Building and moving his army against the Folks had been easy. He’d had time to acquire and manipulate, grabbing a few stragglers here and there, adding them over the course of the march, but now the rotting minds came all at once.
Bobby made it to the top of the dune. Below him, a pit nearly twenty yards long ran the length of a burned out building. A faded sign canted at an angle, its words long since sandblasted away. From his vantage point he could see the tops of their heads, all hundred plus Creepers. A swarm of flies buzzed above them like dirty fog. Buzzards circled overhead, but none seemed to dare to partake of the strange scene.
Near the pit was a pile of what looked like automatic weapons. At several points around the pit, the remnants of camp fires scarred the bright sand, and then Bobby noticed the wisps of smoke rising from them. He flattened himself to the sand. Slowly he moved away from the exposure of the dune.
He looked back towards the train. He waved his hand, stopping Baylor and Price in their tracks. Clear of the openness of the dune-top, he quickly made his way to them.
“I don’t know what I saw, but I know that whoever did it is still nearby.”
“Kid, what’re you talking about?” Baylor’s wide eyes darted about like some frantic rabbit.
“The fires are still smoking. Looks like some kind of, I don’t know what, but they left a pile of weapons.”
“What about Wyoming Blue?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Price. I didn’t stay up there long enough to see anything but the top of their heads. But there are at least a hundred. I’ve never had to deal with a sudden pop like that. That’s why it floored me.” Bobby worked his scope over the landscape, stopping to check what remained of the structures.
“All right. We work slow. We work safe,” Baylor whispered.
“The only Creepers are the ones in the pit.”
“It’s the living I’m afraid of, kid.”
“Always,” Bobby said.
“Price, get back to the beast and update the crew. Hoss already has roof point, but I want everyone ready. All right, kid, you take point and we work our way around from the west.”
Bobby nodded and darted for a cluster of scrub brush. Thunder conversed in the language of angry gods in the distance, but it seemed strange, more sustained and rhythmic. He searched every nook, every shadow, but found nothing. He didn’t think he would either. The harder he looked, the more he realized there were no tracks on this side of the dune. Not a single one.
As they came around the dune, they started to see signs of movement: footprints, what looked like drag marks, deep ruts, all in the process of being reclaimed by the sand. The Creepers wailed from the pit. Bobby searched their minds, but even though he had them under control, he was unable to glean anything useful. He looked over the edge of the pit and was surprised by what he found.
There were many fatigue-wearing members among the rotting throng, but there were also many older Creepers, mummified in that sickly golden sheen. Their empty sockets filled with shadows. Noses had long since rotted off, or been eaten by insects. The old ones far outweighed the freshies. Bobby was thankful for that. It meant the others might still be alive. This Wyoming Blue, this group of people fighting to represent something he had no part in the creation of, Price’s brother was one of them, and that was enough for Bobby. As far as he was concerned, they were family. Everyone on the beast and everyone affiliated with them were his family now, and he meant to protect them as best he could. He knew what it was like to be alone and unwanted, and he never wanted to feel like that ever again.
“What the fuck,” Baylor said from beside him.
“Look.” Bobby pointed to the pile of weapons.
Bobby’s eyes followed Baylor’s as they circled the pit to inspect them. The rifles were field issue CARs, military grade, in great shape considering their age. “They’ve been field stripped. Look there. Some parts were taken, so were the ammo and magazines, but they left the rifles.”
“Which means they’re already armed and coordinated.”
“This is beyond what we encountered with the savages, Bobby. I don’t like it. I really don’t fucking like it.” Baylor shook his head as he looked into the pit once more. “What the fuck is all this for? Looks like they brought or found these old ones.”
Bobby crouched at the edge of the pit. He started to stack and shift the monitors in his mind, pulling some forward and others back, like a game of dominos. In just a few minutes, he had the oldest Creepers on one side and the freshies on the other. He could see bullet wounds and bright red blood splashed on the muted browns. None of the men had been properly eliminated before being thrown in the pit.
Bobby shifted his focus into the eyes of one soldier. He had a rugged black and gray beard, a fat wide nose, and many scars across his face. His hands were massive, hardened by a rough life. A man who had seen it all and died trying to understand it. Bobby looked at the others, studying their wounds.
There were no bites on the soldiers. They reanimated naturally. They were thrown in here dead from the gun shots. Thrown in the pit with the others. He went from soldier to soldier, inspecting them. No bites, no head shots, and then he found one. A man, who in life sported a long ginger mane. A stick of a man with muscles like steel cables. Bobby bade the Creepers part so he could study this man. He could see the fine black stitch across the man’s breast, a name.
SGT. PARSONS
The sergeant had been put into the pit alive, and judging from the defensive wounds on his long fingers he put up a hell of a fight. Bites marred his neck and face. The thunder rose to a constant, steady roar.
“Storm’s coming,” Bobby said. He kept his mind focused on the man, on the clues presented to his sniper’s eye.
