The Creepers (Book 2): From the Past

by Dixon, Norman

  Strange faces argued over his physical body while monitors began to snap and pop back into existence in his mind. He flexed his fingers. He sent a response out to bridge the gap, to reach his brother, and he felt an answer, an invigorating answer that gave him strength.

  He pushed his enemies away. He rolled to his feet, swaying on the moving platform. The dead wailed below him.

  “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay,” the red-haired woman said.

  Their leader. He went for the Auto Stryker, but found only an empty sheath. She reached for him. He jumped back, heels on the edge platform.

  “Brother!” Bobby screamed.

  “He’s not okay. He’s lost too much blood.”

  “It’s okay. You are with us now. You are where you belong,” she said, reaching for him again.

  “No,” Bobby said defiantly. He stepped back over the open air. The woman’s hand flashed out, but missed. He fell into the waiting arms of the Creepers. The woman’s shocked face hung in disbelief for a second and then she was replaced by the rotting faces of those closest to him.

  Arms broke from the impact of his body, but the Creepers obeyed. They caught him and laid him gently on the ground. Then they hid him among them, towered over him, shielding him from the eyes of his enemies. The stench of the Creepers was thick around him. Maggots squished beneath his feet as he ducked under rotting legs, ropey innards, flaps of skin, and dingy clothes.

  He looked beyond the monitors to his brother, to the place in his mind where he almost died. A glowing figure waited there. He couldn’t make out any features, only suggestions of a figure, but that didn’t matter. The absolute truth of what he felt did.

  The glowing, burning figure stood before his mind’s eye.

  “Brother,” the figure said.

  CHAPTER 24

  Baylor stared at the mottled bruise across Post’s jaw. The proud soldier’s mouth had been offset, making his face look like a puzzle with missing pieces. His lips weren’t in the right place. The once broad face seemed now like a hastily thrown together structure, unsure of what it was supposed to be.

  “Baylor,” Post rasped.

  “Ain’t this a special moment,” Keaton chimed in. He spat into the firebox.

  Baylor watched Post draw a massive revolver from under the front of his shirt. Before his injured friend could even get it out, Keaton had its twin aimed at Post’s broken face. Then to Baylor’s horror, Post winked at the one-armed man and flipped the revolver around and handed it to him.

  Keaton laughed. “She won’t be much good to me anymore, soldier boy. There might be hope for you yet. Keep her and care for her. She’s seen me through all kinds of shit. Perhaps she can do the same for you.” Keaton nodded. “Besides, you automatic boys lost the art of the draw long ago. You pull on me you . . . well, it’s simple really.”

  “My brother?” Post managed.

  Baylor stood motionless. The beast chugged along, hissing and groaning like the mad old woman she was. “Dead.” Baylor hammered the gears home then turned to the firebox and left handed a shovelful of coal into its waiting maw.

  “How?” Post’s voice sounded like rocks smashing together, but his emotions seeped through the abrasiveness.

  “How the fuck you think?” Baylor shook his head. The beast belched steam, wailed in anger, as if it read the Mad Conductor’s mind. “They killed him. Killed my friends. Took the hope. Now you’re running with them.”

  Post stared at him on the verge of collapse, but there was something else behind those eyes. The wounded soldier gave Baylor the slightest of nods.

  Keaton whistled loudly. “What do we got here?”

  Baylor grabbed the emergency brake and threw all his weight at it. The pain in his broken arm stole the breath from his lungs. The beast stuttered, brakes squealing in protest. Baylor angled his feet just right, which kept him upright while his passengers went flying past.

  The dead were everywhere.

  “Son of a bitch,” Keaton said, rubbing his head.

  The other side of the green hill had been replaced by thousands of wandering Creepers. Baylor could see rotting heads floating in the river off to his right, pale hands groping as they twirled in the black water. The moans carried on just as loud as the sudden blares from the army’s horns. Several men on horseback rode alongside the beast and opened fire on the horde. Their efforts knocked a few down but drew the rest towards the beast.

  More and more of Moya’s troops began to line the hilltop. Most of them didn’t even have minor protection, let alone the cage of the beast. Baylor shook his head. After years of keeping himself alive, after years of keeping others alive, such wanton disregard bordered on blasphemy. They charged into the dead as if they weren’t a threat. No matter how many he’d killed over the decades, he never let his guard down around them. Even with Bobby, even with what the boy was able to do. Baylor knew better. He’d seen too many die, let too many die…

  Bobby, Baylor thought, gripping the controls until his knuckles were about to burst. The Mad Conductor cackled from every hidden corner of his mind at once. He’d lost Bobby. He was sure this time. They knew. They pretended like everything was normal, but they knew. He could see it in Keaton’s eyes. Whatever Post was trying to silently communicate with that stare wouldn’t be enough.

  “Buncha of fucking pussies,” Keaton said over his shoulder as he emptied the minds of three Creepers. He found another and took careful aim. The dead woman’s face exploded out the back of her head. “Go on. Start her back up, Mr. Conductor. Cut us a path through them. The boys clean up real good.”

