“Here, let me help,” she says reaching for the fallen man’s arms.
The priest shakes his head and pulls Martin upright by himself.
“No, my daughter. I’m not sure you can help here,” he says with a voice as defeated as the tears of the people who fill this town.
“What are we going to do, Red?” Kelly asks.
The girl curls up beside her and rests her body against hers. Her soft arms wrap around her waist. She can feel the young woman’s strength fade as she uses her for support.
“What would you normally do?” Red asks.
“Pray, I guess,” Kelly says between silent sobs.
The words have no conviction. Kelly doesn’t believe any more than she does.
“You go ahead and do that,” Red says.
Kelly pulls away and looks up at her.
“What are you going to do?”
Red doesn’t look at her. The horizon to the west is blood red and closing with darkness. A perfect color for a solution she isn’t sure they are ready for.
“Go, Kelly. Be with your friends. I’ve got to go see a man,” Red says and with gentleness steps away.
“See who?”
Red doesn’t turn to answer. Instead, she continues to walk away. They cannot know where she is going. She doesn’t know where she is going. But she does know where to start.
West.
10
The Offer Is Made
Warm thick blood drains out, pooling on the hard ground. The stick slathered in pus and grime drips from Merchant’s hands. The bodies are scattered. A dozen at least, all of them lifeless now that they are bled out and broken across the landscape in a circle of death and devastation.
He pants to gather his breath.
The fire in his blood boils and he looks for more challenging them to try again. Their hunger seeks his life and flesh, but the eyes in the darkness retreat. Yellow and red points of light reflecting the moon as they watch and wait.
Merchant drops the broken stick, the hollowness of the wood echoing the emptiness that burns within him. Already it begins to fade. They will not come after him again tonight. The smell of death is in the air and it will drive them to easier meals. Muscles ache and joints stiffen as his body calms down. He picks up his bag, his fingers slippery with blood and torn tissue and he throws the weight over his shoulder. With a grunt he continues to the west.
“A real mess tonight,” Snake-Eyes says as he materializes next to Merchant. “Didn’t even see them coming, did you?”
Merchant growls and spits out the taste of iron and dirt from the back of his throat.
“Real pity. If you would have listened and talked Red out of her craziness, she’d be here with you. She’d have seen them coming. Young girl in the prime of her life. Not an old demon like you, slowing with age. She’d have seen them coming.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Merchant mumbles.
He needs to rest. The night is still young and there is always the chance something else will find him. The infected aren’t the only thing that prowls these lands in the darkness, and some of them aren’t afraid of the stench of death.
Walking beneath the bright light of the crescent moon his boots drag over the dirt. He stumbles, the weight of the dead heavy on his shoulders and the endless chatter of their calls ringing in his ears.
A wolf howls in the distance.
A stiff breeze follows in quick pursuit, and the air is scratchy and dry. He can taste the change in the land. Out west, somewhere he can’t see, the land will begin to rise. At first a slow climb until all at once the earth itself will burst from its cage and reach for the sky, but not here.
The shadows and endless nothing are absolute. Figures and ghosts dance behind the veil that blinds his way forward. He does not fear them. He does not fear death. More times than he can count the cold icy touch has frozen his veins, yet he still walks. One of these days he’ll find something that will stop him. Either the city he searches for everyday or a monster that is even worse than he is.
His boot hits something hard. Maybe a rock, or a root so desperate for water it broke the surface of the ground in a desperate search for life, but it doesn’t matter.
Foot twisting, Merchant goes down hard.
Knees crack. His bag rolls off and his palms and elbows cut divots from the concrete dirt and he tastes dust all the way down his throat. Coughing, he rolls onto his back.
Stars stare back at him. More than a billion as he watches them pepper the sky with twinkles for as far as he can see. From the west a burst of light races across the sky. Bright and white it arcs through the darkness and fades to nothing before reaching the horizon to the east.
Merchant closes his eyes. Relaxation. Something impossible to find outside of old memories. He remembers those times. They weren’t that long ago. A few years and a whole lifetime ago.
“Take cover!” Merchant shouts.
The ground shakes with the fury of the gods spilling dirt and rocks from the air like rain. Men fall to their knees covering their heads and the world rings with the endless sound of a thousand bells. A jet engine roars overhead, the buzz of fuel and rocket turns everything into ozone as another missile speeds by faster than sound and buries itself tip into the concrete wall with the fist of a giant.
Gray chips and dust settle to the ground. Grinding under boots and digging at skin beneath collars and underneath jackets.
Merchant coughs through lungs that burn. The men around him scream but he can barely hear them. Some point in the direction of the enemy. Most look back the way they had come from. Everyone is as white as ghosts with dark circles under their eyes. They smell like three-week-old dirty underwear and the taste of MREs is permanently caked to the inside of their mouths.
He spits on the ground, an action of instinct more than pleasure. His hands shake as he grips his rifle tighter and turns to look across the field.
Smoke lifts from the ground in a mushroom of gray and horrific black. Concrete bones and solid rock is scattered over three hundred yards of open field, the grass and dirt scorched with fire and chemicals. Radios chirp as the sound of jets buzz and the ground tremors with the aftershocks of bombs dropped on someone else’s head.
