The Creepers (Book 2): From the Past (8 page)

“No fire,” Howard warned. “Not this far
out.”

“How did you do it?”

“I just did. It’s not magic. Just
something I was born with.” Howard rummaged in his pack for some dried fruit.
He’d brought enough for himself for a few days, but they’d need to hunt, and
that was never a sure thing. He knew of quite a few water sources that would
keep them going for awhile, but the food was always a gamble.

“I’ve never seen anything like that.
I’ve seen them use the Creepers, but not like that,” Jennifer said, staring at
the moon as the wind pulled clouds across its face.

“Who’s they?”

“Manuel’s boys. Slavers, I guess you
could say. Come up from Mexico.”

“So that’s what they were speaking. I’d
never heard another language before. Father mentioned them, but the people
we’ve dealt with over the years spoke English. Some bastardized versions of it,
but English.”

“They’re not all Mexicans. Just some of
them. There are Americans with them too. Word is they went south when it all
went down. They went out into the rural areas, worked deals with the men there.
They traffic in humans, taking women and killing most of the men. We don’t know
why. We’d only caught wind of them recently.” She moved closer to Howard.

He found the moon in the wetness of her
eyes.

“We’ve been beating back the dead for a
long time, Howard. Killing and moving and killing and moving. We reorganized
some of the old installations across the more rugged states, but it was never
enough. Most of the supplies were gone, but we managed to find several caches,
and we had cattle and land and people to tend to them. We were taking back our
world. Then we got word people were being taken along the trade route. Vanished.
It was bits and pieces, words spoke over fires before parting. We sent squads
to check it out, but they found nothing. The fuckers were gone, and all winter
long nothing. Almost a year passed, but Post didn’t forget. Come spring, we set
out ahead of the Mad Conductor on the trade route.

“That’s where they hit us. We’d never
encountered anything like it. We fought wild people before, even slightly
coordinated ones, but these bastards were an army. Men on horseback, supply
wagons, and the Creepers, thousands of them, some in big carts and others
clustered together in tight groups. They, they were using men, dangling men
from ropes like fucking carrots before the donkey. The Creepers staggered after
the prize endlessly. A marching army without need of water or sleep. The
perfect soldiers, unafraid of sacrifice, unafraid of anything. But we didn’t
know. We didn’t see them until it was too late.”

The images from Manuel’s last gasp
flittered through Howard’s mind. The cages, the Creepers. Paired with Jennifer’s
words, it started to make sense, and the implications were dire.

“They are north of us. Oregon I think.
Manuel offered up images in death. You can’t do anything against them, even
with me and my gift. What could we accomplish against all that?”

“I can’t leave my family to that. I
won’t. You don’t know what they do to the women, to life.”

“Father always said there were men who
sought only to oppress, to take, and he said to do nothing against them is the
most cowardly act. I’d like to think he didn’t raise a coward. But we need a
plan.”

“I have one.” She smiled.

The desert gave way to deep greens,
rolling hills, but the change of scenery did not change the depth of failure he
felt. He had failed them all. A chill gripped the air as Post tried to tighten
his beaten body to conserve warmth, but the wind crept in unabated through the
cold steel bars. The night was deep and black beyond the confines of his
prison. Here and there, lanterns hung from the other wagons, swaying back and
forth with each plodding movement. The long march west.

Creepers moaned. The man hanging from
the crane quit his screaming hours ago, but every now and then Post could hear
a whimper. The stench of them was overwhelming, even to a First War veteran of
his caliber. Every so often, the darkness was punctuated by the screams of
women. Post shuddered every time, then the anger took over, but he had failed
them. It was too late. He should be dead. He’d taken so many of them with him,
but they left him alive. He should be dead.

The wide wagon was some kind of
converted cattle car stripped of its base and bolted onto a very rudimentary
series of axles. A team of men and horses guided it through the night. There
were other men in the wagon with him, but most were broken beyond measure. Post
had no idea how long some of them had been in the moving prison. Every other
day or so, men would come by with buckets of foul smelling water and charred
meat. Post didn’t have to guess what the meal consisted of for he’d seen them
cooking the dead as they dragged him from the field of battle.

He’d failed them.

He stared into his hands, the hands that
had been a part of so much good, so much restoration, and now they trembled. He
pressed his head against the bars and a wad of warm spit splashed on his
forehead.

“Hey now, soldier boy, don’t look so
glum. We still got much in store for you. Ain’t that right, Miss Moya?”

