The Creepers (Book 2): From the Past

by Dixon, Norman

  “If I did, would I still be crazy?”

  “Bwahaha.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Moya let him wander in the wild garden. The little angel from the north. He was special with his blue eyes and pale skin and curly hair, twisting and laughing in the truest sense of beauty. She smelled spring, full bloom, fragrances she thought dead for so long, but things had changed. She had direction now, she had the little angel, she had followers. The desert proved a great buffer, and the farther south they went the less broken societies they found, but it was never far enough. There were always signs, always threats, from them, from within, from others.

  Moya watched her little angel twirl in a field of blue and red flowers, arms outstretched wide as the world. A gift given to her by one of her most faithful. One who braved the wild north and returned with the tip of the spear. A child who was immune to the plague. Her little angel, little Josh. The hope of the future. Now they had the pieces, the drive, but not the numbers.

  Josh twirled and twirled, proclaiming himself king of the garden, and Moya laughed, truly laughed—an emotion she thought she’d lost. Keaton stirred somewhere near, ever watchful, as the rest of the camp went about the business of the day. She’d built a bond with the child almost instantly, and nearly a year had passed since she’d seen the extent of his gift. He kept them in check, moved them, played with them in ways she thought impossible. He didn’t know them as she did. He was too young to understand the horrors they’d visited upon the world.

  Moya watched, horrified, as she did each night since losing her little angel. He twirled and twirled, laughing, and then he was silent. A budding dark red stain appeared on his pristine white shirt. He did not cry. He departed this life in an instant. Before the chaos that followed would erupt, Moya woke, gripping her sweaty sheets in mid-scream.

  “I’m here,” Keaton said from the dark corner of her tent.

  Moya slid off the bed. The candle light accented her muscular legs as she stepped into her clothes. She could still hear Josh’s laughter, but it was fading, fading as it always did upon waking from the torment of the nightmare.

  “Keaton,” Moya said, cracking her knuckles.

  Keaton stepped into the light, holding a thick piece of wood. Heavy dents and blood stains dominated its center. He held it chest high and braced himself by planting his feet and leaning towards Moya.

  Moya breathed in calmly, letting the tensions caused by the nightmare move from her mind and into her body, bounding, exploding in the tightness of her muscles, and then she released it. Her first punch caused Keaton to stumble back. The second knocked him over.

  “Again.” Moya bounced back and forth, her body alive and tingling. She traced the scalp of the man that took Josh’s life.

  Keaton readied himself for another blow.

  Moya lashed out left then right, pummeling the wood. Each blow cracked louder than the one before it—a steady, almost deafening beat. She continued to drive Keaton back and drive the demons from her mind. It would mean something. Josh’s death would mean something. It had to mean something for her.

  “You about done?” Keaton huffed. “My arms are about to break.”

  Moya flipped backwards. Her feet grazed the top of the tent. She landed perfectly. “Yes, Keaton, I’m done. The ghost has retreated.”

  “Good.”

  “For now. Just a child, a baby. The world is such a terrible place.”

  “We aim to change that.”

  “Certainly.” Moya pulled her long hair back over her shoulders. Her green eyes flashed at Keaton.

  “But.” Keaton rubbed his arms.

  “There’s always one.”

  “Reservations. This isn’t like you.”

  “Hardly, Keaton. There are none. Regrets perhaps, but not reservations. As much as I would love to break off and see this empty city first hand, to finally meet the boy’s father, I cannot.”

  “I can send men. I can go.”

  “No, to divert now would be foolish. To break from the course—” Moya bit her fingernail— “no, no that won’t do. It was but a dream and nothing more. I would’ve really loved to have met Josh’s mother, such strength in the face of death, but we know her fate. It’s strange really.”

  Keaton grabbed a wad of tobacco from the pouch on his hip and crammed it in his mouth.

  “He was never my child. Not in the traditional sense. Just voices from the past on the airwaves. Do you remember?”

  “Like it was yesterday. We had our little party and nothing as far as contact for years. I remember those days. Raiding small villages of nothing but the dead, finding jack and shit. We were a few but we were efficient.”

  “Those voices, the promise. It was glorious and so was he.” Moya’s eyes were cold and hard. “There is no reason to explain why I feel the way I do—the attachment, the depths of preservation, of failure. Not even my own blood. A testament to the potential. And so, even without our cure, we will do what we set out to do. On our terms.”

  “Yes, ma’am. His loss will matter.”

  “Not a loss, Keaton. A catalyst. Something that got us thinking on longer terms, something that got us moving, and something that we must never forget. One day we will have our world. A world where that doesn’t happen. A world where death doesn’t happen unless it’s asked for.”

  Moya pulled the tent flap aside and entered the cool, misty morning. Pine and loam filled her nostrils. All around, beasts and men moved. Far in the distance, like the fog horns of old, she heard the sad lament of the Creepers. Her dead weapons. The army had occupied the hillside for the last few days, preparing for the final push west.

