"If he does have a plan for me, then I want nothing to do with it," she says and pulls her knees tight against her chest.
"You do not mean that," Brother George says.
"Oh yeah I do," she answers. Something deep inside ignites and rolling away she gets up and steps away. "If it cost the life of my best friend, God can take his plan and fuck off. I don't want any part of it."
New tears welling in her eyes and wetting her cheeks, she begins to storm way. The pain and memories still chained to her legs, the relief does not come the further away she gets.
"You do not mean that, Kelly," Brother George calls. "In God and his gifts, you will find what you truly need, my child."
Kelly does not turn around. Gritting her teeth, she stares directly ahead.
"No priest, God will not help me. I already know what I want, and it will not be him who helps me," Kelly whispers and does not stop until the blood-soaked soil of the village burns beneath her feet.
The night brings everything they did not want. Thick clouds, no light, a howling wind full of hatred and anger.
Men and women huddle behind closed doors. The world lost beneath a blanket of darkness thicker than soup. Metal hinges creak as they sway in the call of the storm. A reminder that regardless of the preparations they have made, they are totally lost beneath the awesomeness of the world that toys with them like children.
"Can you see anything?" Kelly asks.
Shoulder pressed against a boarded window, plank boards hastily nailed to shut off access to the Sick House, she grips the walking stick with a knife tied to the end of it until her knuckles are pale white.
"Child, I couldn't see the Virgin Mary if she descended from Heaven itself on our door step," old man Nicholi says.
Patch over his left eye, the old man holds the only rifle assigned to this house. Thick gnarly fingers grip tight and the guard has been cut away from the trigger so he can fire a shot if he has to.
"What are we going to do if they get here and we can't see them?" she asks.
The thought sends a shiver down her spine.
Wood on the floor above creaks with the wind and she darn near pisses herself at the idea of someone already inside and coming down to get them.
"Please child. If we can't see them, what in tarnation do you think they are going to see out there in all of this? It's not like they are monsters or gods."
Kelly spits on the ground at her feet. They are monsters alright, but at least not the ones with night vision or something like that.
A door opens from the back, the hinges crying before the entrance is closed and footsteps approach from the darkness. Kelly readies her weapon, the tip shaking badly in her hand, but she refuses to think she won't use it.
"This is nothing but folly," Brother George says as he enters the room.
His large frame somehow silhouetted in the darkness. Kelly does not know what to think with him so close. For the longest time he was like a father to her.
Now?
It does not matter. For close to a week now they have prepared the defenses of the village and he has done nothing but given words of encouragement from God where it isn't needed. Sermons on how Jesus turned the other cheek when assaulted and afternoon preaches about how the man who betrayed him to his own death was not to be blamed.
All bullshit to her. Bert and the others are all dead and that is because of one person. One single asshole on this entire fucking planet and now her best friend is gone. Along with others whose memories already begin to fade.
"Only a precaution, preacher," Nicholi says. "God doesn't speak out against those who prepare themselves."
Brother George buries his hands into the pockets of his pants and nods his head.
"You are correct, though preparation for war is prudent to the sins already cast by those you seek to fight."
"They started this fight, George," Kelly cuts in. " Not us. They brought their guns and killed our families. How is it fair that we suffer greatly while they take what they want, whenever they want? How is that?"
Brother George sighs and then steps away to lean against a side wall. She refuses to look at him with those judgmental eyes. Like God itself, she is not ready to see her maker until she puts those who deserve worse in front of their own.
"God is the one and only judge, my child. Nothing these men do, or you do to them, will compare to what will happen when they reach the life beyond. Take solace in that and know that those who have gone before us are in a better place."
Kelly spins on her heels and looks him dead in the eye.
"Better place? How is six feet—" she begins but is cut off when Nicholi grabs her shoulder and spins her back to the small opening between the boards.
"Keep your mouth shut, the both of you. These devils may not be able to see any better at night than the rest of us, but those damn vehicles of theirs make things a whole lot better," he says as he readies his rifle.
Her heart drops to her knees as she sees what he is talking about.
Dozens of lights, the hellish rays cutting through the darkness with the precision of a knife, bounce as they race toward the town. There is no hiding their approach. Engines roar, a guttural sound that shakes the floor beneath her shoes.
A few gunshots ring out into the night. More engines roar to life and the sound of wood splintering pierces the night as more gunshots burst into the darkness.
Now the voices of men come with the sounds of war. Rifles bark, single explosions of thunder answered with unending pops and a ball of fire that rips the front of the market store right off and sends pieces of burning wood dozens of feet into the air.
Kelly falls to her knees. She isn't sure when she started but the tears on her cheeks burn as they run down her neck. Nicholi waits beside her. His face more ashen than it has ever been and somehow the caverns across his face are dark with shadows and fear.
Nothing stops the oncoming enemy. A single vehicle swerves and topples into the ditch cut behind the new fences, but the others pass without slowing. Yellow flashes come from windows that cave into pieces as walls and glass spill out like guts torn from the hearts of their loved ones.
