"Who are you? State your orders, soldier," the guard to the right of the door asks.
Merchant does not answer. He shakes his head, rubbing at his ear, he again shakes his head and then taps twice with the palm of his hand.
"I said state your purpose, soldier. You have a problem hearing?"
Impatient, the guard steps away from the door and the other slides directly in front to protect against any intrusion. Professional. Well trained. Merchant is impressed even if it is not enough.
Tapping at his ear again, Merchant waits until the man is within arm's reach.
"Stop right where you are," the soldier commands.
Merchant looks up and whatever his face says, the man is a half second too late. A fist crushes the man's throat, his breath coughing out in wet chunks. The man's knees begin to buckle but Merchant grabs him under the shoulder and steadies him.
The one behind doesn't move. His partner wavers regardless of Merchant's grip. Ripping the man's sidearm from its holster, he presses it deep into the man's belly. Not much of a suppressor, but it will do.
Two shots rip through the man's midsection. One hits the target in the left hip and the other explodes against the doorframe, wood chips flying everywhere.
"What the f—" the guard starts to scream.
Merchant drops the dead one on the ground and clears the short distance between them in the blink of an eye. One hand squeezes around the man's cursing lips and the other drives a fist into his gut.
Air explodes, and tears run down his eyes. Merchant takes a hold of throat and soft flesh and starts to squeeze. Tongue flaps and lips call out, but there is no room for escape. His eyes race and he beats at Merchant's shoulders and arms.
The light behind his eyes begins to fade. The bone deep in his neck begins to crack under tightening fingers. A small pop sends the man into convulsions. His life is over.
Looking around, there is no one in sight. Testing the door, it is not locked. Cracking it open, the inside is quiet and dark.
Good.
Merchant eases the entry open enough to fit himself and the two corpses in with him.
Still silent. His luck is holding out.
Bunching both men into the nearest corner, he moves slowly down the hall. Everything feels empty here. The shadows are heavy and in no race to leave. Candles burn in distant corners and the air is thick and old.
He puts his rifle down against a darkened doorway and crouches as he moves as silent as a ghost. A shadow swimming within the sea of his own kind. Merchant fingers the trigger of the stolen pistol, and he lets the warmth of Red's revolver press against his back.
The further he moves into the building, the colder and more humid it gets. Windows are darkened by heavy curtains, keeping the quickly approaching morning at bay. Thick carpet muffles any noise his steps may make, and the building is far deeper than he would have expected.
Where is everyone?
That could not have been them all racing out like they did. Even if it was, they will be back soon enough. Those two lying dead in his cell won't be hard to find.
A whimper brings him up short. Was that Red?
Another calls from the end of the hall. Now it is a few sobs. This has to be her. They must have caught her. Merchant lets the fire in his blood cool his nerves.
This is his job to finish. She set him on this course. She should have let him do it himself.
Silently, he makes it down to the end of the hall. All shadows and empty paintings. Memories of a world lost to the past. All doors up to this one are locked with not a single sign of life behind them. For a big man, hungry on power, this Mr. Barnett does not display it except for here.
Merchant pulls up short before the giant double doors. High arches of white with gold plated hinges and matching handles. Twin candle sconces flicker in the shadows as he waits on the wrong side.
Another set of whimpers calls from the other side. Even if this Barnett is not in there, Red has to be. He'll get her free and then finish this job before it gets them both.
Slowly, he tests the handle, and it turns easily beneath his grip. The gears click and there is little noise.
The whimpering turns into a gasp that is suddenly cut off. Merchant slips in through the door and slides it shut behind him.
Shadows fill in around and he edges toward the nearest corner. A dozen candles burn in the far corners, their flames tiny as it nears the bottom of their holders.
A figure moves in the dimming light. Not towards him, but also not enough for him to make it out.
Merchant places his bag on the ground behind him. He grips the pistol tighter and moves out from the darkness. He cannot see who it is, and with his vision if he doesn't see them, they cannot make him out either.
Another sob.
Merchant's heart quickens.
"Red, is that you?" he asks.
A short, soft sob. Merchant edges closer. A body lies on the floor. Curled up into the fetal position, the figure is slender and long, but there is strength there even though it cradles its head like a child.
"Red, it's going to be OK. I'm going to get you out of here," Merchant whispers.
Nothing stops him as he approaches. It is definitely Red. Her bright hair still shines even in the orange glow of the candles as it sits chaotically over her cradling hands and shoulders.
"Red, speak to me," Merchant says and reaches out to her.
Her skin is on fire as he gently takes a hold of her shoulder and pulls her toward her back. With a start he pulls away as the light reveals what has been done.
Infection peels at her skin where it swells with blood and green pus. Her left eye is swollen shut and the lower lip is split in two. Wide blotches of infected scales ooze openly across her upper chest and the stench that he could not smell from the other side of the room is heavy with poison and sickness.
"Red, how did this happen?" he asks.
She squeezes her eyes shut and a thick liquid drips out. She turns her head away.
