Five Days Dead

by James Davis

  He shook Quinlan’s hand and then thought better of it and hugged him and Quinlan hugged the old man and felt the bones of his back as he did. There was so little of him, how could there be so much?

  “The end is coming.” Edward said, looking west toward the flat-topped mountains. “Keep your lambs close and safe and when the time comes that you need shelter from the storm, come find an old man and his apple orchard. I’ll make us a cup of hot cider.”

  Quinlan nodded and climbed into the truck and the three of them smiled at the old man who had saved them and then they drove away.

  Edward watched them until the truck was out of sight and then he looked back at where his wife had died and faded away to the orchard. He turned his body south and put one foot in front of the other toward home.

  A thousand feet from where Quinlan and Edward faced the Wrynd and somehow, magically prevailed, there were the shattered remains of a convenience store. Shuttered for more than 30 years, at one time it had been a gas station and when gasoline went the way of the dinosaur it had been an NG station and when fusion made natural gas obsolete it sold fountain drinks, beer and nachos to passersby. But eventually even the passersby disappeared and the business quietly closed.

  It was just another closure in a long line of closures as the city of Price and all the dreams that had been borne there, slowly withered and died. The city had a long history of dreams dying on the vine.

  In 1891, the fledgling city’s Eastern Utah Telegraph reported “Price has one bank, a dentist, two saloons, three hotels, a shoemaker, two carpenters, a good market, one attorney, a barber shop, one newspaper, two daily stages, a physician, two meat markets, one livery stable, four general stores, 500 people, two school teachers and two blacksmith shops.”

  On a mid-July afternoon, many years in the future Price had no banks, no dentists; bars, but nothing to drink; five hotels, all but one unoccupied; no shoemakers or carpenters; a weekly market in the gutted remains of a Walmart; numerous dead or Wrynd attorneys who no longer practiced law; a barber shop filled with dead people; no newspaper and other than an inquisitive look by the Utah Hub Marshal, no interest on the Link; no stages but scores of abandoned cars; no living physicians but a gutted hospital; no meat markets (unless you counted the remaining citizens of Price); no livery stable and 12 general stores with nothing to sell. When dawn had greeted Price that morning, there were 1,180 living people in the city and by nightfall there would considerably less than 500 and not one of them would be a school teacher. If there were a blacksmith shop, or even two, they would have gone out of business with the Rages. In fact, the only business left in Price that had still functioned with some degree of regularity had been McDonald’s and the restaurant had recently closed due to the death, dismemberment and consumption of its owners by the Wrynd.

  Things just weren’t looking all that great for Price City.

  As for the convenience store, there was little left to draw any interest, but someone had become interested in the flag pole still pointing to the heavens. Once upon a time the United States flag had flown there as a sign of patriotism and a beacon for travelers on SR-6, who tended to be flag waivers. The flag had long ago been shredded to bits by the elements and there was nothing left to testify that it had ever been there at all.

  As Quinlan and his children drove by on the last leg of their trip back to a home without a wife and mother, there was something clinging to the flagpole, something very much alive and watching them with interest in his gray eyes.

  There were those who called him the Gray Walker. He had heard the name before and found it amusing. People always had to have a name for things. Couldn’t they just accept that it was and be satisfied? He was, and he was quite satisfied.

  When Edward Toll shuffled past the old store, the man with the gray eyes watched him with interest and just a touch of anticipation. Would the old man get a feel for him up there on the flagpole? He thought that he might if he hadn’t been so lost in his own grief.

  On the west end of town, he caught a glimpse of sunlight on metal and looked up to see Harley’s truck careening down a side street to emerge on SR-10 a quarter of a mile away and rocket south.

  The man with the gray eyes frowned as he watched him drive away. He was problematic. There was no other way to say it.

  Dangling from a flagpole on the outskirts of a zombie infested city he wondered not if, but when he should do something about a man named Harley Nearwater.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gnashing of Teeth

  Orrin watched lightning descended from the heavens and rise up from the depths of hell to consume his Wrynd. When the old man raised the staff above his head and the first lightning blast licked the ground, Orrin leapt away and rolled down the north embankment of the highway to land at the bottom, where he became entangled in barbed wire fence. The barbs ensnared his arms and legs and a length of it became wrapped around his bullish neck. He fought to free himself and the blood flowed as all around him lightning struck.

  He watched from the bottom of the embankment as Harley Nearwater pointed his blaster at something on the other side of the highway, watched as the drifter nodded and raced away in the dead deputy’s pickup without firing his weapon. The lightning had come for them all, but the old man who called it forth had spared Harley Nearwater. He had spared him.

  Orrin removed the last of the barbed wire and licked the blood on his arms clean. He rubbed the blood from his legs and neck on his chest and abdomen and considered how best he might kill an old man with inhuman powers and a drifter named Harley Nearwater. He climbed to his feet, walked back onto the road and watched Edward shuffle south out of town. He wanted to run to him and tear his feeble body with teeth and claw and fist and strength. But the glory of the flare was slow in him now, in fact, it had been days, too many days since he had last tasted of the madness, and he was able to resist the need to feed. He turned the other way and walked back into Price, trailing drops of blood behind him.

