The Creepers (Book 2): From the Past by Norman Dixon

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