“My men were not cowards.”
“Which is why they’re dead and not part of the horde. Only the weak will stumble for eternity.” She picked at her nails with the blade’s tip.
“You believe in order, but why bother?”
“Not order, soldier. It is discipline you see and nothing more.”
“Discipline is order.”
“I beg to differ. Discipline is power. Power of one over another. Discipline is submission. I thought you of all people would see that. Practice what you preach, soldier.”
“You’re wrong. And it’s Sgt. Post, lady.”
“I’m no lady. Sergeant, huh? It’s been awhile. You’d think by now you’d have given yourself a much higher rank.”
“Wasn’t necessary, wasn’t earned.”
“I’ve killed many men like you, Sgt. Post. I’ve killed them all by my lonesome. No guns, no blades, just these hands. These tiny hands. Do you know why?”
“I guess they had it coming.” Post shrugged.
“Some did, but not all.” Miss Moya slipped the knife back into the saddle and patted her horse. “Because I could. Because they could not. Progress through progression. Only the strong survive, and for a time it was them.” She directed a hand towards the horde of Creepers. “But there time is coming to an end. Look at the majority of them, those you find in the cities by the millions, nothing more than paper targets.”
“You underestimate your enemy.” Post had seen the damage such paper targets could cause.
“Do I now, Sgt. Post.” She laughed roughly, cocking her head to listen to the massive movement of her army. “I have conquered the enemy, Sgt. Post. They work for me now, as do those that I’ve given the same opportunity I’m going to give you.”
“What about the women? You just going to throw them to your men?”
“How chivalrous, Sgt. Post. No, they will get the same chance as you. The same that was given to me.”
“What’s that?”
“The chance nearly all of us get, should we be lucky enough to encounter a life threatening challenge before time takes us—fight or die,” she said, as if it were the simplest of answers. “I can see what you’re thinking, Sgt. Post. Our former world did not the poker player make. You think me a savage, a woman driven mad by the world.” She slid a black-haired scalp forward. “So did he, and him.” She flashed another. “He did not, nor him, but he tried to rape me. Each was a challenge, and I’ve proven the victor every time. I was never thrown to any man, but had I been, that man would be dead or he would gladly die at my word.”
Post admired the power in her words, the sureness of them, but he wanted to reach through the bars and choke the life from her. In his current state, he would fail. This woman, this leader, was not so simple as the presentation. She was older, wiser, and not a measure of smugness about her. She was serious and calm, measuring every decision with a reptilian exactness.
“To what purpose? What is all this for? Marching like some army from ancient history.”
“I could ask you the same, but I know the answer. The same boring answer men like you always give. I, on the other hand, am doing this to see what’s left, to see who’s left, and to see if they are worthy of the opportunity our little apocalypse has bestowed upon us. This is what we wanted after all, isn’t it? A chance to start over. A chance to right the wrongs, to change the direction of our world. We prayed in hundreds of languages, we chanted, and scribed, and fantasized about it, and now here it is. Our grand end and rebirth. The moment we’ve all been waiting for. Are you ready, Sgt. Post? Is the Mad Conductor ready?”
Post flinched at the mention of Baylor. He’d fired the relays almost a month ago. If Baylor was anywhere close to his normal schedule, he’d have gotten the message by now, but Post didn’t know how the man would react. ‘Just a warning system. Something to keep us on our toes, nothing more. A signal that shit is going to be tough. Something simple.’ He remembered the words spoken so long ago over an aged bottle of wine. Post hoped Baylor and his brother were long gone in the other direction, but knowing them both, they were probably smiling as they headed this way, unaware of how deep the shit was.
“He is legend, you know. Even far past the border. We’ve heard tell of his exploits for some time, but we’ve been busy in other areas. I hope to meet this Mad Conductor and see if he lives up to the legend.”
“He’ll just disappoint you. He has a way of doing that. What will be left to rebuild if you destroy it all?”
“Have you no imagination, Sgt. Post? Wide open are the possibilities presented to us. We will meet resistance I’m sure, as we already have.” She nodded at him. “There will always be those that deny change, that refuse to fight for their own, and they are insignificant. History does not remember them, so they used to say, or something to that effect. Sgt. Post, I am giving the world a chance to forget everything prior, a chance to forget history.”
“You’re going to find people have a hard time letting go. If I get the chance, I’m going to enjoy killing you, Miss Moya.”
“You’ll get the chance, but will you be up to the task, Sgt. Post?”
Post laughed, but his own confidence waned. Something about the way she rebuked him sent chills through him. He flexed his gnarled hands.
“I would suggest you get some rest, Sgt. Post. The dawn will bring a great many challenges for you. Good evening.” She rode into the darkness. The lantern swayed, tracing her outline before she vanished into the depths of the night.
“Fuck you, lady,” Post mumbled. The man dangling from the crane suddenly renewed his screams, but no one seemed to care except for the Creepers. They groped and groaned, but he remained just out of their reach.
