Traveling Merchant (Book 1): Merchant

by Seymour, William J.

  It must be the drugs. Really, it must be.

  Crouching against the chilly concrete wall, there is a window ahead. Light filters in through dust and grime, not as strong as what came into her room, but at least it is something. Slowly, cautiously, she presses forward and takes a look outside. People are everywhere. Men, women, and even some children are heading in all directions. Each of them moves without a care in the world. Carrying boxes or sacks from one location to another as if the world had not ended in the twenty-first century but stopped and thrived in the nineteenth. Some people were pulling carts. Others working on food.

  Real food!

  Where is she? What year is this?

  Elizabeth’s stomach growls. Her mouth fills with saliva. She can see potatoes and other vegetables piled into wicker baskets. Fresh meat hangs from hooks, and buckets below are filled with the remains of the red work and sticky feathers.

  How?

  None of this can be possible.

  “But it is real,” a man’s voice says as if reading her mind.

  Elizabeth doesn’t think, she spins, releasing her blanket she shoves the pencil out like a single-handed spear toward the source of the intrusion.

  An iron like grip snatches her wrist long before the simple weapon can reach flesh. He stands in front of her, towering as he looks down at her. She tries to tear her arm free, but he holds it in place like he would a child’s feeble attempts.

  “Who are you?” she demands.

  He smiles as he looks her over from head to toe. Dark hair, trimmed evenly, sits spotlessly over a tanned complexion. He’s young, but not too young. The slightest of age lines extend from his bright eyes, which are filled with hunger and the darkest brown she has ever seen. Almost black as she tries to recoil away, but he won’t let her go. A smile reveals a mouth of freshly white teeth and wordlessly he tells her he likes what he sees.

  Giving no care for modesty, she swings with her other arm, but it is weak and slow. Her shoulder still tight beneath the bandage, he lazily wraps his hand around her second arm.

  “Now, there is no reason to be so violent,” he says.

  She tries to pull away, but she can’t. A soft stream of air picks up through the hall and pulls her medical gown away from her body and shivers prickle the skin of her bare back. The smile on his face grows wider.

  Anger boils in her blood.

  “Let me go, you bastard!”

  “If you promise me you aren’t going to try and kill me again with this pencil,” he answers while lessening the pressure on her wrists. “You do realize how painful of a death that would be?”

  “Then don’t startle me like that again. Who the fuck are you, anyway?”

  He lets go of her arms, and she quickly picks her blanket up and wraps it around her body, looping the top above her breasts so that she doesn’t have to hold it so much with her hands, leaving them free to hold the pencil he never took away.

  “Such violent tendencies, and that language. We’ll have to work on that,” he answers while tapping one long finger on his lower lip. “The name I was born with no longer matters. Who I am and what I mean to my people is the only important thing.”

  “And that is?”

  She takes a step back from the man, his attention drawn to the window overlooking everyone that is outside.

  “I am their father. Correction, I am everyone’s father. These are my people, living and working together to bring this world back from the brink of extinction. To give what was promised to you all a millennium ago.”

  Ignoring her scowl and the pathetic weapon she still holds before her, he steps around her and takes a closer look at the window.

  “Well, my father was a dead-beat drunk who like to beat my mom,” Elizabeth says.

  He turns to her, his smile now a slight frown as he glances once more at the pencil that shakes in her hand.

  “And where is he now?”

  “Pile of bones somewhere in Oregon I suppose.”

  “Infection?” he asks.

  “Nope.”

  “The war?”

  His face looks genuinely concerned.

  “A steak knife through the back of his skull after he spent a night beating the shit out of my mom,” she answers, and the grip on her pencil tightens until the skin of her knuckles are white.

  “Let me guess, you aren’t sorry you did it?”

  A smile now finds its way across her face.

  “I’m still alive. There is very little I’m sorry for.”

  “Pity,” the man says while turning back to the window. “So much violence steals away your soul, piece by piece until nothing of what you once were remains.”

  “Shut the fuck up and tell me where we are.”

  “Do you remember, Elizabeth? Do you remember a time when you weren’t so angry and violent?”

  She takes a step back, and then eyes the stairwell. He couldn’t stop her if she turned and ran, but where would she go?

  “How…how do you know my name?”

  His hands are behind his back, and he smiles, the whites of his eyes a brightness against the gloom, and his pupils as dark as the pits of Hell.

  “I know all my children, Elizabeth. We are glad to see you’ve made it home.”

  Eight

  Five Years Ago

  The rain is thinning. More mist and fog than droplets as Merchant enters the camp. Mud splashes beneath his boots and the grit of wet, heavy dirt squishes between his toes. Water runs down his forehead, stinging his eyes before continuing down his cheeks. He likes the feeling. It reminds him he is alive.

  Part of him can’t believe he is actually alive.

  The small encampment is deserted. Shadows stretch weakly across the flooded ground from the gray light struggling to find its way through the lingering storm. He should feel cold with water dripping from his bare chest and shoulders while the approaching night cools the air, but none of it sinks in. He is on fire. His anger fuels him. He can walk forward, numb, but more alive than he has ever been.

