The Creepers (Book 2): From the Past

by Dixon, Norman

  “You really think he was immune?”

  “I know so, but when I ask those questions I realize that I already know the answers. Your reaction was true, but those are not people we’ve tested. Those are savages that attacked us. Savages that have abandoned language, lower than the cultists, lower than the dead in a lot of ways. It’s broken things like them, and like the men who took Josh from us all, that give me my answers. They wouldn’t care. If I went to them and said tomorrow will different. Tomorrow will be better, safer, free from the bite. Do you know what they would say?”

  “They’d kill you before you stopped talking.” Baylor drummed his fingers on the grip of his revolver. The highly polished wood had smoothed from age and use. What would another death be to the inanimate tool? What would another death be to him? Not yet, he cautioned the Mad Conductor. Not yet.

  “They would, or rape me, or both, and that is not only the answer, but the reason that had to happen. It’s the reason we’re on the move. We’re here to put an end to living like this. An end to mother’s losing their children. We’re here to bring meaning. This isn’t some religious movement like the cultists, or the evangelicals when the infection first broke out. This is what people want. But tomorrow isn’t waiting for everybody. Those days are over.”

  “Violence as faith. It has a certain ring,” Baylor said, trying hard to ignore the noises coming from the pit. It wouldn’t be long now. His men turned, tried to eat him, and this woman was to blame. It would be so easy, so easy. The rest didn’t matter. She did. No. He pushed the urges back.

  “There is no faith involved. You are weak or you are strong. It goes beyond the physical realm, but it’s far from being esoteric.” Moya snatched a torch from a man passing by. Her hair shimmered in its light. “So, Baylor, are you curious enough to see what tomorrow brings?”

  The noises from the pit stopped. A terrible silence fell over the camp. He knew what was to come. A single moan followed by screaming then gnashing teeth, the clacking, wet crunching sounds. He shivered. No one deserved to go like that. Not even the fucking trash, he thought. “Dawn’s not far off. I’m game for now.”

  He followed her deeper into the camp. The newly dead moaned behind him. Eyes watched him from the darkness, guns at the ready. He hadn’t forgotten about them. His fingers inched closer to his revolver. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep the Mad Conductor at bay.

  * * * * *

  Bobby had the Auto Stryker out and ready. He thought Baylor was in real danger. But the situation was not as he’d imagined from his hiding spot. He slipped beneath the train, using the machinery for cover. He reached out for the dead, but they were of no use.

  He needed to move within the camp first. He needed to find out the inner workings of their enemy, and then he’d find a way to exploit the thousands of waiting soldiers. He watched two sentries shadow Baylor and a small woman as they moved near the pit. He doubled back and moved into a thick copse. He bent with the wind. He moved like the brush, stone still, then waving, unseen. He never crushed a leaf, never broke a branch, and never plopped in the mud. He crept on the outside of his feet just like Ol’ Randy taught him, placing all his weight on the outer edges and rolling them forward as he stepped.

  He worked in a circular pattern away from Baylor and the woman. He watched several more sentries fall into step behind them. Their focus was singular, but that didn’t mean there weren’t more scouts farther out. He had to stay frosty.

  Bobby watched a group of men and women curse and cheer around a roaring fire. He froze as one of the men broke off from the rest to piss. He was close enough to smell it. The foul steam rose inches from his face, and hot spatter landed on his cheeks. But he was elsewhere. Ol’ Randy told him if he had to shit himself to stay hidden, then so be it. When the man finished and stumbled back to the rest, Bobby was up and moving.

  He worked deeper into the camp, studying the flow of it as he did. There were drunken parties, kids playing, many people scurrying about in animal skins and hoods.

  He watched a lone man welcome sleep near a small fire. A pair of horses nuzzled one another a few feet away. Each fire was like a little state within the massive country of the army. Together they were everything, but alone they were nothing.

  Bobby moved on the man with the pair of horses. He watched him breath for what felt like hours. He watched the fire until it became nothing more than embers, and then he struck.

  Bobby crawled on his belly, smelling rich, damp earth. His clothes were wet and freezing, but he was elsewhere. The man stirred, rolling to his side. Bobby covered his mouth, pulling the Auto Stryker across his throat. The man’s eyes opened but his scream never made it. Hot blood soaked into the dirt. Bobby removed the man’s hood then found the darkness once more.

  * * * * *

  Baylor felt completely at ease as he entered the large tent, though he knew at any second these people could decide to kill him, and that would be it. He was okay though, working with a true clarity none of them could match. It gave him the advantage, but at the same time he let them believe they held all the power. He just hoped Bobby was taking advantage of the time. He didn’t know exactly what he’d do when it happened, but if all went well it would happen. Going to dirt with anything less than stopping this lunatic woman was unacceptable.

  A gruff looking man with a thick gray beard was already in the room. A plate of fresh greens and seared venison dominated the large table. He could see pieces of the old world all around: a plastic fold out table, rusty metal chairs, brittle plastic utensils. Baylor wanted to laugh. The woman gave off the air of a queen on the march, but she served picnic grade fare. Then he remembered the way she calmly broke the wailing woman’s neck.

