Battle

by Tom Abrahams

  Marcus stepped back from the man. “Why?”

  “Why what?” asked the man. “Why don’t I want to fight?”

  “No,” said Marcus. “Why do you want to warn me? I don’t know you.”

  The man shrugged. “I guess I thought it wouldn’t be a fair fight if I didn’t warn you. I don’t want to see you get killed. You being a legend and all.”

  “What’s your name?” Marcus asked.

  The man looked at his feet and rewrapped his fingers around the bars. “Does it matter?”

  Marcus took a couple of steps and stopped at the bars, only inches from the caged man. He spoke softly as a parent would to a child. “It kinda does, friend. How am I supposed to believe what you’re telling me if you won’t be straight up about who you are?”

  The man kicked one of the bars with the toe of his boot. “Dallas,” he said. “Dallas Stoudenmire.”

  “Okay then, Dallas,” said Marcus, “tell me where you’re from and what exactly you know.”

  “El Paso. I was a sheep rancher before the Scourge. Sold wool and meat from a shop on my land. Managed to keep the flock for a few years after the Scourge, but the Cartel ended that. I still manage to farm the land. Gourds mostly, some beans and okra. It does okay without much rain.”

  “So you keep to yourself?”

  The man let go of the bars and moved away from Battle. He sat on the wood bench at the opposite end of the cell, his back against the cement block wall, and folded his hands in his lap. His shoulders hunched forward and he looked down at his boots.

  “I did,” he said softly. “Llano River Clan made it tough for a while. I killed plenty of them when they got too close. I’m a good shot. But it didn’t matter. They took…” The man pulled his hand up to his face and ran his fingers through his hair.

  Lou’s hands were stuffed into her jeans pockets, a finger sticking through the holes in the bottom of them. “Took what?”

  She, Rudy, and Marcus already knew the answer. They knew firsthand what the LRC had done, what they’d taken from Marcus and tried to take from Rudy.

  The man looked up at them, bleary-eyed. “My girl,” he said. “We’d been together since high school. We were each other’s best friend, you know. Then one day she’s gone. Only girl I ever loved.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Marcus.

  The man wiped his hands across his face and puffed air from his cheeks. “That’s why I’m here, I guess. I don’t want to see nobody else get ambushed if I know it’s coming. Even if it’s somebody I ain’t never met.”

  “What exactly do you know?” asked Rudy.

  “I know there’s a gang headed here to kill Marcus Battle,” said Dallas. “They tried to get me to join ’em five days ago. I told ’em I wasn’t interested.”

  “Who are they?” asked Lou. “They have a name?”

  “Junior,” said Dallas.

  “The Junior gang?” asked Rudy.

  “No,” said Dallas. “The leader. His name was Junior. He showed up at the market where we trade goods. You know, to help each other out. I give a guy some okra and he gives me homemade soap. That sort of thing.”

  “Got it,” said Marcus.

  “He shows up and holds court, so to speak. Tells everybody at the market he was out to avenge the death of his father. Said Marcus Battle killed him and had it coming. Was willing to pay for men to join his cause.”

  Marcus scratched his neck. “How many men?”

  “Just Junior and one other. A man named Grissom,” said Dallas. “Nobody took him up on the offer. Nobody wanted a piece of you.”

  Lou laughed condescendingly and walked toward the cell. “Wait,” she said, waving her hands and shaking her head. “You rode your pony all the way here to tell us two men have a grudge against Marcus? We can handle two men without warning. What’s your game, Dallas?”

  Dallas cocked his head to the side. “No game,” he said defensively. “I’m telling you they’re gonna come with a bunch of men. They’re gonna have a posse. I got no doubt about that.”

  Lou pressed her hands against the cell bars and peered through the gap. “How so?”

  “After they left El Paso, they were headed to the Alamo.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Marcus.

  Dallas shrugged. “They said if we changed our minds, we could meet them there.”

  “What’s important about the Alamo?” asked Rudy.

