He saved her, killing the man who probably would have done worse to her, but she can’t help but hate the monster. She was so close to getting away. Now, she can feel him following her even more. Somehow, he hides in the weak shadows that linger in the hazy light. Big broad shoulders and hands the size of God’s, and yet, she still cannot see him. But he is there. Watching and waiting for her to try and escape again. Fucking bastard will never let her leave.
The swollen mess above her left eye has finally reduced to a point where she can move her face without wanting to drive a stake through her eyes. Sometimes, she still considers doing just that. People in the village watch her. Their eyes following her movement as she stumbles between them. Her good left leg is stabilized by the help of a large crutch pinched under her braced shoulder. Easily a size too big, she drags her way over the stone, dirt, and icy road. It wasn’t until the day they finally let her out of bed that she realized what those men had done to her body in their failed attempt to take advantage of her in ways that only nightmares would envision. Pulled the muscle that extended from her groin to her knee. So much bruising, far too much internal bleeding.
Alexis had said it would fade away over the coming weeks as she moved and the strength returned. Damn girl was too optimistic. Always looking at the bright side and following her like a stubborn puppy. She made Elizabeth sick, but moving through the crowds as they pushed between tiny houses and shops where goods were bargained for with time and services, she began to wonder where the young girl was. Like a shadow, she had always been a step behind, looking for ways to help and lead Elizabeth towards the belief and life they had all been promised.
Now, she has been missing since the morning after they last talked in the hospital. Elizabeth can still hear the desperation in her voice as she tried to convince their crazed father into letting her stay in the ward with her. Almost begging until she was shown the door. The next morning, their conversation had been hushed, quick, and about her injuries and nothing more. Since those early hours, the young girl has just vanished. Has something happened to her?
Elizabeth shook her head. Not her problem. They wouldn’t harm her just for caring. She wants to help. See to it that Elizabeth become one of them. It was a foolish venture, but nothing to kill the young girl over. She has probably been given some other poor soul to look after.
Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth stretches the stiffening muscles in her back, adjusts her shoulders the best she can, and continues down the road. There is no pattern to the way people move here. No jobs to go to, no disease, or army to flee from. They are happy, content to live their lives without doing really anything. She watches them with a scornful look that burns away the stares they send her way.
Fuck them.
If they want to remain prisoners here, living and dying in the same place they were born, let them. This is the cesspool they created. Let them rot in their own waste. She spits on the ground again. Her mouth is full of phlegm and tastes like iron. God-damn drugs and their side effects.
“This way, it has almost started!” a boy yells.
He is half her height. Bright eyes and red cherry cheeks come running down the road, mud splashing up and immature limbs flailing like a fish out of water. A handful of other children are chasing him. All of them with smiles that reach their ears. Elizabeth tries to move out of the way. Skirting to the side of the path to let the locomotive of young adrenaline and carelessness pass.
Her luck holds out, and she doesn’t even make it past the first child. Thick boots, at least two sizes too large, kick out and crack against the side of her crutch. She goes down. Hard turf cracks against her elbow. Lightning flashes across her eyes, and her mouth is warm and salty.
“God-damn it!” she screams.
Three boys and two girls skid to a stop, slush splashing beneath their feet. Elizabeth rolls onto her back. The mud and water is seeping into her pants, freezing her ass cheeks, and she can feel the ice running up her spine. Wet, unkempt hair is now plastered to the back and side of her head.
“Hey, lady, are you okay?” the tallest of the boys asks.
Maybe he’s ten, or he could be twenty. Elizabeth doesn’t care. She hates him anyway.
“Do I fucking look like I’m okay? You tripped me, and now I’m fucking covered from head to toe in mud,” Elizabeth answers.
Rolling onto her left side, she uses what strength she can to push herself away from the ground.
“Here, let us help you get up,” the boy says.
“Come on, David. We’ll miss everything,” two of the boys plead.
Elizabeth shoots daggers at all of them with her eyes, and two of the girls keep their heads down as they walk over to help David. Their hands are tiny, and the word gentle is not in their vocabulary as thin, pointy fingers dig into her body. Pain has become her closest friend and, at the moment, they are lovers. She grits her teeth and swallows back the blood that fills her mouth.
“She’s fine, David. We have to go, now!” The others plead with their friend again.
“Are you sure you are fine, lady?” David asks.
A wad of phlegm filled blood splatters in the mud by his feet.
“No thanks to you and your pack of brats here. Go on, get out of here,” Elizabeth replies and waves him and his friends off.
They do not hesitate. With rockets in their shoes, they race down the road. Taking a deep breath, she watches them go. Looking around, she realizes more than just the children are heading in the direction opposite of her own. Parents carrying younger ones. Adults walking in small groups or couples holding hands. All are making their way to the south end of the village.
Looking to the north, a small hope begins to burn within her. If everyone is gathered on that side of the village? Maybe, just maybe?
