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
“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
