Traveling Merchant (Book 2): Pestilence

by Seymour, William J.

  “It would be better if you stayed. I’ll take care of this, myself,” Merchant answers.

  “We don’t know how many of them are down there. There could be hundreds, even thousands of them.”

  He does not look at her. Somehow in all of this, his expression does not change, waver, or even seem concerned. A faraway look is chiseled into those hard features.

  “Doesn’t matter. He is down there,” is his answer.

  “Then I am going with you and you can’t stop me. This is my home or was my home. What do you expect me to do? Stay here and wait?”

  The anger rises in her again. Against him and his stubbornness, against the monsters down there and everything they took from her, and the hatred of the fear that will not go away.

  “Can you kill, Kelly? Are you willing to pull the trigger and watch someone you once knew die by your hand?”

  Merchant looks at her this time, his look unsoftened in the brightening light of the forest edge. Looking at him is almost as tough as it is to watch the death of everything around her.

  “Everyone I know is already gone. There is no way they are still alive down there with them.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Merchant says and turns toward Red sitting in the front seat of the truck. Blood trickling from the corner of her lips, scales of red angry skin flaking from the side of her face and scalp. “Remember what you and Brother George did for her. The one who leads those things down there, took all of that away and returned her to this with a single touch. There will be people down there who were not fed upon. They will be one of them. If they come for us, you will be—.”

  “I’ll do what I have to,” she cuts him off. “If they are one of those things, they are not the people I remember. I want them dead, Merchant. Whatever it takes. I am with you in this. Until the end, I am with you.”

  He nods and looks back toward the graveyard that awaits them. The monsters still mill about between the scorching light of the streets and the shortening shadows of the markers decorating everything that once was.

  “Do you know how to drive?” Merchant asks.

  Red groans and Kelly looks back at the truck. Large muddy tires, the treads slick with dark chunks and broken twigs. The machine scares her. She understands the concept.

  Turn the wheel.

  Keep it going straight.

  How hard can it be?

  “I can try. Tell me what to push and I’ll do it,” she answers.

  Merchant does not say another word. Picking his sack off the ground and hefting up on his shoulder, he turns and walks over to where the vehicle rests. Red moans again and her head rocks from one shoulder to the other.

  “Ever fire a weapon?” he asks as he drops the green sack on the back, resting it against the pole holding up the largest rifle she has ever seen.

  “Nicholi showed me the basics. Pull the trigger, aim the end at those you want to die. Seems easy enough.”

  He huffs as he picks up a box that jingles like a pile of rocks rattling inside of a crate. Opening the top, a string of bullets follow his hand and he threads it into the side of the rifle. Gently, he puts the box into his bag and lets the strap of copper bullets dangle stiffly between the two.

  “Simple enough,” he says and steps around to the driver’s side and gets behind the wheel. “Climb onto the back. Hold on for dear life and do not start shooting until I tell you to.”

  “You want me to ride on the back?”

  That feeling of ice draining everything from her spine and legs hits her like a wave of the river, cold and with a hand like a rock.

  “Can’t do any good sitting up here with Red. If you are going to do this, get up there. Once I tell you, kill anything that moves. Do not think, do not stop. Squeeze that trigger and hold on because your life depends on it. Even if they hit the ground, shoot them again. These things are no longer human, Kelly.”

  She eyes Red and the yellow pus leaking from open wounds festering on her neck. His eyes follow and he turns back to the road ahead.

  “Do as I say, Kelly. We only have one shot at this. There is no room for mistakes. We kill them or they kill us. Got that?”

  There are concrete weights tied to her shoes as she climbs onto the back. Her ankle throbs, the pulsing pain pounding with every beat of her heart. Grinding her teeth, she forces herself to stand up straight. The metal of the bed cut into the skin of her palms and the cold, dead handles of the weapon are unforgiving as the blood trickles down her wrists.

  “I can do this,” she says to him as much as she says it to herself.