  “So here he is.” The bearded man nodded. “Been years. Years I heard of the stories. Years I waited to meet you, sir!” He held out his hand. A pair of pistols hung from his hips.

  Baylor stared at him but did not offer his hand in return.

  “Mr. Baylor is unsure, Keaton. He has yet to make up his mind about us.”

  Keaton laughed. “That so?” He picked up a piece of venison and chewed it loudly. He studied Baylor while he ate, remaining absolutely stoic. “Who else you know that can offer the likes of this? Who else you know that can offer safety in such numbers?”

  Baylor saw zero validity in Keaton’s words. He’d heard the safety in number fare before. It never worked. The number portion of the equation worked for a time, but once complacency settled in, the numbers began to wonder about their needs. Needs needed to be fulfilled. It was one of those in theory things. It’s the reason he chose to keep the North Carolina group at a manageable size. He’d turned people away over the years. Numbers didn’t matter in the time after the fall, but character did, and these people had none. Bravado and vision, but no character. The Mad Conductor paced between his ears, waiting to explode.

  “How could a man refuse?”

  “I know I’d find it terribly hard,” Keaton said.

  Moya ruffled a stack of papers. She leaned back in a chair, feet propped on the table. She picked at a head of broccoli.

  “Mr. Keaton is my right hand, Baylor. He has been with me since the beginning. I figured he’d be the best one to explain everything to you.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary. We’re all adults here. Been around awhile. Used to the way things are. I’m just waiting to see what you do, and you’re waiting to see if I’m as crazy as the stories say. There’s a measure of exaggeration.”

  “There always is, but—” Moya paused as a series of shouts found their way through the camp beyond the tent.

  Baylor caught the slight flinch in Keaton’s demeanor.

  “Pay no mind,” Keaton said to Moya. “The boys are just heady from the fight with the savages.”

  “They coordinate?”

  “They did,” Keaton said with a nod. “Some even had on military gear, a few guns among them. They are getting savvy.”

  “Had my own
encounter last year.”

  “It’s things like that we can protect against, but not only that, Baylor, not only that. You see, we—” he waved a piece of venison around— “we aim to eliminate it entirely. That’s where you come in. We’re going from one end to the other of this fine country and we’re gonna clean her. Remove the trash. Brave new world.”

  Baylor saw years of tough decisions in Keaton’s eyes. He saw himself in those eyes. Circumstances had him on another side though, and some sense of goodness that he’d been born with kept him there. Was that always the way of things? he thought. For one to kill for good reason, and another to kill for the wrong one? Was it all a matter of perspective? If he stepped into Keaton’s body, would he find justification? He didn’t think so, but wasn’t that because it would be impossible to find out? He kept thinking as a way to buffet the Mad Conductor, or was he just trying to find a reason to let him out?

  “Many groups tried the same thing. Know a group of Jesus freaks that had it all laid out. Had everything in order. Had supplies, had education, had food, and a defensible position. They had it all, had the future in their hands. Know what happened to them?”

  “They put too much in their faith and not enough into reality,” Keaton said with a laugh. “Knew many like ’em over the years. God don’t win wars, Baylor. He just gives reasons to start ’em. He never seems to get past the cherry poppin’. We in for the long haul now.”

  Baylor nabbed a piece of venison and walked around the tent. He felt their eyes on him. “So you want my girl for something. You need the train, but you need my knowledge also. Otherwise I’d be at the bottom of one of those pits. I’ve been thinking since Utah. What do you need the train for?”

  “A lady never tells all her secrets,” Moya said coyly.

  “She does if she wants my girl.”

  The side of the tent burst open. A trio of fresh Creepers stumbled in. Keaton had his pistols out and ready. Baylor smiled. He could tell from their gaping neck wounds that Bobby was hard at work. Keaton’s pistols boomed. Two of the Creepers were left brainless while Moya cratered the skull of the third with her heel.

  She stood over the bodies. “These are our men. Jim Cranston, Methias, Liebre.” Her eyes found Baylor’s. “I want your girl because she’s an icon. She’s something that inspires hope. And you—” she stepped towards Baylor— “are a figure like John Henry, a hero, and we need you and your girl to win over the rest.” Moya held his gaze a moment then moved through the opening. “I did not spend all this time creating a new world to see it destroyed from within a decade down the road by the children of the fallen. Mr. Keaton, see that Baylor is fed and well rested. We have wolves among us.”

  “I could always say, no,” Baylor said. The Mad Conductor shouted with joy. Baylor could practically feel the froth from his mouth. Not yet. Not yet.

  “You could, but you won’t once you feel what it’s like to be alive and free.” Moya bowed. “Until the morning, Baylor.” She turned and disappeared into the dark, shouting orders.

  “Quite the woman.” Keaton returned to his venison.

  Baylor could see the knot of concern in those tired eyes. Take it to them, Bobby.

  “She sure is.” The Mad Conductor smiled.