“We have orders to hold, sir,” a man yells.
Merchant ignores him.
The captain is on the far side of the trench. Go tell him.
Merchant doesn’t know if he says the words or only thinks it.
He eyes the distance from here to the enemy. Shadows move through the smoke and disappear as fast as they form.
Movement.
Soldiers survived.
He smiles.
The fire inside his gut ignites and the palms of his hands sweat through the thick layer of dirt. His finger twitches and he sights his rifle across the field.
“Sir! We have orders from the LZ,” the man’s voice drowns beneath the crackle of cover-fire deeper in the city.
Merchant does not recognize the commands. A half dozen shapes dart through the confusion.
Targets.
Unmistakable enemies that must be eliminated.
His finger flicks at the safety as the fade of the shot locks into his mind. One dot left, two up.
Merchant takes a deep breath and his pulse slows its beat within his head.
He lets the breath out and feels the cold steel beneath the pad of his finger.
“Sir!”
A hand grips onto his shoulder like a vice and pulls him back. Elbow out, he feels the crunch of bone beneath the blow and a body drops at his feet.
“What the fuck is going on?” Merchant demands.
The world goes silent. Men stop what they are doing. The world continues to fight around them, a rain of dirt and death falling all throughout the trench, but within their small confines all time ceases to exist. At his feet a soldier lays crumpled with hands holding together a jaw bent awkwardly inward an inch before the ear.
“Hold the hell on, Sergeant!” T
ravis yells.
Merchant watches Corporal Travis turn the screaming soldier onto his back. Jaw shattered, his eyes are red and pinched tight with tears and Travis is yelling something.
“There is no time for this shit,” Merchant barks and pulls Travis to his feet. “What the fuck is going on and why did this piece of shit try to get himself shot?”
Travis looks down at the man splayed out in the dirt. One of the medics is trying to hold his mouth shut as he eases him to a seated position and blood drains freely along with a line of spit down his neck and chin.
“That is Major Ortiz’s runner,” Travis answers, his eyes hard as he looks Merchant in the face.
“Then what the fuck is he doing over here and not with the brass waiting for us to do our job?”
Merchant spits on the ground and the medic is quick with a glare made of daggers and as useful as a butter knife at a gun fight.
“Ortiz and the others are dead, Merchant,” Travis answers.
What?
A quick glance to their north and the world is no different than the muck and blood they are standing in. Merchant grabs Travis by the shirt and the man doesn’t flinch.
“Then find someone who cares. First Sergeant Emery has to be around here somewhere if he hasn’t locked himself in some shitter clicking his knees together.”
Travis shakes his head no.
“Dead. They are all dead. Truck bomb followed by a missile strike.”
Merchant releases Travis from his grip.
“All of them?”
Shaking his head yes, Travis turns and points the medic and the half-dazed messenger away. He spins on his heels and looks at Merchant eye-to-eye.
“To the man, they are dead and that leaves you in charge up here. Word from the radio says we are to withdraw until further orders. Brass wants us to regroup for another push when they can restructure the chain of command.”
Another jet and another bomb rock the ground like a cradle from a parent who hates their child. Dust from broken cement fills the air between them. Everyone coughs. Merchant bites down on his tongue and lets the blood fill the gaps between his teeth.
“Fuck them!” Merchant says and turns back to the three hundred yards separating them from their enemy.
Lifting his rifle, he readies for the shot he did not get to take. Travis rips him around like the other idiot who should have known better. This time Merchant doesn’t swing though every fiber of his body says to do so.
“You’re in command now and they expect you to get us back.”
Fire lances through veins and muscles twinge with fury.
“And fight all fucking week to get back to where we are now? Hell no! We didn’t bleed and die to get here and turn around.”
“Our orders, Merchant!”
With a grip of iron, Merchant shoves Travis against the wall of the trench, sand and dirt cascade down in waves breaking over his shoulders and arms.
“Fuck our orders and the men who gave them. We are going across that field and pushing those fucking separatist bastards back into the cesspools they climbed out of. Either you are with us, Corporal, or I’m going to field judge you right where you stand.”
The sound of a rifle barrel tapping on the wooden frame of the trench sends the lump in Travis’ throat bobbing and his eyes looking for support. A manic smile stretches over Merchant’s face and he glares at the other drawn faces around him. Tired and worn the whole lot of them, but none show resistance.
A shoulder shrug and push, Travis steps back between Merchant and the others.
“You’re in charge here, Captain. What are your commands?”
Merchant pulls back the bolt on his rifle and it is ready.
“Load up boys, we have a lot of ground to cover and nothing stopping us from getting our asses shot but God himself.”
He gives them all a smile, and no one returns the favor. Looking back over the edge of the trench the smoke is still clearing over the field. The wind is dead and so are the lives of the men on the other side. Their souls are his to take and he can feel their dreams slipping through his fingers. His heart races and the adrenaline courses through him like gasoline on a fire.
