Traveling Merchant (Book 1): Merchant

by Seymour, William J.

  She cannot give up.

  She will not fail.

  Pulling with everything she has, the light from the hall grows wider. Aluminum tubing bends and begins to buckle. She continues to pull. Fire sears the muscles of her arms and shoulders.

  A howling rages into the night as the doors open wider.

  Blood slick bar snaps and throws Elizabeth across the floor. She skids on her shoulder, and the light coming from the hall spins before her eyes. Turning on her side, she vomits, and her mouth is full of iron and bile.

  Shuddering coughs rack her body, but she fights everything to push herself back to her feet. Her legs are weak. The joint to her left shoulder is destroyed. Moving it at all brings darkness to her eyes, and she stumbles.

  Taking a deep breath, she tries to squeeze between the junction of the two doors. Broken edges catch on the cloth of her shirt and tear at the skin of her back and chest.

  Searing pain takes over her body as she pushes herself as far as she will fit through.

  There isn’t enough room. She is stuck. Breaths come harder as the doors tighten against her chest.

  She will die here. Bleeding out between two doors, leaving herself a fucking mess on the floor. Her eyes fall shut, and she chuckles. Muscles relax and tears burn their way down her cheeks.

  What can she do?

  Thunder roars through the building, deep and wild as the wind shakes. A roar of the arena quickly follows. Metal shards from the door dig deeper into her skin, and the searing pain races through her neck and into her brain.

  All she can see is red. Screaming, crying, begging, and dying she pushes through the door.

  Light floods over her as she collapses against the hallway floor. Hard carpet burns at the thousand cuts on her body as she looks at the ceiling that looks down at her. The burning candles along the wall flicker and sizzle.

  Heavy breaths fill with blood.

  She has made it.

  Elizabeth rolls to her knees.

  The unmistakable sound of boos begins to mix with the roars of the crowd.

  He is still fighting. They won’t kill him so easily.

  Elizabeth stumbles from wall to wall as she makes her way toward the stairs that will lead her out.

  He needs her. Somehow, she will find a way to save him.

  Two dozen bodies lay sprawled in death and guts. Women, men, all of them in various degrees of infection have died on these sands. A man, his eyes glassed-over, holds his guts in his palms as he slumps against the wooden walls that cage Merchant in.

  Vomit streaks its way across the barrier where a man in the audience lost his last meal when the combatants stomach was ripped open and blood fountained in a wide arc that covered the front row.

  Merchant can feel the layer of filth that covers him. It drips down his face. Infiltrates his mouth, and he can taste the salty flavor that tickles his tongue. Scratches across his skin, but his muscles beg for more. Fingers twitch.

  The audience is growing wild, and the man who watches from his podium continues to fidget. He cannot sit still. One leg taps the wooden base and angrily points at the guards who let the next wave of monsters in through gated doors.

  Six come charging in. All of them are men, and each is young. Muscles are still taut, their movements quick, but the eyes are different. They are not glossed over. Fire burns behind them. Anger and pride drives these men.

  Newly infected.

  Just like the ones who started this whole fucking mess back along the interstate.

  Merchant does not hesitate.

  One reaches him and is dead before he touches the ground. Neck snapped in three places, Merchant turns and is quickly barreled over by the next two.

  They roll on the ground. Teeth snap and fingers scratch.

  Merchant finds his way on top and presses fingers into eyes sockets that pops gushy balls of flesh and does not stop until nails dig into gray matter.

  Boots meet ribs, and the air is knocked from his lungs. He tumbles and takes out the legs of another. Two are dead and four begin to circle.

  Merchant stays in a crouch.

  One jumps for his back. Merchant catches him with an elbow to the jaw. Head snaps back and throat is exposed. Grabbing with everything he can, nails dig into flesh, and the trachea rips out like fatty tissue on a warm chicken leg.

  Gore sprays and Merchant throws his trophy at the nearest while the dying falls to his knees, blood pooling in hands and last growls lost in the bubbling gurgles of death.

  Three remain.