  Lou looked at him askance. “Don’t you remember the Alamo?”

  “Funny,” Rudy said flatly. “Seriously though, what’s with the Alamo?”

  “It’s a bad place for bad men,” said Marcus. “Left over from the Cartel days. Moonshine, drugs, women, and guns for hire.”

  Rudy shook his head. “I had no idea.”

  “Chances are Junior found what he wanted there,” Marcus said. “No telling how many men are headed this way. And we know San Angelo still has leftovers from the LRC. He could pick up a few more if he hits that town on his way north.”

  “What do you think?” asked Rudy.

  Marcus held up a finger and slid past Rudy to the wall holding the gun rack. Next to the rack was a hook holding a key ring. Marcus plucked the ring from the hook and moved past Rudy to the cell door. He slid the key into the lock and looked over his shoulder at Rudy as he spoke. “I think we let Dallas out of his cell,” he said, turning the key. “And we get ready for a fight.”

  He pulled open the heavy door and planted a boot at its corner to stop it from swinging shut. Lou moved back, giving Marcus a skeptical side-eye.

  Dallas stood from the bench and hesitantly inched to the opening. “You’re letting me go?”

  “I didn’t say that,” said Marcus. “You’re staying with us. You’re going to help us fight.”

  Dallas froze. “Wait, what?”

  Lou’s jaw dropped. “Yeah. What?”

  Marcus moseyed back to the wall and rehung the keys. He reached over to the rifle on the rack and pulled it down with one hand.

  “Dallas said he killed plenty of LRC back in El Paso,” said Marcus. “He said he was a good shot. Don’t you think we’re going to need as many good shots as we can get if there’s a posse coming this way?”

  Dallas waved his hands in front of his body in protest. “I didn’t say I was interested in fighting. Just ’cause I wanted to warn you don’t mean I want to be involved.”

  “You already involved yourself.” Marcus checked the bolt action on the rifle, aiming the weapon at the floor. “You said you don’t want to see me die. So stick around and make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” asked Rudy. “We don’t know if this man is who he says he is. This could be part of Junior’s plan.”

  “If there is a Junior,” added Lou. “Dallas here, if that’s even his real name, could be a scammer of some kind.”

  Marcus held the weapon with both hands and then extended it toward Dallas. He smiled at the man. “Take your weapon. You’re staying here. At least for a day or two while you rest up. Then I guess you’re going to want to stay and help us fight. You can bunk with me.”

  Dallas moved forward with skepticism but took the rifle and held it at his waist. “Thank you.”

  Lou huffed. “Marcus—”

  “Lou,” he said, “this man here is who he says he is. His pain was real. It was on his face. His breath smells like fresh spinach, which grows in El Paso this time of year. His horse out there is exhausted from a long ride. The saddle it wears has an El Paso Saddlery stamp on the side. And I believe his name is Dallas Stoudenmire.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do,” said Marcus. “No man names himself Stoudenmire by choice. Battle might be stupid for a last name, but Stoudenmire is downright ridiculous.”

  CHAPTER 10

  FEBRUARY 7, 2044, 2:14 PM

  SCOURGE + 11 YEARS, 4 MONTHS

  KERRVILLE, TEXAS

  Junior chewed on thick weed, rolling it aroun
d on his tongue and twisting it with his fingers. He was thirsty but didn’t want his posse to see him drinking too much water. Real men could go without. He needed to project strength to the loose band of hired mercenaries he was leading into battle against the man who’d altered the course of his life.

  He held the reins loosely in one hand and swayed effortlessly in the saddle as they rode north on what used to be Texas State Highway 10. The air was dry and he sucked on the weed.

  “We’re about a third of the way to San Angelo,” said Grissom, riding beside him. “We could be there by this time tomorrow.”

  Junior inhaled deeply through his nostrils.

  “I think we need more men,” said Grissom. “These guys are good, but do you think seven is enough?”

  Junior held the weed in his teeth as he answered, “That’s why we’re stopping in San Angelo. Battle did some damage there. We’ll no doubt find some people looking to make good. Might not even have to pay them.”