  Twice on the way to the hotel he was attacked by his own when they were overcome by the sight of his blood and tried to feed. He killed them as gently as he could and moved on. They were fresh Wrynd, the newest of his tribe and ink so enraptured them that they could not help themselves. He bore them no ill will when he separated their soul from their body.

  Cries of pain and fear still echoed down many of the streets of Price as his Wrynd gathered up the pilgrims and carried them back to the hotel. There was more feeding going on than he would have preferred. When his tribe stormed into Price he had hoped that he might turn most of the population, but he had made a mistake when he allowed them to be turned one by one. He had allowed them to have too much ink and the flare had taken them and they had in turn slaughtered those who had been their neighbors. It was a foolish error on his part. A king should know better. With those who had managed to escape the city and those devoured, he would be lucky to gather a third of the Price population. He hoped it would be enough for what was to come, but if it wasn’t he would go south and east and north and west until his army truly was the Wrynd Horde. He knew there would be retribution for gathering an army and he no longer cared. The old man would die and so would Harley Nearwater.

  As he walked down Main Street, there was no denying the fatigue that clung to his massive frame and it would only be relieved by sleep or a taste of ink. He would not sleep and must be careful when he took ink or the flare would have him and too many would die. He must be able to focus the flare when it coursed through him and to do that he must have his enemies in sight. It was one of the truths about the drug that you could only fully understand and appreciate if you had tasted of it and to taste of it you were a Wrynd and forever would be. There was no going back. He had seen some who had tried and they had quickly failed. Once, when one of his Daggers had displeased him, he had held him in a vault and deprived him of ink for days. After 10 days he had torn at his own flesh, screaming and gnashing his teeth as he fed on himself. It was a gru
esome death, even for a Wrynd.

  Orrin had learned through trial and error that he was at his best ten to 12 hours after sending ink coursing through his veins. By then the effects had stabilized enough that he still possessed all of the strengths the drug provided, still possessed the hunger to rip and tear and devour, but could control it, there was reason mingled with the madness. To be king, you must use reason.

  After five days between doses, he would begin to feel the fatigue of humanity drag upon him and knew he must have more ink. He must feel the raw power and ecstasy of it in his veins, must succumb to the rapture of ripping and tearing and feasting or he would be lost forever. It had been six days and he knew he must not wait a seventh. He had needed focus while he turned Vania into his queen. He dared not be near her while in the flare. Then she had been taken from him and he needed to build his army and could not afford to take the time to flare. Even now there was still much that needed to be done, that required him to have reason.

  A half dozen screaming men and women were being dragged into the lobby of the Castle Valley Inn when Orrin stormed through the door. The young Dagger named Ralph met him. The skinny young Wrynd looked at the gashes all over his king’s body with concern and a bit of hunger. Ralph was young to be a Dagger, but he was also quick and ruthless and loyal and fearless. Orrin had seen much potential in the boy and had turned him after ripping out the throats of his parents before the boy’s eyes.

  Ralph stood waiting for his king to speak, licking his lips nervously. Orrin watched the screaming victims of Price being dragged into the hotel’s conference room.

  “You’ve stopped turning them?”

  “As you ordered King Orrin.”

  “How many do you have in there?”

  “One-hundred and twenty-five.”

  Orrin nodded. “And how is our supply of ink?”

  Ralph looked at the floor. “Not good. Paul was giving them too high of a dose. We had 20 or so that we had to kill before they even got out the door, they were trying to eat everyone in sight.”

  “And Paul?”

  Ralph looked sheepish. “He was delicious.”

  Orrin sighed and shook his head, but clapped the young man on the shoulder anyway. “When you get 200 of them in there that will be enough for my plans. Gather up another 10 and put them in the room adjourning mine. Get Nina and any of the other Daggers that are near and come to my room in an hour. We have much to discuss.”

  Ralph nodded and went to obey Orrin’s commands. Orrin stopped as he started for the elevator and turned back to his young Dagger. “Bring me a dose of ink when you come. A large one.”

  Ralph grinned and hurried away.

  Orrin had chosen room 300 of the Castle Valley Inn as his suite because there had been the dead body of a legionnaire on the floor. She had been dead for a couple of days at least and he had tossed her corpse from the balcony, along with the rotting food on the counter. But the rest, including the blood and the blast hole through the wall he kept as it was. It was a sign of chaos. It gave him comfort.

  He closed the door to the room and went to the balcony to stand and stare out to the west. The sun was but a faint memory now as night rushed in and the wind caressed his bloody cheeks softly. He gripped the balcony handrail and gritted his teeth and fought against the fury and the fatigue and the hatred and tried to use reason. Harley Nearwater, the Navajo drifter of the Wilderness, had killed his Vania right before his eyes. And she had been so lovely, so strong, so fierce and ruthless under the influence of ink, so much like another woman Orrin had loved and lost when he was not a Wrynd, when he was simply a man.