  They hesitate.

  Merchant keeps his distance.

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  Automatic gunfire explodes into the night.

  The crowd begins to scream in fear, but are quieted as the Father steps to the end of his podium. A guard with a rifle stands by his side. The end of the rifle smokes into the cold air. Merchant begins to back away from the infected. Blood pools around his boots. The smell of death mixes with spilled bowels and blood.

  All three infected turn from him to the man with the rifle, and then back.

  “We have seen enough!” the Father screams.

  Merchant’s shoulders slump. He lets the fire in his muscles fade.

  One of the men jump for him. The infected makes it two steps. Skull and brain tissue erupts as the bullet exits through his temple. The sand makes a sloshing sound as the body crumples into a heap. The two remaining back away.

  “I think our community has seen enough. Obviously, the security and purity of our community cannot be trusted to the hands of the infected,” the Father orates, and the crowd quickly fills in with the faithful bleating of sheep. “It is obvious that this monster here is capable in the arts of death. The blood of the fallen covers him, and he wears it as a king would the crown that sits on his head!”

  The people of the isolated community cheer every word.

  “But enough is enough. Vengeance will be had for our dear, Alexis!”

  Merchant looks at the young women who is now so white she is a ghost shining through the darkened shadows.

  “This monster will pay the punishment he so duly deserves. For this, I am going to bless his tainted soul with the opportunity that has not been seen in this arena in years. Our first blessed, the seeker of truth, the deliverer of our vengeance, the man you all call our Chosen Son will be the instrument of our faith!”

  Jubilation and cries of vengeance mix with trepidation that rattles the walls that hold Merchant in. The two infected back away as Merchant turns back toward the doors that have opened six times now to bring men to their death.

  A chant begins to move through the gathered masses.

  Chosen.

  Chosen.

  Ccchhooossseeenn.

  The word begins to slur into the wind. One door slowly begins to creep open. Metal hinges grind as the darkness begins to leak out into the arena.

  A shadow stands waiting. Shoulders as wide as the door rub the frame.

  The man who stopped him when he arrived steps through. He is big, bare-chested, and rippled with more muscle than Merchant has ever seen on a single person. Arms flex as fists are pounded together. Skin stretches as veins pop, and the man’s steps rumble across the frozen dirt.

  Merchant cracks the knuckles of his hands and pops the bones in his neck. Muscles loosen, and he watches as his opponent approaches slowly. This Chosen is inches taller than he is.

  Hard eyes stare at him. Dark, judging, and dead of any emotion.

  Merchant knows that feeling.

  The Father yells out to the crowd. Light dances as the bleachers shake with the beating of a million feet. Merchant cares for none of it. His only care is this fight.

  Only one of them will walk out of this arena. This world is not big enough for two harbingers of death. There are no more reasons to wait.

  Balling his fists, Merchant charges forward.

  Twenty-Two

  Five Years Ago

  Gravel is rough and sharp. Pieces as large as
quarters puncture skin, and Merchant rolls onto his back. Tall pillars of dark smoke roll into the sky. Rain bubbles on his face and splashes in his eyes.

  Lightning arcs across the sky and bullets slap the building, popping like firecrackers dozens of feet below. Sirens wail and men scream. The lights of cars and trucks rush down the road that leads them into the teeth filled maw of automatic weapon fire.

  Lead punching through aluminum, the sounds of war rattle into the night and taste of burned ozone.

  Merchant coughs.

  A man groans off to his left.

  Looking to the side, Merchant sees Breaker moving. The window they plunged out of is over ten feet above their heads. They did not fall to the ground. They hit the roof of the next building.

  Rolling onto his side, Merchant can feel all the broken bones in his body grind and cut him internally. Blood fills his mouth, and he coughs a wad that splashes onto his hands.

  He fights the pain.

  There is still too much to do.

  Knees scream as tiny rocks cut into exposed skin. His pants are heavy, soaked with blood and guts.

  He is off the ground, torturing himself on knees and the balls of his feet. Breaker is no better.