* * * * *
Post had not slept a wink. As the sun began to dance along the hills to the east, he began to count. His tactical mind logged troops, carriers, and weaponry, but the numbers weren’t adding up. The force he now rode with was not nearly as large as the one that they fell to in Utah. The number of horses were wrong, and not nearly as many soldiers. He hated to even think of them as such.
He nudged the body of an emaciated man out of his way. The man’s backbone poked through his ratty shirt, like the plates of a dinosaur, as he stirred, moaning for a second then drifting off to whatever fantasy put distance between him and his present hell. The others shied away from Post as he moved. Their eyes all held the look of permanent terror, as if they’d seen the face of eternity and somehow lived to tell the tale, though it had rendered them mute. Post’s questions had gone unanswered, his words simply ignored.
The units on the other side were really one weapon—a collective of wagons held together with barbed wire and wooden posts in the shape of a giant horseshoe. Hundreds if not thousands of recently minted Creepers milled about in the ring. The screaming man hung limply in his harness at the opening. A long gate was locked beneath him, keeping the Creepers within the horseshoe. Armed men moved atop the wagons, watching over all. Post was glad the man had passed out again. He couldn’t take the screaming.
“You count, you watch, you plot, but you are unaware for one so observant,” Miss Moya said from the other side of the wagon. She bit into an apple. Then she pulled several from a pouch on her saddle and tossed them through the bars. The men that had been ghosts of their former selves jumped up and lunged for the morsels. Apples in hand, they darted to the far corners of the car and ate loudly, wild eyes full of rage.
Post ignored them. He looked past her, studying the numbers, revisiting his previous calculations. They still didn’t add up.
“Here,” she said, tossing Post her half eaten apple. “Eat up now. You’ll need your strength.”
Post wiped the apple on his shirt then sank his teeth in. The sweet juices rolled down his chin.
“Counting my pieces on the board will do you no good, Sgt. Post, for they are here, there, and everywhere. Some ahead, more behind, others elsewhere. This is our push, our thrust into the heart, and I
will not be denied. This has been some time in the making. I watched it burn from afar, and now that the smoke has cleared she is mine for the taking. Just a few loose ends to tie up.”
“You think soldier boy can get through this round? Looks a little soft if you ask me,” said Keaton. His face was littered with scars, and his flat nose placed him as a brawler. A rough character out of the seedy bar scene back when the world was somewhat normal.
Post marked him as the man that lead the column into their flank. “Come a little closer and see how soft.”
“Ho-now, got a little bite. A little bite is good, or it could be bad for you, soldier boy.” Keaton laughed. It reminded Post of his father, of whiskey and smoke and things he’d rather forget. “There’s that spark. You picked a good one as always, Miss Moya.”
“Naturally.” She winked at Post. “I picked you didn’t I, Mr. Keaton?”
“Yes, ma’am, yes you did, and not a day goes by I don’t thank ya for it. We’re ready.” Keaton drew the reins up and rode off to the right.
Miss Moya put her fingers between her lips and whistled, piercing the air, and in that instant the entire column halted.
“It’s time for a little reprieve! We have some serious fighters among the beaten, but will the newcomer outlast them? This remains to be seen!” Miss Moya leaned close to the bars.
Post tensed then lashed out, reaching through but catching only air.
“The sooner you learn not to hate me the sooner you’ll be free of everything, Sgt. Post. Keep that anger and it will tear you apart, and you will not make it past this round, and that—” she sighed—“would be a terrible shame. Boys.” She waved a hand over her head.
Several men moved on the wagon and unlocked it. The prisoners eating their apple cores exited without so much as a word from the club-bearing men. Post rocked back and then exploded at the man closest to the door. He took him low and they tumbled through the open door. The other men began to close in.
“Do not!” Miss Moya shouted. “Well, Sgt. Post, it’s a little early, but I won’t keep you from defending yourself. Fight or die!”
Post barely heard her. While the club-bearer and his mashed face stared in awe, Post moved. He came low and drove the flat of his hand into the man’s face. Bone and cartilage crunched from the impact. Post grabbed the club out of the man’s loose grip. In a quick series of steps, Post lashed out with the club, smashing kneecaps then finishing the man off with a sharp blow to the head. He spun to face the others.
“Nicely done,” Miss Moya said, applauding. “The rest of you will do well to pay attention to Sgt. Post. Never let your guard down. Now get him in the pit!”
Post tensed, ready to strike out, but the men kept their distance. He turned to face the thunder of approaching hooves, but as he did the rope was already over his head and Keaton pulled it tight, pulling him off his feet.
“All flash and no finesse. Shoulda listened to Miss Moya’s advice.” Keaton laughed.
Post sat up, reached for the rope, but Keaton kicked his horse in the flanks and they were off. The wet grass whipped at his face. He tasted dirt and then he was falling. The sky overhead, a box of dingy gray. He slammed into muddy earth. He was in a deep pit. Faces began to appear around the rim, cheering, shouting, cursing faces. Spit and piss rained down on him. The rope slackened then disappeared.