  Grissom tightened his grip on his horse’s reins and used the horn to adjust himself in the saddle. He looked over his shoulder at the five men trailing them, leaned toward his boss, and whispered, “You never told me exactly what he did.”

  “Who?”

  “Battle,” said Grissom. “I know he killed your pop and he hurt you. But what did he do?”

  Junior rolled the weed around on his tongue. Grissom was right. He’d never fully explained what happened. He’d never detailed the September day that Marcus Battle had put a pair of bullets in him or the day, a month later, Battle had murdered his father. He’d only spoken of it vaguely.

  “It was late September,” he began, “around nine o’clock in the morning. There were six of us. We rode up on this ranch we’d spotted the day before. It was near Rising Star, a little nothing town near Abilene. We’d passed by it I don’t know how many times without noticing it. But we did that time, so we hit it.”

  “Battle’s place?”

  “Yeah. It was Battle’s. There was this woman standing in the grass. She was a pretty one. Older, mind you, but still pretty. One of the fellas calls out to her, asks her if she might be able to spare some food. Before she can answer, this kid fires off a rifle shot from inside a treehouse.”

  “Did he hit anyone?”

  Junior shook his head. “Nah. I think it was a warning shot. But the woman, his momma I think, screams; then she starts running. They knew from the outset we weren’t there for food or nothing.”

  “So she ran.”

  Junior nodded. “Two of the fellas, Rolf and Shimey, chased after her and followed her into a building. The others went into another building, a barn. I took aim at the kid in the treehouse.”

  “You shot him?”

  Junior mimed aiming a rifle and pulling the trigger. “Dead,” he said with a smirk. “Kid fell from the treehouse. Hit the ground hard.”

  “Where was Battle?”

  “Thing is,” said Junior, “I don’t know where he came from. One second he wasn’t anywhere and the next he was in my face. He got the drop on me with a Glock. I acted all scared and nervous like I was a lookout.”

  “He shot you?”

  “Twice,” said Junior. “Once in each shoulder. Coulda killed me. Those shots burned like the devil. I thought I was gonna die from the blood loss.”

  “Then what?”

  “I shooed my horse back to the highway and I hid in the grass in case he came back looking for me out of spite,” said Junior. “I gotta tell you, Grissom, I’ve seen a lot of crazy things in my life, but I ain’t never seen the straight-up death stare that man Battle carries on his face. It’s like he’s not even human. He’s all rage and anger. But it’s controlled all smart-like and such.”

  “Did he come back?”

  “No,” said Junior. “He took care of Rolf and Shimey. Shot ’em dead in the grass. Then he went into the barn. That’s where the others were. He didn’t come back out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They thought he was dead,” said Junior. “They put I don’t know how many bullets in him. But he wouldn’t die. He even talked to my dad as he lay there bleeding out.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Said he was gonna kill him.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Grissom.

  Junior pulled the weed from his mouth, twirling it between his thumb and forefinger. “For what?”

  “Him killing your dad.”

  Junior slid the weed back between his teeth. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s the thing. He didn’t kill my dad. He was just responsible.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His dog killed my dad,” said Junior. He chuckled and then looked Grissom in the eyes. “Can you believe that? A mangy mutt killed Hank Barbas on the edge of the Concho River. Chewed him to pieces.”

  Grissom swallowed hard but didn’t respond. He shifted his boots in the stirrups.

  “My dad saved my life, you know,” said Junior. “He picked me up out of that grass, all bleeding and such. He carried me on his horse and got me help. Saved my life. That’s what a father does for a son.”

  Grissom forced an uncomfortable smile. “He was a good dad,” he offered.

  “Damn straight,” said Junior. “And a good son gets even. We’ll find what we need in San Angelo. People there remember what Marcus Battle did.”