“What’re you doing?” Baylor said, kneeling beside Bobby. “Who is he?”
“Trying to figure out what happened. Sergeant Parsons. Did you know him?”
“Not personally. Other than Price’s brother we had minimal interaction with the rest of the group. We met them maybe once a year on route. We shared updates and supplies and that was it.”
“He was put in there alive. On purpose.”
“I just don’t know anymore. The shit I’ve seen. They had a job, we had a job, and we were doing it. Cleaning up this fucking mess. I just don’t understand. What happened to us?”
Bobby didn’t know how to answer that because all he knew was violence. He was born into it. He didn’t understand the Folks’ motives and he couldn’t even begin to understand this.
The cadence of the thunder broadened and picked up pace. Bobby looked towards the storm. A massive wall of rust-colored dust danced on the horizon. He peered into the scope and nearly dropped it. It wasn’t thunder at all. It was men on horseback. Lots of them.
“Mr. Baylor.” Bobby pointed to the horizon.
“I told you I didn’t fucking like it. I really don’t fucking like it. Kid, since I met you, we been having a lot of crazy fucks rushing my train.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The nervous wink did a piss-poor job of hiding the worry behind it. Bobby shivered at the thought of the Mad Conductor in such a state. The riders were closing fast, but they were still a good distance away.
Bobby stared into the pit.
“Kid, we gotta fucking move.”
“We’ll be sitting ducks if the train’s not moving.”
“We got the thumper and a few other surprises. She’ll hold. We’ll hold. Nobody is laying hands on my girl.”
Bobby ran to the faded sign. He nudged it out of the sand. The years had eaten it almost hollow but it held. He dragged it towards the pit. With Baylor’s help, he was able to angle the sign down into the pit. The Creepers stumbled, walked into it, but had no idea what their new master had in store.
As they ran towards the train, Baylor barking orders, whistling loud staccato bursts beside him, Bobby fell into the swath of Creepers, tr
anslating, imagining what he wanted them to do. And they obeyed. The newly dead corpses of Wyoming Blue made the task at hand quite easy. There were a few old ones that couldn’t handle the angle. Bobby almost felt sorry for them.
He hit the train in a full out run, leaping between the cars, and he rushed to the roof. Several of Baylor’s men were already in place. He nodded at Price, ducking to avoid the massive belt-fed grenade launcher.
Bobby watched Baylor snap at the man.
“Remember what I said!”
Price nodded reluctantly, then handed over the weapon before disappearing down the ladder.
Bobby didn’t know what Baylor was on about, but he trusted the man. He went prone between the shields. The riders were still too far to start taking shots. He worked on the Creepers instead. He moved them out of sight: behind houses, behind the dunes. He knew they wouldn’t stand up to the horses in a full out charge. More than half of them would probably disintegrate on impact, held together by nothing more than a very diligent virus and hardened by the sun. No, he wanted to lunge at their flanks as they passed the town to get to the train. He wondered how many riders possessed long range sight capabilities? More than a few, if they were able to relieve a good chunk of Wyoming Blue of their duty.
He drew a long breath, released it, relaxed, settled into the habit of preparing to deal death. Bobby racked the bolt, fine tuned the Creepers’ position, blocked out everything else.
There was a loud hiss of steam. The train jolted to life, smoke rose from the beast’s mouth. The horizon shifted through his scope. He adjusted, never taking his eyes off the riders. Even though, in the back of his mind, he began to hear the men of Wyoming Blue speak.
* * * * *
Price opened the firebox and brought it to life. He gripped the shovel in his giant hands, flexing his arms until they hurt. Almost every part of him wanted to be on that roof, defending his home, but one trait mattered more than anything. Loyalty. It kept him in the return trip, elbow deep in coal. He could hear the riders approaching. But the debt he owed Baylor, the absolute love he had for the man, had him stoking the fire, readying the beast’s backend for something he wasn’t so sure would work.
Jamie’s rapid fire fucks and shits echoed through the cars from somewhere behind him. She didn’t bother praying. Not many of them did anymore. Price gathered himself, checking the action on his CAR. He didn’t want the fire to roar. Not yet. That would come when the time was right. He knew he would be ready to make the break, but could he lead them to the safety of the hills so many months to the east? Without Baylor’s guidance, would any of them make it?
Rifles began to crack from above. Shell casings clattered down the side of the beast. Death was upon them.
* * * * *
Sophie held Randal close, staring into his deep dark eyes. Every time she did, she felt as if she were seeing Bobby before the cruelty of the world placed its heavy hand on him. She tucked Randal into his makeshift nook lined with steel plates and thick, warm blankets, then she racked the shotgun.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because there’s no sense anymore, that’s why,” Jamie said. She wrung her hands until they beamed an angry red. “Fuck-shit, we try so hard to beat back the terrible things, the terrible people, we try to sweep that mess out the house and not under the carpet like my gran used to say. But it always comes back. They always come back.” She pulled the shotgun from its rack under the kitchen counter, racked it and put it back, then she did the same for the gun at her side. Sophie knew Jamie wasn’t about to make the mistake of running out of ammo again should the car be breached.
