Traveling Merchant (Book 1): Merchant

by Seymour, William J.

  And run the first chance someone isn’t looking.

  “Guarding the fences is for men, only,” Alexis says. “They are the strongest and fastest after our father has given them their blessings. Our responsibility is to stay here, and serve the community.”

  Elizabeth sighs.

  Fuck.

  “Well, lead on then. I have no idea what else I can do.”

  “There will be something,” Alexis says but her attention is quickly drawn away just as Elizabeth’s is.

  Three young boys go running down the street, fire behind their heels as both women reach the end of the stairs.

  “Come on, it’s approaching the front gate now!” one of the boys shouts.

  Elizabeth looks at Alexis’ face, but the girl’s eyes are wide with wonder.

  “Maybe we should go see what they are all excited about?”

  The dark circles around the young woman’s eyes shift as she looks up and down the street. More people are filtering out of houses as rumors of something approaching spreads like wildfire. From the shadows, in between the village homes, more families filter out and make their way down the street.

  “I was instructed to find you a place not to…”

  “Doesn’t look like there are going to be a lot of people to talk to unless we follow them where they are all going. If you don’t mind, I’d recommend we ride the tide on this one.”

  Alexis gives her a look of confusion, and then turns back to the groups of men, women, and children making their way down Main Street toward the western entrance to the village.

  “Seems you are correct,” Alexis says. “Can’t miss the show, can we?”

  A shy smile quivers at the edges of the young woman’s lips before the muscles of her face tense, and she straightens to lead the way.

  Shivers run down Elizabeth’s spine as she thinks a quick thought about their most recent show, but she can’t do anything but hope this one will turn out better.

  “Lead the way,” Elizabeth says.

  With a quick nod of the girl’s frail chin, both women make their way down the street. Walking is easier, her legs stronger, and her hips less achy, but Elizabeth still lets her weight fall on her young friend. She is enjoying the comfort of having someone to lean on. She thinks back to what she offered back in the hospital ward. It has been so long since she had someone to call family. Another living soul to rely on other than herself and her wits.

  Skin, pale as a ghost, and a body as thin as a reed, she isn’t much to look at, but just maybe she can find enough courage buried in that small body to risk leaving this hellhole and making a life for herself outside these walls. Elizabeth gives her friend’s hand a squeeze and tries to push her own need to leave into the soft, cold fingers that wrap her own.

  Alexis smiles and gives her a quick glance before looking back at the path ahead.

  Dozens of heads shuffle for a better look as the razor wire of the protective fence looms ahead. A crowd that neither Elizabeth or Alexis could hope to push through blocks any chance they have of seeing what has brought close to half the village running from their everyday lives.

  “For Christ’s sake, what has gotten into everyone?” Elizabeth asks.

  “Watch your mouth, Elizabeth,” Alexis whispers and squeezes her arm.

  The young girl tries to stand on her toes to look over the sea of people but she is no more successful than Elizabeth is standing there and cursing. Men with rifles push their ways through from the edges, and two rolling structures of wooden stairs and flat platforms spread the crowd out.

  Positioning themselves on each side of the gate, two men climb each of the stairs and set themselves with rifles ready like portable castle turrets.

  “What the fuck is—?” Elizabeth starts.

  “Everyone, move out of the way,” a deep voice rumbles with authority over the crowd.

  Bodies shift and do not hesitate to clear a path. Alexis grabs Elizabeth’s arm and pulls her off to the right. Forced to move, Elizabeth stumbles but catches her feet to prevent herself from falling.

  The Chosen, his broad shoulders covered in glistening sweat, strides down the road and makes his way through the crowd. Elizabeth can’t take her eyes off the man who dwarfs all that he stands next to. His skin is bronzed, and the wolf fur that straps itself over one shoulder, and across his chest, rustles in the gentle wind.

