Traveling Merchant (Book 1): Merchant

by Seymour, William J.

  He rips the man from his body like a little puppy snagging on his clothes. Grabs the back of the head, long stringy hairs clinging to the blood staining his fingers, and he drives its face into the wall. Bones crunch and a wet pop snaps as the body goes limp. Rearing back, he drives the skull into the wall again.

  Solid barrier cracks and chips away. Hollow, rotted wood falls and splashes in the gore. The infected is dead weight, its body swaying like an overweight fishing line. Merchant releases his grip and two more monsters are ready to oblige his need for something that will crumble more of the structure.

  Agony and hatred echoes through the darkness as the dark wall explodes. Broken limbs flap around, twist, and roll as the second body passes into the passage behind.

  Merchant steps through.

  The air is now cleaner, the stench of death behind him, though it follows like a shadow.

  The smallest of outlines flickers in the distance. This is a hallway. Long and silent, he can see gray, or what is only a slimmer shade of darkness, where else there is only black.

  “If I didn’t hate you so much, I’d say that was one hell of a show back there,” Snake-Eyes says.

  The ghost materializes behind Merchant. Soft calls of hunger and moans trail out from death’s playground behind them.

  Merchant does not stop. He begins to track his way down the tunnel. Wooden doors line each side at regular intervals.

  Silent.

  Empty.

  He cannot waste any time. Every minute he spends down here is a minute she will have to separate herself and leave him behind. The hallway ends at a doorway of solid oak and aged steel. The top of his head reaches the apex of its frame, and there is nowhere to go but backwards.

  Thin, cold air snakes its way from beneath the wooden slabs that bar his passage. It tickles his skin like the first chills of a winter morning after leaving the comfort of a warm blanket. Anger flairs hotter and burns a hole within Merchant. He steps back. Growling, he unleashes his fury into the wood, and it splinters into a thousand shards as the handle breaks off and the barrier swings open. Dusts lifts into the air, and cobwebs swing around where they hang from all over the ceiling.

  Stairs. Twisting up, the lighter gray begins to grow. He moves quickly. The heavy leather of his boots pound an echoing song through the empty corridor.

  Climbing, the path twists around itself over and over. Locked doors appear at regular intervals, but he ignores them all. He follows the light and the cold. Each grow strong as the shadows fall back. The life and anger he once felt as they approached this hellhole begins to fade. White puffs of steam form with each breath. Ice nips at his bleeding skin, but he ignores it.

  “We going to climb our way out of the ravine?” Snake-Eyes asks.

  Merchant gives no response. One step in front of the other, he pushes ahead.

  Fuck the infected. He has a score to settle, and there is a redhead who has come due.

  Countless levels pass. Sweat runs from his skin faster than the blood that smears against the wall as his arms and shoulders rub the stone structure.

  Birds begin to sing. He can hear them over the roar of the river that is still a background noise that lost itself behind the screams of the dying. The surface must be close. Adrenaline pulses through his veins, and his pace quickens.

  The stairwell ends abruptly with a wall covered in frost and a door made of frozen stone. Frosty tendrils snake through the door’s frame, ice crystals locking themselves between door and wall.

  Merchant places a hand against the rock. Skin and blood freezes instantly. He grits his teeth and pulls away. Tissue stretches and rips. There is no other choice. He puts his shoulder into the work and feels the chill radiate through his arm. The fight is short lived. His internal fire fights back and the cold and pain is gone. He shoves with all his strength.

  Stone scratches against stone. Light, bright and clean, beams in like lasers as the slab of rock slides out of the way inch by inch.

  Snow spills through. A few flakes at first, but then inches pile at his feet.

  The morning arrived and is now long gone. It is closing in on midday. In the east, a golden ball of fire is well above the top of the ravine that is still dozens of feet above his head. The rays of sunlight are warm against his skin, fighting the chill that melts away against the fury that fuels his anger. He stands near the top of the structure that tried to seal him in. Ice crystals as wide as his shoulders hang from the rock ledge above. Jagged spears of trapped water, ready to fall and break anything in their death plunge to the stone below.