Blood, a deep red, and fresh from the cut in her arm, splatters once again at her feet. Anger and frustration wells up within her, forcing her to push the idea away. Even if she could somehow find an opening in their fences, or an area unguarded by distracted men, what would she do? Hobbled like a fucking cripple, she won’t even make it a hundred yards before one of these assholes shoots her in the back. Or knowing her fucking luck, the Chosen will stomp his way out to her and carry her back like a damn child.
Elizabeth pivots on her good leg and watches the sea of heads and shoulders moving their way down the street. Might as well see what all the excitement is about. Mingle with the locals, you know. Fire races down her spine, bringing pain while ice shivers the skin of her back where the mud and dirt reminds her that this really is Hell.
Growling, she begins her slow dragging steps to follow.
Fuck them. She’ll never be one of them.
Twelve
Five Years Ago
Old American Diner.
Like the 1950s have returned, the florescent orange light shines into the evening hours, and the open sign dangles behind the glass door on a beaded metal string. Cars line the sidewalk. Bumper to bumper, they stretch down both sides of the street, ending at red lights that click when they turn and sway in the evening breeze. Sports cars and family sedans, trucks and a few motorcycles. All hug together as the city closes in for the night, finding refuge in homes or within the confines of bars and diners. No reason to be out at night. Only bad things happen after sundown.
Music thumps down where light streams out of The Green Room at the corner of Market and 21st Street. Flashes of strobe lights and the appropriately named green rays flicker across puddles from the rain that ended an hour ago. Dark mirrors shine along the pavement. Looking glasses into the souls of those who walk over them.
A bouncer, shaved head and a T-shirt two sizes too small, stands outside the bar with his arms crossed over his chest. He is no taller than the girls who shimmy their way in on heels with skirts that scream to roll back up over the skin they are stretched across. The streets of Rochester no longer feel like the home he once remembered.
Merchant stands in the shadows with his
back against a brick wall, a hoodie pulled over his head more for cover than warmth. The air is thick with humidity the storm left behind. He does everything he can to hide his tall frame standing in the shadows, silent and still. He watches the short security man. The girls walk by with smiles and tiny touches of fingers with painted nails on bald head. The smile is unmistakable, and unprofessional. Doesn’t even bother to check their IDs until the boys move up. Then it’s shoulders back, chest out, firm lips, and a growl until the little pieces of government issued plastic are handed over. Desk jockey with a night job. Common place when all the real men are off fighting the war.
Some things change while many others stay the same. He guesses that is the way life and the times always are. But he is a stranger on the streets he grew up on. These are different people, with lives he doesn’t understand. They see a future with friends and family. The war pushes far to the west, the dangers and the panic pushed behind walls of alcohol and daily living.
Turning back to the diner, all of what was once his life is behind him now. His future is no longer certain, nor is it pleasant. One thing remains for him to do, and he intends to start it now.
Stepping from the shadows, Merchant crosses the street. Boots splash in puddles and a woman down at the corner whistles at him. He keeps his hood up, shoulders drawn and makes no contact with eyes as he heads directly for the glass door.
Bells chime when he pushes his way in. Warm air, filled with grease and warm coffee, escapes through the door. He can taste it on his tongue. The grease is so thick he can feel it on his skin. Some things never change.
None of the patrons turn to look his way. Old-style booths that match the feel the establishment tries desperately to give line the windows that follow the streets outside. Red vinyl upholstery squeaks as people shift in their seats, all of them talking as if they are the only ones there, their voices filling the half-empty establishment. Polished bar stools, all but two empty, line the front counter, where a middle-aged woman wipes away at the counter. Her gray stained towel swirls in a storm at a stain he figures has been there for years.
Music plays in the background, some `50s song he doesn’t recognize. All big band and multiple singers wooing girls that are now older than he is. The banging of pots and plates fills in with the rhythm of the beat. It’s as if he’s been transported back in time, not only in outward appearance, but a lost reality that is sealed within the aluminum framing of the building itself.
“Seat yourself, honey,” the waitress calls.
She smiles at Merchant. Her lips are too red for her pale skin and bleached hair. Lipstick stains the white of her teeth, and there is little she can do to hide the liver spots on her arms. Candy-striped blouse and skirt finish off the ridiculous outfit. The men who sit at the counter pay more attention to their steaks and coffee than the woman working for pennies.
Merchant nods but doesn’t say a word. He keeps his hood up and begins to make his way toward the back. Boots squeak on polished linoleum. No one notices. He is nothing but a blur to them. Empty booths pass by, the two he finds occupied spare him only a momentary glance before turning back to their coffee or meals. Old men telling tales of time gone by or bitching about their wives.
The drunk crowd hasn’t made its way in yet.
Good, he still has time to get this done.
He approaches the final booth. A man sits alone, his head down, dark wet hair disheveled as it plasters to his forehead. His jacket is as dark as the mood that surrounds him. Desperate, angry, and dangerous. A spoon swirls coffee as dark as Merchant’s skin. Stopping, Merchant waits a moment, drawing the anticipation out.
“Find yourself another seat, partner. There are plenty of them, and this one is taken,” the man says, his voice a low growl.