  Trash lays scattered, floating across the oily surface of tiny rivers. Crumbled bags and discarded wrappers. A single pair of boots drowns in a pool of dark water against a metal garbage can, scarred with soot from fire before someone put half a dozen bullet holes through the side.

  Guard posts made of chairs sitting behind sandbags sit empty and deserted. Rusted chain link fence winds its way through trees soaked and heavy with water. The gate sits open, its arms thrown wide and welcoming.

  Where did they run off to so fast?

  Merchant heads straight for the central pavilion. The all too familiar sound of water dripping on an aluminum roof begins to call him home.

  Tap.

  Tap.

  Tap.

  His heart begins to race. He knows if he finds them, they will be there. What will they think when they see him walk right back into the middle of their realm of torture and treason? Come back from the dead, they’ll scream. He’ll be lucky if they don’t shit their pants and run. A smile crosses his face, and he can taste the storm in the air. Putrid and rotten. The taste is unforgettable. Death lingers here thicker than the ghosts of those who deserted this place like the plague. Sleeping chambers made of plyboard and welded aluminum are nothing more than empty shells as he walks past. Forest green and brown rust, they blend in with the surroundings so well that Mother Nature will have to do very little to reclaim this as her own.

  His steps echo through the constant hum of the fading rain.

  Tap.

  Tap.

  Tap.

  Merchant begins to slow. He stops at the crossroads of the camp. A breeze ripples through the trees, the leaves rustling and the torn American flag that sits high above the pavilion struggles to move its saturated body. Death, its very touch tickles the skin behind his shoulders. He cannot shake the feeling. There is something wrong here. Beyond what they did to him. He is not alone.

  Sniffing the air, the stench suffocates him. Off to his left,
beyond the pavilion, is where it is the strongest. Cautiously, he continues. Those he searches for temporarily forgotten, he cannot shake the feeling he needs to find his answer.

  Wooden tables and benches are scattered around the only dry earth within the compound. Rats dart back and forth, hiding beneath the broken pieces, avoiding his movements and fighting over their next meal. The smell is stronger here.

  Rotting food would smell sweeter than this. Even the rats do not seem to want to follow him. No, this smell is too much like shit. A steaming pile of human dung, left out to rot and fester in the rain. He is not far off.

  Deep inside, he wants to vomit, hurl up anything that remains within him, but there is nothing left. Bodies are piled and exposed. Pieces drain into a hole where skin is gray and bones stick out bright white with marrow picked clean by birds. There are more than fifty soldiers shredded in death, disposed of worse than the trash his former team carried out with them.

  This was the remnants of the battle he had heard. Whomever it was that attacked, they had been slaughtered to the man. Stripped naked, they didn’t even bother with a simple burial.

  A growl warns him as he takes a step closer. Reflecting eyes peer out beneath a pair of narrowed brows. Fangs are bared, and a dark red muzzle hovers close to the ground. The true feeding has begun.

  Merchant lifts his hands in a show of indifference and slowly backs away. There are more of them out there. He can see their glares at the intruder who dares to step near the prize they claim. On practiced heels, he spins and makes his way back to the crossroad.

  These were not the men he had fought with, bled with, and cried with. He has done many bad things in his life, most of them he regrets, but something has changed them. It’s one thing to torture and split a man in half. Lie to him at the moment of his death about taking his wife and family away because you thought he has betrayed you. True or not, there was an accepted code for those who betray the men who fight and die beside you. They had all been professionals. This is sloppy. This is cruel. Soldiers respect those they fight. On different sides, they all fight for similar beliefs, but only of their own making.

  Someone is teaching them hatred, and it is beginning to rot them from the inside.

  Reaching the far end of their camp, Merchant can see what they used to call their barracks. A simple one room structure, the tiled roof is caving in and the front door is collapsing onto the ground. Black scorch marks show signs where someone has tried to burn it down, but the storm has thwarted their efforts.

  Stepping closer, Merchant can see there is nothing left for him to salvage. Beds are piles of ash and warped springs. Storage lockers are nothing but broken pieces, the personal memories they held washed away with the flooding water or taken as the men moved on.

  He shoves his way inside. His bed is always near the entrance. From the day he enlisted, he always sleeps near the door in and out. Stepping sideways, he keeps himself next to the wall. The roof seems strongest here, and he can see the last ten feet until he reaches the simple place he called home.

  The floor has buckled, the walls bubbling where the heat was the hottest. Did they start the fire directly on top of his bed? Anger flares inside of him, and he shoves the cracked skeleton of his bunk as far as it will skid across the floor. Ash kicks up in to the air, and the wreckage tumbles as it stops near the center of the room.

  Breath comes in large gulps as the urge to slam his fist through the wall threatens to overtake him. He wants to hurt someone, strangle them with his bare hands, but he is alone. Walking through the world as silent as the distant past, he is the only person left to hear or feel his pain. Looking around, the rage quickly begins to spill into desperation. What is he going to do now? He doesn’t even know where they will report to next.

  Kicking at the ash and pieces of fallen boards, the tip of his toe catches on a piece of canvas and pulls it free. A green Army bag somehow survived the arson. Merchant crouches down and begins to wipe it clean. One of the straps is broken, and the strong smell of fire clings to it like a perfume, but regardless, it is still functional.