  Merchant looks to where the water of the river rages through the unrelenting rock. Hundreds of feet separate him from the bottom. A wind carrying the screams of a thousand souls wails through the canyon. It does not fade. This place does not want him to leave. He was destined to remain here. This place had claimed him as part of itself.

  Death and entrapment will have to wait for another day. No place can hold him. He cannot be stopped. Not until he reaches the city that touches the sky. He balls his hands into fists. Drops of blood squeeze between angry fingers before falling to the ground and cooling in the perfectly white snow. Off to his right, there are more steps. Snow, more than ankle deep, sits undisturbed.

  Merchant turns and begins to climb. The wind rocks the wood below his feet, and the screams grow distant but frantic. The ugly, scarred face of the ancient building moans for him. This is a place of death and life is its only food. He growls at himself and the hunger he feels pulling him.

  The top of the ravine slips below his feet. The stairs end, and he reaches flat ground. Light burns his eyes where it reflects off the fields of white like mirrors.

  Where is she?

  Would she have crossed the river?

  She wouldn’t have. Merchant pulls his ripped coat tighter. She would return to where she came from. Hoping to hook up with another group of lost souls, she would wait to find more prey for her brother. If she even had one.

  Boots pounding through the snow, he follows the cut in the ground and the sound of the raging water below. It does not take long before he spots the snow-covered markings that give way to the stairs they used to reach the bottom. A single set of prints lead away and back the way they came.

  She did not leave slowly. The holes in the snow are stretched apart. She was afraid, but a wide cut in the snow drags behind her.

  Merchant smiles.

  He knows what slows her down. The weight of what she has done pulls on her shoulders. By now she can barely walk. He does not chase. There is no reason to. Taking a deep breath to fight off the stench that clings to his skin, Merchant begins the slow walk back the way they came. With each step, he draws closer.

  She could not have gotten far.

  Fifteen

  Five Years Ago

  The smell of blood and lies is hard to wash out of the car. Cool air from the night sweeps in through open windows as fast as the scenery. Trees and signs, highlighted by bright bulbs and blurred into the darkness of speed, pass by.

  Interstate 81 going south.

  Merchant knows this path. Exhaustion fights for control behind his heavy eyes, but he cannot let it slide. Time is running out, and the distance is not going by fast enough.

  Leather along the steering wheel is warm against his skin and the smell of fresh cotton blows in through a cheap gas station vent clip that dangles from the center console. Red amber light from the dashboard and radio casts everything in a bloody glow, a menacing look for the dark work ahead.

  Traffic is light, the road wet and covered in flashing mirrors of puddles from headlights as the vintage Impala barrels down the road. Trucks, engines rumbling and exhausts blowing out poisoned air, swerve in and out in their travels. Merchant keeps his pace fast but uneventful. This is not a time to bring attention to himself. Cops and onlookers would only slow him down.

  It is Friday night.

  Little time is left for him to make his way down south of Baltimore. Red li
ghts flash and the truck in front of him jams its breaks before swerving to the left. Yellow and red warning lights flash. Merchant slows, and his passenger slumps with a moan. There is an accident or a drunken ticket being given. He does not care. Blinker begins to tap.

  Click.

  Click.

  Click.

  Merchant shifts to the fast lane and begins to slow down further. The cop is out of his car. Bastard has his ticket book out and the turned over pages flip in the air. Merchant drives by without a second look.

  “You’ll never get away with this,” Travis mutters.

  His words are slurred. Saliva drips from his lips and his head slumps against the window where fresh air dries the sweat from his hair and keeps him awake. Keeps him alive, for the moment.

  “They took my family,” Merchant says. “I begged them to leave them out of it.”

  Travis lifts his head. His skin is pale, ghost white in the passing headlights of cars as Merchant swings back into the slower lane.

  “I told you I was sorry to hear about that.” Travis grunts. A fresh line of blood drips down from his nose. “I had nothing to do with any of that. I’m a soldier, just like you were. We follow orders. Do the jobs no one else is willing to do.”

