by Tom Abrahams
For two hours, he lay there somewhere between lucidity and unconsciousness. The ache in his head throbbed with less intensity. The ringing in his ears diminished. He blinked open his eyes to find the sun had arced lower in the sky. There was a voice in his aching head.
“You can’t do this,” Sylvia said. “You can’t give up.”
Though Battle didn’t want to hear it, he couldn’t shut her up.
“We will wait for you,” she said. “We will be here. When you join us, it will be for eternity. Right now, you can’t give up. That’s not you, Marcus. You’re a fighter. You’re my fighter.”
Battle moved his legs, expecting they wouldn’t respond, and swung himself onto his knees. He lifted himself up, the pounding in his head arguing with him, urging him to lie still. He looked across the rifleman’s corpse and saw a second body. The woman was dead too. A pair of large red stains on her torso gave away the culprit.
Battle reconstructed the moments in his mind. He dove for cover behind the cyclops and a bullet missed him. A second pull of the trigger yielded nothing except a jam. When he lunged at the rifleman, the weapon cleared and he fired twice as Battle tackled him. The twin shots had hit the woman who, involuntarily, fired the fatal shot that killed the rifleman.
It was good fortune or serendipity or a blessing. Battle didn’t care which. Nonetheless, he thanked God, rose to his feet, and carried himself inside. He collapsed on the sofa, convinced he had a concussion.
It was three days before he felt well enough to leave the house. By then, the headache had subsided, the ringing was gone, and the trio of bodies in the yard were putrefied.
Battle stood over the dead woman in a surgical mask, rubber boots, and gloves. Her mottled skin was marked by the decomposing blood vessels in her bloated body. There were maggots working at the stains on her shirt.
He dragged her body, then those of the two men, around the side of the house to a large hole he’d dug near the northern edge of his property. One by one, he dumped the stiffened corpses into the hole and covered them with dirt.
When he was finished, he pulled the mask down past his chin and prayed, choosing to believe the three were desperate victims of circumstance and not inherently evil. They’d become what their circumstances forged.
Battle walked back to the front of the house and retrieved the weapons. First, he picked up the rifle. He released the magazine and looked inside. It was loaded with cheap brass-encased ammunition. That explained the jam. The light, inexpensive ammo didn’t always engage well with semiautos. That cheap crap had saved his life.
The rifle was okay, but Battle thought it nothing special. He held it with his left hand and picked up the Sig Sauer. “A lot of good you did me.” He laughed. He flipped the handgun over and thought about the movie he’d finished in the moments before the intruders came to his door.
“McDunnough,” he said to the gun. “I’m calling you McDunnough.” He tucked it into his waistband and headed toward the barn. He still had weapons to clean.
“You could have died.” Sylvia again. “You need to be more careful.”
“I know,” Battle responded. “It was a lapse in judgment.”
“It was stupid.”
Battle laughed and slung open the barn door. “What do you really think?”
“How’s your head?”
“It hurts,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”
“You have a concussion.”
“Maybe.”
“There’s only one way to prevent this from happening again, Marcus,” she said. “You know what that is.”
Marcus took a deep breath and unlocked the gun case at the right of the barn. He looked around, the dust dancing in the high, overhead lights. The barn was bordering on stuffy. He set down the rifle and walked across the open space to a thermostat on the opposite wall, near the large refrigerators and freezers.
“It’s what you have to do,” Sylvia whispered in his ear. “You can’t risk losing our home to anyone. Shoot first. Never ask questions.”
Sylvia was right. She knew what was best. And he owed her. He could not let their home fall into anyone else’s hands.
“Agreed,” he said. “I’ll do what it takes.”
“I know you will,” she said. “You’ll keep us safe, Marcus. All of us.”
