“I will continue,” he whispers.
“Good,” she purrs.
Before he can stop her, though deep down he is not sure he wants to, she moves closer. Her lips brush his and the fire that ignites burns the sky away, and the world disappears in a flash of pain and exhaustion.
To the east the sun creeps its way over the flats and the golden glory of its power stretches and burns the horizon without fear and retribution. White, lazy clouds move like boats struggling to pull anchor as they fail against the tide that sucks them into the burning destruction that awaits them.
Merchant opens his eyes and coughs. Long pulls of water and mud belch from his stomach and lungs and he rolls to his side as it piles against the sharp stones and dirt of the riverbed. Sticky, acidic pools of phlegm turn to mud and small bits of chewed beef float against his cheeks as he struggles to fill his chest. The world spins in his mind.
Up is down.
Down is up.
The mere thought of sitting rolls his stomach and clenches muscles into an agonizing cramp.
He gives up the fight and rests against the muddy soil, letting his arms stretch and the taste of water and waste permeate his mouth.
Birds call out deep angry songs as they circle overhead. Dark silhouettes against the warming sky. Lower now. He can see their curved beaks and the talons of their feet as they open and close in their ritualistic dance.
Fighting every instinct he has to continue to lay down and die, he pushes himself until he is seated. Patches of mud cake his clothes, his jacket weighs a ton, and he smells of rot and decay.
He is alone.
For the first time in an age he cannot remember, he is alone.
Red is nowhere to be seen and his bag is lost in the current.
He takes a deep breath and lets the morning light warm itself against his skin.
She did it again. He should be dead after all of that. Drowned at the bottom of whatever river this is.
With a sigh he moves his legs until they roll beneath him. Pain and bruising swells across his knees and thighs but it does not feel like anything is broken. A shake of the head sends bright lights across his sight, but nothing else.
He is in one piece. At least for now.
“You are one tough son-of-a-bitch, aren’t you?” Snake-Eyes says as he materializes beside him.
“Fuck,” Merchant groans.
He is no longer alone.
The ghost is wearing a swim suit and his white skin and tattooed body shimmers against the clear water that runs by. The snakes on his neck coil onto a pole that stretches from between his breast down below his navel. A fruity drink rests in his hand.
“Was really hoping that you didn’t know how to swim,” Snake-Eyes taunts. “Would have been comical to know all that you have survived only to be taken out by a little stream. Ha! I would have lost the bet, but it would have been worth it.”
Merchant glares at him though he knows it is useless.
“You made a bet on me?”
The ghost’s face sneers and the eye on the left side of his neck blinks.
“It’s all we have to do, plus you know I’m on your side. I’ve got all I have riding on that it takes hell risen to take you down. Now don’t go disappointing me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, prick,” Merchant says and pushes himself from the ground.
The ghost fades away in the breeze that skips its way over the cool water and materializes again by his side, now wearing his white shirt, white blazer, and white pants brighter than sun-bleached bone. In the glaring mid-day sun, he’s a shining star and sadly there is only one person who has to suffer the sight of the asshole.
“Didn’t see what happened to Red, did you?” Merchant asks.
He doesn’t wait for the answer and starts to follow the riverbed to the south.
“Probably cracked that soft skull of hers on a rock and bled out for all I know. Didn’t know I was supposed to keep an eye on the girl. She really isn’t much of a looker nowadays.”
Merchant waves him off. It was a stupid question from the start and he already has his answers.
Dark shadows that trail his movements from above begin to fade as the ground beneath his boots turns to dust and his clothes cake with drying dirt. He is not their next meal. They wouldn’t want his cursed flesh anyway, but he can see they have picked fresher pickings.
A full swarm of wings and unrelenting hunger circle in the distance. Hardly over the ground they are a tornado swooping to touch down. He picks up his pace from a slow walk to a slow jog.
If she is dead, there is nothing he can do to help her. If she is hurt, there is even less he can do. She can hardly be considered on the right side of the infection anymore, and with her bum leg, any injury would make it too much to survive. Her mind will crack if her body does not give out first.
He knows he won’t let her suffer more than she has to. Even without his bag he can feel the weight of what follows behind him. A thousand silent footsteps tread the riverbank in his wake. What is another one? Dirt grinds between his teeth as he draws closer.
Several of the large vultures are prancing on the ground. In a giant circle they preen and call at each other, circling their newest claim.
Rocks are not hard to find beneath the surface of the river and where the water ripples along its current he finds a good palm sized one. Hardly any heavier than a baseball, Merchant lifts his weapon, and he throws it into the dancing carcass fuckers.
A bone snaps.
Dozens of cries pierce the air which thunders with the wind of wings racing to reach the sky.
A limp body twitches on the ground.
Blood pools were feathers flutter.
The bird is dead.
A scale covered hand scratches at the ground. Dark rivulets of red leak from open sores and mud as gray as stone forms a paste over body and face, but Red still clings to life.
“Stupid bitch just doesn’t know when to die,” Snake-Eyes says.