  Taking a deep breath, she squeezes and lets the pain burn into her grip. If she is going to Hell for this, she might as well feel it now. Gritting her teeth until her jaw burns, she does not let the fear build anymore. There is no time for that.

  This is it. The end of all things. She is going to die here. She knows this. Barely old enough to call herself an adult and this is the end of the road. A calmness washes over her as Red moans again, slumping to the side and resting against Merchant’s large shoulders.

  Yes, this is the end. For her, for them, and for the world. She looks up at the canopy over her head and imagines the sky above. If there is a god up there, what would he think?

  With a deep breath, she does not care. There are no words of regret. They cannot come from a soul that does not feel. She is already dead and in the next few moments, she will take as many with her as she can.

  “You know this is insane, don’t you, demon?” Snake-Eyes asks, a chuckle in his voice. “A dead infected, a girl suddenly thinking she is Rambo, and one crazy son-of-a-bitch. Of all the ways I thought you would go, running into a fire fight with a child and Frankenstein’s bitch was not what I imagined. Though, I do admit it’s going to be a show for the ages.”

  Merchant fires up the engine and the deep-throated growl vibrates through his boots and rattles the closest trees.

  “You ready back there?” he asks.

  “Whenever you are,” Kelly answers, her voice cracking.

  Snake-Eyes chuckles.

  The asshole ghost is right. What the hell is he doing? A sudden idea of turning the truck around and heading straight for the interstate crosses his mind but his body will not follow those directions. Kelly stirs, her weight shifting from one foot to the other, and he knows there is no ending for this but down there.

  Red shifts and he can feel her cold skin against the heat of his arm. Blood now drips from her nose and he can feel the small shaking working its way through her body. A fire flares deep within him.

  No, this has to end here. If not for the stupid girl killing herself on the back of the truck, he has to go down there for her. That bastard waits for them. He can feel it. Hidden in the darkness somewhere, the monster waits.

  Merchant grips the wheel tighter. He can feel the material and plastic cracking beneath his grip. One way or the other, this all ends in that fucking little village.

  Easing off the brake, the truck engine picks up a deeper growl as they push forward. Light swallows them, the shadow of the forest giving way to the quickly approaching high-noon sun.

  “Remember,” he yells back over the sounds of the engine. The path beneath the tires is broken and just as loud. “Do not fire that weapon until I tell you to. We need to draw as many of them out as possible.”

  “You can feel her fear, can’t you?” Snake-Eyes asks. “She’ll squeeze off a round faster than the first boy who ever touched her. You remember those days, don’t you? So anxious, so scared. Watch, here they come.”

  Wild grass bends beneath the tires as the road opens and the ruins of their secluded town opens before them. The monsters have done one hell of a job. Charred skeletons of people and buildings alike are strewn across the road and empty remains.

  Merchant revs the engine and does not look back to make sure she is still holding on. There is no time to worry about one little girl. Any hesitation and they are all dead. He knows this. There is only one way for this fight t
o end, and if he does not make it quick, they do not have a chance.

  Crossing the threshold of the village limits, the open pits dug deep into the earth become visible. Burned remains of cars and trucks remain overturned where they fell to the traps set by the defenders. A decent attempt. Futile, but at least they went out fighting. Too bad the infected do not drive and do not care about holes dug into the ground. Their hunger is insatiable.

  “Show them what you are made of, demon,” Snake-Eyes yells over the rush of the wind and roar of the engine.

  The ghost stands on the back seat, his long hair blowing in the wind as he waves a cowboy hat in circles over his head.

  An infected screams in hunger as it throws itself into the middle of the road. Much to Merchant’s surprise, Kelly does not fire a shot. A high-pitched howl escapes the monster’s throat before the hungry maw of the truck’s grill swallows it whole. Bones crunch and the truck lurches as the body tumbles beneath the oversized tires.

  “Wait for my word,” Merchant orders.

