Season of Rot (21 page)

She reached for his hand. He was glancing up
at the stars. The sky was odd this evening, the stars different
somehow. Amy placed a palm on his cheek and gently turned his face
so she could look deep into his eyes. “Joe,” she said. “I have
something to tell you...”

Dead West

Prologue

“Run!” Mark shouted.

Brent’s legs pumped as he raced to catch up
to the train and Mark’s outstretched hand. He could hear the growls
of the dead behind him, but he didn’t dare glance over his shoulder
to see how close they were. Instead he poured everything he had
into a final burst of speed. Mark grabbed him and pulled him onto
the train.

Brent collapsed, struggling for breath as
Mark, standing above him, opened up on their pursuers with his
Winchester. He picked off the closest ones, his rifle spitting out
spent casings.

The train gained speed and the dead fell
farther and farther behind.

“Sweet Lord,” Brent blurted out. “That was
too close.”

Mark laughed, propping his weapon against the
inner railing of the car. “It’s what you get for volunteering for
this job.”

“Maybe,” Brent replied. “But that doesn’t
mean I have to like it.”

He got to his feet and dusted himself off.
“Damn. The dead aren’t supposed to be this close to the border yet.
No one knew they’d overrun Bloomington already. Last time we sent
out a recon party, they were two towns over.”

Mark nodded. “They’re coming. There’s no
stopping them. I don’t care what anyone says—it’s only a matter of
time until they make it to the East. Ain’t nothing gonna stop them.
Not even the river.”

“Well, we ain’t goin’ down like those cavalry
boys did. We’ll hold the line. We’ve got to.”

“You’re lying to yourself boy. The West
belongs to those things now. We can’t guard the whole Mississippi
River. Soon enough the dead will be across it and in the cities
too.”

“How can you believe that?” Brent asked.

“Simple. I believe in God. This is the End
Times. It’s gotta be. Hell on Earth and all that comes with it,
boy. I’ve made my peace. Hope you’ve made your peace with Him
too.”

Suddenly, Mark and Brent were tossed about as
the train’s brakes began to squeal. They clutched the car’s rails,
trying their best not to tumble off onto the tracks.

“What the hell?” Mark screamed as the train
stopped. They could hear shouting from the steam engine.

Mark grabbed his rifle, which by some miracle
hadn’t been lost on the tracks, then he and Brent hopped off the
car and went to see what was happening. Several other soldiers from
the train’s small contingent were standing around, cursing. A
massive tree blocked the railway. It would take too long to remove
the trunk and branches from the tracks.

Mark motioned for Brent, and the two
approached Captain Stephenson, who stood among the men inspecting
the tree.

“Are we running or standing?” Mark asked.

Stephenson whirled on them. “Soldier, you
better watch your mouth or you’ll be dead before those rotting
bastards ever get here.”

“Yes, sir,” Mark said, grinding his teeth.
“But you didn’t answer my question.”

This was Stephenson’s first command behind
the quarantine line. He was sweating under the pressure, forced
with only two choices that were pretty much suicide. Finally, he
looked Mark in the eye. “We’re standin’! I think it’s time we gave
the dead back some of the hell they’ve given us.”

Stephenson addressed the thirty-five men
standing around him. “Get the Gatling set up on the rear car. Make
sure the damn gunner is somebody who’s used one before. Everybody
else, load up with as much ammo as you can in your pockets and form
a defensive firing line flanking that car. Let’s show those
monsters the US Army won’t go down easy!”

Everyone took up their positions as extra
guns were loaded and placed within easy reach. Mark manned the
Gatling in the center of the line, and Brent, hunched on the dirt
with his rifle aimed at the horizon, found himself missing the
company of the gruff and burly old-timer.

The dead came into view. Hundreds of them
stampeding towards the train and its small cluster of
defenders.

“Hold you fire!” Mark shouted.

Stephenson shot him a glare but knew it was
an order that needed to be given. “Aim for their heads!” he added
reluctantly, giving a nod in Mark’s direction.