"Why don't you stay around for a little bit, brother. We'll fill you in on our little secret with your friend Red here," a voice whispers from so close behind Merchant's ear he can feel the warm breath on his skin and taste the vile and putrid stench on his tongue.
Giving no warning, Merchant explodes into a spin and roll, his hand bringing the pistol around. He never gets the chance to finish as lightning flares to life before his eyes and thunder rips apart the inside of his head.
Darkness takes hold, and he knows nothing more.
Pain and darkness. A splitting headache like nothing he has ever felt before.
Merchant coughs when he tries to breathe. The taste of blood fills his mouth and the skin at his wrists tears with a weight that pinches to the bone. His arms are pulled to their full length above his head. Shoulders stretched and stiff, he tries to move but the popping of the joints stop him.
His legs are weak. Terribly cramped, the soles of his feet barely touch the ground.
Merchant opens his eyes. A painful endeavor, but the struggle is real enough. Vision blurry, all he can see is small fuzzy lights flickering in the corner. Candles, wax piled in heaping globs, burn and hiss in the wet stagnant air. Spitting out the fluids in his mouth, he takes a deep breath.
Damp, moldy. Metal grinds and grates against itself as he sways back and forth. A few drops of water tap on his skull. The sorry reminder that he is still alive.
"Took you long enough to come back, brother," a man's voice says.
The tone is wet and gritty. Like the words are spoken through drowned lungs slowly decaying over a thousand years. Boots clap across wet stone and Merchant fails to lift his head. He tries to turn and see but the pinch on his neck is a vice grip cracking at the bones. A raging fire ignites the pain cramped muscles and stretched nerves. He stops the effort.
"So, this is what those little pissants in Morninglight send us in retaliation for finding their little secret," a fat man says.
Logan Barnet
t.
If Red’s descriptions are correct.
Merchant’s chin is pinched between calloused fingers and lifted. A warm liquid drips off of his forehead, a contrast to the shivers fighting to shake through his body. The cold chill of death runs down his spine as the big man circles to the front of him. Even with blurry vision, he can still see a face he grows to hate sneering back at him.
"Morninglight didn't...," Merchant tries to croak the words out of his throat.
A searing pain fills his mouth with the taste of blood.
"Don't even bother to try to lie to me, boy. I've already gotten word from my men to confirm what I suspected. Somehow those little fucks found a way to take out some of my best. They are going to pay for that in more ways than they can even imagine."
Barnett steps closer, his eyes narrowing as he looks up. Merchant does not turn away. Vision growing clearer, he glares back at the man with his perfectly white hat.
"What have you done?" Merchant gets out and Barnett steps away to avoid spittle and blood.
For good measure the man turns and wipes the front of his pressed coat with a cloth from beneath his hat and puts it back on his head.
"It's not what I've done. All I did was ask them for some simple help. You don't have to walk more than ten feet out of our god-damned walls to see how fucked up this world has gotten. Can't you see that with your own two eyes?"
Merchant turns away the best way he can and with clearer vision sees a lump of blankets laying in the far corner, wet and dark. Balled into a giant heap. A dark stain runs through the center and there is nothing else down here but them, the dirty pile and wet stone. He spits a wet wad of blood and phlegm onto the ground.
"Those people had nothing to do with what has fucked up this world. People did this to themselves. What do they have to do with it?"
Barnett notices his glance and turns to the pile as well. A sinister sneer creases his face.
“Worried about your friend, are you? She is a feisty little one, isn't she? Too bad she had to find out the hard way what happens when you lie to me,” Barnett says with a chuckle.
Merchant growls and pulls at his bindings. Fire rips through his muscles and boils the blood running down his arms from torn skin.
"If you've done anything to her you will regret the day you first walked this earth, you steaming pile of shit!"
Barnett places a hand over his heart and tips with an arm extending back, a look of mock horror and shock whitening his face.
"Be still my heart. Such strong words from a man who has no right to say them or ability to do anything about it." Barnett closes the distance between them in the blink of an eye and though he has to reach up, he pinches his hand around Merchant's bloody chin. "Now you listen to me, boy. You are the two who lied their way into my home. You two are the ones who killed my men and then broke into my house looking to do me harm. And why, if not for what happened in that shit hole of a town? Tell me Merchant, why should I care what happens to you after all you have done to me already?"
Taking his hand away, he lets Merchant hang there. The fire of anger diminishes but does not fade away entirely.
Merchant looks over at the pile of blankets and rags. What have they done to Red? He knows why he is here. There is nothing he can do to fight it. Turning his head back to the cowboy, this asshole Barnett is correct.
Why should he care?
The man did nothing to him. What is a few dead villagers in a world where billions have been rotting in their graves or worse for years?
Merchant takes a deep breath and lets it out in a long sigh. NO, there really isn't a reason for her to be here. She grew too attached to those people back in town. Fell in love with the false hope that life could return to the way it was before all this shit happened. Things will never change back. Everything is too irreversibly broken.
Another shot of pain rips through his arm. But can it? The thought of that smile on her face when she was cured of the infection. Bright cheeks and glowing hair. She was young again and for once he could see the beauty she must have been before everything went to shit.
