The Traveler (Book 2): Canyon

by Tom Abrahams

  He blinked against the momentary disorientation and then recognized the two men outside his cell. The short and tall grunts were back. The taller one had an Alpine coil of rope over his shoulder. The other was twirling a set of handcuffs.

  “We’re gonna move on out of here a little earlier than planned,” said the tall one. “Time to get moving.”

  The shorter one pulled a key from the pocket of his oversized, mud-stained jeans and slid it into the cell door. He swung open the wide door with a resistant creak.

  “Git over here,” said the tall one. “Walk slowly and put your hands out in front of you like so.” He held his arms out in front of his body, his wrists turned up and pressed together. “We’re gonna cuff you, got it?”

  Sawyer slid off the cot. He held his arms and hands as instructed and stepped to the smaller grunt, who had moved inside the cell. He winced against the snap and crank of the cuffs. The left one was uncomfortable against his ulna.

  The short one tugged on the left cuff. “Too tight?” he asked.

  Sawyer nodded. “A little.”

  The short one laughed, a spray of spittle hitting Sawyer in the face. “Good.” He turned to the taller grunt and repeated the forced laughter with more intensity. “Little thief don’t like his cuffs too tight.”

  “I’m not a thief,” Sawyer said. “I—”

  The short grunt shoved the boy in the chest. “Don’t you back talk, you hear?”

  Sawyer bit his lip and stared into the shorter grunt’s eyes until the man blinked. Sawyer believed the end was near. His mother was dead; nobody was going to rescue him. He had little to lose. He smirked.

  The short grunt grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him toward the open cell door. He shoved him from behind, and Sawyer stumbled into the taller grunt.

  The teen looked up at the taller grunt and smelled his fetid breath. The man opened his mouth in a sneer, revealing the source of the odor, a pair of rotting teeth at the front of his mouth. “C’mon, boy,” he said, “we need to hit the road.”

  Sawyer held his breath as the words leaked from the man’s mouth. He tried hard not to let the sour show on his face, and he walked ahead of the men. The taller one was in control now, guiding Sawyer along a dark hallway and then through a metal door that buzzed open.

  On the other side of the door was a third grunt. He was older than the two escorting Sawyer. His eyes were sad, drooping at the outer edges toward his ruddy cheeks.

  “I got the horses ready,” he said with a deliberate drawl and nodded at the tall one. “There’s one for you, Grat, and one for your brother, Emmett, there. Picked good ones for you,” he added. He was in front of them now, looking over his shoulder as he walked and talked. He was decidedly bowlegged. “Can’t let the Dalton boys sit on rogue horses, right?” He chuckled and pointed toward the front door. “They’re tied up right out here.”

  “What about the boy?” asked Emmett, the shorter one. “Where’s he gonna go?”

  “Yeah,” said Grat, the taller one, gripping Sawyer’s shoulder with more intensity. “You was supposed to have three horses.”

  “Ohhhh,” said the man, drawing out his words. “Don’t you worry now, Emmett. I got him a horse too. Though I gotta admit it ain’t as pretty as the ones you Daltons will ride.”

  They reached the entry, the early morning light pouring in through the glass sidelights on either side of the oversized six-paneled wood door. The old man reached for the handle to pull it open when Grat Dalton stopped him.

  “Hold up,” he said. “We got to fix this rope to the young’un here.” Grat pulled the looped rope off his shoulder and ran it around Sawyer’s narrow waist. He tied a Honda knot, common for lassoing, and pulled it taut. He wrapped the other end around his hand and winked at the boy.

  Sawyer quietly followed Grat Dalton and the sad-eyed, ruddy-cheeked, bowlegged grunt into the weed-infested lot in front of the jail. Emmett Dalton pushed Sawyer in the small of his back, shoving him toward the trio of horses tied to a cedar light post near the street.

  The older grunt weeble-wobbled toward the horse, his arms outstretched with apparent pride. “Whatcha think, fellas? Good? I got the freshest-looking ones on account’a I know you got a long ride ahead.”