Men all along the trench climb the bottom steps and ready for the command. Turning, he lifts his arm to signal the mortars at the rear. Thirty seconds and the field will be peppered again with enough smoke and debris to clear their way.
They’ll lose some. He knows that, but it won’t be enough to stop him. Once his boots are on the ground everyone is dead to this world. One last check and he has everything he needs.
Rifle.
Pistol.
Field knife. He’d never go anywhere without it.
Like clockwork the world in front of them lights up in a glorious show of the red and yellow damnation of Hell. Rocks and the vibration of violence shakes their world, and he yells the command. Words of fury and wild abandon drown the concussion of blasts as the men charge over the top of the trench and across the field.
Bullets pepper the ground and wiz by like angry hornets. His men return fire as muzzles light the way through smoke and fog as more jet engines rip through the sky. Merchant can barely breathe, but he doesn’t need it. The thrill of the hunt. The joy of the kill. This is all he needs to survive. Their blood will fill his lungs and he will revel in the gore their bodies will spill upon the ground.
Shadows move in the distance. He fires his own weapon and two explode into nothing. The joy is overpowering, and tears burn his eyes. The distance disappears beneath his pounding boots and he pushes even harder. The smoke will choke them as he clears the distance and then he’ll be on top of them like a wild cat.
The sound of his men is deafening around him. A hundred men. Maybe a thousand all scream at the tops of their lungs on every side. He can’t drown them out. Three more missiles streak through the darkness overhead, yellow lines of angry fire arc across the sky and toward his enemy.
He begins to slow as the sound around him fades into a distant murmur. He’s still jogging, but the smoke and fog is not clearing. Gunshots rattle but further away and from all directions. The buzz of bullets missing by inches or less fills the air. He is untouchable.
More shadows dance and he screams as he answers with barks from his own rifle. Black figures explode and more fill in. Anger fills him and he runs harder. Throwing his rifle over his shoulder, he unholsters his sidearm and fires until it locks back. Shadows explode like confetti.
He keeps running. The end is a mile away and his isn’t getting any closer. The sound of his men is a distant memory. A single flash here and there is all he can see.
The world goes silent.
Merchant slows.
The taste of blood is on his lips and in his mouth. He reaches to touch his face. He does not hurt. The smell of spent gunpowder burns his nose, but fresh blood still drips from between his teeth.
His boots stop. Gray smoke and shadows swirl around him. With a look, they explode. In all directions anything he sees dies and rises once again.
Merchant is lost. Everything is silent. The world at war has moved on and left him behind. He takes another cautious step forward. Dirt crunches beneath his boots. Firecrackers whirl through the sky and the explosion in the distance is muted. He reloads his weapon.
Keep your eyes ahead. The end is near.
Steadying himself, Merchant picks up his pace from slow steadying steps to a muscle warming jog. The world spins in his eyes, but he cannot stop. The pounding of boots is just ahead. More shadows run across and dance before exploding into a substance free gore.
Grey smoke clears. As thin as a veil he can see the trench in front of him. Men scurry back and forth. None of them have seen him. His smile is rabid as he readies his grip. Site locked on, his finger twitches with the expectation of the shot.
A deep breath.
A steady hand.
The trigger is warm to his touch. Knuckle flexes and finger squeezes. The pistol does not fire. Merchan
t squeezes again.
Nothing.
The enemy turns his way. Their eyes are wide with horror. They do not turn their weapons his way. Frozen, they stare at him as he stares at them. A shadow eases behind them.
Quiet and unnoticed.
A predator.
He watches the stranger. It does not stab, shoot, or order any of them. With a delicately cloaked hand, it touches them one by one as it passes by. White faces, drawn and tired as his own, curl inward with agony as black veins spread from neck and shoulder through their faces as skin splits and their eyes go milky.
Bodies twitch. Hair falls out and blood pours from open cuts as teeth gnaw at lips. Twelve monsters turn their attention to him. Merchant turns and looks around. The sea of smoke and dust is endless behind him and he hears nothing of the men he leads. Turning back, the devils begin to climb from the base of the trench. Dark nails claw at the hard earth and rip apart smearing patches of fresh blood into the soil.
Their calls are moans from the pits of Hell. They crawl forward, their joints cracking as drool and bile leaks from their mouths. He tries to backpedal. His feet are locked into place.
The stranger.
It watches as its new beasts close in around him from where it waits within the trench.
Merchant throws his pistol, and it cracks one across the left temple. Dark streams of blood and infection leak down an ear that folds into itself. White bone sticks out where flesh is ripped. The monsters do not slow.
Unstrapping his rifle, he fires the rounds he has left. Bullets tear through bodies, organs and bile spewing on the ground, but they continue to approach, and he is frozen in place.
They are almost within reach. Death surrounds him, and the stench of decay burns his lungs. Merchant tries to scream but the poison leaks into his lungs and kills the pleas before they can start. The first tries to reach for his legs and gets a rifle to the nose, shattering half its skull. A second grabs the weapon and rips it free. Turning back, the monster is rewarded with eight inches of steel through throat and spine.
Traveling Merchant (Book 2): Pestilence Page 11