Kelly settles on the ground as the thunder of engines and gun fire draws closer. She screams but it will not drown out the sound. Nicholi raises his rifle.
The war is right on top of them. The boards of the wall. Rafters on the roof. Everything shakes and dust and grime falls all around them as searching lights cut through holes in their protection. She wants to crawl away. They are going to find her. Kill her like they did everyone else.
Her muscles will not move. Knees to chest, she can barely breath. Smoke and dust fill the air. Like bile, it sickens her mouth and tears burn her cheeks.
The gunfire dies down to a few lonely shots. Light burns through new and old holes and the engines are so close.
"You cock sucking sons-of-bitches," Nicholi growls and presses the stock of the rifle tighter against his shoulder.
Brother George puts a hand on his arm and the shot is not fired. Kelly watches as the old man turns back and the anger in his face washes away. There is sorrow there, loss told in the stories of the shadows that drown his hollow cheeks, but no anger.
Sobbing, she cradles herself. Brother George turns to her.
"You must trust me, there is no other way," he comforts.
In anger and fear, she slides around until she is not looking at him. His eyes burning holes right through the center of her back.
"Get out here now, priest!" Logan's voice hollers from outside.
Two shots ring out and the roof cracks and pieces fall around them.
"We know you are in there. Don't make this tough on those who haven't been smart enough to die already. Get that god-fearing sorry ass out here or we'll show you how we get if you really make me mad!"
"It's alright," Brother George whispers as Nicholi's face grows hard and he steps in front of the priest.
Placing his hand on the man's should
er, the emotion washes away as water once again and they both turn back to Kelly.
"Watch over her, will you? I'm the one they want. Maybe when this is all done, they'll leave you alone long enough to find somewhere safe to start anew," Brother George adds.
"Don't go out there," Kelly pleads.
The words come from nowhere she can control. Rolling off of her lips, she cannot stop them, and she grabs at his pants. Wet fingers pinch tight and the man does not try to pull away.
"It is time for me to leave, my child. It was only a matter of time before this happened. We all knew this. Even my father, for he would never have put me here if it had not mattered."
A soft hand, as large as the side of her face, cups Kelly's cheek and the raw emotions of hate and fear fade away with the passing of the clouds. Tears still burn her eyes and her throat is dry, but there is nothing left.
She looks into his eyes and there is the caring she so desperately misses. Reflected in two shiny orbs of white, he smiles and the cold touch of darkness warms beneath his touch.
"Please, please don't go," she pleads.
Her hands grab at the ends of his sleeve, but they find no purchase. Taking a hold of her palms, he places them together gently and presses them to her chest.
"Pray as I have taught you, my child. That is all you will need in a time like this," Brother George says.
"Get out here now, priest! My patience is weighting thin," Mr. Barnett demands.
Brother George runs his big hands through her hair one last time and with a nod to Nicholi, reaches for the door.
"Do as I have always taught you and do not follow me out into the darkness," he says before pulling the boarded door open with little effort.
The nails and wood give way as if they were never there, and he slowly shuts the door behind him. Engines roar and gunshots ring into the night.
Kelly cups her ears and tries desperately to cut off the noise, pull herself away from this world, but she cannot. The screaming starts again. Deep from within her lungs the pain erupts as the soldiers outside celebrate and her world falls apart around her.
19
Unknown Friends
She would be better off dead. Groans and whimpers echo in a scratching chorus that will not end. Tears of yellow and green trickle over swollen skin and her breathing is an empty can rolling down a deserted road.
“Red?” Merchant asks.
Probably for the thousandth time she does not answer. Her body convulses, and new fissures break across skin that bleeds and pops. His own energy is drained. There is nothing left of him to pull at the chains. The muscles in his legs are balls of slicing torture ripping themselves from his knees and the joints of his hands crack beneath his weight.
“You need to get up, Red. Find something that can get me free. We’ll punish those who have done this to you.”
No response. The rattling in her chest does not change and the pooling of death and disease beneath her grows where it once it had been dry.
In a rage of fury Merchant rips at the bonds that hold him. New tears in his flesh peel open and a warm splattering of blood catches him across the side of his face.
One drip.
Two drips.
Then a small spray.
Struggling to lift his head, he looks at the darkness the skin peeling from his arms. A spray of dark liquid greets him right between the eyes.
Arterial spray.
He’s ripped too deep. Now he has finally done it. There is nothing that can save them.
A small chuckle escapes his lips. Bleeding out in the middle of a basement in some bum-fucked place unknown to anyone else in this whole fucking world. His chuckle becomes full-blown laughter as more of the warm liquid drips down the side of his face. He can taste it on his lips. The thought of dying gives him solace, a reason to stand and wait for it to come. Finding the strength, Merchant pushes through the cramps and pains of his legs to stand straight.
One thing is for certain. He’ll die on his feet.
The color of the world is a wash of grays and blacks. Even the sky behind the clouds rolling by looks of coming storms and the breeze washing over him is stale and heavy.