  * * * * *

  Bobby used several Creepers as beacons, as warning posts. Men whose throats he slit less than an hour ago. He used their fresh ears and eyes to protect his flanks and rear. He used them now to bolt from the scene around the tent. Shouts drifted from behind him, but they had no chance of seeing him. However, if they were savvy, they’d surely pick up the haphazard tracks he was leaving behind. That’s just what he hoped would happen.

  He darted over a shallow rise, past a now vacant wagon. The former owner stood in its shadow, hungry and waiting. He became the perfect guard dog, tongue wagging through the nasty red slash across his throat. Bobby ran through the wet grass along his preplanned route. He set traps at several intervals and made sure to avoid them. Whoever followed wouldn’t be so lucky. They wanted to instill fear then it was fear he would bring to their camp.

  The ghosts of the turned pressured his mind, but all he could do for them now was honor their deaths. They’d died to save him and his family and he would do the same. He dropped low and slid beneath a water-logged branch, and with a careful twist, he missed the crude spike trap he’d left behind. His path circled him back towards the train. He sent a few of the Creepers farther out to preserve them for when the hunters came for him.

  He was the prey once more, but not for long. He could hear them giving pursuit now. The zigzagging pattern he was in the process of creating would have them stumbling over one another and right into his traps. As he cleared the last hill before the train, he watched the first of them die through the eyes of one of their own.

  The man had a torch in one hand and a gun in the other. He flinched at the Creeper’s moan, changed direction, and hit the wire. A hundred pounds of rotten pine tore the legs from his body. Ragged shreds of flesh and decimated bone glistened for a second, then all was dark as the torch hissed out. The man screamed.

  Bobby ordered the Creeper to moan. The man fired blindly. He screamed again. The hammer of his empty gun made dry clicking sounds. The Creeper fell upon him to feast, sending his screams higher, drawing the rest of the hunters in that direction.

  Bobby leaned against the cold steel of the beast. He watched the light of many torches moving across the dark hills. Two monitors flicked off, so he moved into the eyes of the next in line. He lay the Creeper down in the tall wet grass between two jutting rocks, the perfect funnel. Two soldiers hit it at a dead run.

  Bobby bade the Creeper to rise.

  Blood soaked hands groped for them, caught their legs, sent them falling down the hill where soft flesh found finely sharpened stakes. The soldiers screamed as Bobby let their fallen brother feast on them. Gunfire from their comrades silenced them before they could turn. Another monitor blinked out of existence. Bobby banged his fist against the steel in triumph. But there was still so much work to do and dawn was fast approaching.

  He donned the hood as he restocked his supplies from Baylor’s coffers. His undead guards were ever watchful of the area around the train while he worked.

  Pockets full, he began to fan them out, moving them away from the train and the camp. With the hood pulled low, it was easy to assimilate himself amid the chaos he’d wrought.

  * * * * *

  Baylor hid his amusement at their distress. All through the wee hours they searched, and only wound up losing more men. Moya returned sometime later with blood soaked hands. She held Baylor with suspicious eyes, but said nothing. Part of him was certain the powerful woman knew he was somehow responsible but welcomed the challenge anyway.

  “Have you slept,” she asked, crouching in the torn opening of the tent. She kept her gaze eastward where the rising fog had yet to roll away. A wall of golden haze met the waking army.

  “Not a wink,” Baylor said. “Your man left in a fit.”

  “He doesn’t like when the wolves slip through.”

  “It’s happened before?” Baylor hoped Bobby was far from the train. They’d be combing through it piece by piece now.

  “Of course,” Moya said with an air of annoyance. “You don’t run things the way we do and think you won’t have challengers. It’s taxing at times, but keeps me from growing—”

  “Complacent. The bane of survivors.”

  “Precisely.”

  “I thought a lot about what you said last night.”

  Moya rose, stretching her back. She walked to Baylor, cracked her knuckles, flipped her flowing red mane over one shoulder. “And what was the outcome?”

  “I’m in.” Baylor ran a hand over his damp scalp. “There’s just one clause.”

  “I wasn’t aware I offered a contract.”

  “Wish, point, footnote, the fine fucking print—whatever you want to call it. You want my girl, you stay clear of the people at the last ou
tpost. You let me do my thing and let them leave. They don’t have any part in what’s to come. Those people keep to themselves.”

  Moya burst into a fit of laughter. Her narrow lips curled, sending up decade’s worth of fine wrinkles at the corner of her mouth. “Have you not been paying attention, Baylor? Did you think all of this was for a few hill stragglers?”

  Baylor felt the Mad Conductor ripping at the walls of his mind. He thought for sure she was headed towards the outpost. It was the only thing left on this side of the country worth anything.

  “Secrets, Baylor. This is about secrets. Secrets from long ago. It’s time.” Moya turned and walked out of the tent.

  Baylor followed.

  Much of the camp was lined up along the muddy path from the tent. Men bearing all manner of arms: handguns, rifles, swords, clubs, bows, and even rocks clutched in their dirty fingers. Children hugged their mother’s legs for comfort. Gray smoke twisted from the dead campfires behind them. Off in the distance, the scent of Moya’s dead army carried on the wind.