  Baylor grabbed the gear then slammed it home and the beast responded with a great roar. The metal spikes caught a pair of Creepers mid-chest as their legs disappeared beneath the churning gears.

  “That’s more li—”

  A pair of Moya’s soldiers evaporated in a fireball. The edges of the explosion licked at the beast’s protective cage. Body parts and dirt rained down. Baylor cringed from the heat. He went to grab the brake again, but another explosion ripped the beast from the tracks. Baylor inhaled fire, and his clothes burned as he was lifted from his feet. The sounds of metal giving way mixed with men screaming in pain and the moans of the Creepers.

  * * * * *

  Howard reached out with his mind. He felt every pain his brother had ever endured. He felt the beatings, the loss. The imprints were far stronger than any he’d ever felt before, as if the very cells of the infection were relaying Bobby’s essence to him. It all happened in a flash. One gigantic wave of knowledge. His eyes brimmed with tears. This was far beyond anything his father had ever dared to imagine. The culmination of the immunity triggers had released something beyond measure. Howard projected his own image in Bobby’s direction.

  Bobby. The name echoed in his thoughts. Though he’d never spoken it aloud, he screamed it. And Bobby screamed back, Brother!

  Their minds met, extending their range, bridging the gap between them and their armies. Thousands of dead viewpoints swirled around them. Howard could feel each mutated cell in his body tingle with raw energy. A great warmth that soothed his ragged mind.

  Through the eyes of the dead, Howard watched the army crest the hill. He watched as they attacked. He triggered one of the detonators and then another.

  Suddenly images of a smiling black man flitted through his mind. Waves of love washed over him as he absorbed Bobby’s thoughts, and he understood what his brother wanted. In response, Howard began to direct the Creepers away from the train. He only hoped it was enough as the fireball lingered over the strange vehicle.

  * * * * *

  Bobby peppered his brother’s mind with images of the pen, images of the men atop it. Then he began to stack the Creepers, but as he did, monitors began to wink off in rapid succession.

  It wasn’t Howard’s doing. His brother was there, but elsewhere, for he could feel him moving through his own set of Creepers, projecting thoughts and orders.

  The red-hair
ed woman’s fist crashed through a rotting face. Bobby jumped to another pair of dead eyes. The dead lay at her feet. She stood there, unafraid of the Creepers, her fists dripping with blood. Bobby sent more her way as shots rang out from above.

  She worked through them in rapid succession, crushing brittle bones with her powerful hands. She moved faster than Bobby could react with his mind, and she was coming for him.

  Bobby crawled to the edge of the pen. The hanging man screamed above him, dangling dangerously close to the Creepers. Bobby climbed onto rotting shoulders and ordered another Creeper atop the first. The ladder in place, he began to leap. The pressure from his efforts proved too much for the sagging, maggot-riddled flesh, and his booted feet went right through an old man’s back and out his chest. Black lungs plopped to the damp earth to be trampled by the rotting feet of his fellow Creepers.

  Bobby braced himself on the bony shoulders and heaved, freeing his feet. He heard the woman shouting something behind him, but he did not look back. She was close. He could feel her eyes on his back. He tensed and leaped. His fingers caught the leather straps that held the man in place. He swung over the Creepers’ outstretched arms, hearing every one of their voices. They kept calling him. Voices from the past. A collection from a now dead history.

  The sunburned man stared at him in disbelief. Bobby stepped on his face as he took hold of the chain that kept the man from falling into the pit. He climbed hand over hand, ignoring the man’s screams.

  He ordered every Creeper in the pen into the right corner. Their sudden change of direction buckled the wagons. Wood beams cracked like gunshots as the Creepers’ impact made itself known. The right side of the pen rippled, collapsing in waves that sent splinters forth like arrows. Men tumbled from the top, screaming.

  Bobby let the Creepers feast while he climbed. He wrapped his arms around the crane and shimmied towards the left side of the pen. The right wall was partially collapsed and he kept the Creepers moving in that direction, using the crush of their bodies to try and knock it free. Bobby dropped onto the unsteady platform and released the lock on the crane. The sunburned man was swallowed by a swarm of Creepers without a sound, his silence a bitter thank you.

  A lone man with long black hair leaned over the railing and opened fire on the Creepers. He moved from one to the next, never missing a shot. His exactness proved to be his downfall as Bobby ran up behind him, grabbed the rifle stock, and kicked him over the railing. Bobby dropped the magazine from the weapon to check the ammo.

  Ten shots.

  He slapped the magazine in and sighted the tattooed woman. His first shot caught her in the chest and his second splattered her brains across the fat man’s face. Bobby aimed at the man, but the tattooed woman’s body did the job for him. Her body caught the fat man in the knees as the platform lurched, sending them both over the side.

  The rail splintered before him. He dropped flat. Another series of shots ripped the wooden railing inches from his head. It took him a second to find the shooter. The man was shooting wildly up from the side of the opposite platform. Bobby rolled and popped up, snapping off two rounds that caught the man low in his belly. The man tried to raise his rifle, but Bobby’s third shot punched a hole through his face.