  Kelly answers by doing nothing as more of the infected come running from the shadows and from behind broken walls and fallen remains. Merchant turns left and follows the road that runs parallel with the town square. Clawed feet and shambling walks chase as the dust kicks into the air.

  More broken bodies fall victim to the crushing weight of 400 horses and Merchant keeps them herding behind them. A growing mob of hunger and disease amasses behind them within the cloud building between the ruins. A collective growl begging for them to stop grows and the need for their death becomes palatable.

  “There are too many of them,” Kelly shouts.

  Merchant looks back through the mirror. The young woman is watching the dozens following them. Another turn and they circle back to where they started. Behind may be dozens, but ahead is what awaited them.

  Waves of monsters turn as they catch back up to those who have just emerged. Rows of broken bodies and madness turn their way. A wave of death and disease waiting for them to drive right into their waiting arms.

  “Fire!” Merchant orders.

  There is a silence in the hesitation. An emptiness as the distance between them and the wall promising their demise closes. Merchant takes a closer look as he punches the gas. If she isn’t going to fire, he’s going to mow as many of them down with their weight as he can. Drawing closer, he can see the faces of the nearest infected.

  Disease barely touches their decaying skin. Blue lines snake down from bloodshot eyes and cracked lips bleed across split chins and torn clothes, but these are the people she remembers. Her family and her friends.

  “A mistake, Merchant,” Snake-Eyes says. The ghost slipping in beside Red who bounces around the front seat like unsecured luggage.

  As if answering the ghost’s comment, the rifle over their head barks to life. The force of the concussion slowing the forward momentum as a wall of lead rips into the front lines. Bodies and blood go flying. Parts are ripped off like paper mache and the screams and howls of the dying are no match to the wailing of the woman at the trigger ripping her loved ones apart.

  Merchant punches the gas harder and mows down with the grill those who do not fall to the onslaught. Gore splatters across the windshield. The smell of death, putrid disease and scorched metal fills the air through the passing wind.

  A hard wrench of the wheel turns them toward the village square. Bones crunch beneath their tires and he presses his boots as hard as he can against the floor and the truck growls as it cuts a line through the dirt road. Casting a long shadow, the church, its front doors barred shut with nailed boards awaits their arrival.

  Dark stains of blood stretch down the painted walls, a scar against the only building they have passed that has not been touched by fire. Spinning the wheel, he slows and turns the truck until it backs against the entrance. Waves of infected follow along their trail. Falling like dominoes the monsters continue to come.

  The vibration of the gun rattles the truck and Merchant watches the swath of death before them. He can feel the hatred that Kelly feeds off of. He knows where it leads. More bodies fall, their lives ripped through with holes and gaping wounds. Nowhere good is where this will end.

  The gun chokes and the bullets stop. A silence cuts the violence like a knife and the dust hangs in the air like a curtain. Moans of hunger and hatred crack the world and time stops. Merchant looks up.

  Glowing red, the barrel of the rifle smokes. Kelly keeps squeezing the trigger, but nothing happens. It clicks empty.

  “Haha. It fucking jammed, and for a moment there I thought maybe you had them,” Snake-Eyes chuckles.

  “Kelly, move!” Merchant yells as he begins the climb from the front seat.

  “Kk… el… ly,” a voice croaks.

  The young woman turns. Up above a figure moves. Dark against the glaring sun, bloodied skin sizzles and wounds drip where the man hangs. Wrists nailed to the wall, arms outstretched, and ankles crossed with a spike driven straight through bone and skin, Brother George waits to die.

  “Father!” Kelly screams.

  Her words are answered with the fury of the dying. Broken from his own minor trance, Merchant jumps onto the back and shoves Kelly away from the rifle, her body hitting the church wall, her attention barely noticing.

  Pulling back the bolt, Merchant ejects the jammed round and squeezes down on the trigger. Round after round erupts and tears into the next wave of bodies and monsters. The rifle end glares an angry red, and the heat makes its way to where he grips.

