Season of Rot

by Eric S. Brown

  “Damn, boy!” a soldier named Clint said to Ben. “No sense in getting all torn up about it. He’s dead and gone.”

  Grant turned to face Clint, clenching his fists and resisting the urge to strike him in the jaw. Instead, he pulled out his notebook and pencil and began to sketch the horrific scene.

  Dalton, one of the platoon’s two trackers, knelt beside the body to inspect it. “Been dead about two days. From the looks of things, I’d say there were five of the dead. Took him apart fairly easily too, as if they caught him off-guard. Poor soul didn’t even have time to go for his shotgun in the wagon.”

  “What do we do?” someone asked.

  “Bury him,” Wayne ordered.

  Grant approached Hank. “Why do you think he didn’t get up? As one of them?”

  “Look at his head.”

  Indeed, a patch of the man’s skull was caved in. Apparently as the things had pulled him to the ground, he had smashed his head on the large rocks bordering the road.

  Hank and Grant watched the men hastily dig a shallow grave in the soft dirt of the woods. No one wanted to touch the body. They had all been taught how the plague spread and they knew it couldn’t be contracted by merely touching one of the infected, but not all fears are rational, Grant imagined. Finally, he offered to move the body himself. Hank helped him hoist the corpse and toss it into the sad excuse for a grave. No sooner than they were done Wayne began shouting orders.

  “Okay, people, let’s keep moving. Be ready. We know they’re around these parts for sure now.”

  The platoon reassembled into a loose marching formation and continued on.

  Just before dusk, they made camp in a clearing near the road. The troops were on edge whether they showed it or not. Wayne ordered them to kindle numerous fires, preferring the safety of the light over concealment. If the fires brought the dead to them, it would be a good thing, even if it would be hard to see the enemy beyond the glow.

  Grant took a seat at one of the larger fires beside Ben. The private couldn’t be more than nineteen years old.

  “This your first time in the field?” Grant asked.

  Ben nodded. “I signed up after the slave war. I want to do something for my country, to make a difference in this world somehow. I didn’t think it would be killing dead men.”

  “It’s better than killing the living,” Grant assured him.

  Ben looked at him, his mouth dangling open in shock. “You fought in the Civil War?”

  “I did. I just wasn’t a soldier. The problem with battles is that they pull everyone into them, whether you’re a non-combatant or not, doesn’t matter. No one takes the time to ask or care.”

  Grant gestured at Ben’s weapon. “That’s one of the new Golden Boys isn’t it?”

  Ben handed him the rifle. “Winchester 1866. Tube magazine, fifteen shots before reloading, sharper accuracy, and much less likely to misfire than a musket.”

  Grant whistled as he examined the rifle. “If we had these a few years ago, the war would’ve been over a whole lot sooner.”

  Ben smiled and reached to take the rifle as Grant gave it back. “You’re not carrying a weapon?”

  “No. If things get bad enough for me to need one, I expect there will be plenty lying around for me to use.”

  A rifle cracked on the other side of the camp. Both Ben and Grant hopped to their feet. The lingering rays of the dying sun, combined with the firelight, lit the clearing well enough to show what was happening at the edge of the camp. A pack of dead men and women, numbering in the dozens, had emerged from the woods and were darting towards the camp perimeter, howling like starved animals in a rage. The sentries and several other men were already letting them have it. Rifles blazed, their chambers spitting casings onto the grass. The dead weren’t even slowing; in fact, they seemed to be gaining speed, as if spurred on by resistance.

  “Aim for their heads!” Wayne was roaring from behind the hastily assembled firing line. Hank shoved the shouting officer aside and aimed his Winchester at the dead. His shot blew open the skull of a middle-aged man at the head of the pack, spraying blood and bone into the air. The man fell, trampled under the feet of the dead behind him.

  Hank’s action snapped the other soldiers out of their panic by showing them the dead could die. It happened too late though. Only around ten of the things took hits to the head before the pack collided with the firing line. Men screamed as cold, rotting hands dug into their flesh. A couple of them were knocked to the ground and fed upon while the rest tried to retreat.

  Wayne drew his sidearm and dispatched an elderly woman chewing on the cheek of a private. “Fall back!” he urged as a man missing an eye leapt at him.

  Hank stepped between Wayne and his attacker at the last second, batting the thing aside with the butt of his rifle. As he fell on top of the creature, he tore a knife from a sheath in the top of his boot and, with all his weight, drove the blade to its hilt into the thing’s skull.

  Grant turned to check on Ben, but the boy was gone. He’d raced forward to join the melee. Grant cursed. So much for his plan of just picking a weapon off the dead. He felt exposed and vulnerable. He knew he was too, and he had to do something—anything. He couldn’t just stand here in the open. To hell with it, he thought, and he charged into battle.

  Not far from him, a dead woman had pinned a soldier to the ground and was trying to get a clean bite at his throat. Grant tore her off the man and shoved her away. She was on her feet faster than he could believe.

  Only the private’s quick recovery saved Grant’s life. By luck more than skill, the soldier managed to put a bullet into her left eye as she threw herself at Grant, and just like that the camp was quiet once more.