“Very right. You fought bravely,
soldier, but your cause died with the old world. You’re in virgin territory
now, and all those petulant games, all those honors, all that service, means
nothing now. Your nation is a nation no longer. Your people do not exist as
one.”

Post gripped the bars in a fury.

“Soldier boy’s about to bite through
that steel. Look at that anger. He’ll do well next round. I got ten scalps on
him. Shit, twenty.”

“Enough, Keaton. See that column is
disciplined,” Miss Moya said calmly, but there was nothing calm in the
inflection. Her words carried the power of confidence.

Post heard the hooves first, then a low
light traced the outlines of a slender figure on the back of massive black
steed. Long reddish-brown hair draped her slender shoulders. She held a small
lantern and the reins in one hand, while she pulled the waist length locks back
over her shoulder with the other. She wore a crude leather vest that had seen
the light of many days. It was weathered and cracked, blemished beyond repair,
but as she came closer, Post realized it wasn’t animal leather at all. It was
human flesh. A ring of scalps bounced on her hip as her horse snorted twin jets
of steam, frothy lips casting spittle before it. The tiny woman did not look
out of place. She rode the animal with the same confidence she carried in her
words. Her eyes were deep and dark. Her lips thin and cold. 

“You’re not half bad looking when the
light hits you just right, soldier.” She directed the horse right up to the
bars, leaned in, lantern in hand, to inspect her spoils.

“You’ve lost sight of your humanity,”
Post said, turning away from the light. He could not stomach a human that would
eat another, no matter how dire the circumstance.

She laughed as she hooked the lantern
onto a long post attached to her saddle. It drifted from side to side with each
hollow clop. Miss Moya opened her hands wide. Long, weathered fingers, swollen
knuckles, tightly defined wrists—the hands of a fighter. She drew a long blade
from the saddle bags, tracing the blade with her fingertips, and said, “You
misunderstand me, soldier. I feel we’ve gotten off on terrible terms. I, like
you, am fighting for what I believe in. I believe if you allow yourself to be
vanquished, you deserve it. I have no pity for those that won’t stand. Which is
why I spared you.”

“My men were not cowards.”

“Which is why they’re dead and not part
of the horde. Only the weak will stumble for eternity.” She picked at her nails
with the blade’s tip.

“You believe in order, but why bother?”

“Not order, soldier. It is discipline
you see and nothing more.”

“Discipline is order.”

“I beg to differ. Discipline is power.
Power of one over another. Discipline is submission. I thought you of all
people would see that. Practice what you preach, soldier.”

“You’re wrong. And it’s Sgt. Post,
lady.”

“I’m no lady. Sergeant, huh? It’s been
awhile. You’d think by now you’d have given yourself a much higher rank.”

“Wasn’t necessary, wasn’t earned.”

“I’ve killed many men like you, Sgt.
Post. I’ve killed them all by my lonesome. No guns, no blades, just these
hands. These tiny hands. Do you know why?”

“I guess they had it coming.” Post
shrugged.

“Some did, but not all.” Miss Moya
slipped the knife back into the saddle and patted her horse. “Because I could.
Because they could not. Progress through progression. Only the strong survive,
and for a time it was them.” She directed a hand towards the horde of Creepers.
“But there time is coming to an end. Look at the majority of them, those you
find in the cities by the millions, nothing more than paper targets.”

“You underestimate your enemy.” Post had
seen the damage such paper targets could cause.

“Do I now, Sgt. Post.” She laughed
roughly, cocking her head to listen to the massive movement of her army. “I
have conquered the enemy, Sgt. Post. They work for me now, as do those that
I’ve given the same opportunity I’m going to give you.”

“What about the women? You just going to
throw them to your men?”

“How chivalrous, Sgt. Post. No, they
will get the same chance as you. The same that was given to me.”

“What’s that?”

“The chance nearly all of us get, should
we be lucky enough to encounter a life threatening challenge before time takes
us—fight or die,” she said, as if it were the simplest of answers. “I can see
what you’re thinking, Sgt. Post. Our former world did not the poker player
make. You think me a savage, a woman driven mad by the world.” She slid a
black-haired scalp forward. “So did he, and him.” She flashed another. “He did
not, nor him, but he tried to rape me. Each was a challenge, and I’ve proven
the victor every time. I was never thrown to any man, but had I been, that man
would be dead or he would gladly die at my word.”

Post admired the power in her words, the
sureness of them, but he wanted to reach through the bars and choke the life
from her. In his current state, he would fail. This woman, this leader, was not
so simple as the presentation. She was older, wiser, and not a measure of
smugness about her. She was serious and calm, measuring every decision with a
reptilian exactness.