  Merchant glares over at him. Pain racks the man’s face, and he falls back against the seat and his head then tumbles to the window sill.

  “You killed me,” Merchant says.

  “But you didn’t die!” Travis shouts and begins to cough before wincing.

  His body shakes, and the smell of fresh blood overwhelms the little cotton clip. The nails driven though Travis’ hands and into his thighs tear deeper into his flesh. His pants are soaked dark and caked against his legs where his life’s blood has dried.

  “Something happened up on that hill. They tortured me. I gave up. I gave in,” Merchant says.

  He does not care what he has done to this man. Even if he was once a friend, he is only a bump in the path he needs to follow.

  “Another mole. I heard rumors there was another mole,” Travis says.

  There is very little strength to his words. His coughs are wet and weak.

  “Yet they still killed my family,” Merchant adds.

  A slap of his hand on the spikes driven through Travis’ legs sparks electricity behind the dying man’s eyes, and he screams into the night. No one hears him, his words lost in the rushing wind.

  “An example had to be made. That way no one else would even dream of betraying the squad. You fucked up, Merchant. Should have kept your mouth shut and just did your fucking job. For once, just kept that mouth of yours shut.”

  Merchant does not talk back. He continues to drive, and the car falls silent behind the hum of the reworked engine. For a car older than he is, it is in miraculous shape. Travis always worked wonders with engines, and he cared about this vehicle. There wasn’t a scratch in the paint, and the interior was refinished with the highest quality leather a person could get beneath the government rations. Too bad it was all soaked with the remains of his life.

  Four hours pass, and the sun is a kindling haze in the eastern sky. Not yet above the horizon, there is still time. Traffic is building and cars and pickup trucks swerve between the unending flow of tractor trailers that swat at them like cow tails. Baltimore, the city and its skyline, are lost to the north. People are making their way toward Washington DC, but Merchant does not follow.

  He exits an hour away from the city. Indistinct exit sign points the way toward the point of no return. Some cars follow, even a few trucks, hoping to skirt the traffic of the city on a Saturday morning, but none of them will follow where he is going. Travis murmurs incoherent words with his head bouncing against the door frame.

  Thunk.

  Thunk.

  The sound is hollow and echoes with a wet, squishy sound. Blood and saliva is dried to his face, and his pant legs have crusted over completely where his hands have not moved in over an hour.

  “Where is this place?” Merchant asks.

  Travis moves his lips, but the words are slurred and sloppy. He can’t understand them at all.

  “Fuck, just a little longer. Hold it in, soldier. That is an order,” Merchant barks.

  Pale skin is loose against bones as Travis’ head rolls forward, and he tumbles into the dashboard.

  “God damn-it.” Merchant pulls over.

  Dust kicks into the air, and the sound of tiny stones hitting the bottom of the car sound like a pinball machine going berserk. Slamming the car into park, Merchant gets out and tastes the dry, dead earth on his tongue. The heat of the day is approaching. He can feel it against his skin, and the cicadas buzz between the sound of trucks rolling by in the distance. Throwing the door shut, he storms his way over to the passenger side.

  The smell of death is overwhelming, and it hits him like a bat as he nears the passenger side of the car. Blood has leaked its way down the door. Dark rivers that drip down before being pulled into long rivers across the black paint. He swings the door open, and Travis rolls onto his side, the belt holding him up and his arm dangling where it ripped through the nail that points upward from his leg.

  He is still alive, but barely. Eyes are gray and move as slow as the blue lips that flap in the wind, silent and empty.

  “Wake the fuck up!” Merchant screams.

  He slaps the man across the face. Travis’ head cracks off the frame of the car, and he rolls uncontrollably forward. Fresh blood drains from his face and stretches into a sticky string as it reaches for the ground at Merchant’s feet.

  “Fuck this shit.” Merchant stomps his way to the back of the car.

  He flips open the trunk. Buried beneath an armory of rifles and other weaponry is his bag. Hauling it out, he returns to Travis and drops the Army bag onto the ground.