As soon as the dead entered firing range, the
Gatling gun started blazing, tearing into the middle of their
ranks. Everyone else tried to pick their shots more carefully,
making sure the ones they aimed for wouldn’t be getting back
up.

Not even the spinning barrels of the Gatling
could slow the dead’s charge. They trampled the bodies of the
fallen until they slammed into the defensive line without mercy.
The line broke, half of the soldiers knocked to the ground under
the gnashing teeth of the dead. A few tried to fight but died
instantly as the dead overwhelmed them.

Grasping, eager hands yanked Mark off the car
from behind the Gatling, and the old man disappeared in the sea of
the dead.

Brent ran, tossing his empty rifle aside and
jerking his Colt free from the holster on his belt. His feet
crunched gravel as he darted down the length of the train. When he
reached the fallen tree he knew there was no way in hell he could
jump it. So he veered to the right and took off into the woods,
with more than a dozen of dead giving chase.

Sweat rolled off his face and skin. In
desperation, he hopped onto a tall tree and started to climb. Cold
hands closed on his legs and ankles, and a set of yellow teeth cut
through his uniform and into his thigh.

“God, forgive me,” Brent pleaded as he
pressed the Colt to the side of his head. He pulled the trigger,
and his limp form fell into the waiting mob below.

One

Grant looked up from the article he was
composing as Edgar entered the room. He knew from the smirk on
Edgar’s face whatever news the man was about to share would be bad.
Though they’d worked together at Harper’s throughout the end of the
Civil War, they’d never gotten along.

Edgar pulled out a chair and took a seat
across from Grant without asking if he was intruding.

Grant met Edgar’s eyes as the man stared at
him. “May I help you?”

“I just wanted to tell you personally you’re
being reassigned. The paper needs someone out in the field to cover
the new war raging in the West from the frontlines and—”

“This isn’t a war,” Grant interjected. “Men
aren’t killing men. It’s a plague. They’re just quarantining off
half the bloody country to contain it.”

Edgar cleared his throat. “Call it whatever
you want, Grant, but to the paper and the government it’s a war.
The plague that’s ravaged the frontier is working its way here, and
if the army can’t stop it then God help us all.” Edgar reclined in
his chair, tipping it off the floor. “Almost the entire army is
stationed along the length of the Mississippi River, trying to hold
the border between us and the dead. Good men are dying out there
every day. To me, that’s a war too.”

“What do you want from me, Edgar? Did you
just want to see how I would react when you told me I was
going?”

Edgar ignored him. “The 112th regiment is
about to make a push westward to see how bad things really are on
the other side, and to exterminate as many of those
things
as they can. I want you to go with them. As I said, we need someone
out there so that people here can know what’s happening in the
West. You’ve been in the field before. Hell, if I recall correctly,
you claim you actually fought in some of the battles you covered
near the end of the last war.”

“Not by choice,” Grant muttered.

“Go home and pack your bags. You’ll be
leaving first thing in the morning to meet up with the 112th and
the main force of the push west. I’ll have all the papers you’ll
need ready by then.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant answered coldly.

Edgar got up and vanished into the halls of
Harper’s, leaving Grant in peace.

He sat still for a moment, letting his new
assignment sink in. If even half of the reports over the past few
months were true, he was heading into Hell itself. The dead owned
the West now. Allegedly, some tribes of Indians still held out
against them, but those stories were unconfirmed and off the
record. The paper didn’t want people believing that savages could
outlast civilized man, because without a doubt the western states
were lost. The plague had swept through them like wildfire on a
prairie, turning everyone who contracted it into a walking corpse
intent only on devouring the living and spreading the plague.

Many people believed this was the End of Days
as described in the Bible. New churches opened their doors here in
the East every day, and revivals seemed a nonstop occurrence. Grant
was not a religious man and the whole mess stunk of desperation,
but even he had to admit this was like nothing the human race had
ever faced in all of recorded history.