  The man is soaked red, his skin yellow and stricken.

  “You fucker, why can’t you fucken die,” Breaker says as he rolls over.

  He is successful at getting to his hands and knees as well. Blood drips from his lips, and a cut that has torn his flesh to the bone slices through his forehead down across his face. His left eye is gone, and a dark, wet, empty hole is all that remains.

  “Where is the general?” Merchant asks, his voice gritty and harsh.

  Bones and joints crack as Merchant rolls backward until he is on his feet. The world spins before his eyes. Balance is lost, and he stumbles until his hand catches on an exhaust pipe, and he holds himself up.

  Breaker tries the same, but gets one knee stable before stumbling forward. Mud splashes around, and the man claws at the gravel until he is back on his knees.

  “What does it matter anyway?” Breaker responds.

  His lips are going blue and blood trails its way from both corners of his face.

  Merchant squeezes his eyes to force the pain away and finds the balance to stay on his feet. His fingers wrap around a wooden stake that fell as they plummeted from the open window. Rusted wire hangs bloody from a nail at the head of the weapon.

  “Tell me where he is. When I’m done…” Merchant says.

  Breaker lets out a belly laugh that is cut off with blood filled coughing.

  “When you are done here? It’s too late, Merchant. You can’t reach him in time. The mission is complete, you fucker. All this fucking shit you started is over nothing. You accomplished nothing!”

  Rage erupts through Merchant. Diving forward, he raises the wooden stake and goes to fall on the man who tortured him until he died on a hill by himself. The man who cut wire into his skin until enough blood to fill a river flowed from his veins. The man who showed no mercy in killing the only people he ever loved in this entire world.

  Merchant falls at the man he hates more than words can describe. Breaker smiles as he slumps to the side. Sharpened steel shines in the night as the man arcs the knife at Merchant’s heart, ready to impale the only person he has ever failed to kill.

  Metal tip cuts into flesh. Bone turns weapon and blood covered handle slips between puckered fingers. Knife drives into chest. Air is driven from lungs. Heart is missed.

  Balled fist catches the corner of a jaw. Head snaps sideways, and two men fall to the ground. Groaning, Merchant tries to lift himself. His left arm useless. Blade cuts into muscle with every movement. He tries to breathe but his lungs are filling with blood.

  Breaker stirs. Merchant cannot let him go. Reaching out with his right arm, he wraps his fingers around the man’s shirt. Hit squeezes until the material is pulled tight.

  He slides over, his body inching on top of the other. Chest rises and falls below him. Breath is shallow. Blood pools around Breaker’s mouth.

  Excruciating pain explodes through Merchant, but he forces himself back onto his knees through pure determination. His body is broken. He can take breaths in small coughs, his vision darkening.

  The wooden spike is back in his hand.

  Breaker smiles up at him.

  Pink teeth show as the man smiles.

  “It’s over, Merchant. You are done.”

  Screaming, letting every last bit of rage out that remains in his dying body, Merchant drives the stake down. Splintered wood pierces eye and flesh explodes. Bones crack. Skull ruptures and brain matter spills across the roof.

  Merchant rolls off Breaker.

  He looks up at the sky. Dark clouds roll as hell spreads around. The gunfire is slowing. Another explosion rocks the building’s foundation, but the symphony of sirens and emergency lights is an army in itself.

  For the men below, the fight is ending. There are more police than there are soldiers. Merchant feels his body going cold.

  His fingers twitch. He wants to pull the knife out, open the wound more and bleed out faster. He cannot do it. There is no strength left in him. His eyes fill with tears.

  No breath will fill his lungs.

  He is not done yet.

  He tries to speak.

  Blood floods his mouth.

  Eyes go dark.

  The crowd is as quiet as death. Cheering is the last thing on their minds. Groans and shrieks of shock are intertwined with gasps and words lost to confusion.

  Lightning burns through winter clouds. A storm of apocalyptic proportion brings a blinding snow that reduces visibility to close to an arm’s length.

  But not here.

