The Dying of the Light (Short Stories): The Walker Chronicles (Tales From The Dying of the Light) (2 page)

They rounded the bend in the trail, and Trace knew exactly what the scout had seen and what had them both sitting their saddles with their pistols drawn and ready.

The trees just off the trail looked like they were splashed with dark red paint, but Trace knew without investigating that it wasn’t paint at all, but blood.

The sergeant shook himself into motion and dropped to the ground, the pistol now in his left hand and a cavalry saber in his right.

From his horse, Trace kept the sergeant covered as they moved ahead, and he nearly vomited his breakfast when he came to a clearing in the trees. The wagon he had sent off two days earlier was there, covered in more blood. Pieces of flesh and bone littered the bed of the wagon, and as they stood there, still and quiet except for the soft snorting of the horses, there was the sound of dripping as the blood that had pooled in the wagon’s bed seeped out between the slats.

“The harness is snapped, sir. No sign of the horses,” the sergeant said.

“And the men?”

Walker just shook his head as he moved around the other side of the wagon. He stooped briefly to pick up something from the ground, and brought it over to the captain, cleaning the blood and dirt off of it. It was a small locket with a photo of a beautiful baby girl inside. She couldn’t have been more than a few months old.

“It was Stevens’, sir. His little girl.”

“This was what he was looking at as he left: this locket.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me, sir. I believe that’s why he’s been so ornery lately. They’ve only been married barely a year.”

Trace closed his eyes briefly, sending a little prayer skyward.
And I sent him into this
, he thought.

He shook it off and looked around. “We passed a clearing a little ways back, didn’t we, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.” Walker sounded confused.

“Very well. Make camp in that clearing. Detail search parties.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir, but begging the captain’s pardon, finding these things is bad enough. Actually going
looking
for them, well, that’s…”

“Crazy?”

“Well, yes, sir.”

Trace rubbed his eyes wearily. “What if they’re wounded, Sergeant? Or worse, what if they’re like the others back at the camp?”

Walker ducked his head. “I suppose…”

“I won’t leave them like that. They deserve better. And I won’t let them endanger others, either. I want parties of no less than four men. Wounded and injured will be returned to camp. Any more of those… things… are to be shot on sight until dead. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. Very clear, sir. Sir, about the wagon…”

Trace turned back to the trail, holstering his pistol. “Burn it.”

A few hours later, all the bodies lay on the cold ground, covered with a tarp that one of the men had managed to scrounge from the unit’s rapidly-dwindling supplies.

“How many?” asked Trace.

“Five, sir,” replied Walker. “Two more injured.”

“Bitten?”

“No, sir. One fell and cut his arm on a tree, the other sprained an ankle.”

The captain merely grunted. It had become clear to him through discussions with Doctor Greenleaf that anyone bitten by one of these creatures became one themselves. Whether in days or hours, it made no difference. The one feature common to all of the creatures was human bite marks.

“Very well, let’s see them, then,” he said. Two privates pulled back the tarp and he looked over the bodies. The torn flesh and gaping wounds covered in blood and viscera were there, just as bad as with the others. None of the soldiers vomited this time, which worried Trace more than a little. It meant they were getting used to what they were seeing — a disquieting thought, to be sure.

“Christ, that’s…”

“O’Malley, yes, sir,” said Walker. “You can still see his jawline and his eyes.”

“What will I tell Martha? What will I tell any of their families?” Trace shook his head, moving off to look at the small village just ahead. It was the last of the sites on his superiors’ damnable list. Over his shoulder, he said, “You know what to do, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir. Hotchkins, grab that torch.”

He felt the heat on his back as the tarp caught and was quickly consumed in the dry air. He ignored the nauseating smell that arose, refusing to allow this… disease, this foulness to affect him. It was a small, silly victory, but it was a victory nonetheless.

“Move out, Sergeant,” he said, mounting his horse.

“Platoon! Forward!” The men moved past him then, some of them with torches at the ready, all with the stone-cold faces of those who’d seen horrible evil and lived to tell the tale. He nudged his horse into a slow trot.

A short time later, they entered the town’s center and found a mound of burned corpses. Even his now-hardened soldiers gagged slightly.

“They burned them, at the end,” said Walker, at the captain’s side. “They knew more than we did, then.”

The men formed small four- and five-man squads under the direction of leaders hand-picked by the sergeant and captain. Trace had learned that these smaller units could more effectively search and clear homes, barns and other structures without getting in each other’s way or not having enough backup. He intended to recommend the unit structure to his superiors when he returned to Fort Vancouver.

If I return, he thought. If any of us do.

There was a shout and scuffling from the saloon on the other side of the street, and two soldiers appeared, dragging a struggling bundle of rags and dirt between them. Eventually, the bundle resolved itself into a small child, filthy and nearly feral, as judged by the growls and shrieks it was giving off.

“Found him in the basement of the saloon, sir,” said Hotchkins. “Nearly took my hand off with this when I reached for him. Almost as big as he is!” The soldier produced a grimy Bowie knife, grinning.

“Turn him loose, Private. We’re not after him.”

 “I wouldn’t recommend that, sir,” said Walker. “He doesn’t look all that safe to me.”

“Hmmm, maybe you’re right. Hotchkins, shackle him and put him in the wagon for now. We’ll take him to Fort Vancouver. If he calms down some along the way, we can think about taking off those shackles.”

The boy stopped struggling and looked up at the captain from under his bangs, a glint of intelligence in his eyes.

So, not feral after all. Just scared. And who can blame him?

Another soldier trotted up. “All set, Captain.”

“Find any more of them?”

“Only one, sir. We took care of it. Locked it in the house.”