He pushed his chair back from his desk and
walked over to collect his coat from the hook by the door. If there
was any real hope left to be found, he would find it. If nothing
else, his readers deserved the truth; he could at least give them
that.

Five days later Grant arrived in Franklin.
The 112th had beaten him there and were already well prepared for
the East’s first major counteroffensive against the plague. The
plan, if it could be called that, was simply to cross the
Mississippi, push as far west as possible and kill everything they
came across, then fall back to reinforce the border until another
offensive could be launched. The military command knew the dead
didn’t breed. They wanted to thin out their numbers and, step by
step, expand the border westward until they reached the Pacific,
making the US whole once more.

The 112th was just one of many regiments sent
across the river at various points, but it was newly formed and
composed of mainly green troops who’d never seen combat. Grant
wondered if Edgar had assigned him to that particular regiment
because they were the least likely to make it back.

He shook the dark thoughts from his head as
he marched up the steps of the town’s administrative building,
headed to report in to the regiment’s commanding officer, General
Peter Alves. Alves had the reputation of being a hard ass who got
things done, a competent leader despite his personality and lack of
social skills. He’d climbed the ranks quickly, but always seemed to
end up with the worst or most dangerous missions on his plate.

As soon as Grant walked in, a young man
dressed in an aide’s uniform rushed to meet him. “Mr. Grant?” he
asked, outstretching his hand.

“Yes.” Grant shook with him. “How did you
know?”

“You were expected, sir. Besides, you sure
ain’t from around here. No one here wears clothes as fancy as
yours. You just had to be from New York, sir.”

Grant laughed. “I’m here to report in to
General Alves.”

“I know, sir. The general’s busy though. I’m
sorry. However, he did leave orders as to where you’re being
accommodated.”

“Accommodated?”

“Sorry, sir. I mean as to which platoon
you’ll be traveling with.”

Grant felt his stomach turn. The general was
putting him off in more ways than one. “You mean I won’t be
traveling with the general himself?”

“No. Let’s see... You’re being placed under
the care of Sergeant Robert Hank. He’s a veteran, sir. The general
said he’d be more than able to not only ensure your safety while
you’re with us, but also be able to show you what it’s really like
to be fighting the dead.”

“Wonderful.” Grant faked a smile. Things just
kept getting better and better. “Where can I find this Sergeant
Hank?”

“He and his men are in the barracks just
across town. Do you want me to escort you there?”

“No,” Grant said, and he turned and walked
out of the building. He was just about done being cast aside, and
he was having a tough time holding his anger in check. Surely, he
figured, things couldn’t get any worse.

#

The dead thing raised its head to look at the
surrounding soldiers, straining against the ropes that held it to
the post in the middle of the training field.

“Fire!” Hank ordered.

A chorus of rifle cracks erupted as
Winchesters spat empty shell casings and soldiers pumped fresh
rounds into their chambers. When the cacophony ended, the dead
thing still twitched and rolled its head back and forth, emitting a
low, hoarse moan.

Hank spun to face the dozen new recruits
who’d just riddled the thing’s body with holes. “What the hell’s
the problem here?” he asked, screaming in the face of the closest
private. “I ordered you men to kill that thing! Why isn’t it
dead?”

No one answered.

“You want to know why?” Hank drew his
revolver and put a bullet into the dead thing’s forehead. Its body
slumped, limp against the post. “You didn’t shoot the damn thing in
the head!” Hank pointed across the river at the other shore, far
off in the distance. “And when you’re over there, if you don’t
shoot for the head you won’t just be wasting ammo and my time,
you’ll be dead just like
it
.”

Hank lowered his voice. “A headshot is the
only way to take one of those things down and make sure it stays
that way.” He cut his normal sermon short as a man in an expensive
suit approached the training area. “All of you back here in an
hour. We’ll try this shit again then. Dismissed!”

The privates scattered in fear of their
sergeant’s rage, and the man in the suit clapped. “Commendable
speech,” he said, not offering to shake hands. “I’m Jacob Grant
from Harper’s; I was told you’d be taking care of me when we go
across.”