Keaton leaned over the edge of the pit and spit a wad down. “Better get up, soldier boy. They comin’ for you! They comin’ to eat you up!”
Post rolled over. As he got to his feet, he heard their distinct moans. Miss Moya stared down at him from atop her horse. “Sgt. Post, do not disappoint me.”
Post gripped the club. Rotten breath filled the air, along with wet crunching, clacking teeth, buzzing flies, but Post knew he wasn’t about to face the enemy. He was about to face the victims. Those that in life could not protect themselves. He was to face the fallen, and it was either them or him. He had failed them, but if ever there was a chance at redemption, he’d have to crack a few skulls first. He turned.
Maybe more than a few.
CHAPTER 9
The wall of Creepers did not last, but they had done enough, scattering the riders, forcing them to break away from the angle of Baylor’s grenades. Bobby broke contact and started picking targets. He was having a hard time adjusting to shooting from the train. The beast rattled along the tracks while the wind whipped, roaring in his ears. Metal on metal whined, gunshots whizzed, along with the hiss of steam. Full blown chaos traveled at an alarming rate of speed. The last curve had nearly sent him over the side.
Injured men lay scattered about the rooftop. Some had seen their last sunrise. Bobby sighted a man coming up along the back of the train, but his shot missed the mark. The rattle of Pathos One’s AK shredded the man’s chest. A bullet zipped past his ear. Bobby dropped to the roof, staying behind the iron plate while he reloaded. Shell casings bounced from the return fire, like fleas on the back of a dog. He watched them twist end over end and disappear in the blur of orange red.
“Ammo is kicked!” Baylor shouted.
“Hoss keeps putting coal in the fire we’re going to be kicked!” Bobby shouted back, racking the bolt. He popped up, fired twice, dropped back in cover.
“Speed is good. Keep these fuckers going hard and we’re just aiming and firing,” Baylor said.
Bobby’s eyes locked with those wide and crazy ones. The rush of the battle had the Mad Conductor sweating, panting like some animal with a mouthful of bloody prey.
“They kicked the nest, kid. Kicked my fucking nest!” Baylor leaned over the edge with his revolver, firing and screaming. “Can’t keep those horses going. Not at this speed! Hoss! You keep the beast well fed,” Baylor shouted down through the cage.
Hoss did not respond.
“Hoss?”
Bobby was up before Baylor could react. He jumped past the wide-eyed lunatic, slipping the rifle over his shoulder in the same motion. He dropped over the side, grabbing one of the iron spikes before twisting his body down and into the cage. He slammed feet first on the iron grates. Hoss lay slumped over the controls. Twin red blossoms grew from his shoulder and back.
“Hoss,” Bobby said, reaching out to turn the man.
“Fucking don’t!” Hoss said. “Kid, don’t! I’m fucked. Shit’s blurry, man. Grab that shovel!”
Bobby paused for only the briefest of seconds. Hoss looked over his wounded shoulder and screamed, “Bobby, grab the fucking shovel!”
Bobby began to slake the fire’s hunger with big chunks of raw coal. But he kept stealing glances at Hoss. The man was using the weight of his dying body to keep pressure on the controls, biting his lip, leaking blood. Bobby’s training had him wanting to dress the man’s wounds, but he knew if he stopped, if they allowed the train to stop now, they were done for.
“Hoss.” Bobby had hated the man for so long and never really had the chance to make amends, neither of them did, and now it was too late.
“Shut the fuck up, Bobby! Keep her warm and glowing. Like that. Good! Been a hell of a ride!”
“Yeah.”
“Fucker that got me is still out there. You kill him for me! I stop talking, you throw my ass to the side and-an-an-aaaahh,” Hoss fell into a catatonic trance, his mouth wide open, moaning.
A single monitor snapped on in Bobby’s head.
Bobby, Bobby, Bobby, Hoss said within the confines of his mind. Bobby tried to reply, to ask something, anything, but he froze. After being the conduit through which so many Creepers passed, he knew this was different. He could feel it stirring inside like an insect walking across the surface of his brain. It wasn’t something special, he knew then. It wasn’t chance. It was distance and time. Like the man trapped in the beast’s jaw so long ago, like the woman the night before Ecky died, distance and time. Like the confused men of Wyoming Blue.
Bobby, kill me, please kill me, Hoss begged.
Bobby trembled.
“Bobby!” Baylor cried from
above.
More monitors snapped on.
“Bobby!”
Bobby, kill me, Hoss pleaded, his voice like warbling feedback through a broken speaker.
No, Bobby said. Then he ordered the Creeper’s hand to control the train. Handing it the shovel, he headed for the door.
No, Bobby, no, it cried, but Hoss was gone. He’d been replaced by one of them. Bobby ignored the protests as he tried to grasp the new Creepers coming to life.
The Creepers (Book 2): From the Past Page 8