he pleads.

  A giggle lifts into the air to join the chorus of the birds, and she spins as she stands once again to walk away. Merchant struggles to follow but once again a weight he cannot explain pins him to the tree. A single chair waits for her, and she sits. Leaning back, she crosses one leg over the other and begins to chew on the index finger of her right hand.

  “Be careful what you promise me, my good fellow. Do not let yourself get lost in charms your mind cannot possibly understand.”

  Merchant wriggles, but the bonds hold him tight. Inside, he can feel the fire spreading through his body. She pulls at him with an attraction he can’t ignore.

  Can’t she feel it as well?

  “I have fought and raced my way through forest and mountain. Cities and endless empty plains have never stopped me. Anything you want, you shall have. I give you my word.”

  A soft, beautiful hand, the skin bright with life, slaps down on the arm of the fold-out chair. Thunder cracks, shattering the peaceful balance of the sky.

  “I will forgive you this once,” she says while pushing herself away from where she is seated. The skies darken. A storm races in with a fury only the gods could create, and it begins to rain. Large droplets splatter the ground around her, yet she still glows in the coming darkness. “I am here to make you an offer. Rise and see what has been done to you. Choose to do what you will with what you find, and then when the job is finished, I will have one simple request.”

  For the first time, Merchant feels fear. She is now inches from his face, her beauty is overpowering, but inside those eyes, he can see a fury that crushes him. He recoils and the taste of blood begins to fill his mouth.

  “What? What has been done to me?” he asks, but the tree will not let him pull any further away.

  “Look around you. Remember who you are, Merchant.”

  The rain falls in a steady storm. Birds no longer sing, and the sun is lost beneath a ceiling of clouds that roll thick and gray. A mist stretches around the bottom of the hill. He is on top of a solitary mountain, surrounded by a dark forest on all sides, and the swirling of the dead holds him prisoner.

  “Inside of you, Merchant. Remember everything,” her voice calls from the distant air.

  Pain sears through his mind like a hot poker branding his skin. He can feel his abdomen ripping apart, the bones in his arms splintering as the nails are driven through. He is still tied to the tree. His bowels are splayed across his legs, and blood pours from his mouth. He screams like a hot fire from his lungs.

  A hand, searing the skin it touches, slams his head back into the tree. Bark splinters, and her face is now inches from his. He can smell sulfur mixed with blood and fear. Her skin is pale, and her eyes are as white as snow. Words chant from her lips, and black poison spreads from her mouth in spidery veins that darken her beautiful features that are now pulled taut against bone. She is a creature he does not recognize.

  Terror seizes his heart, and his insides are torn from inside his body. He loses himself to the onslaught. He can feel himself separate from his body, rising above it as light fills his vision. The words she chants are now a calling. Dark and ominous, they echo from the voices of a thousand dead men. He cries out, the light fades and the shadows race to devour him. He cannot fight them.

  He is defenseless. They tear at him, piece by piece. He can feel teeth and claws, severing who and what he is.

  There is little left of who he was. He can’t remember his name, or why he is here. The chanting is now a thunder, and there is so little of him left. Down below, a tiny dot on the horizon is the hill where his body lays tied to a tree. He is lost forever, his existence done and forgotten.

  A tether pulls tight deep within him.

  Falling.

  The sensation sweeps through him as he plummets back to earth.

  He wants to vomit, his insides rolling like a ship on the sea.

  Success!

  The taste of bile burns at his tongue, and relief washes over him to be replaced by the lifting of gravity as he continues to fall.

  His body approaches. He can see the hill speeding at him like an out of control freight train.

  Clawing at the sky, he tries to slow his descent like every cartoon he has ever watched. Speed picks up. He can already see the crater he is going to leave.

  There she is, standing over his body, his head pulled back, the dark abyss of his mouth wide open.

  Falling, crashing, he can see the blood on his face now.

  Red.

  Bright!

  Almost there!

  “Ah!” Merchant screams and falls forward onto his elbows and knees.

  The air chokes his lungs, and his stomach heaves. Bile and undigested food hurls from his mouth, and he lets it splatter in the mud beneath his face. Fire lances through his skin and the steady rain from above taps against the wounds that steam into the darkening, early evening light. He turns his head to the solitary tree. Razor wire lays snapped across the ground, stained with gore and blood. It no longer holds him prisoner.

  With slow, painful movements, he crawls to the other side of the oak tree. Weakness runs through his body, the bones of his arms shifting under his weight, but he pushes through.

  Railroad spikes stick out. The blunt ends flattened and dripping with water from the storm. Two spikes piercing flesh, bark, and the wood beneath.

  Merchant reaches for his belly, but it all remains intact. He is not bleeding. Breath fills his lungs, and the pounding of his heart throbs in his chest.

  He is alive.

  His eyes trace the trail that will lead back to the hidden camp the general and the men he used to call brothers once used.

  He is alive, and there are answers he must have.

  A bonfire of old broken furniture, wooden support studs ripped from the guts of empty houses, and useless worn tires burns in the center of a four-way crossroad at the center of a town with a name no one remembers. The smell of melting rubber is a stench that chases the wind and goes on for miles. Merchant waits and watches from the empty window on the second floor of the vacant Holiday Inn. Cold air whips through the room, and the curtains
, long ago reduced to nothing but thin pieces of sheer cloth, lift like ghosts in the darkness.

  “So how you gonna do them, killer?” Snake-Eyes asks.

  The ghost lounges on his back across the floor where the bed used to be, outlined in black soot that stains the faded carpet of red and greens. His head is propped up on his hands with a smile revealing that same dirty tooth. Beneath his chin, those reptilian eyes continue their blinking.

  “I’ve counted six of them so far,” Merchant says.

  The infected are not well-disciplined or organized. They mill about, coming and going into the buildings as the night continues to pass by. A weak storm has settled in, sitting above them and dropping a layer of snow in large, fat flakes.

  He leans against the cold frame of the window and counts again. Two sit by the fire, warming themselves and sneaking drinks from containers they carry on their belts. The one who carried his pack all the way from the interstate lays sprawled face down in the snow. He has not moved in over an hour, and the belongings lay untouched beside him. Considering that one dead, Merchant still finds four moving in and out of the alleyways between the abandoned buildings.

  “Six shouldn’t be too hard for you,” Snake-Eyes adds as he appears along the other edge of the window. “I say we walk down there right now. Call them all in and watch them beat your brains out.”

  Merchant looks up at the ghost, the specter’s hollow eyes haunting above his shit-eating grin.

  “What? Can’t a dead man wish, for Christ’s sake?”

  Turning back to the fire below, Merchant tries to ignore the man.

  Why are they here? What did they want with his bag?

  He looks up at the sky. There is several hours remaining before the sun rises and the storm doesn’t appear to be in a hurry to find itself another place to sit. He sighs and turns to the door that leads out of the empty motel. The damn ghost is correct. There is nothing else he can do, and waiting will get him nothing. But the dead asshole will have to suffer another disappointment. He does not plan on letting them beat his brains in.