  “There is still more that you want to do,” the woman’s voice startles him.

  Merchant skids a few feet away, and the roof above his head begins to creak. His hands are up defensively, but he now feels foolish as she stands before him.

  She is more than a head shorter than he is now. Her dark skin somehow still bright in the gloom of the death and destruction that surrounds him. Her skintight miniskirt still hugs her curves, and her smile broadens as she catches his eyes roaming.

  “Go now. Search for what you must and do what you know is needed. I will give you this time, but when you are done, I have a task for you.”

  Merchant puts his hands to his sides, the Army bag tapping against his leg as it drags itself through the ashes.

  “And what must I do?” he asks.

  Her smile becomes mischievous, and she turns away.

  “Only you know what you have to do for yourself. As for me? I will tell you in time.”

  He watches her go. Not because her ass sways back and forth, one hip lifting after the other, but because deep down, he does know what he needs to do. He is going to have to walk a long way to get there, but it is time for him to go home.

  The fire is warm, melting the snow in a three-foot circle around the pit and replacing it with dark slush that sticks like red mud. Blood streaks across the snow-covered streets, dark stains that stretch from the large black crater of quickly freezing gore to one of the furthest alleyways still marginally lit by the raging flames. Fresh wood has replaced old tires, and the stench of scolding rubber is replaced with a slight taste of oak and wood polish. Snow continues to fall, an unending layer of new skin replacing itself across the crust of America’s wasteland.

  Big fat flakes land on Merchant’s arms and quickly melt into droplets of water as he sits by the fire. He can feel the warmth seeping into his body, but he doesn’t need it. He is always warm. An internal fire rages within him that is fueled by his need to continue west.

  “So how did you do it?” Cherry Red asks.

  That is what she calls herself, Cherry Red.

  Merchant looks up from the scars that run like deserted highways across his dark skin. Stretches of white that crisscross and travel clear across the terrain of his body. He ignores her at first, staring up at the empty buildings that close in around them. Their empty faces dance white in the flames, siding, brick, and mortar covered in grime and salt from years of abandonment.

  “How do I do what?” Merchant asks, turning back to the only other living person in the entire town.

  Cherry flips a few loose strands of red curls away from her eyes. She is surprisingly clean for an infected, the scales like the others ravaging the left side of her body and leaving the right unaffected. Scars and flakes crack across her neck, but the skin of both her cheeks is still soft and pink within the firelight.

  The important end of her revolver taps on her knee, pointed at his gut from where she sits a few feet to his right.

  “You stroll in here as if this isn’t some deserted town full of monsters, and then you ask for your bag back.”

  Merchant shrugs his shoulders.

  “It belongs to me. I wanted it back.”

  A small chuckle escapes her lips.

  “Just like that, you wanted it back. I’ll be damned. If I didn’t see it with my own eyes, I’d swear you were as crazy as the others.”

  Merchant tilts his head, showing her that she now finally has his full attention.

  “Others?”

  “See, I knew there was another reason you were out here,” she says.

  Her smile stretches across her face. Droplets of puss leak out from the scales on her neck, and she slaps her empty hand against her knee. She all but jumps for joy before turning until she is seated and looking directly at him.

  “You are out here for them, aren’t you?”

  She places her pistol on the gr
ound by her leg, then both hands are steepled against her lips and her elbows pitch a tent on her knees.

  “Who is them?”

  Snake-Eyes materializes beside Merchant. The ghost sits down, stretches his legs, and begins to warm his hands near the fire.

  “Damn, I had so much hope for this one. She is one fine piece of ass if you can get past the lizard scales,” the dead man says.

  Merchant fights the urge to slap him.

  “That man-god and his useless sheep. They took your girl. I thought maybe now that you had your stuff you’d go looking for her.”

  “Man-god? They are the ones who took the woman I was with? How do you know all this?” Merchant asks, his voice beginning to growl.

  Cherry scoots back several inches and eyes the shadows that prowl around them. The tips of her fingers trace over the grip of her pistol.

  “Look, it was never my idea. Hectar was the brains of this operation, and the man-god pays really good. This time, he gave us enough food for a month.”

  Her attention turns to a building two alleyways down. It’s a broken-down gas station, the pumps fallen over and the canopy caved in, but the entrance looks still in place.

  Merchant has had enough.

  “What did he pay you for? How am I involved with this?”

  The young woman sighs.

  “His men pay those they consider undesirable to round up any non-infected we can find. They particularly like women, but men will do.”

  “Undesirable?”

  “Rejects of their community or those who aren’t completely infected.”

  She runs her hand over the scales on her neck. Noticing the puss on her fingertips, she wipes them clean on the leg of her pants.

  “Why didn’t you take me and sell me as well?”

  The girl bites her lower lip.

  “You fought back harder than anyone we have ever found. I thought you were going to kill us all until Hectar cracked you upside the head with a tree branch. Broke the damn thing on your back as well. We all thought you were dead,” she answers, and then shrugs. “We don’t get paid for dead ones. Only those alive and uninfected.”