Merchant gives the dead buzzard a kick with his boot and takes a closer look at Red.
Her eyes are not focused. She glares at the open sky, the sun now racing its way to the west and her mouth opens and shuts but no words come out. Drops of blood leak from the corners of her eyes and pool within earlobes that do not hear any of the world around her.
Squatting down, he cradles the side of her face in his hand and turns her toward him. If she recognizes him, she gives no sign of it. Her eyes look through him and to the world on the other side. He has seen this before. She is lost to him and everyone else.
“Oh, look there, isn’t that helpful,” Snake-Eyes says.
Merchant glares up at him, but the ghost couldn’t care less and isn’t even looking in his direction.
His face with its empty eyes are watching the river behind them. Shifting on his heels, Merchant does the same, careful not to move Red too much.
Floating atop the water, dark and wet, his bag washes up against the shore. The single arm strap that still works hooks itself around a stone and holds it in place. Caught against one of the buttons, the thin leather band which seals it shut stretching with the water that rushes by is Red’s shoulder bag.
Gently placing her head back on the ground, Merchant stands. No words of argument pass her lips and her breathing is rattled by the sound of fluid washing through her chest.
“Floats pretty well for all the horrors that thing carries,” Snake-Eyes says as he watches Merchant step into the water to retrieve their belongings.
Turning Red’s bag over, a full allotment of water spills out in black streams and with an open hand, Merchant catches the pistol that she always keeps by her side.
“Won’t be needing that anymore after you use one on her,” Snake-Eyes says.
Merchant looks up at the ghost and the urge to put one right between his eyes is overwhelming, but he drops the weapon back into the bag. No reason to waste a shot. Throwing him out a window didn’t do the trick, shooting him now
would be even more of a waste.
With a grunt, Merchant picks up his bag from the surface of the water. His boots sink deeper into the mud as he makes his way back to Red. She is still unresponsive. Saliva and mud mixes in large bubbles around the corners of her lips and her one good eye is rolling up into her head.
The handbag feels heavier on his hip than the army bag over his shoulder. He knows it has at least a few rounds in it and there is always a chance the bullets aren’t too waterlogged to fire. She doesn’t deserve to end like this.
He eyes the dead bird where it fell, its neck bent in an awkward angle.
Food for the vultures. Isn’t that what they’ll all become when this is all over?
The revolver is small compared to the palm of his hand, but this isn’t his weapon. She kept it with her this whole time, and in the end, it will be the death of her. Taking a better grip, he runs his thumb over the hammer and pulls it back as the small bag slides away.
Snake-Eyes giggles as he lifts his own hand up, index finger out and thumb cocked back.
Merchant says nothing. There are no words to say.
“On the count of three,” Snake-Eyes says.
Merchant ignores the ghost and watches as her mud-caked shirt slowly rises and falls. He aims for the base of her skull.
“Hey, you need any help down there?” a voice calls out in question.
With a swift motion Merchant slides the revolver back into its concealment and shifts his Army bag higher onto his shoulder.
A half-dozen people begin to make their way down from the dune that rises to the west of the river. Sliding and kicking up enough dust for a storm, three men and three women materialize from the growing shadows. They do not carry weapons, and two of them have simple school yard backpacks strapped across their shoulders.
“Could we be of any help?” one of the men’s voice calls again.
Merchant looks down at Red who still does nothing and turns back to those approaching. Wearing simple matching shirts and pants of browns and black, they are the cleanest and healthiest people he has seen in the longest of time. Bright eyes, sun tanned skin, all of them with long hair held beneath wide-brimmed hats, and smiles lighting up brighter than the afternoon sun.
“Who the fuck are these bozos?” Snake-Eyes asks.
“Oh my god,” one of the women exclaims before running forward.
“Wait, Mary!” the man who had been calling says but is too late as she reaches Red.
The other five slow to stop as their eyes travel from Merchant, his body and bags covered in mud, to Red who is now as pale as Snake-Eyes and his abhorred suit.
“Are you two, OK?” the man asks but does not step any closer.
Merchant looks back down to Red when neither of the five make any sudden movements and watches as Mary cradles Red’s head on her lap. Blood smears and water soak into the woman’s black blouse and brown pants. She ignores it all even with Red’s obvious infection. Her thin hand strokes at the wet strands of hair curled against the torn scalp.
“A storm washed us away when we tried to cross the river,” Merchant starts. “I washed up a couple miles upstream, but Red here didn’t stop until she reached this place.”
“She’s alive,” Mary says. “We need to get her to Brother George. He’ll know what to do.”
“Let’s get her to the carriage and head back before the sun goes down,” the first man says. The other four remain silent.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” Merchant asks.
Mary looks up at him and begins to speak, but Merchant lifts his hand.
“You can see she is infected. Most cities and villages won’t have her kind.”
A smile crosses Mary’s face.
“Doesn’t seem to have bothered you,” the first man says as he steps forward.