A smile now creeps its way across Merchant's face. He looks up at the cowboy whose expression turns from confidence to something of curiosity.
No, there was no reason for Red to be here. She should have stayed back at the village with the others. He could have done this alone. The weight of the revolver is no longer at his waistband, but he can still feel it somewhere close by.
Looking at the dead man walking, the fire in Merchant's belly burns wildly as the gasoline of hatred fuels the flames. Yes, there is definitely a reason for him to be here and no matter what this Barnett thinks, there is nothing here that can stop him.
"Enough of our little games, Mr. Merchant. I have far more important things to do. I think I will leave you to ponder on what you have done and maybe when I return, you'll have come up with a reason I should spare your pathetic life."
Merchant spits at him and the red splatter covers a good amount of real-estate across the man's chest.
"Not a good start," Barnett snaps. "Oh, by the way. There is someone who has been dying to meet you since you came to our great city. He had some fun talking sense into that pretty little friend of yours before you joined us. I promised him he'd get his chance with you before I departed. And being a man of my word as I am, I think I will send him down. Enjoy your little chat, Merchant, because I know he will."
Barnett laughs as he walks away. His voice echoes throughout the room, a harrowing sound as it multiplies and strengthens the rage building and pulling at Merchant's bindings.
No one comes for a long time.
Time slips away into one endless silence as Merchant stares down at the broken heap in the corner. Several times he is certain that it has moved, even groaned with the passing of time, but calling out her name does nothing.
"Red, is that you?" Merchant asks again.
Nothing. Silence only broken by an endless drip of pooling water somewhere in the darkness behind him. Antagonizing with its repetitiveness, it scratches at the nerves and roars like a bolder crushing the ground beneath it every time it drops.
At least it is something new. Within the last hour maybe. Merchant works at his bindings again. The chains are soaked with his blood and each new tug tears at the skin trying to mend itself.
Gritting his teeth, Merchant has had enough and pulls. Metal groans. Tiny bits of paint or rock fall onto his head and face. The taste of iron mixes with the putrid phlegm that coats the inside of his mouth.
"Come... on… you.. mother.. fuc—," Merchant starts as he pulls.
"Oh, come now, brother. Father would not think kindly of you if he heard such language coming from your mouth," a voice like air pushing through wet paper says behind him.
Merchant stops mid-pull and stiffens as the air behind him goes cold and wet. The putrid stench in the room is now so thick it gives him the sensation that he is taking a shower in the remains of a morgue. Something he has not felt in years.
Reluctantly, Merchant shivers.
"Why don't you come around where I can see you, whoever the fuck you are," Merchant demands.
"Tsk, tsk. You don't recognize your own flesh and blood? And to think you were always Father's prized child," the raspy voice says.
A figure steps around Merchant and for the first time in a long time he fights the urge to pull back in disgust. Stooped and covered in dark cloth, the thing in front of him is not much to look at. Hardly taller than a broken man of eighty, the creature radiates cold and damp like the sewer it crawled out of. An over powering stench of decay and disease fills the space around them.
Merchant wrinkles his nose without even thinking about it.
What is this thing?
"I have no idea who the fuck you are," Merchant says. "But if you are any smarter than that Barnett, you'll let me free and I'll forget I ever saw you."
A wet chocking sound rattles out of the thing, something resembling a
laugh that is more cough and ache than anything else.
"Set you free? If father didn't think it was a good idea to set you free, then why in all the heavens would I do that now?" the thing mocks.
Stepping away from him, Merchant watches it shuffle its way over to the pile sitting in the corner. The mound of wet and damp that makes up whatever this creature is moves in shifty uneven spasms as it reaches down to begin pulling away the blankets and spent clothes. A brief glimpse of the palest of skin flashes in the torchlight, the flesh wrinkled with moisture and something else.
"What do you want?" Merchant asks. "He said you wanted to see me before you two went on your honeymoon out there with the fucking infected."
The thing ignores him and continues to pull away the rags. Discarding them as simple trash, the heap grows shorter and now there is ample evidence that something rests beneath that heavy pile of filth. Merchant can see the smallest rhythmic movements of breathing beneath it all.
"She really was something to behold when I first found her. So full of life. A real drive deep down in her heart, especially for everything around her. Willing to take whatever was needed, even this world if she had the chance. Of course, whatever that fool had done to her was amateurish at best. Copying a masters work. That is the problem with the people of this world. No real creative thought. Imitation at best. Especially with the gods. Always trying to be one of them. Why? Underachieving bastards, the whole lot, and honestly not that creative. Now, us. We were always so much better, you and I. Real masters of our craft. Never a dull moment when it came to our jobs. Always looking for a way to one up the other. Do you remember, brother?"
The thing turns and looks at Merchant. Where the hump of its back ends, a head tilts, but the face is lost in shadows even he cannot penetrate.
"I am not your fucking brother. Tell me what you want and then begone. Go pull at the coat tails of that prick and beg for his left behind scraps. Just don't expect any mercy from me when I find you again."
Traveling Merchant (Book 2): Pestilence Page 19