  The heat of the arena. Muddy puddles filled with blood splash and rain soaks everything down to the bone. Clothes sit heavy with saturation and tears mix with cold water that bites down to the soul.

  In the sands, boots clogged with gore and gritty sand, two combatants tear at one another like gods who do not fear death. Blood runs down Merchant’s face. Sweat stings a slash that opens his forehead from eye to eye. His heart pumps faster with every passing moment. The heat of the fury in his soul burns to a bright ember. Raking his fingers like claws, his hand catches the shirt of the man he fights. Skin rips, but his opponent shows no sign of slowing down.

  They call him the Chosen. He’s taller than even Merchant, and his muscles are the living embodiment of iron. One fist into Merchant’s ribs and it’s like he is hit by a truck.

  Stumbling, Merchant feels his legs go weak. He backs away to create distance. His legs are heavy and the thick muddy gore of the dirt pulls at his boots like greedy hands. He spits a wad of blood at the behemoth that tracks him. The monster smiles.

  Merchant feigns a dive forward.

  Arms wide, he looks to wrap the Chosen into a bear hug. All muscle, even more speed, the Chosen takes the bait and braces for the impact with his arms brought up.

  Tucking his arms in, Merchant goes low and kicks out. The steel tip of his foot catches the edge of a knee. He can feel something give. The big man does not scream. He does not shout.

  A grunt escapes his lips, and he topples to one knee.

  Merchant is on top of him now. Delivering blow after blow. The crowd is a frenzy. The screams are of hate and shock.

  Welts open across the back of the creature’s shaved head. Dark blood pours out and sprays with Merchant’s next blow.

  Hands the size of a grizzly’s paw clutch at Merchant’s arms. Nails dig into flesh. Arms flexed, Merchant tries to pull away.

  He can’t.

  The Chosen rolls forward and Merchant is pitched over his back.

  The crowd is on its feet.

  Mud and black bile fills Merchant’s mouth. He coughs, and his breath will not return. A thousand-pound boulder crashes into his spine. Pain rips from his lips.

  Fingers swallow the back of his head. He catches the sight of the fire burning on torch
es as the shadows of the audience riot for his death. Bones crack, and he tries to keep his face above the mud.

  Darkness swallows him whole. His nose crunches as his face is ground into the earth.

  Lungs burn.

  Arms going numb.

  He bites down and forces his arms up. Bent, he begins to push.

  A gap opens between mouth and ground. Cold, dirty oxygen fills his lungs. The flames are subdued. Pain ruptures through his spine. Hard, frozen dirt cracks his skull, and all the air in his body is forced out.

  Fury rages within him. Pain and destiny begins to fade. Darkness approaches.

  The sound of the arena weakens, drowned behind the pounding of his blood in his ears. Nails dig into the earth. Muscles cramp.

  Merchant has nothing left. His shoulders throb. His legs are frozen. More pressure cracks his spine.

  This is it.

  Death has finally arrived.

  The roar of the crowd cracks the ice at her feet. Snow is pilling across the village. Giant, heaping mounds of white powder that go untouched. Cold, bitter air stings every cut and scratch on her body.

  Shoulders throb, and she has the largest, mind-splitting headache she has ever felt. Teeth chatter but she can see the steam that rises into the night sky. Giant plumes of white smoke lit by torchlight as the moan of the crowd ebbs and flows.

  Elizabeth stays to the shadows. She has to get inside and save Merchant.

  What can she do?

  She holds the blanket she found in an empty room tight against her body. It smells of dust and scratches at the open wounds on her arms, but at least she hasn’t dropped of hypothermia yet.

  The arena looms ahead of her. Tall walls of miss-matched plywood and scavenged pieces of roadside advertisements block her path.

  She slows her pace as she approaches the barricade. There are openings from Main Street and the holding cages where Merchant was held. She heads toward the cages. Guards will be holding each entrance, but they won’t be as steadfast there.

  Thunder explodes within the clouds. Frenzy breaks across the arena, and snow falls from the wall. Small bits of paint and a screw work free as she walks casually along.