“I thought for so long I wouldn’t see him again, we wouldn’t see him again,” Sophie said, touching Randal on his pale forehead. “I-I think—” Sophie cringed as the rifles began to boom. Randal winced, then smiled, rocking back and forth in his nook.
Jamie seemed at a loss for words. Sophie wondered if she could feel the pain just as clearly as she knew it was etched on her face. The fierce lines of love.
Jamie said, “Don’t let go of that love, dear. Hold it tight and keep it close. When it gets bad, it’ll be all you have. Nothing I say or do will make a difference then, but that love will. You fight like I taught you. Stand defiant in the face of anything. We’re tough bitches.”
“Always,” Sophie said, wiping away the tears.
“That’s right.”
* * * * *
Pathos One tapped furiously at the keys. It was happening again. There was no escaping it. This flux in the world, the steadily building rage, the explosions that begot explosions that became inextinguishable fires tearing humanity apart from within. It would never end. The train swayed hard. Three rounds sent beams of bright white light through the dark cabin. More followed, like hard rain on tin roofs.
Pathos One dropped to the floor but kept typing. Men yelled overhead, returning fire in short bursts, but above all the noise he could pinpoint Bobby’s steady, brutally efficient shots, one after the other. Carefully chosen targets exited this life on the dusty plains.
Pathos One closed the laptop. He grabbed his AK-47 and bolted for the rear of the train. He opened the door between the cars and fell back as a burst of automatic weapons fire ricocheted off the thick steel. A tall lanky man with a gray beard fired at him from the back of a horse. Its mouth was thick with froth—long, stringy strands trailing behind in the wind. Another series of shots tore through the wood around the frame.
Pathos One rolled to his right and opened fire. The man tried to pull the reins to exit the angle of fire, but his reaction was too slow. Pathos One’s shots ripped his chest apart. He fell backward off the horse. Pathos One got to his feet and cleared the gap between the cars.
* * * * *
Who’s there?
Help.
Why?
They called to him, but he had no time to comprehend their voices. Bobby aimed like the Folks taught him. He could hear Ol’ Randy all those winters ago, ‘Center mass on a moving target. Don’t get cute, Bobby. Focus. Give yourself the best opportunity to drop the sons of bitches. Lot more ’an Creepers you need be worryin’ about.’ Those words never rang more true. A squat man in a wide-brimmed hat worked the reins of his horse hard. Bobby timed the rise and fall of the horse’s movements, counted the beats, and fired. Accounting for the draft of the train and the elevation, his bullet smashed the man’s chest and sent him back and off the horse, where his body was crushed by the man behind him.
Bobby felt each thrump from Baylor’s grenade launcher. Parts of horses and men and desert sand burst into the endless blue sky. But they kept coming. More and more exited the dust cloud the closer they got. The pounding of their hooves was terrifying.
Just before the bulk of the riders reached the town, Bobby unleashed the Creepers. He aimed for the beasts of burden, those hammering hooves. Disruption. The attackers were riding too hard to stop their momentum. Bobby felt the bone-crunching impacts as thundering beast met rotting flesh. The Creepers were enough to send men crashing into one another.
Men cried out to their brethren as they rode past, but were ignored for they were already dead. The Creepers fell upon them, fed upon them, converted them, and Bobby welcomed them into the fold.
CHAPTER 7
Never let your guard down, son.
He had not. If he learned anything from being raised by a diverse group of people in a highly unique situation it was this: know your surroundings. He did, on a level so intimate he could anticipate the next crumbling building with an uncanny accuracy. He’d sit and watch them fall, calling them out to his father. He knew every street that had been and every pitfall-filled avenue that was created after the shocks. They’d grown in frequency over the last few years. The city was not safe. Another reason he had to get out.
Jennifer thought she was in control behind him. She thought she had the upper hand with the rifle, but she was right where Howard wanted her. He slowly led them towards what used to be home, but he too
k a route that would end in a familiar place, a dark place, a part of the old city cracked open and exposed, and it was in that place he would show her that all was not as it seemed.
He knew she would go for the rifle. She couldn’t keep her eyes off it while she paced. She tried to keep him busy with her words, but that nervous energy from the rush of the encounter gave her away. Howard let her play that hand to see how far it would go. It ended at the weapon. Not a very good hand at all.
His father told him once that the whole city would sink into the ocean. He hadn’t believed it for the longest time, even with the shocks coming regularly, but after the big one came he’d never doubt the old man again.
He was twelve. There were still women around back then, he remembered, as he led Jennifer towards the place from his past. The shocks came in low rolling waves. Little jitters, Lem used to call them. They made his feet tingle, and if you looked at the glass in the buildings it looked like water for a second. By that time, he had already started clearing the city. He was getting good at it, and it helped to have the others around, though the killing affected them on a different level than it did him.
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