“Very well. Burn it.”

The soldier nodded, and as Hotchkins shackled the boy and chained him to the wagon, they watched as the small town’s buildings began to burn.

Trace glanced at the boy but saw no emotion of any kind reflected in his expression. The kid just watched the flames consume what had been his hometown, without so much as a tear, hardly even blinking.

I hope we can get him back, he thought. And I hope none of us end up that way.

They left the town shortly, the beams of the homes and other buildings still smoldering.

Captain Trace looked back, just once, as they headed out on the main trail for Fort Vancouver, just under a day’s ride away.

I hope we got them all.

Washington Territory, Four months later

“I have some more requisition forms for you, Major,” said Trace’s new secretary as she came into his office. “Colonel says he’d like these right quick, now.”

Trace sighed and motioned to the stack on the corner of his desk. “Just put them with the others, please, Marjorie. And thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Major.” She placed the documents on the stack, then stood still without leaving.

He sighed again. “Marjorie, do you think I’m being punished?”

For a very brief moment, she appeared surprised. “Punished? No, sir. If I may say so, you received a promotion, did you not?”

Trace grunted and thought back to the debriefing he’d received from his superiors after ‘The Winter Incident,’ as the Army was referring to it.

Somehow, the choice between a desk job and a gag order and being shot for treason doesn’t feel like a promotion, he thought, absently rubbing a hand across the back of his neck.

In some ways, he envied the men he had commanded, now dispersed amongst the other units stationed at Fort Vancouver.
At least they’re still doing something other than paperwork.

He noticed his secretary was still standing there, patiently waiting. “What is it, Marjorie?”

“There’s a man here to see you, Major. Wouldn’t tell me his name or business, just that it was urgent that he speak with you. He looks the dangerous sort, if I may, sir.”

“Hmmm, very well. Send him in.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, leaving and closing the door behind her.

Moments later, there was a knock.

“Come in,” said Trace.

A tall, well-built man clad all in black wool entered his office. How the man could wear black wool in this unseasonable heat was a mystery, Trace thought as he stood up and extended a hand. “Major William Trace, at your service. My secretary says you’re here about a matter of some urgency but wouldn’t tell her what it was. I must admit that I am most intrigued.”

They shook hands, and Trace indicated the chair opposite his own as he sat. His secretary poked her head in the door, and he smiled. “Tea, please, Marjorie.”

The tall man sat, paying no attention whatsoever to the secretary, though he did perk up at the mention of tea.

“So, what can I do for you, Mr...”

“Smith. John Smith,” said the man, turning his hat slowly between his hands.

“Ah, Mr. Smith. What can I do for you?”

The man stayed silent a moment longer, and Trace was sure he was studying the room out of the corner of his eyes, never letting his glance fall too long on any one spot or item.

Curious, he thought. Just what is this man about?

“It’s not me you can do something for, Major Trace, but rather your country and your president.”

Trace was careful to hide his surprise. “Oh?”

“Indeed,” said the man, pulling a sealed envelope from his coat and placing it on the edge of the desk. “I was instructed by the president himself to give this only to the man who could answer two very particular questions.”

“And what questions are those, sir?”

“What was found in Bleaker Village and brought to Fort Vancouver last year? And, more importantly, what is its status?”

Trace went cold, sitting up straight in his chair and placing his left hand on his desk, the other surreptitiously delving into a slightly-open drawer and removing the heavy object within, placing it on his lap.

“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Smith.”

Smith narrowed his eyes. “You
are
Major William Trace, of Kentucky, are you not? Formerly married to Antoinette Gallaix of Fairfax, Virginia?”

Who is this man who knows so much of me?

“I am.”

“Then answer the questions that only you can.”

Trace swallowed hard.
He knows. Somehow, he knows
. He eased the hammer back on the pistol in his lap, covering the soft click with a cough.

“Who are you, sir, to ask me those questions? I could have you thrown from my office into the street.” Though he tried, Trace couldn’t keep the slight quaver of fear from his voice.

Smith smiled, and Trace hoped to God he never saw another smile like that one again. It was as though a six-foot python had grinned. If anything, it made it absolutely clear how dangerous the man was.

“I suppose a gesture of proof is in order; I would’ve expected no less from a man of your… qualifications,” Smith said, reaching into his vest pocket. There was a flash of silver, and a five-pointed star with rounded tips landed on his desk. Only one government agency had that badge.

“I suppose I should call you Agent Smith, then?” asked Trace.

“Mister is fine, Major. Neither the Secret Service nor I were ever here,” said the man as he retrieved the badge. “Now, if you please, answer the question.”

Trace relaxed somewhat and let go the breath he’d been holding and released the hammer on the gun in his lap. “A boy. We brought back a boy.”

“And where is he now?”

“He was placed with Mrs. Farnsworth of Vancouver. She lost her family to the Indians. I’m given to understand that he’s doing well, though having some trouble adjusting.”

Mr. Smith nodded. “Very well.  Then this is yours.” He slid the envelope across the desk.

Trace stood, laying the pistol on the desk and taking the envelope. For his part, the agent didn’t bat an eye at the handgun as he also stood.

 “Good day, Colonel.”

“It’s ‘Major,’” Trace said, but the man left without another word. Trace stared after him.
Well, he’s not a military man. An honest enough mistake, I suppose
.

Trembling with anticipation, he drew his letter opener and sliced open the envelope, drawing out the paper within just as Marjorie came in with a tray of tea and crackers. She set it down on his desk as he read.

Trace fell back into his chair, jarring the teapot and spilling tea. As Marjorie fussed at him, he continued to read. He barely noticed as she tsked at him and left the room.