Merchant takes a deep breath, the feeling of his lungs expanding in his chest is welcome and the taste a bitter reminder of the fucked-up nature of the world. He lets out the feeling in one long sigh. The exhaustion and fatigue washes over him as the gray puffy balls of water roll themselves across the open expanse above.
What are they going to make of themselves? He is only one man with a lot to forget and a burden he cannot get rid of. Closing his eyes, he tries to forget for a single moment everything that he has done. The world is silent. Gravely quiet other than the small whistle of the wind as it pushes its way over his body.
Small needle points jab at his skin, but the softness of their touch is cool and tickles with the breeze. Laying his hand by his side, the gentle touch of grass between his fingers is delicate and unlike anything this fucked planet should have left on its barren landscape. Rolling his fingers into a fist he lets the blades slide like silk over his fingers, the tips scratching at the soil beneath.
Another breeze washes over and this time it carries with it a smell he will never forget. Sweet and tangy with a burn that ignites from the inside. The smell of ash and smoke fills his nose. Burning the soft flesh within, the sight of fire inflames his hidden memories and jumpstarts his heart.
With a gasp, Merchant sits up. Dark trees of gray and shadow surround him in all directions. A single path cuts into the emptiness of the beyond where it winds its way to the unknown and returns to pass by where he sits no more than a dozen feet away.
Giant shadows dance across the open field and the harshest of memories begins to take seed in his mind.
“This can’t be,” he whispers to himself.
Rolling onto his knees, his eyes follow the gravel road as the stench of burning wood and bubbling plaster engulfs him like a blanket. A house burns atop the nearest hill.
Not any house.
His house!
Men circle around its furthest reaches. A gun shot echoes within the trees and Merchant is on his feet and running. He screams words but there is no sound other than the rapid succession of gunfire and the crackling of wood.
He watches as two soldiers separate and head to opposite corners of the porch facing the road he runs on. They do not see him coming. His boots pound over the hard dirt but to them he couldn’t be more than a ghost.
More gunfire erupts and large pieces of roofing shingles and the structure beneath crash down over the awning of the front porch. Merchant reels to a stop as sparks and ash kick high into the air. Screams, high pitched and filled with terror pierce the horror in front of him.
Without hesitation, Merchant spins and heads for the rear of the house. Another figure beats him around the corner, this one dark and less substance than a shadow. Fists balled and heart beating out of his chest, Merchant rounds the corner to throw himself at the man he knows will be there. He is unarmed, but there is no time to care. This is his family. He can save them.
At least he must try.
If he fails again, this time he’ll die with them. Then this whole thing will be over. No infected. No quest to reach the city that touches the sky. Only his beautiful wife and the boys he never got to save.
Wood chunks explode through the back door and the dark figure he followed disappears. Replacing the fading smoke, one of the original soldiers tumbles backward into the yard. Blood fountains from the gaping hole in his chest and the rifle in his hand falls useless to the ground.
The dark smoke reappears and slips through the opening created in the back door. Merchant does not stop. He reaches the doorway and kicks with all the strength he has. The hinges splinter and a crack from the top of frame to the floor wrinkles its way through the wood before another kick caves the entire barrier in.
Clouds of heaving smoke roll in a tidal wave that takes the breath right out of
him. He coughs and is forced backward. Covering his nose and mouth with his arm, he cannot breathe. Ripping his shirt off, he ties it around his face. Tears stream down his cheeks, his eyes burn with acid, and his vision blurs as his lungs fill with poison.
Ahead the dark vision swirls through the house.
Growling, Merchant cannot wait and drives forward. Tracing the steps through his home, the memory of every piece of furniture and corner clears the way through the smoke and fire. Flames feed themselves over every wall and the boards beneath his feet groan with dangerous words, but he cannot be deterred.
A soldier pushes his way in through the front window. Nothing stands between him and Merchant. Roaring, Merchant rolls his shoulders forward to charge, and the man makes no move to deter him. Before the first step, the oily ghost of darkness and shadow passes between them a moment before a wooden beam snaps and using the sheetrock above as a hinge, slices its way through the man’s torso in a wet puncturing sound before pinning him to the far wall.
Merchant hesitates as the man tries to choke out a few words, the bottom of his mask becoming a wet mess of blood and ash as fire races down the broken beam to engorge itself on his flesh. The dark figure flashes its way through the hall once again and this time slips around the door making its way to the basement.
The screams take on a new pitch and Merchant runs for the entrance. Fire races up and cuts off his path, but in a leap, he is over the flames. His shoulder slams into the wall beside the opening to the level down below and the sizzling of skin and meat is strong as burns open welts from his elbow to his shoulder.
Gritting the pain away, Merchant grabs the handle and a white fire of torturous ruin rockets its way through his hand. Pulling away, large chunks of skin melt from the handle and blood and muscle shrivel in burns across his palm.
Another scream accompanies more beams snapping, and a pile builds in front of the doorway that lead back out to safety. Balling everything he has up, Merchant grabs the handle again, biting down on his tongue to lock away the pain, he yanks on the door and the lock and wood splinter beneath his grip.
Traveling Merchant (Book 2): Pestilence Page 21