CHAPTER 20
OCTOBER 14, 2037, 8:30 AM
SCOURGE + 5 YEARS
TEXAS HIGHWAY 36
CROSS PLAINS, TEXAS
Lola turned the handle and pushed inward, creaking open the bedroom door. She dismissed the voice in her head telling her not to snoop, but she couldn’t help herself. The room was cooler and darker than the rest of the house. Ribbons of light snuck through the drawn slats of the wooden shutters. She blindly searched the wall for a light switch, found it, and flipped it up to illuminate the room from the trio of bulbs rattling beneath a spinning ceiling fan.
The walls were covered in a cheery floral wallpaper. Lola dragged her fingers across it, smiling at the idea of Battle, a man she knew as something akin to an emotionless killer, sleeping in such a feminine space.
The king-sized bed was made, its duvet pulled taut against the mattress. A pair of large decorative pillows that complemented the wallpaper sat neatly against the headboard. A pale blue chenille throw was draped across the foot of the bed.
On either side of the bed were matching nightstands that held matching glass lamps. A digital alarm clock announced the time. Opposite the bed was a large dresser. Atop the dresser was a flat-screen television. Lola took a couple of steps deeper into the room and noticed the television’s screen was damaged. The large hole in the screen was matched by one equally as big in the wall behind it.
Past the dresser, in the corner opposite the bed, was an Eames chair and ottoman. The brown leather was worn and cracked. Lola moved next to the chair and pulled open the shutters. Sunlight poured into the room and Lola squinted until her eyes adjusted.
She peeked through the slats and saw the garden directly ahead. To the far right she could see the graveyard where Battle had talked to himself and prayed. A wave of guilt washed over her. She looked away and closed the slats. Lola turned to leave the bedroom when something caught her attention. On the floor to the left of the bed was a sleeping bag. It was unzipped. There was a pair of feather pillows at its head. There was a picture frame on the floor between the wall and the bag.
Lola walked the few steps to the bag and knelt down, careful not to tweak her ankle. The bag felt cool against her legs. She was tempted to crawl inside and zip it up. Instead she reached for the frame and held it up.
The photograph revealed a much-younger-looking Battle. His eyes were bright, his hair was shorter and less gray, he was tan, smiling, and his teeth gleamed. His strong arms were wrapped around two other people.
To his left was a beautiful woman with dark hair and penetrating eyes. She had a sly grin on her face. Her left arm was hidden behind Battle’s back, her right hand on his chest.
To his right was a young boy, a remarkable combination of Battle and the woman. He had her intoxicating eyes, though his smile was all Battle. His arms were wrapped around Battle’s neck. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought the photo came with the frame. The family looked almost too happy.
Behind them, framed carefully above them in the picture, was a treehouse. It was the treehouse. It was newer looking, the wood still had a hint of green to it in the picture. It wasn’t the silvery gray of a weathered fort it was now, but she recognized it.
The perch from which Battle had killed countless intruders was built as a place for his child to play make-believe. Lola returned the photograph to its spot and blinked against the surprise flood of tears welling in her eyes.
She wiped her eyes dry, sniffed back the emotion, and moved to the other side of the room and the master closet. She flipped on the overhead fluorescent light and it clinked to life, casting a harsh white light into the space. It was a single walk-in closet shared
by both husband and wife. To the left were his clothes; to the right were hers. The belongings hung and sat inside customized wood organizers measured to fit.
If Lola hadn’t known better, she’d have thought Battle’s wife was still alive. Her clothing was hung neatly and orderly, by garment type and color. Her shoes and boots were arranged in neat pairs on a shoe rack.
Lola’s brows furrowed as she ran her fingers along the rows of women’s clothing. She looked down at what she was wearing: an oversized men’s Dallas Cowboys T-shirt and some large sweatpants rolled over at the waist and ankles.
There were plenty of women’s clothes for Battle to have given her. He’d chosen his own clothing. First a T-shirt and shorts, then a T-shirt and pair of sweatpants.
Lola pulled up her pants, snapping the elastic. She left the bedroom and walked down the long hall to the kitchen, thinking about the man who’d saved her life. He was a killer. He was good at it. There was something disconnected about him, but deep down, at his core, she believed him to be a good man, a family man who was still bent on protecting what mattered most to him.