  CHAPTER 11

  FEBRUARY 7, 2044, 4:16 PM

  SCOURGE + 11 YEARS, 4 MONTHS

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  Taskar rested on the hood of the hearse. The engine was running. He held the wad of cash in his hands and stared at the green-hued glass building in front him.

  This was the place. He’d checked the address again and again, hoping he was wrong. He wasn’t.

  1600 Clifton Road.

  The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

  “This is a bad idea,” he mumbled. “Money or no money.” He’d been standing there for close to an hour, unable or unwilling to take the final steps of the journey. He’d finally made the decision to return the cash and leave when the woman who’d hired him emerged from the entrance of the building and marched purposefully toward him. She was wearing a white lab coat and light green doctor’s scrubs. When she approached Taskar, she greeted him with a tepid familiarity, offering enough warmth to indicate she remembered who he was and nothing more. Her name tag read DR. G. SHARP.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  “I’m not la—”

  “You were to be here at four o’clock sharp,” she said. “It’s close to four twenty.”

  “I’ve been here. I ju—”

  “We have a schedule to keep. If you can’t be punctual and adhere to a very strict protocol, then we may need to have a discussion.”

  Taskar extended the wad of cash in her direction. “That’s the thing,” he said. “I don’t want the job. This is not for me. I don’t do diseases. Not control, not prevention.”

  Sharp bristled. Her eyes twitched, and she dropped her hands into her white lab coat pockets. Her mouth curled into a disapproving frown. “You don’t have a choice,” she said flatly, not looking at the cash.

  Taskar withdrew the money and chuckled. “Sure I do.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  Taskar tried to gauge the woman’s lack of expression. She was serious. But what could she do about it? He adjusted his hold on the ball of cash and tossed it underhanded at the woman. It hit her in the midsection and dropped to the ground. She was unmoved. Taskar shook his head and gripped the handle to the driver’s door.

  “I’d stop if I were you,” Sharp warned. “There are armed men positioned on the roof of the building. They will fire if I give the signal.”

  Taskar froze with his hand on the handle. “Are you serious?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Take a look, Timothy,” she said, using his given name. Nobody had called him that since he was a child. “Look up. You’ll see two of them. There are three more you won’t see.”


  Taskar swallowed hard and slid his fingers from the door handle. He turned around, his feet dragging in the gravel, and looked toward the green-hued glass. He scanned the rooftop and found two armed men perched at the edge and aiming their rifles straight at him.

  A hint of a triumphant smile flashed across Sharp’s otherwise stone-chiseled face. “Now look at your chest,” she said, her eyes locked on his.

  Taskar lowered his chin to his chest. There were four dancing red dots targeting him. “What is this?”

  “We have a deal,” said Sharp. “It’s nonnegotiable at this point. Follow me.”

  Sharp spun on her heel, hands still buried in her lab coat pockets, and led the reluctant Taskar toward the front entrance of the building. He picked up the money from the ground, stuffed it into his pocket, and trudged across the plaza. Sharp held the door open for him and he stepped into the building.

  A rush of cool air blasted him from the top of the door frame, sending a chill down the back of his neck. Then again, it might not have been the air that caused the involuntary shiver.

  Rather than a lobby or a main reception area, Taskar was standing amid what appeared to be a cross between a field hospital and the sort of decontamination units he’d seen in horror movies more than a decade ago.

  There were several large white plastic tents that stretched toward the ceiling of the three-story atrium. They were labeled with various acronyms Taskar couldn’t decipher. Between and amongst the tents were computer terminals and examination tables. There were also black granite lab tables that reminded him of high school chemistry class. People in a variety of colored full-body protective suits moved from spot to spot. Some of them, however, were standing guard. They were armed and stood at the ready as if any improper flinch could unleash a hail of semiautomatic gunfire. Sharp motioned to one of them and the guard hurried to her side.

  “This is Blankenship,” she said to Taskar. “He’ll be accompanying us.” She reached out and touched Taskar on the shoulder. “Timothy, walk with me, please.”

  He pointed at the people in the suits. “Shouldn’t I be wearing one of those?”