  Grant took a deep breath, recollecting himself as he appraised the situation. Nine soldiers in the platoon had died in the attack. Another fifteen or more received bites or wounds and were just as dead. It was only a matter of time. Grant saw Wayne and Hank, already off by themselves, having a heated discussion. Grant headed straight for them.

  Both of the officers fell silent and glared at him.

  “Gentlemen, surely you were given orders on what to do with the wounded, considering the nature of the plague,” Grant said. “This should not be a topic open to debate.”

  “You know he’s right, sir,” Hank said, seeming a tad less angry after hearing what the journalist had to say.

  Wayne scowled. “What would you have me do? Do you think any sane, armed man is going to stand there and let me shoot him?”

  “It has to be done. The sooner the better,” Hank said. “If one of them turns, who knows how many more of us he’ll take with him.”

  The rest of the platoon had already clearly divided itself: those who weren’t injured wanted to be far away from those who were.

  “Good Lord,” Grant said, exasperated. “Did they not give you a plan on how to deal with this?”

  Neither Wayne nor Hank answered him.

  Grant ripped the revolver from Wayne’s hand and started over to the wounded. “You men are all dead. You know it. The question is, are you going to die with honor in the service of your country, or fight what must be done at the cost of those who will carry on with this mission?”

  Grant’s answer came in the form of a rifle crack and a bullet whizzing by him; instinctively he dove for the ground.

  A new battle erupted in the camp between the living and the dying. Men fell on both sides. Dalton, the tracker, was one of the bitten. He turned on the other wounded near him and rammed a knife into the spine of the closest soldier. As the man collapsed, Dalton took his handgun from his hip and, his hand and trigger finger moving like lightning, emptied the weapon into his companions.

  It was over quickly. As the smoke cleared, Grant stood over Dalton’s body with Wayne’s gun and personally made sure the corpse did not rise. It was the least he could do for a man so honorable, even in the face of death. Grant tossed the gun at Wayne. “It’s done now, sir,” he said coldly.<
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  He walked away without another word, leaving Wayne and the others to deal with the bodies.

  Three

  At the break of dawn, the remaining eighteen men headed west once more. No one spoke. There was nothing to be said that anyone wanted to hear out loud. They ate their midday meal without stopping, and only as the sun was beginning to set did the tired, beaten men pause to rest.

  This time only one small fire was lit, and everyone did their best to stay near its light. The night watch was set up so that ten men were awake and combat-ready at all times. Grant volunteered for the first shift. He carried a rifle as well as a sidearm now, unwilling to put his life in the hands of someone else. If another full pack of the dead attacked them, there would be no survivors this time. They would be overwhelmed and there wouldn’t be a damn thing any of them could do about it.

  Grant found himself sitting with Clint, Ben, and another soldier he didn’t know by name, listening to them talk.

  “We made good time today, didn’t we, Sam?” Clint asked.

  Sam nodded. “I figure we should reach Canton before nightfall tomorrow.”

  “Sam, is it?” Grant asked, extending his hand over the fire to the leather-skinned man. “You look like you’ve been through this before.”

  “Reckon I have. I was stationed in the West when the plague broke out.” Sam reached for the coffee brewing on the fire and filled his tin cup. “I’m one of the few who made it across the river before things got too bad and the quarantine line was put in place.”

  “You’ve fought these things before then?” Grant pressed, his reporter’s instinct getting the better of him.

  Sam stared at him with the eyes of a veteran. “We’ll be better off when we reach Canton. Fightin’ the dead in the open is suicide. The bastards are too hard to kill. Guess no one told that to the folks at home when they was puttin’ this mess of an operation together.”

  “I didn’t sign up for this,” Ben said aloud. “I really didn’t. It ain’t right.”

  “Ain’t nothing right about the dead gettin’ up and tryin’ to eat ya. Pull it together, boy,” Sam warned. “The shit ain’t even started for us yet. Last night was nothing. Wait till you see a herd of those things, over a hundred or more strong, come tearin’ at ya. Then you’ll have a memory that’ll really haunt ya.”

  “We’re gonna kill those bastards and send ‘em back to Hell where they belong. All of them,” Clint promised, gritting his teeth as he cleaned his rifle.

  “This town, Canton,” Grant cut in. “Do you know anything about it, Sam?”

  “Not much. Think a couple hundred folk called it home. It’s one of those towns that just sprang up in the rush west. The odds of us getting in and out of there alive ain’t too great, but like I said: at least there we’ll have somewhere to fortify and make a stand.” Sam sipped at his coffee. “You boys should be getting some rest. Our watch is over and I bet we’ll all be pressin’ it hard again tomorrow.”

  The night passed with no sign of the dead, and just as Sam had predicted, the next day was filled with a rigorous march. As the squad drew nearer to Canton, their expectations of another attack rose, but none came.

  Wayne himself was on point as the group entered the town. The place stank of rotting flesh and death. There was no question that the dead were lying in wait, and quite likely a large number of them.

  Wayne surveyed the closest buildings and picked the one that looked the most secure. “Clint, Ben: go check out the jail. I want it secured as fast as possible. Everybody else, hold your positions and be ready to move in on their signal.”