  “What if he doesn’t make it through? We’ll be doubling back for very little gain.” Keaton spat. He leaned on a mossy stump, rubbing his hands for warmth.

  “It will harden us for the push east. But he’s never late. A few days more. Don’t expect him to just welcome us with open arms. He may very well sign his own death warrant, but we’ll have a train.”

  “With that, we’ll have a country. You ever thought about what we’ll call it, ma’am?”

  Moya laughed at that. She’d never given it even a second thought. But names were important—lasting things that attached themselves and never let go. “My dear Keaton, I have not, but it will come in due time.”

  A horn blared in the distance, followed quickly by another, and another. The camp exploded in an uproar of commotion.

  Moya whistled sharp and loud. A second later, her horse crashed through the wet boughs to her left. With one foot in the stirrup, she hooked her leg over the saddle and sat upright. She gazed into the distance, but she could see nothing of note. The horns continued to blare.

  Keaton appeared, riding his mount. She hadn’t even noticed the man vacate the area. He leaned over his saddle, eyes practically welded to a pair of binoculars.

  “You’re not going to believe this, Miss Moya.” Keaton spat without looking away. His horse stamped at the offense. “Heck, I don’t believe it.” He handed the binoculars to Moya.

  Moya set the focus and watched as the men along the edges of the camp formed a disciplined line. A terrible smile crept onto her face. Just beyond the first line, she caught sight of Keaton’s amusement. A group of wild people charged her flank. Rifles boomed and pale faces fell, screaming against the deep green backdrop. Her men barely flinched. Another series of horns split the foggy morning, and then another set, and more followed.

  “Keaton,” Moya warned, the tone of her voice implying everything.

  “I’m on it, ma’am.” Keaton kicked his horse and darted away.

  Moya clenched her fists around the reins. This did not carry the hallmarks of the usual skirmish. Something had her heart racing vigorously. She moved her horse in a slow circle to take it all in. A man screamed to her left. She turned in time to see him stumble from the tree line with an arrow through his throat. He called to her, hands raking air, blood bubbling up and out of his mouth. He fell to his knee
s, reached out to her as another arrow erupted from his chest. He fell over dead.

  Moya did not flinch. She whispered reassurances to her horse. Three savages stepped from their cover to retrieve their arrows. One of them smiled at her with rotten pointy teeth like black snail shells. He said something in the languages of the lost, which only served to annoy her further.

  Moya charged them. The man with the pointy teeth tried to move out of her way. Her speed was deceptive, and her fist even more so. Mid-dodge, her knuckles came down like a hatchet, catching the man on his temple. Moya felt the side of his head crumple, felt the orbital socket break apart, and felt the slight bump as her horse finished the job. The other two came around her, trying to set arrows.

  She sent her mount to the right as she flipped off the saddle and came around opposite it. She hit the ground at a run. The savage fired, but she was quick to dodge the poorly aimed arrow. She didn’t fake. She drove her fist in a long sweeping uppercut that cracked jaw and teeth. Then she followed with a quick straight arm that collapsed the savage’s throat. He fell to the ground, suffocating on his own screams.

  Moya did not give the other man a chance to react. She dropped low, legs pumping, arms out like a darting eagle. She drew her arms up, catching the man on the temples, fracturing both eye sockets. The slivers of bone she sent into his eyes made him scream. She clapped her hands and her horse was at her side.

  Keaton rode up behind the wailing savage. He put a round in that dirty skull. “Ma’am,” he said with a nod of his head.

  “Speak to me.”

  “Skirmishes on all sides. Small groups, but coordinated. Bunch of damn rock throwers. Nothing more.”

  “It only takes one rock, one arrow, one bite, Keaton. Remember that.”

  “Who says I ever forgot it?” He smiled.

  Together, they rode out to meet their enemy and the dawn.

  * * * * *

  “Don’t try to talk. It will only serve to make the pain worse,” the fat man said. Post’s portly nurse applied a freshly filled water skin to his broken jaw. His face was badly bruised. The fat man had spent the better part of several hours, after the initial damage, removing splintered teeth. That was over a week ago. The wound looked worse now.

  Post instinctively went to rub his jaw, but the fat man swatted his hands away. He tried to stand but swayed unsteadily. He was in the same room he’d been in since being lifted from the pit. Vaguely he remembered being taken here, through brief patches of consciousness, but everything since was blurry.

  The room was small and crafted of roughly hewn wood. The walls were lined with jars of various liquids. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling and long white roots poked through the uneven beams above. He remembered the bottles clinking together like a sad wind chime, he remembered rocking, but everything was shrouded in sheets of dirty gray. He felt fuzzy.

  “Sgt. Post, please sit down. You’ve been heavily sedated for many days, and for your own good. If you want to live, sit down!” The fat man balanced a glass jar on his massive belly, stirring the brownish liquid with his fat fingers.

  Post’s eyes lit up when he glimpsed the Beretta on the small table. He flexed his fingers, trying anything to gather himself. His mouth felt like he’d eaten a ball of cotton and glass that pulsed with each breath he took. The pain sent waves of nausea through him, but even if he had to, he didn’t think he could vomit. The pain would be too much. It would rip his mouth apart.