  She swears he glances at her, his eyes judging and dangerous, but he is past her in a single step and moving through the crowd. Whispers move through the crowd like an STD carried by the wind, and it infects them all.

  Is there a monster approaching the front gate?

  Why are there so many men with guns?

  Has the infected gathered to attack the village in the middle of the day?

  So much bullshit filters its way through that even Elizabeth can’t tell what the fuck is going on. Holding tight to Alexis’ arm, she does her best not to find herself pushed to the back of the crowd or worse, to the ground where she’ll be stomped to death for nothing more than a quick glance at whatever the hell is approaching.

  “Can you see anything?” Elizabeth asks.

  “State your name and purpose!” the Chosen’s voice bellows as the gate swings open.

  “Shh,” Alexis hushes amid the rising voices of the crowd.

  Metal gate and razor wire swings shut without another word. Men prep rifles and position themselves in expectation of war.

  What the hell has gotten them like this?

  “I have ordered you to state your purpose,” the Chosen’s voice calls out again.

  Elizabeth looks over at Alexis, who stares ahead, though she can be no more successful at seeing what is going on.

  Silence from the Chosen hangs in the air as people whisper of walking death and a monster that approaches.

  Wouldn’t they be shooting if it was a monster?

  The Chosen wouldn’t have just walked his way out of the gate for no reason, would he?

  Moments pass and nothing happens. Rifles remain aimed, and men stiffen as the time grows longer. Feet aching, Elizabeth eyes the people around her.

  This is far more boring than it should be and, in her mind, she begins to beg for a return to the medical ward. The comfort of a bed and drugs is more attractive than this.

  “Make way!” one of the men on the platforms orders.

  Bodies shuffle backward, pressing bodies against Elizabeth as she struggles to stay on her feet.

  “What is going on?” she asks.

  No one answers, but the crowd begins to part like the Red Sea. Elizabeth grips Alexis’ arm and squeezes tight. The young girl looks over at her.

  “Someone new has been brought home,” Alexis says. There is a smile on her face that is an expression warmer than the cold that reddens her cheeks. “A new child has come to find the father.”

  Elizabeth has no words as the gate swings open. People gawk and words are lost behind numb lips as the Chosen makes his way through. Following him, striding in step behind the monster of a man, is a dark figure she can smell before she sees him.

  Death, gore, and the stench of blood reeks like poison from the creature who stands shoulder to shoulder with the Chosen like no one she ever thought could. Families whisper of the Devil, and two babies scream in horror.

  Words are lost to Elizabeth. The people of this village are shocked, horrified by what they see, but she can only stand there stunned. She knows this thing, this man who has found his way into the village that holds her prisoner. Dried blood covers him from head to toe. Bits flake off his jacket and pants as he walks. Scratches mark his skin, and people give him a wide berth. Over a shoulder, a single strap holds itself to a green Army bag that pulls heavy against his muscles.

  He never gave her his name, nor did he share her bed, but he did find her in the middle of a raging storm. Hungry, but hiding the stash of food she had been carrying, he had willingly given her some from his own without question or request.

  The d
ark skin of his shaven head reflects the light of the sun overhead as he passes the rest of the crowd, and she watches him go. When she was taken, captured by dozens of the half-infected men, he had torn through them like an unstoppable demon. She had done all she could do, but even with a rifle, he had torn the life out of more in a few moments than she could in the entire fight.

  Here he is. Walking up to a guarded sanctuary like it was an everyday thing, stinking of death and destruction.

  What does he want?

  Could he have possibly found her again?

  Elizabeth takes a look over at Alexis, who cannot be any paler at the sight of a man covered with enough blood to fill an arena twice the size of judging circle. If the man has come looking for her or not, she does not care. A spark of excitement warms her blood as she watches his figure follow in step with the monster that holds her here.

  Maybe, just maybe, she has found her way out of this hellhole.