  More death. More slaughter. They begin to pile, and he continues to fire, the chain of ammunition an endless string from his burden that pulls at his gut with every ejection. The carnage builds into a wall of gore and tissue. Bodies piled and torn to pieces beneath hot lead and the hunger of the monsters that will not stop until they no longer live.

  “Um, demon,” Snake-Eyes tries to cut in, his voice hardly a whisper over the thunderous murder of the mounted rifle.

  Merchant pays him no mind as the rounds continue to fire, the tearing into the depths of his soul growing into an abyss he can feel swallowing him from the inside. His knees shake, more weakness than concussion. Vision going blurry, he squeezes harder onto the trigger.

  “You might want to check your ammunition, demon,” Snake-Eyes taps on his arm, the ghostly touch ice against the fire raging beneath Merchant’s skin.

  There is no time to look.

  Click.

  Click.

  The rifle stops. Merchant yanks back on the ejector and the shell goes flying. The trigger squeezes beneath his finger.

  Click.

  Click.

  Merchant looks down. The chain of bullets hangs empty from the rifle, the box and its contents tipped from inside the burden feeding away at his soul.

  “Father!” Kelly screams again, her body curled up against the wall of the church behind the back of the truck.

  There is barely time to spare a glance at the dying priest. Infected howl in rage as they climb over the barricade of the dead. A mass of them racing for their first bites, drool filled with blood and pus leaking from their mouths.

  Racing around the front of the vehicle, Merchant meets the first with the heel of his palm against a throat that crunches like a bag of chips. The monster’s neck bends, then spins as Merchant wrenches its head backward and shoves the creature back into the next three fighting to get into the action.

  They tumble and one more agile and less decayed leaps them all, teeth bared and claws ready to rend flesh and muscle. Bones crunch as the front door of the truck dents against its skull. Toppling backward, Merchant crushes its throat and grinds the heel of his boot until nothing but red mud mixes beneath the rubber.

  More monsters howl into the boiling sun. Stepping backward, Merchant watches as the attack slows. They do not come wildly. Something holds them back. Either by command or actual thought, they begin to circle, ensnaring Merchant and the others against the church that has become their un
doing.

  “Not a bad show, demon,” Snake-Eyes says. “I would hardly call it impressive, but at least moderately entertaining. Any last words before they tear you to pieces?”

  The ghost sets up a lounge chair and crosses one leg over the other as he sips on a clear martini.

  “Go fuck yourself. I’ll find you even in the afterlife and kill you again. This time I’ll make it permanent,” Merchant responds.

  “Ha, you are going to have to take a number. There are so many here—,” Snake-Eyes trails off as he disintegrates into a blue dust that floats in the wind and is gone.

  A silence hangs around the world. The soft rustling of the leaves in the nearby trees, the cooling of warm blood, the sobbing of a young girl who death has finally surrounded, and the triumphant murmur of the monsters who wait for their promised meal.

  Merchant balls his fists. A caged animal ready for the attack. They will all come at once. He tastes iron on his tongue, the familiar reminder of the blood that he has spilled and that which still drives him forward.

  The first row of infected step forward, some shambling, others crouching and ready to pounce.

  “Come on you fuckers!” Merchant shouts in defiance.

  They do not charge. Taking a step back, they move away and a gap through the greatest concentration of them begins to open.

  “Kk.. ell.. y,” Brother George moans.

  Wales of anguish cuts through the silence and a dark figure emerges from the belly of the army ready to tear them apart.

  A walking pile of rags. Shifting, dragging, practically melting beneath the harsh light of the sun, yet Merchant knows there is nothing weak there. It is him. The one who controls them all.

  Red begins to choke. Coughing a wet sound, Merchant glances back, blood leaks freely from her open mouth, her eyes open but rolling into the back of her head. Turning back, the figure has cut the distance between them in half. Head shrouded in shadow and damp cloth.

  “Hello, brother,” the vile, raspy voice croaks.

  “I’ve come to finish this,” Merchant says, the anger within his gut growing and pulling at the darkness within him.