  Clint and Ben darted for the building and disappeared behind its door, which swung in the breeze.

  Hank tapped Grant on the shoulder as they waited. “See that?” he asked, directing the journalist’s attention to the eastern side of town.

  “I’ll be damned,” Grant muttered. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

  “Wish I could,” Hank said, frowning. “It’s an orphanage all right. A big one from the looks of the thing.”

  “You don’t think…” Grant couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

  “I sure do. The plague doesn’t give a crap how old you are.”

  A gunshot echoed inside the jail. Five more rang out in its wake. Wayne was on the verge of ordering more men into the building, but Ben popped into the doorway and gave the all-clear sign. Almost en masse the squad sprinted for the cover of the building. Grant and Hank entered last, pushing the door closed behind them.

  Hank spotted a heavy looking desk. “Gimme a hand!” he ordered. Grant and two other men helped shove the desk in front of the door, wedging it as tightly shut as they could. “That should at least give us some warning,” Hank said, satisfied.

  Ben fought through the gathered men toward Wayne. “The place is clear, sir. We only found one of the dead in here, and it was locked up in one of the cells.”

  “What were all the shots then?” Wayne asked.

  “Ben panicked,” Clint replied, emerging from the rear of the building. “And we had a hell of time hitting the thing in its head, what with it slinging itself against the bars, trying to get at us.”

  “What’s the plan?” Hank asked Wayne as he walked up.

  The dead stirred in the streets outside. Their howls seemed to come from everywhere at once. The gunfire undoubtedly had alerted them.

  Wayne stood in front of his men. “We have to hold this place if we want to stay alive. I want that door and the rear entrance better secured. Use anything you can find. Get them barricaded off!” After a brief pause, he said, “In the meantime, I want men on the roof. We should have a clear view of the surrounding area from up there and should be able to pick off the dead without actually engaging them face to face.”

  Hank snapped into action, directing the men and making it happen. Only Grant stayed with Wayne, not taking part in the bustle of activity.

  “That’s a good plan,” Grant said.

  “No one asked your opinion.”

  “I’d just like to point out the dead are going to swarm around this jail like flies. We may not have a way out of here when the time comes.”

  “There’s always a way out,” Wayne said curtly.

  Hank was the first to make it to the roof. He rushed to the edge and peered down at the streets below. The dead were coming out of the woodwork. He counted over a hundred before he gave up in frustration. “Get your asses up here now!” he shouted at the other men he’d assigned to the roof. Then he dropped to one knee into a firing position and splattered the brains of a former clergyman racing towards the jail’s main door. The other men joined him and soon the roof was a cloud of gun smoke, but the howls of the dead only grew louder and more numerous as shell casings showered the rooftop like rain.

  Something thudded into the door of the jail so hard it shook the desk braced against it.

  “They’re here!” a soldier shouted in warning.

  The door began to shake as the things hammered on it from outside.

  “Get the ladder to the roof taken down!” Wayne yelled. “Those men up there need as much time as we can give them! Be prepared to retreat into the holding cells. We can back ourselves in where they can’t reach us, but we’ll still be able to blow their asses to Hell. And damn well make sure someone thinks to get the keys!” he added.

  Dead fists punched through the door with the sound of splintering wood, and the heavy desk was easily pushed aside under the weight of the mob. The men opened fire as the dead started to pour in, bottlenecked by the doorway; the soldiers didn’t even wait for Wayne’s command.

  Grant scurried up to the roof and then kicked the ladder to the floor. There was no way in Hell he was going to lock himself away, surrounded by those things straining to get at him. Hank and the others were far too busy blasting the dead in the streets to notice him. Grant choked on the acrid clouds of gun smoke, which hung in the air all over the roof. “Ammo!” he heard someone yell.<
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  “Ain’t no more, son!” Hank called back. He noticed Grant and snatched the journalist’s rifle from his hands. “Here!” Hank tossed it to the soldier. “Make it count!” To Grant, he said, “Get us some more ammo up here!”

  “I can’t!” Grant screamed over the gunfire. “They got in! It’s a bloodbath down there!”

  “Shit!” Hank paused to think for a second, then shouted for the men on the roof to hold their fire. The soldiers stared at him in confusion, and he peered past Grant into the jail below. The howls of the dead around the building were too loud for him to hear what was happening downstairs. All he could see through the hole was a surge of dead people pushing over one another towards the cells at the rear of the building. His face had become a mask of stone. “We’re dead,” he finally admitted.

  “How many are left in the streets?” Grant asked.

  “Too many. They’re packed half a dozen thick all around the walls of this place.”

  “But they’ve stopped coming?”

  “Just about. Guess most of ‘em are here by now.”

  Grant raced to edge to see for himself. “We just need to get off this roof and make a run for it.”

  “Through all of them?” Hank pointed at the sea of snarling faces looking up with hungry, hollow eyes.

  “You gentlemen didn’t happen to bring along a Ketchum did you?”

  Hank laughed. “No. Grenades aren’t safe to carry on a mission like this, but… I think we can make something that’ll work just as well as what you’re thinking. We’ll need a distraction though.”