His head doesn’t move. Too angry at the world or the shitty liquid that cools in front of him. The spoon continues to swirl, the stainless-steel tip tapping against the ceramic in an endless pattern of its own. Thick jacket pulls away from the hand that holds the cup of steaming coffee. Tattoos and scars follow thick bones with skin stretched thin from knuckles to wrist.
Powerful hands.
Murderous hands.
Merchant steps forward, turns back toward the door he entered from and shoves his way into the seat beside the man.
“Hey, what the fuck?”
Merchant’s hand wraps around the other’s wrist, twists until he feels bones crack and shoves both of their arms underneath the table. Some of the other patrons lift weary eyes in their direction. Merchant gives each one of them a nod, and they go back to their own lives.
“Quiet now, or I’m going to make a mess of this right here in the diner,” Merchant threatens.
“What the f—?”
With another twist, there is a pop and the man goes limp as his head drops against Merchant’s shoulder.
“I said be quiet or this is going to get ugly really fast.”
The waitress turns the corner of the front counter and begins to shimmy her way over. Blonde hair tied up in a beehive, she smacks on gum and holds her ticket book out in front of her. Flat shoes scratch at the floor below ankles that swell through the fabric. Her hips sway, and Merchant notices that the front of her blouse is too low for someone who’s lived far too long.
“What can I do for you tonight, honey?” she asks, already writing something on the ticket card.
“I’ll take a coffee,” Merchant says and gives the man a squeeze on his wrist as another warning.
“Anything to eat tonight?”
A bubble of gum pops in her mouth.
“Probably not. I’m here for a few words with my friend, and then I’ll be on my way.”
“Okay, honey. Roast beef is tonight’s special if you change your mind.” She scribbles some more on her notebook. “Do you need a refill as well?”
She looks over at the man sitting next to Merchant. Color has returned to his face in the form of a fiery red that makes her lips look dull and flat.
“He’s good,” Merchant answers.
Her eyes dart between them both. She shrugs and heads back to the counter.
“You are not a hard man to find, Travis,” Merchant says.
“How the f—” Travis begins and Merchant tears into his arm again.
The smallest of screeches escapes the man’s lips as his head drops against Merchant’s shoulder once more.
“Quiet now. No need for these nice people here to hear what you did to me or my family.”
Travis nods his head. A drip of saliva stretches from the corner of his lips as Merchant relieves the pressure on his arm.
“You are supposed to be dead. But… We all heard what the general did to you,” Travis whispers.
Fire rises inside of Merchant’s belly, and the uncontrollable urge to slam the man’s face into the table until there is either nothing left of his skull or the table is barely held in check.
“Looks like you got your information wrong. Do I feel dead?”
Merchant wrenches on the man’s wrist again, and he falls face first against the table. Spoon rattles in coffee cup, and the entire diner goes quiet. Everyone begins to turn their way. Lifting his other hand, Merchant waves and gives them all a smile. Travis sits back up. They all go back to their food and drinks.
“How is this possible?” Travis coughs out.
“No time for that. I need to know where I can find the others.”
“What others?”
A slight squeeze of the wrist has the man putting his other hand up, begging for a moment.
“Okay. We were all given some leave that ends at the end of the week. The general wants us at our new HQ outside of Baltimore by sunup on Saturday.”
“So, he’s going ahead with that foolish plan?”
“Bastard has it all mapped out. Said you were the last leak on the boat. His ship is tight and the mission is a go. We are going to be heroes,” Travis says.
He reaches for his coffee, his hand shaking.
<
br /> Merchant eyes the drink, and then the man. The tattooed fingers slowly slide back under the table.
“You don’t seem so certain sitting here in a diner late at night by yourself.”
“Can’t a man enjoy some alone time?”
“Travis, we fought together for what? Ten years? There is a bar at the end of the road filled with more women than your dick could point at with boys who couldn’t stand in a puddle of our piss if they begged us. But here you are. By yourself, wallowing in pity over a cup of coffee. Are you having second thoughts?”
The skin beneath Merchant’s hand is becoming clammy, and Travis turns to look out the window.
“Never. When it is all done, people will realize it was the correct choice.”
“What about those who try to stop you?”
“Some will try. Those who do will end up like…like you were supposed to be. They’ll never believe you, though. It’s too late, Merchant. There isn’t enough time. Besides, not all of us wanted you out. Most of us still believed you were one of us.”
Travis looks down at the table. He picks at the nails of his fingers with the thumb of his hand. He does not look up at Merchant.
“Didn’t seem to help me any,” Merchant says and smiles as the waitress comes over with his cup of coffee.
She smiles at both of them, and this time Travis even does his best to fake something other than a grimace.
“It was that bastard Dog Breaker. If you listen to me, there is something not right with that one.”
Merchant releases the soldier’s arm. Travis lets out a sigh and brings up his mangled wrist. The fingers of his twisted hand are white and curled unnaturally.
“One word to the others that we had this little talk and that bastard mutt won’t be the worst of your fears. You got that, Travis?”
Traveling Merchant (Book 1): Merchant Page 10