“To what purpose? What is all this for?
Marching like some army from ancient history.”

“I could ask you the same, but I know
the answer. The same boring answer men like you always give. I, on the other
hand, am doing this to see what’s left, to see who’s left, and to see if they
are worthy of the opportunity our little apocalypse has bestowed upon us. This
is what we wanted after all, isn’t it? A chance to start over. A chance to
right the wrongs, to change the direction of our world. We prayed in hundreds
of languages, we chanted, and scribed, and fantasized about it, and now here it
is. Our grand end and rebirth. The moment we’ve all been waiting for. Are you
ready, Sgt. Post? Is the Mad Conductor ready?”

Post flinched at the mention of Baylor.
He’d fired the relays almost a month ago. If Baylor was anywhere close to his
normal schedule, he’d have gotten the message by now, but Post didn’t know how
the man would react. ‘Just a warning system. Something to keep us on our toes,
nothing more. A signal that shit is going to be tough. Something simple.’ He
remembered the words spoken so long ago over an aged bottle of wine. Post hoped
Baylor and his brother were long gone in the other direction, but knowing them
both, they were probably smiling as they headed this way, unaware of how deep
the shit was.

“He is legend, you know. Even far past
the border. We’ve heard tell of his exploits for some time, but we’ve been busy
in other areas. I hope to meet this Mad Conductor and see if he lives up to the
legend.”

“He’ll just disappoint you. He has a way
of doing that. What will be left to rebuild if you destroy it all?”

“Have you no imagination, Sgt. Post?
Wide open are the possibilities presented to us. We will meet resistance I’m
sure, as we already have.” She nodded at him. “There will always be those that
deny change, that refuse to fight for their own, and they are insignificant.
History does not remember them, so they used to say, or something to that
effect. Sgt. Post, I am giving the world a chance to forget everything prior, a
chance to forget history.”

“You’re going to find people have a hard
time letting go. If I get the chance, I’m going to enjoy killing you, Miss
Moya.”

“You’ll get the chance, but will you be
up to the task, Sgt. Post?”

Post laughed, but his own confidence
waned. Something about the way she rebuked him sent chills through him. He
flexed his gnarled hands.

“I would suggest you get some rest, Sgt.
Post. The dawn will bring a great many challenges for you. Good evening.” She
rode into the darkness. The lantern swayed, tracing her outline before she vanished
into the depths of the night.

“Fuck you, lady,” Post mumbled. The man
dangling from the crane suddenly renewed his screams, but no one seemed to care
except for the Creepers. They groped and groaned, but he remained just out of
their reach.

* * * * *

Post had not slept a wink. As the sun
began to dance along the hills to the east, he began to count. His tactical
mind logged troops, carriers, and weaponry, but the numbers weren’t adding up.
The force he now rode with was not nearly as large as the one that they fell to
in Utah. The number of horses were wrong, and not nearly as many soldiers. He
hated to even think of them as such.

He nudged the body of an emaciated man
out of his way. The man’s backbone poked through his ratty shirt, like the
plates of a dinosaur, as he stirred, moaning for a second then drifting off to
whatever fantasy put distance between him and his present hell. The others
shied away from Post as he moved. Their eyes all held the look of permanent
terror, as if they’d seen the face of eternity and somehow lived to tell the
tale, though it had rendered them mute. Post’s questions had gone unanswered,
his words simply ignored.

The units on the other side were really
one weapon—a collective of wagons held together with barbed wire and wooden
posts in the shape of a giant horseshoe. Hundreds if not thousands of recently
minted Creepers milled about in the ring. The screaming man hung limply in his
harness at the opening. A long gate was locked beneath him, keeping the
Creepers within the horseshoe. Armed men moved atop the wagons, watching over
all. Post was glad the man had passed out again. He couldn’t take the
screaming.

“You count, you watch, you plot, but you
are unaware for one so observant,” Miss Moya said from the other side of the
wagon. She bit into an apple. Then she pulled several from a pouch on her
saddle and tossed them through the bars. The men that had been ghosts of their
former selves jumped up and lunged for the morsels. Apples in hand, they darted
to the far corners of the car and ate loudly, wild eyes full of rage.

Post ignored them. He looked past her,
studying the numbers, revisiting his previous calculations. They still didn’t
add up.

“Here,” she said, tossing Post her half
eaten apple. “Eat up now. You’ll need your strength.”