She pulled out the barstool at the kitchen island and sat down, her bad ankle dangling. In front of her was a Browning shotgun they’d taken from the Cartel, a box of shotgun shells, a cartridge bag, and an unusual-looking stainless steel knife. She picked up the knife by its black rubber handle and ran her fingers along the edge of its five-inch blade. At its tip, the blade hooked backward. Battle told her it was called a “gut hook”. It was more devastating than a traditional smooth or serrated blade.
When he’d given it to her, he’d showed her the maneuver for a brutal thrust and rip. He’d said it was the knife equivalent of a hollow-point bullet. He’d also told her it was a last resort, because if she pulled it, the chances were even her attacker would use it against her.
Before he left, Battle had showed her how to reload the Browning. He’d reminded her it held only four shots.
“Once you fire the third shot,” he’d explained, “you need to have a plan for reloading it.”
She’d asked him why he was giving her one of the Cartel’s weapons and not one of his own.
“It’s better to use the weapon they’re using,” he’d said. “That way they don’t know who’s firing. They’ll recognize the sound of the Browning and won’t know if it’s you or one of them. It’s a little added camouflage.”
Lola put down the knife and rechecked the shotgun. She counted the extra shells in the box. There were twenty-one. Plus, she had the four loaded into the Browning.
She took stock of her arsenal and stood from the stool. Lola knew there was a real chance she’d have to use them.
Lola tucked the knife in the elastic at her right hip. She took the cartridge bag and slung its strap over her head. She rested the bag on her left hip and stuffed it full of shotgun shells from the box.
She held the last of the twenty-five shells in her hand, looking at it closely and rolling it over in her fingers. She kissed it for good luck and dropped it into the bag. This was as ready as she was going to be.
Battle hadn’t told her where to hole up while he was gone. She considered the master bedroom, the boy’s room, the garage, and even the barn.
Ultimately she knew there was only one good spot from which to watch any approaching danger. The treehouse. She limped through the front door, her shoulders back. She turned right and crossed the driveway. Despite the pull of her injured ankle with each step, she pressed forward into the high grass and angled her steps to the left.
CHAPTER 21
OCTOBER 14, 2037, 9:35 AM
SCOURGE + 5 YEARS
TEXAS HIGHWAY 36
CROSS PLAINS, TEXAS
Queho figured they were about an hour from Battle’s property. One of the grunts guessed the land was halfway between the almost nonexistent towns Rising Star and Comanche. That had to be twenty-five miles, they figured. The horses galloped at about ten to twelve miles per hour. Even Queho could do the math.
He bounced in the saddle, his club foot aching, but he ignored it as best he could. He was focused on the job ahead.
He recalled the crude map Pico drew at HQ. There was a house, a couple of other buildings, and a treehouse.
They’d have to attack from front to back, working their way from the southern edge of the property against Highway 36. He couldn’t be sure how accurate the map was. Queho almost regretted blasting Pico. Almost.
He’d killed so many men since the Scourge. Really, he’d killed more than his share before the Scourge. His mind drifted with the rhythm of the gallop as he recalled the salad days.
Queho had made a living dealing meth and prescription drugs to the pitiful underclass in West Texas. He’d been careful to avoid the Mexican dealers and stuck to a very restrictive turf. That had only lasted so long.
Eventually, without much of a choice, he’d sworn allegiance to the Sinaloa Cartel, which controlled a narrow strip of land between Mexico and West Texas. It was one of the six major Mexican cartels before the Scourge. It was the only one to prevent the rival Zetas from holding the entirety of the Texas-Mexico border.
When Queho got arrested during a sting, the Sinaloas promised him protection in prison. They’d told him he’d be safe on the inside and he’d be rewarded when he got out as long as he kept his mouth shut. He’d obeyed.
It was in that West Texas prison that he’d met Cyrus Skinner. Skinner wasn’t Sinaloa. He wasn’t Zeta. He was his own man.