  “Mer…” Travis mutters.

  “Keep your strength, asshole,” Merchant says. “You’ll need it for the next few minutes.”

  Inside there is a medical kit, and Merchant pulls it out. Travis’ head rolls in the wind as the syringe is prepped. Clear liquid squirts into the air and splashes in tiny drops on the dry soil before evaporating as quickly as it arrived.

  “This might sting just a little,” Merchant says before stabbing the needle into Travis’ chest.

  He jams the plunger down, and the clear serum pushes its way into muscle and blood.

  Nothing happens.

  Birds sing in the distance. Trucks roar by, thousand-pound tigers rampaging down the highway. The sun breaks over the horizon in its bright golden glory.

  “Come on, you bastard!”

  Merchant grabs Travis by the chin and shakes his head back and forth. The man’s eyes roll around sockets like loose dice.

  Another minute passes.

  “Fuck!” Merchant yells and kicks at the dirt as he spins on his heels.

  Rocks skirt across the brittle, patchy grass and cracked top soil.

  “Ah!” Travis bellows out.

  The dying man tries to jump backward, but the belt holds him in place. He’s only successful at ripping his other hand through the nail pinched against his leg.

  Blood fountains up against the windshield, and Travis’ screams scare birds into flight, and the sound of insects is lost.

  “Listen to me!” Merchant orders as he throws his elbow into the man’s chest and presses him roughly against his seat.

  The soldier fights. His muscles tight and as hard as steel, he pushes against Merchant’s pressure, but he doesn’t have enough strength in his beaten body.

  “Fucking stop it, Travis,” Merchant orders again.

  The soldier begins to settle before he snaps his teeth and tries to bite Merchant’s arm.

  “Now that wasn’t very nice,” Merchant says.

  He grabs a hold of the man’s face and pinches hard. Skin goes red, and the man’s eyes bulge.

  “You are not going to like this, but you’re a dead man and you know it.”

  Travis’ eyes bu
rn, and it takes Merchant all of his weight to hold the man down.

  “I’ve injected enough adrenaline into your system to jumpstart a fucking jet and you’ve bled out all over your car. I’m rather surprised you’ve made it this far, but I still need you for a few moments.”

  “Go to hell, asshole,” Travis says.

  Merchant smiles.

  “I’ll get there eventually. But it’s time for you to make amends for your crimes.”

  Travis spits in his face.

  “Suck my cock. You’re a dead man, Merchant.”

  There is nothing left to hold back the rage that burns in Merchant’s chest. He lets it loose. Elbow drives deeper into breast bone, and he can feel the cracks beneath his arms. Blood bubbles around the edges of Travis’ lips, and his eyes widen as far as his skin will stretch.

  He tries to say something. His lips moving, but nothing comes out as he tries to melt into his seat and get away from the man crushing him alive.

  “P…ple…” Travis is able to get out.

  Merchant backs off and a spew of blood erupts from the soldier’s mouth as he coughs, trying to pull in more air.

  “You’ve only got a couple of minutes left, Travis. Be a man. Tell me where the others are. I know you weren’t there when they killed my family.”

  Merchant kneels on the ground and looks at his teammate’s face. A glossy film is moving across his eyes, but there is still a little recognition there.

  “Tell me. Let me get back what has been taken from me. Tell me where they are.”

  A smile tries to inch its way across Travis’ face. The left corner of his lips twitch and pull up while the right side remains dead.

  “You’ll never get what was taken from you,” Travis whispers, “but I’ll tell you what I know.”

  Merchant listens. Secrets are revealed, and a hundred cars and tractor trailers roll by across the highway, unaware of what is going on in the Impala parked on the side of the road.

  In the east, the sun is now a blazing ball of fire, the heat of its rays already warm against the skin. Merchant shuts his door and taps on the air freshener and gets a tiny burst of fresh cotton. Death and lies may be hard to wash out, but no longer having a dead boy sitting next to you makes it a lot easier.