  Emmett Dalton walked around Sawyer, slapping him on the back of the head when he passed, and marched up to the horses. He inspected each of them and announced his choice. “I’ll take this one here,” he said, patting the horse’s croup. “You good with that, Grat?”

  Grat nodded. “Whatever you want, Emmett. Don’t much matter to me.” He tugged on the rope and led Sawyer to his horse. He helped the boy up onto the saddle and told him to whip his leg over the other side.

  Sawyer’s legs weren’t long enough to reach the stirrup irons. Grat reached down, the rope still wrapped around his hand, and adjusted the straps. He lifted the stirrup until Sawyer’s foot slid in without issue and repeated the task on the other side.

  He looked up at Sawyer and ran his hand along the horse’s crest, trailing his fingers through the thick mane. “I ain’t much for kids,” he said. “Don’t care for ’em. Just giving you that as fair warning.”

  Sawyer couldn’t take his eyes off the rotting teeth in Grat’s mouth. They were the color of spoiled bananas, as best the teen could discern. One of them was loose, shifting back and forth as the grunt talked.

  Grat tugged on the rope forcefully, forcing Sawyer to grip the reins to prevent himself from falling off the side of the horse. “You hear me?” he spat.

  Sawyer took the horn with his cuffed hands and pulled himself upright. “I hear you,” he said. “I’ll be honest with you. I don’t much like grown-ups.”

  Grat snapped his mouth shut and clenched his jaw. His brow furrowed and he affixed his grip on the rope.

  Sawyer braced for another tug of the rope. Instead the taller grunt laughed.

  “You’re a funny one,” Grat sprayed. “A real knee-slapper, you are.” Then the forced smile evaporated. “You watch yourself, boy. It’s a long ride to the Jones.”

  The bowlegged grunt helped Grat find his mount and then unhitched the three horses from the light pole. “You should be good. Your saddlebags got some jerky in them, you got canteens full of cold water, and I put some extra ammo in there to go with your shotguns. You got some rounds for your revolvers and shells for the Brownings. Fresh cleaned and all.”

  “I don’t see the guns,” said Emmett. “Where’d you put ’em?”

  The older grunt’s eyes widened. “Oh,” he said, his cheeks flushing a deeper red than usual. “They’re in the jail. I’ll run and get them.”

  “Hurry up,” called Emmett. “We got to get this boy on the road. Places to be and such.”

  “Places to be is right,” echoed Grat. “We got people expecting us.”

  CHAPTER 15

  OCTOBER 15, 2037, 9:01 AM

  SCOURGE + 5 YEARS

  ABILENE, TEXAS

  Battle reloaded Inspector’s magazine then checked the nine millimeter Lola had picked from her pack. “You good with this?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Remember, I provided cover for you back at your place?”

  “True,” he said. “With all of your whining, I forget how much of a survivor you are.”

  Lola frowned and punched Battle in the arm. “Whining? Seriously? My kid is missing.”

  Battle chuckled. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m not laughing at your missing kid. I’m laughing at that punch.”

  She punched him again in the same spot. “Not funny, no matter why you’re laughing.”

  “You got another gun for me?” Pico asked, stroking the corners of his mustache.

  “Your stuff’s in my pack,” Battle said. “Should be another nine millimeter in there. We each have one. You’ve got a box of ammo to refill the cartridge. Help yourself.”

  Pico was still trembling, his face pale. He squatted next to the pack and rifled through it, removed his bag, and unfolded it. He opened
it up and added his share of the supplies. He pulled out an energy bar, ripped the wrapping with his teeth, and shoveled it into his mouth.

  “You should have brought that exploding gun with you,” Lola said to Battle. “You could have torched them and we could be on our way.”

  “The XM25? Too heavy,” he said. “Not really meant for long hikes. That’s why the military never fully embraced it, despite how awesome it can be.”

  “I didn’t need a history lesson,” said Lola. She was squinting with her right eye and checking the iron sights on the handgun as she aimed it at the ground. “I thought it would have been nice.”

  Battle reached into his pack and retrieved a pair of hand grenades. He held them up and shook his hand back and forth. “These’ll work too,” he said. He stood up and stuffed them in his pants pocket.