  Three times his Wrynd had been defeated when they should have devoured and each time Harley Nearwater had been there. The Indian would die slowly, but first the old man must be found and consumed. That had to come first. He wasn’t the Gray Walker, the mythical shadow whispered of, but he might be something worse. Orrin was a Wrynd king, but he was not High Wrynd King and he knew that would be the high king’s command. Find this old man who summoned lightning and destroy him.

  But to accomplish that Orrin knew he must change the rules of the game. Changing the rules would be defying the Federation and a treaty signed in blood. But some blood was thicker than others and he remembered the sight of the lightning striking down his Wrynd while he was snared and helpless, remembered Harley Nearwater’s sword piercing his Vania’s heart and for their blood he would break any oath, defy any empire. The time for the Wrynd to unleash hell upon earth had come.

  Standing on the balcony, he watched night descend on the dead city and he connected to the Link and started down the path of his defiance.

  The Utah Hub Justice Tower in the digiverse was much the same as it was in realtime. A dagger pointed to the sky, an accusation and a promise in steel and glass of the Federation’s protection and dominance over the Realms of Man. When the Federation was cobbled together amidst the mayhem of the Energy Wars, while the United Nations Security Council met and wrung its hands and condemned genocide but did nothing to stop it, the foundation of the Federation was carefully set in stone. By the time the war was over and the radioactive dust had begun to settle, the Federation had overseen the voluntary disarmament of the entire planet. The Federation Legion now protected humanity and divided the earth into the Seven Realms: Eurasia, Australia, Africa, Antarctica, Americas, the Digiverse and the Outland of off world.

  Each Realm was dispatched a Legion division charged with keeping the peace in the Realm. The Realm Legate commanded the Legion and reported to the High Legate, the supreme commander of the Federation Legion and the second most powerful person on the planet. While the Realm Legates controlled the military force, it was the Realm High Judge who wielded the power and control in the Realm. The Realm Legates kept the High Judges in check by controlling the military and answering to the Lord High Judge, who could only command the Legion with the blessing of the Senate. The Lord High Judge was the ruler of the Federation and by default, the earth itself. His power was tempered only by the Senate, who met to quibble over the everyday affairs of the world.

  While the Senate could check the power of the Lord High Judge and his use of the Legion, it was the Marshals who were the actual muscle of the Lord High Judge and his Realm High Judges. They answered to no one but their High Judge and the Lord High Judge. When the founders put the checks and balances into place on the affairs of the Federation, the Marshals were given as a token to the Lord High Judge, loyal servants, champions who could swiftly and decisively deal with any immediate threat to the Federation.

  That token transformed into an elite force who knew no equal. Their numbers were miniscule compared to the Legion, but their power was indisputable. They were better trained, better equipped and the only power on earth allowed the use of a scye. The weapons could be devastating on the battlefield. Orrin had seen it firsthand. The fact that Deputy Shelley had fallen so quickly while wielding a scye said something about the Marshal Service. Had they grown so soft in 10 short years? Orrin planned to find out very soon.

  The Tower was dark, even in the digiverse. Everyone had escaped to their individual lives for the rest of the day. It was of little consequence to Orrin. He knew the old override passcodes and slipped through the digital doors and strolled through the building like he belonged there. Once, a lifetime ago, he had.

  He made his way to the door of the Hub Marshal and stood outside it for a moment, his thoughts elsewhere. Then he opened the familiar door and walked inside. It was dark and he did not bother summoning lights. He strode to the windows, looking down on the city and glanced out at the sparkling Hub. He used to love the city and the knowledge that all around him was a mass of humanity, crawling over each other like ants. A mindless force of nature. Now he loved it still, but for a different reason. Now he would love to see the city bathed in blood. Perhaps, in time, he might be so lucky.

  “Marshal Tempest!” Orrin roared. “I request an audience.”

  Much had changed
since he had last been here and the fatigue in his mind whispered regret that he shook away. “Marshal!” He roared, and Jodi Tempest opened the door to her office and glided inside.

  “King Orrin,” she smiled, summoned the lights and sat on the edge of her desk. “Your digiself is as barbaric as your realtime self I see.”

  Orrin looked at the bloody scars on his arms, legs, and chest and smiled. “I am what I am in all realms Marshal.”

  “What brings you here?”

  “Ink. We need more.”

  “You received a rather large shipment several days ago.”

  “There’s insanity in the Wilderness.”

  “What about your life isn’t insane?”

  “There are different levels of insanity Marshal.”

  “Do you mean to take that entire sad little city?”

  Orrin nodded.

  “You were to push them to the Hub or devour them Orrin. You were not to grow an army.” Jodi stood up and walked to the window. “If the Senate were to hear of this you would draw unwanted eyes and perhaps even the Legion.”

  “To do what must be done requires an army.”

  “Why?”

  “The drifter. There is something helping him. Some power.”

  “Harley?” Jodi grinned. “Now who would be inclined to help Harley Nearwater?”

  “I don’t know. But I know the power I saw destroy my people. It was beyond measure. It was a power born of the Rages.”

  “The Gray Walker?”

  “Gray Walker. Do you believe in this Gray Walker?”

  “Do you?”

  “Does it matter? Even if he exists, he is of little consequence. A shadow in the night. Sometimes here, sometimes there, a watcher in the woods. What threat is he?”