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

• Outbreak One: Washington Territory
  
• The Coldest Winter
  
• Blood and Sand
  
• Whatever Happened to Thomas J. Reynolds?
  
• Support Indie Authors and Small Press
  
• About the Author
  
• More from Jason Kristopher
  
• Excerpt
  
• Grey Gecko Press
  

The Walker Chronicles

Tales from
The Dying of the Light

By Jason Kristopher

This ebook contains supplemental short stories from the zombie series
The Dying of the Light
. To get the most out of it, you should read that series first.
Additional short stories will be added to this title as they are released; if you would like to be notified when a new version is released (and get it sent directly to you free of charge), email
[email protected]
with your preferred email address. Happy reading!

Outbreak One: Washington Territory

Washington Territory
Winter, 1872

“Steady on, Sergeant.”

The man coughed up the last of the contents of his stomach in a steaming stream onto the cold, frozen ground, then took a deep breath and wiped his mouth. “Yes, sir, Captain.”

Captain William Trace could hardly blame the sergeant. He, too, was nearly overcome by the destruction of these camps, and this third location was no better than the first. If anything, the carnage here was worse.

Those bodies had at least been somewhat dried out; you knew that whatever had befallen those poor souls had happened some time ago. The ones at this camp were a different story. These bodies were… fresh, if that word could be applied to such horrors. Teeth marks – human teeth marks – covered the bones and flesh.
All too reminiscent of the tragic fate of the Donner Party
, he thought.
What manner of man or savage could do this? Surely even the redskin couldn’t be this depraved…

A shout rang out from the other side of the camp, and the captain and sergeant were moving even before they realized it. As they rounded the corner of yet another burned-out shell of a cabin, Trace saw his men firing their Springfield rifles into the darkness of a semi-collapsed building. Screams issued from inside, and the smoke from the rifles was thick. A young private stumbled out of the doorway, covered in blood from a ragged and torn wound on his arm. He held his arm close to his chest and screamed again and again.

“Cease fire!” yelled Trace as he ran up, his sidearm drawn and pointing toward the door. Another man helped the wounded soldier away from the ruin, trying to quiet him. Trace put a hand on the shoulder of the man standing next to him, a private named O’Malley. “Fetch the surgeon!” The man took off at a full sprint for the supply wagon, and the captain’s attention was diverted back to the collapsed structure as a long, low moan issued from within, at which the wounded private began screaming again and took off running.

“Go get him!” Trace yelled, pointing at the two nearest men. “The rest of you, stand ready, but do not fire.” They leveled their rifles at the doorway, prepared as only frightened men could be for whatever wailed its way toward them. A shambling figure appeared at the door of the building, and Trace’s mind rejected the existence, the very
idea
of what he saw as it moved into the light of day.

That’s impossible, he thought. Dead men don’t walk. They don’t move. He was stunned into immobility.

The creature was human — or had been at one point. It shambled forward toward the men, the muscles of its legs showing through horrendous tears in the flesh. Half of its face was missing, the skin torn away as if by some animal. Blood flowed in thick, sticky clumps from the end of its forearm, which was missing the hand that had once been attached. It reached for the soldiers and moaned, the mouth opening as wide as the pits of Hell itself, and it began to lunge forward.

Fortunately, the sergeant – now recovered from his earlier weakness – was not immobile and began firing his sidearm at the creature. This noise and smoke caused a chain reaction in the remainder of the men standing there, and the monster went down beneath a hail of bullets. It lay there, not even so much as twitching, as Trace ordered another cease fire. The smoke cleared somewhat.

He put a hand on the sergeant’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “Thank you, Mr. Walker.”

“All part of the job, Captain.”

“Set up a perimeter and secure this site. Any more of those… things you find, you shoot on sight until they stop twitching.”

“Yes, sir. Hotchkins, Stevens! Front and center!” Sergeant Walker began issuing orders to the men, and Trace knelt next to the dead man who’d caused so much trouble, careful to stay out of the spreading pool of blood.

It was horrible to look at, but what hadn’t been destroyed by the bullets was still somewhat recognizable as human. Shriveled skin and muscle, torn in places until he could see the bone… not a pleasant sight.

The detachment’s surgeon ran up, O’Malley only a step behind, his bag clanging against his hip and, fortunately, distracting Trace long enough to allow him to get a grip on his sanity once more. He stood, putting his back to the corpse and looking at the doctor, who was peering around the captain.

“Cap’n, I don’t think there’s much I can do for this one,” he said, and Trace felt a little green as he smelled the noxious mix of sour booze on the man’s breath. He choked back his gag reflex.

“No, Mr. Greenleaf, there isn’t. This one is as dead as dead can be.” Trace led them both away from the body. “That body there is not why I called for you.”

Sounds from the forest caught his attention, and he looked up as the two men he had sent after the wounded soldier returned, bearing him between them, whimpering, his arms over their shoulders.

“I think he’s done screaming, sir. Yelled hisself hoarse, I believe,” said one of the soldiers.

“Very well, Mr. Hotchkins. Doc, see what you can do to patch this man up. I have a feeling we’re going to need everyone we can get.”

Trace spent a few minutes touring the rest of the village and thinking before he summoned Sergeant Walker to his side.

“Burn it all to the ground, Walker,” he said.

“Burn it down, sir?” the sergeant asked.

“I don’t see any other solution. Do you?” Trace replied.

“No, sir. We can’t leave it like this, and we best be moving on.”