  The pen snapped back like a rubber band as the right side gave way completely. Bobby teetered on the edge of the platform as it rolled violently from the shock. He reached for the railing but missed. He bounced off the wood and began to tumble. Bobby caught an exposed beam, using the rifle as a brace. He hung above a whinnying horse as it struggled against the restraints holding it in place. Bobby dropped down next to it. The pen groaned then trembled as another part of the wall collapsed.

  The Creepers rushed through the gap into the open field. Bobby kept them moving, but even as he did, more and more monitors flicked off. Somewhere behind them, the red-haired woman was on a rampage. He tried to focus, to find her so he could end it once and for all, but a series of explosions forced him to break the connection.

  * * * * *

  Moya drove her fist into the temple of a bald man in a torn pair of coveralls. His slick brains coated her arms like jelly. She pushed his limp corpse aside and continued her rampage. She ran behind them, picking them off when she could, but her focus was not rattled. Her blood was up now and she would not be denied, even as things started to go horribly wrong around her.

  Her army met the flood head on, but before they could corral the Creepers, another wave came from over the hill. Explosions tore through her ranks, sending men and beasts into oblivion in bright orange clouds of death. Her forces did not panic. They continued the fight, moving around the edge of the now-free Creepers. They worked through the ranks with clubs and guns, anything they could use to crush skulls. Wagon wheels churned the green grass into a slop of earth and blood.

  Moya skirted the battle, doubling back around the destroyed pen. She pressed a hand over her heart as she felt the infection in her blood. There was nothing to fear, not since…

  Josh was with her. Her little savior. He was always with her, a part of her, coursing through her veins. He’d fed her hunger long ago, as was her right as a mother. His little body gave up its secret, and while one part of him was lost forever, his gift was not. He lived on inside her now, protecting her from infection, protecting her from them. Though he could not do it for everyone, in death he was able to save her from it. She held no shame about what she’d done. It was natural. The cycle of things in this apocalypse.

  “Help me!” a voice called from ahead of her.

  Beneath part of the collapsed wall, Pathos Two’s bloodied face gasped for air. A tattooed arm lay across his chest. He tried to push the shattered beams away, but his weak arms only shook from the effort.

  Moya took his face in her hands.

  “W-why risk us f-for him?”

  “For the future,” Moya said as she drove her iron thumbs into his eyes and beyond. His body jerked then lay still.

  She climbed over the rubble just as a series of explosions rocked the area.

  * * * * *

  Baylor crawled on his knees through the haze. He spit dirt and blood and coughed a mixture of both. His purple coat hung in torn strips and his checkered pants were gone below the knee. Pieces of the beast’s finer parts were embedded in his legs. He pulled one of his treasured pins out of his shoulder. A musician, dead for many decades now, stared back at him through the blood. He shook his head and continued on, trying to find a way out of the cloudy aftermath of the explosion.

  “Move,” a voice grunted in his ear as hands grabbed him under the shoulders.

  “Post?” Baylor asked. He could only make out a vague silhouette through the murk.

  “Yes. Go. Keep your head down, keep moving!”

  “Some fucking early warning system. Didn’t think it through, did we?” Baylor grappled with the Mad Conductor. The lunatic in him wanted to roll over and laugh, but the stubborn fuck at his core wouldn’t let him.

  “Baylor, keep moving!” Post said as he nudged Baylor on.

  He stumbled along, dragging his dead arm like some torn battlefield flag. Baylor slipped in something warm and wet. He nearly fell headlong into it, but Post had a tight grip on what was left of his coat. Cold scratched his lungs as they passed out of the explosion’s aftermath.

  He wanted to go back in.

  They stood in a wash of horse and human organs still steaming and twitching. All around them, the battle raged. Guns cracked while people screamed, Creepers moaned, and in between, explosions tore through all as if god were doling out smites to the unworthy.

  Post hefted Keaton’s hand cannon and cracked a shot at a woman left too long in the sun to rot. Half of her head evaporated. He cocked the hammer back and fired again, caving in the chest of a man brandishing a rifle. Post snatched it from his dying grip and handed it to Baylor.

  “Opportunity knocks,” Post said, sending another Creeper to permanent death.

  Baylor held the rifle
against his waist and managed to squeeze off a series of shots that took one of Moya’s men in the gut. Another explosion knocked him on his ass.

  Post held out a hand to help him up. Baylor reached for it then recoiled as Post’s chest exploded outward, showering him with hot blood. The weight of Post’s body knocked the wind from his lungs as it landed on top of him.

  “Fucking, soldier boy. Told you, I told you don’t draw on me. Same goes for my people. Told her this wouldn’t work. I’m out a fucking arm,” Keaton spat. He had his boot on the back of Post’s lifeless head. “Now what are we going to do with you, Mr. Conductor?"

  The rifle was pinned beneath Post’s body. He couldn’t lift his dead friend’s weight one-handed, and for the second time he found himself staring down the barrel of Keaton’s cannon. The Mad Conductor scolded him from the recesses of his mind.