Traveling Merchant (Book 2): Pestilence
Page 31
Turning away, he watches as the shadows that fill this world retreat into the depths that spill them forward. The corpses are everywhere. He can already see the buzzards and other animals circling their way around. Through clouds of ash and smoke, they wait for their chance to come down here and feast on the ruined flesh.
The tug of the interstate pulls at his ribs. A hook that has sank its way between his bones. The call grows more insistent by the minute. He is getting closer. He can feel it.
Snake-Eyes keeps running at the mouth, something about wings and fire, but Merchant does not pay attention. If he spent even another moment listening to everything that asshole had to say, it would be the death of them all. Doing his best to keep the glowing orb behind him, he makes his way over to the truck and the burden that has waited for his return.
Heavy and full, the old army bag sits along the back, the single strap cloth cover pulled tight and the only working shoulder strap worn thin where it sits high upon his shoulder. The faded word ARMY darkens where the light hits it but fades as he hefts the load from the truck.
Axles moan and the shocks bounce as the bag comes free and rests itself onto Merchant’s back. He can already feel the new weight that pulls him down.
How many new ones will follow him west. One? A thousand? The voices already echo in his ear, somewhere in there is Snake-Eyes and his insanity that has become as reliable as the wind.
Taking a step away from the truck, the pull of the interstate and the west grips tight onto his chest. A thud behind him hits the ground like a boulder rolling down the mountain. Dust kicks into the air around his feet and blocking his vision from the engulfing flames, he sees the revolver sitting by the back tire.
Empty and useless. He knows the last bullet has been spent. The vision of Barnett’s skull exploding as the final shot ended his and Red’s deal.
The metal is cold against his finger as he picks it up from the ground. A fine layer of dust finds its way into the tiny grooves and crevices of the weapons molded edges. He rubs a thumb over the cylinder, the familiar sound of it spinning brings back memories. He can still see her handing it to him, the look of desperation in her bright eyes as she demanded he kill Barnett or her. The choice was his.
Of course, it never was. Letting his burden off his shoulder, he opens the strap and holds the revolver between two fingers. None of this is his choice. Every death. All the carnage. All he wants to do is get to where he needs to be. Find that which was taken from him and bring it back. Everything between him and that city is not his choice though he knows the results he will have to carry. Like a conscience he takes it upon himself to carry it where others cannot.
The empty weapon falls into the bag. It makes no sound, and the weight held within his hand grows just that much heavier.
Merchant sighs and closes the strap that conceals the sins he carries.
“Merchant! You aren’t leaving, are you?” a familiar voice calls out.
Looking up over the truck, Merchant isn’t sure what he sees. It has to be a trick of the light. A reflection created by the fading of the tiny sun as it burns itself out against the front of the church.
“We had a deal back there, and I always keep my promises,” Kelly says.
“Don’t worry, he’s an asshole like that, but he never forgets a deal,” Red cuts in.
The two stand there next to each other. Kelly, her skin bright and both hands free of scars and damage. Her clothes remain soaked in the gore they created, but he can see the thin fingers flexing and stretching by her side.
“It’s a miracle,” Snake-Eyes says as he materializes beside Merchant. “A real fucking miracle. Didn’t you see who that was? He was right in front of us the whole time.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Merchant growls before stepping around the back of the truck.
There she stands. Red and her stubborn self. Scales crack the skin between her freckled shoulders and the hard cut of her jawline. A deep gash of white scar cuts through her scalp, but around it sits the brightest red hair he has ever seen. A few hard-earned scabs pepper the skin of her arms and down where her pants are cut, he can see a few rashes screaming an angry pink and purple, but she still stands.
“How did he?” Merchant asks.
Red shrugs her shoulders.
“It was always him,” Kelly says.
She steps forward and takes his hand in hers, the tiny set of her fingers no more than a child’s grip within his.
“He was here for us. My hands, he gave them back to me, and Red, he brought her back. There wasn’t enough left to cure her again, but she’s alive, Merchant. In the flesh and blood, she is alive.”
“And fucking hungry. You still have any of those beef sticks?”
Merchant turns an eyebrow up at that. Red lifts her hands up, palms out, a small smile on her lips.
“Look, a woman is hungry here. Don’t go getting your panties all up in a wad. I’m back to the old me. All scaly skin and beautiful, but it’s just me. No monster in here, an empty stomach, but nothing else.”
Even Merchant can’t keep the smile off his face. He doesn’t say a word. Turning, he goes back around the truck and lifts his bag.
His work is done here. For a moment the burden doesn’t feel so heavy as it cuts into his shoulder and pinches the skin around his neck.
“So, where are we going, Merchant?” Kelly asks.
Merchant stops. He lets their steps catch up to him as he looks off into the horizon.
“West,” he answers and says no more.
They do not ask. Without a word they follow, and behind them is an army only he can carry.
THE END
About the Author
William J. Seymour is the author of Dark Fantasy which includes the titles Dark Choices, Trail of Darkness and Merchant. He lives with his family in southern Pennsylvania where he writes into the darkness of the night.
www.worldsbyroh.com
Also by William J. Seymour
Merchant: Traveling Merchant Book One
Dark Choices
Trail of Darkness