“Very well, see to it, then, while I determine our next stop.”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant moved away from the wagon, yelling for more men. Several ran in from where they were tending the wounded or policing the camp, and Trace turned back to the map he had spread out on the wagon’s bed.

He considered the road that was marked on the map, leading to the next hunting camp chosen for investigation by his superiors.

Likely not even a road, he thought. More like a poorly-used and even worse-maintained hunting trail. Still, what we have is what we use, I suppose.

He looked up at a sudden shout from the gathered men near one of the fires, and saw Sergeant Walker standing nose-to-nose with one of the men, berating him into submission. Stevens, if he wasn’t mistaken, and no surprise there. The private had been taken to task more than once lately for shirking his duty. It was a wonder he hadn’t abandoned his post already.

“You will burn this camp to the ground, soldier!” yelled Walker. “Every building, every outhouse, every shed. Unless you want to end up looking like that poor soul there!”

Walker pointed to the creature that they had ‘killed,’ and Trace saw the young private shiver and shake his head, saying something the captain couldn’t catch.

“What was that, Private? I can’t hear you!”

“No, sir! I mean, yes, sir! Right away, sir!” Stevens saluted and grabbed a nearby chunk of wood and a rag. He lit it from the campfire set up by the unit’s cook. With that, the other men did likewise and dispersed to begin their unpleasant task.

Walker glanced back, saw the captain looking at him, and gave a sharp, quick nod as he moved off. Trace returned it, then bent back to the map.

Seemingly only minutes later, Doc Greenleaf approached him and asked him to look over the wounded with him.
Not a moment’s peace,
Trace thought.

As they crossed the field, the doc said, “It’s not right, Captain. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He shook his head and then belched noisily. “They’re all like this, too.”

“
All
the injured are like this?” asked Trace.

“Well, not all, sir, just the ones as were bit by the nasty, sir.”

“Indeed.” Trace shook his head at the doctor and looked over the wagons they had reached. His men were laid out unconscious on makeshift pallets in the beds of the wagons. All of them exhibited signs of extreme illness: trembling, pale and waxy skin, sweating profusely. There was even some minor bleeding at the eyes, ears and nose.

“Can you waken them, Doc?”

“No, sir. Not even a shot of whiskey was enough to get them moving.”

He may be a drunkard, but I trust that man when it comes to whiskey, thought the captain.

“Sergeant Walker!” shouted Trace.

The sergeant jogged up, the strong smells of burning wood and smoke accompanying him. “Sir!”

“Detail two men to take the wounded to Fort Vancouver. Make sure they know the route – straight ahead on the same road we’re taking for half a day, then south. Give them extra horses, rations, water – whatever they’ll need. They’re to alternate shifts and rotate out the horses as needed. I want these men to get medical attention as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, taking a couple steps away. “O’Malley! Stevens!” he boomed, his voice echoing. Trace glanced at the wounded in the bed of the wagon, but apparently not even the eardrum-shattering noise of Walker’s parade-ground yells could wake them.

The two privates ran up, and as Walker briefed them, Trace began organizing the rest of the men to collect supplies and move them to the other wagons. Soon, everything was nearly ready for the two groups to set out, and the captain stood next to the wagon headed for the fort.

“Be safe, men. Get them there as fast as you can, but
get there
. Don’t stop for anything.”

Private O’Malley — in the driver’s seat for the first shift — nodded and saluted the captain. “Yes, sir! Will do, sir.”

Trace took a step back and returned the salute. He noticed Stevens, the private Walker had been shouting at earlier, staring at something in his hand. As he watched, the private put it in his pocket.
Probably nothing
.

“On your way, soldier!”

O’Malley snapped the reins. “Hyah!” As the wagon moved off, Trace saw another private run up to Sergeant Walker, out of breath and panting.

“Private?” he asked.

Turning to Trace, the other man replied, “Sir, it appears that there may be another… survivor… in one of the sheds. It’s locked in and barred from the outside.”

“What should we do, sir?” asked the sergeant.

Trace looked toward the town. The flames were beginning to reach up to the sky.

“Burn it, Sergeant.”

“And the survivor?”

Trace raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, and hurried off, ordering the men to follow him.

I can’t afford to let even one of these things escape, thought the captain. Who knows what could happen?

Two days later, they were almost at the last site on their list. The air had warmed a bit, and Captain Trace stared ahead, rocking gently with the motion of his horse, lost in his thoughts. Gradually, he became aware that Sergeant Walker was speaking with one of the scouts who had just returned. The scout looked as though he’d seen more horror than the rest of them, which was saying something, given their recent experience.

Walker approached him, looking somber, the scout following.

“What is it, Sergeant?” Trace asked.

“Captain, I…” said Walker, hesitating.

Trace was immediately worried; Walker had never hesitated to tell him
anything
, ever.

“Sir… well, you’d better see for yourself, sir,” said the scout. He spat and wiped his mouth, as though to rid it of something horribly distasteful. “Just ahead, about 200 feet. Just around the bend up there, sir. You’ll know it when you see it.”

Now I have to see what’s going on, Trace thought.

“Sergeant, you’re with me.” He nudged his horse to take him down the trail, and glanced back when Walker didn’t immediately accompany him. Shaking himself, the sergeant jerked his head at the scout, who headed back to the main force, then rode ahead to join the captain.

As he pulled alongside, Trace studied his sergeant’s face briefly, but chose not to say anything.

What the Hell are we headed into?

The sergeant drew his pistol and laid it across his lap, and Trace did likewise. One thing he’d learned as an officer was to trust his sergeant.