  Post snatched the Beretta off the table and pointed it at the fat man.

  “Sgt. Post, if you haven’t noticed, you are no longer in a cage. You are free to go as you please, but know if you kill me no one here will lift a finger to ensure you are properly hydrated or fed. They won’t actively seek to kill you, but they won’t help either. Only the strong, and right now, in order to remain strong, you will sit down and eat.” The fat man plopped a thin straw into the brown liquid.

  Post held the weapon, fighting off the blurs creeping in at the edge of his vision. He studied the man’s ruddy face, the busted capillaries, the serious and concerned look, the lack of fear, and flipped the weapon around, offering it back to its rightful owner.

  “Keep it. There are plenty more where that came from. Take this. Drink slow. You’ve had nothing but sugar water for a few days. The last thing we need is you vomiting. I don’t think even a bastard as tough as you would be able to handle it.”

  Post put the gun in his waistband and took the cool jar. He looked at the drink. He could not see the other side of the room through it. It looked like coffee but smelled like honey.

  “Please, if I was going to kill you, I’d of shot you while you slept. Who has time for poison? Who really cares about your death, Sgt. Post? She already ended any threat you ever even dreamed of posing against her. Drink and enjoy. But not too much, and slow.”

  The act of drawing liquid through the straw sent terrible pain all through his mouth, but the sweetness of the drink was worth it. Well worth it. He sipped greedily.

  “It’s going to be awhile before you can talk again, but you’ll be back on your feet if you listen to me.”

  Post nodded at the fat man. He raised his head, rolled his eyes a bit, trying to communicate.

  “What is it?”

  Post pointed at the man and rolled his fingers.

  “How rude of me. Sgt. Post. I am Pathos Two, a traveling historian of the dead.” The fat man nodded.

  Post looked at the man, arching his eyebrows. He had no idea what the fat man was talking about. To Post, the man looked soft, and he couldn’t quite figure out how he managed to stay so heavy.

  “I had a name once, as did my brothers. Not my actual brothers mind you, but brothers nonetheless. However, we gave them up, just as we gave up our old lives for the preservation of humanity's losses. Think of us as chroniclers of history. But even such observers as ourselves are not without cause. So here I am, a doctor of sorts once, though not recognized by any official medical body, but that doesn’t really matter anymore. Sgt. Post, be thankful I know my shit, and that I am here. Nothing more.” The fat man nodded his head towards the drink. “That might be my finest work yet. Two parts honey, one part water, a little molasses, various herbs and spices, a measure of fatty broth, none of it human I assure you, laced with a little resin from my early bloomers. You should be feeling a bit better soon enough.” Pathos Two laughed, which made his belly jiggle. A band of pale flesh between his waist and bunched up shirt showed, like some beaming smile. A mouth bigger than the one on his face.

  Post welcomed the brew. He already felt better, but knew the deceptiveness of his own body very well. In an hour, he’d be scraping the bottom of the barrel just to stay conscious. He still couldn’t believe the force of her punch. The impact was like a violent car crash. Her fist was the wall and his face was the weak imported aluminum and plastic of the later models, before it all went to shit. He was so sure he had her. In his mind it should have been easy, but he had underestimated his opponent, as he had done on the field many weeks in the past. He had failed them all and now this was his punishment.

  He was one of the enemy.

  “You’re lucky you’re not dead, you know,” Pathos Two said, licking his stubby fingers. “I’ve seen her defeat many men twice her size. The power of her hands is nothing short of extraordinary. If that blow caught you on the temple, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  The thought never left Post’s mind. She’d spared him for a reason. He hadn’t quite worked out the why yet. Perhaps he amused her on some level, or maybe it was far more sinister a motive. Maybe she kept him alive to break him further, but somehow he doubted that. Such behavior didn’t fit the compact package that made up Miss Moya. He shook his head, wondering, trying to communicate the thought with his eyes as best he could.

  “She continues to surprise me, to thwart my plotting brain, and every time I think I’ve got her pegged she goes and does something like that,” he said, waving his plump digits at Sg
t. Post. “Doesn’t make any sense, but that’s why I’m the observer, not the leader.”

  Post swirled the drink, chasing the last of the liquid with the straw. He slurped it all down.

  “You should really get some rest. You can stay here for the duration, if you don’t mind the bottles and smells. It’s not the best quarters, but it beats having to tough it out with the rest of the unprepared. And I know it beats residing in the cages with those that refused her hand. You’re not one of them, are you, Sgt. Post? One of those that have to prove themselves by self inflicted stupidity?”

  Post shrugged.

  “Don’t let that brain go to waste, Sgt. Post. You’re better than that. She knows it and I know it.”

  Horns echoed outside.

  “Might want to keep that gun handy. That isn’t normal. Let me go see what’s going on.” The fat man moved faster than he should’ve been able to.