Queho remembered not being afraid behind bars. He knew the Sinaloas had his back. Nobody frightened, intimidated, or bullied Queho. Nobody except for Cyrus Skinner.
Skinner was a big man. Tall, broad shoulders, and a ridiculously strong jaw. He chain-smoked; a butt or blunt was always stuck to his lips.
Queho watched Skinner work the cell, the dining hall, and the yard. Other guards tried to act tough. Skinner actually was.
When the guard came to him with a proposition, Queho knew he couldn’t refuse. Together, with the full knowledge of the Sinaloa Cartel, they initiated a complex and successful drug trade within the prison walls.
If anyone challenged them or shorted them, Queho was the enforcer. Skinner was his alibi.
Queho couldn’t remember how many men they’d killed and maimed. It was a tenth of the number he’d murdered since the Scourge.
Queho looked ahead at the rising sun. It was shaping up to be a beautiful day. He had a good feeling about it and regripped the reins, urging his horse to run faster.
He hadn’t killed a woman in weeks. He had an itch.
***
Battle wasn’t sure how much harder he could push the Appaloosa. He worried it might give out on him, but he couldn’t afford to stop for water. Every second wasted was an advantage to the men racing toward his home.
Battle looked past Pico toward the road ahead. They were drawing closer with every gallop.
“The only way she’ll be alive is if they take their time,” Pico said. “Sometimes they take their time.”
Battle clenched his jaw.
“Why are you taking me with you?” Pico asked, changing the subject. “Why didn’t you just leave me there?”
Battle looked at the side of Pico’s face. “I need your help. I told you that already.”
“Doesn’t make sense,” Pico said. “I’m one of them. I get that you kept me alive as a bargaining chip when we were headed over to Abilene. But now? I don’t get it.”
Battle laughed. “You’re not that thick, are you, Salomon Pico? You’re not one of them. They killed you once already. They’d do it again.”
Pico turned his head forward. He didn’t respond. Battle guessed the grunt didn’t want to reconcile his plight.
“You’re better off helping me,” Battle said. “I give you a chance at living. They don’t. And I need an extra hand. I need someone who knows how the Cartel works. I need a guide.”
Pico didn’t respond.
Battle decided it was time for
a full-court press. He needed Pico on his team before they got home. “They don’t trust you anymore. Well, they didn’t. They think you’re dead. And I guarantee if they killed you once, they’d do it again without blinking. You know them better than I do. Am I wrong? Would they let bygones be bygones? If they let you live initially, wouldn’t you always wonder when the bullet was coming? Wouldn’t—”
“Yes,” Pico snapped. “You’re right, okay? You’re right. They’d kill me again. It’d be near impossible for me to prove myself.”
Battle didn’t interrupt. He let Pico vent.
“I did everything I could do for them,” he said, his voice fighting against the wind. “I took orders, I killed, I stole—whatever they wanted. It wasn’t ever good enough, though. They always wanted more. And I wasn’t ever gonna be anything but a grunt. Didn’t matter. Once a grunt like me, always a grunt.”
Battle took one hand off the reins and gripped Pico’s shoulder. He flinched. “I won’t make you a grunt, Salomon Pico,” he said. “You’ll have a stake in things.”
Pico looked back at Battle and then turned forward. He nodded but said nothing, his body bouncing in the saddle.
Battle hoped his talk had worked. If it didn’t, Pico’s admonition would prove right and they’d both die.
CHAPTER 22
OCTOBER 14, 2037, 10:39 AM
SCOURGE + 5 YEARS
EAST OF RISING STAR, TEXAS
Lola heard the horses before she saw the men. They were coming from the front of the property, south of the treehouse. A breeze kicked up and whistled through the pine slats in front of her.
Lola cursed herself. If she’d been in the house, the laser alarm at the front fence would have alerted her instead of her guessing and straining to hear.
She looked down at the Browning shotgun in her hands. She understood Battle’s logic, but regretted not having insisted on a longer-range weapon. Even with her lack of experience, she knew a shotgun wasn’t going to be accurate from a distance.