  Eighteen

  Five Years Ago

  Orange and yellow firelight shines through windows, casting dark shadows that dance throughout the hallway. Emergency lights flicker, and the electricity struggles to sustain a consistent power. Glass crackles under boots, crushed into a thousand tiny diamonds that sparkle in the fires of war.

  The smell of spent gunpowder fills the air, and the screams of men dying in the field echoes into the night. Radios crackle with calls for reports and commands that will not be followed. Dark smoke filters through the hall, closing the walls in tight around the shoulders, narrowing the path forward into a tiny tunnel of death. Broken tile flakes from the dropped ceiling overhead, rat’s nests of wires hanging and sparking.

  Merchant can feel the cold embrace of steel against the skin of his hands and the hum across the nook of his shoulder. The comfort of combat cools his anger as he moves step by step through the hall. Men run frantically around the base, chaos driving them wild as they search for the army that has torn a hole through their defenses.

  His vision is trained down the sights of his rifle. Little notch sits calm between the arch that tells him where his next bullet will go. They do not know where he is. Blood drips from his head and arms, cooling slower than the bodies he has left behind him.

  “More of them must be coming…” A soldier says as he rounds the corner at the end of the hall.

  Three rounds explode into his chest. Like a machine, the spent rounds ping on the floor and roll into the shadows. Blood puffs into a mist over his falling body, and his weapon crashes onto the tiled floor. Another target turns the corner, rifle rising, but it is too late. One bullet shatters the right orbital socket of his eye and decorates the wall behind him. A second shot opens a clean hole through neck and artery, creating a work of modern art across the sheet rock and molding.

  More voices scream orders from the dark as the emergency lights go out and a canister is rolled into the hall.

  Merchant pulls his jacket over his eyes and drops into a crouch. Light a thousand times brighter than the sun erupts and ringing silences the screams of the dying in his ears. He releases more messengers of death, like little bees pissed off and swarming, into the bodies that charge from around the turn of the wall.

  Blood pools as his enemies trip over themselves. Six lay dead at his feet as he reaches the corner. Silence hovers in between the damage to his hearing and the death that follows in his wake.

  Taking a deep breath, Merchant turns the corner.

  “Got you now, fucker,” a soldier yells as he turns Merchant’s rifle to the side with one arm and reaches for his neck with his other hand.

  A head-butt to the nose sends the man reeling backward. Distance created, Merchant raises his rifle and pulls the trigger.

  Click.

  Click.

  Jammed. Anger explodes behind the soldier’s eyes to fill the gap where the blood drains from his ruined nose. Driving forward, he tries to wrap his thick, bloody hands around Merchant’s neck.

  Rifle stock meets throat, and the man drops to his knees. Breath chokes out in wets coughs. Glock unsnaps from belt and gray matter sprays across the floor as the next bullet exits the back of the man’s skull.

  Merchant continues down the hall. He can hear boots coming from behind the wall to his left. There is a stairwell nearby. A sign hangs from the ceiling pointing in big red letters.

  EXIT.

  Picking up his pace, he reaches the door before anyone else can come piling through. Voices give orders as the steps draw closer.

  Boots echo between words. A half-dozen pairs judging by the cadence.

  They are a floor level below.

  Merchant throws the door open, scans with his pistol, and unleashes a grenade down the descending ramp. Travis may have had a reason to keep them, but Merchant has a good reason to use them.

  Metal rings like music as the explosive rolls over concrete steps. Men scream but are silenced with the sound of thunder that shakes the building and leaves pieces of rock and plaster sitting suspended in the air.

  Stepping into the stairwell, Merchant can hear coughing mixed with the moans of the dying. The wall leading to the levels below has caved in. A gaping hole reveals piping and open spaces that fall onto the first floor below. There is no way down, but he does not want to go down.

  His target is one more level up.

  Sirens wail in the distance. Army or not, the sound of war so close to the capital and the cities has brought the attention of the authorities. Gunshots pepper the night between the wails of sound and light.