He’s a good-sized young man. Broad shouldered, fresh cheeks, and a twinkle still in his eyes. Merchant turns his full attention down to him and though trying to radiate confidence, the man shuffles half a step back.
“I’m special,” Merchant says.
“Well, I’m Derek, and Brother George is as special as they come. Help us get your friend to our cart and we can get her back before the good lord above takes her home.”
Derek waves the others forward and they begin to move Red into a better position so that she can be carried back up the dune.
Merchant looks at Snake-Eyes whose jaw hangs wide open. He shrugs his shoulders, and the ghost slaps his mouth shut.
“Don’t look at me,” the ghost says. “You are the one who washed up on the shores of crazy town.”
5
Life Will Never Be the Same
An empty church.
Silent.
Hollow.
Cold for a late spring evening.
A perfect place to think and listen after failing to sleep beyond a wall of nightmares and cold chills. Kelly sits by herself in the first pew looking up at the pictures of Jesus and God and all the saints they pray to on a daily basis. She can remember the more important ones, but there are just too many. Closing her eyes, she waits for them to speak to her, but the tapping of wood shutters and the creaking of the rafters is all that answers.
With a sigh, she looks at her hands. Dirt beneath her nails and the dancing light of candles highlighting tiny scars. She begins to dig at them. No matter what she does she can never be as clean as the others. No matter how much she tries. At least this will help take her mind away for a few minutes. With the edge of a tooth she pulls on the first tip she can latch onto.
“Is something bothering you, my child?” Brother George asks.
Startled, Kelly jumps from the pew, trips over the kneeling bench and slides over the polished wood before tucking her hand beneath her legs.
“Oh… no, nothing Brother George,” she stammers. “I was just praying to God.”
His smile warms her from the inside and her mind loses its hold on what was worrying her. Clinging desperately, she tries not to let it go until she has found a solution for the entire town’s problems. He seems unfazed. White shirt opened a couple of buttons on the top, eyes at ease and there doesn’t seem to be even the remotest sign of tension in him.
“I can see that,” he answers.
Looking up at the picture of Jesus, cracked and old with age and weather, the frame is huge as it stairs down at them. She can feel those eyes burning deep into her, knowing and demanding she confess to her weakness and doubt.
“What are you doing here?” Kelly asks, waiting for him to turn and demand she tell him everything he already knows.
The silence between them and the judgment of God himself begins to choke her into submission.
“Do you know some people say that isn’t a true representation of him?” Brother George asks.
Now, she is completely confused. Tracing his eyes, she follows until she sees that he is still staring at the portrait over the center of the alter.
“Who? Do you mean, Jesus?” she asks.
He chuckles, and the painting’s face breaks its hold of him.
“Of course, who else would I be talking about?”
The smile on his face brightens up the room and she can’t help but smile herself.
“I don’t know,” she answers and looks around the empty church. “There are a lot of people here to pick from.”
With a tap on her knee he turns back to the painting.
“Long before the end of the world, back during a time where the world had simpler things to argue about, like the color of Jesus’ skin, there was a big argument whether he was white or black.”
“People fought over that?” she asks.
Of all the stupid things in this world people are going to fight over, it’s the color of a man’s skin who died thousands of years ago? She shakes her head as a million other things cross her mind. Like surviving in a world full of infected.
“Throughout history, men have found a way to fight over everything. Why not the color of
a single man’s skin? This isn’t the first time this world has fallen apart though not this bad before. Fighting over the color of the skin of the man you worship isn’t exactly out of the realm of possibilities, is it?”
Kelly turns back to the painting and its perfectly olive skin gone gray with dust and its long curls of brown hair falling down to its shoulders. It’s hard to imagine that image looking any other way, but even if it did, would she fight about it?
“Which do you believe?” she finally asks when the silence hurts as much she can feel the confession strangling her tongue for its release.
“I believe Jesus would be whatever his people would need him to be. See, belief isn’t just about seeing and feeling. It’s about letting yourself go to something greater than yourself and knowing that as long as you stay true, then in the end, everything will be OK.”
She squints her eyes at the man because she knows that he realizes that was not a real answer.
“So, what you are telling me is you believe that Jesus was a different color depending on the situation, like a chameleon. To some he looked black and others he was white?”
The smile on her face can’t hide her chuckle and he gives a little one himself.
“No, my sweet one. I think he is whatever you need him to be. And as long as you believe that he is the son of God and has been given to this world with a purpose that is all you will need to know. That is what I believe.”
Kelly turns back to the alter and rests her head against the back of the pew. She isn’t sure this is really helping her churning mind, but at least she isn’t alone.
“Somebody get Brother George!” a voice startles her from outside the church.
It’s Derek, she would recognize him anywhere.
“They must have found…” she starts but Brother George is already around the edge of the pew and heading up the aisle in a quickening walk.
Stumbling after him, she’s barely able to clear the first few candles without knocking them over and he is already out the door and into the night.
Traveling Merchant (Book 2): Pestilence Page 5