  Merchant can feel his time running short. The blood in his veins quickens. He doesn’t need that much time. What he wants waits for him up these stairs.

  Calming his breathing, he begins to climb. Boots coated with blood squeak with each step. He cannot quiet them. He does not want to.

  Let them hear him coming. Death is inevitable for everyone. It cannot be stopped. Tonight, he is the Grim Reaper, and they are at the top of the list.

  A large number three sits painted in blue against the steel door. They are in there, waiting for him. Travis has laid the entire base out for him, pointing out every last detail. This was their central command building, home of the general and his damn dog.

  Merchant checks how many rounds he still has in his pistol. Twelve bullets and one more magazine in his pocket. That is enough for him. One will shatter brains and do the job if it needs to.

  Bloodstained fingers wrap around the cool handle of the door. The edges cut into his skin like fire and the barrier feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. A shiver ripples through his body, and he presses his shoulder against the stone frame.

  This is it. Vengeance will be his, and his family will have the peaceful rest they deserve. The sound of his children laughing and playing in the yard calls to him from beyond the shadows. He can see the smile on his wife’s face and when she bites her lower lip as her mind turns to things too naughty to give words.

  She was so beautiful.

  Blood drips into his eye, and the salt sets his vision on fire. Merchant literally sees red. There will be no stopping him. Another explosion rocks the ground, and he grits his teeth.

  With a yank, the door flies open, and he steps through. Pistol held close and ready, he scans as he moves, preparing for the fight that comes.

  Nothing but smoke and mirrors.

  Silence.

  Merchant can’t believe it. He spins on his heels again.

  “Looking for me?” the Dog Breaker asks.

  The voice is behind him. Merchant goes to roll, willing his muscles to twist and turn toward his target. Pain and light erupts through his brain, and the floor rushes up to greet him.

  Darkness spins throughout the room. Fire dances on the horizon. Vomit fills his mouth. Merchant tries to lift his pistol. Hard, heavy boots crunch into wrist bones. He screams, and his fingers release.

  Metal skids across the carpeted floor. The Dog Breaker smiles down at him. His eyes are darker than the night sky. Black streaks his
face and shadows hollow out his face.

  Merchant tries to rise. A boot to his chest puts him back down.

  “Not this time, asshole,” the Dog Breaker says.

  The next kick hits Merchant square between the eyes.

  A cage and a thousand eyes. Merchant sits, resting against the back of his confinement in quiet solitude. The cold bars create pressure points between his shoulders, and the chafing wet of slush and mud soaks into the fabric of his pants.

  The shadows of the day grow long, and the enthusiasm of the onlookers grows short. Three boys, no older than ten, look at him and whisper between themselves. They stand beside a pile of open crates full of stuffing made of yellow grass and piled snow. Their feet itch behind the barrier as they watch him.

  He peels away some of the dried blood from his jacket and flicks it into the snow that piles around the cell. A stiff breeze whispers of the coming night. He can smell the aroma of burning meat and cooking vegetables. Stomach growling, he lets his eyes scan those who still wander by for a glance.

  He has seen none of them before, but he knows she is here. She has to be. Merchant reaches into his pocket and runs his fingers over the cards that draws him to her and eyes his bag that sits outside of the cage. They promised not to take it away, leaving it within reach but not giving him the privilege of possessing it until they are certain he is not here to hurt them.

  That decision will be theirs. He wants her. If they let her go, he will care even less for them. If she is a prisoner here as Cherry Red is certain she is, then he will do what he needs to so that she can be free.

  One of the boys approaches. Long brown hair waves across his round and uneven face. He pushes it back over his shoulders. His steps hesitate. Dark stains reach wobbly knees of thick wool pants frayed under the soles of boots, which dwarf his slender frame. He looks back at his friends, who are now behind the crates and waving him forward. Another gust of wind and the youngster pulls his coat of denim and fur tighter around his shoulders.