  “Those are the same things you used in the building?”

  “Yep.”

  Lola uncapped a bottle of water and took a swig. “Okay then.”

  “I’ll carry my pack,” Battle said. “You two should leave yours here. We’ll come back for them. You don’t need the added weight.”

  Lola stood, leaving her pack on the concrete ground next to the building. She gripped the nine millimeter in her right hand. “Let’s go.”

  Battle exchanged glances with Pico and nodded. “All right. We’re gonna move around the opposite side of the post office. If we come at them from this direction, they’ll pick us off. Let’s hit them from the north. I’ll toss in a pair of these grenades; then we’ll unload our weapons into the building and be off.”

  “That doesn’t guarantee we kill them,” Lola said, hustling around the western side of the building despite her limp. “They could still come after us.”

  “They won’t,” Battle said. His urgent march was deliberate and precise. He was focused. His head was clear.

  The trio turned right at the northwestern corner of the building and headed east. They walked a block and turned south again on Walnut. Battle was a couple of steps ahead of the other two. He slowed his approach as he moved closer to the HQ and its large green awning. One of the grunts lying in the street wasn’t quite dead yet. Battle could hear the rattle of his lungs as he gasped shallow swallows of air. He was facedown in the street.

  Battle looked past the grunt toward the front entrance. He was at angle such that anyone looking straight out of the mangled opening of the building would have to crane their necks to the left to see him advancing. The closer he got, the tighter he hugged the eastern side of the street. Without turning around, he motioned to Lola and Pico to follow his lead. They did, trailing directly behind him. When they reached the corner of the HQ, Battle snuck into the narrow alley that bordered the building to the north. It ran east and west along the length of the old structure. About halfway along its length, Battle found his spot. There was a narrow battered doorway that led into the HQ. He knew that door led to the long hallway separating the office from the main room. He’d rolled a grenade along its floor as he made his way out. It was the perfect surprise entrance.

  Battle kept to one side of the opening and instructed Lola and Pico to stay behind him. He crouched low and peered into what was left of the hallway. Despite the dim lighting of the fractured corridor, he could see movement. There were a couple of grunts picking their way around the debris. Beyond them, closer to the main hall, he could barely make out the shapes and shadows of more men.

  Battle reached awkwardly into his pocket to pull out the first of the two cylindrical MK3A2 concussion grenades.

  He offered his whispered prayer again. “As far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions from us.”

  He was about to pull the pin when a voice in his head cautioned him against it.

  “This is gratuitous,” Sylvia said. “You don’t need to do this. You could move on and find the boy.”

  Battle hesitated with his finger curled inside the pin. He clenched his teeth. Now was not the time for this.

  “Consider the covenant,” Sylvia said. “For the dark places of the land are full of the habitation of violence.”

  “Psalm 74:20,” Battle grumbled. “I know this. I don’t need a sermon.”

  Pico put his hand on Battle’s shoulder. “What?”

  Battle turned to look up at Pico, his eyes darting to Lola’s. He could see she knew what was happening. The pity was evident when she glanced away, pressing her lips together and looking at her feet.

  “Nothing,” Battle said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Sylvia’s voice, the voice of his conscience, wouldn’t be silenced. “You’re better than this, Marcus. There is time for killing. This is not it. Go find the boy.”

  Battle looked at the grenade in his hand. He squeezed it, sighing at the hypocrisy of his existence.

  “Do not envy a man of violence,” he said. “And do not choose any of his ways. Proverbs 3:31.” Battle slipped his finger from inside the pin and stood to meet Pico’s bewildered stare. “We need to go,” he said. “We need to find Sawyer.”

  Pico drew his features tight, his eyes, nose, and mustache shrinking together in the center of his face. “I—you—but—”

  “Don’t argue, Pico,” Lola interrupted. “Let’s go.”

  Pico shook his head, but he and Lola followed Battle back out onto Walnut Street. They were crossing the street to retrieve their packs when the galloping of hooves grew loud. Fifty yards from them, on the other side of the carnage in the street, were three men on horseback. One of them was a posse boss, the other two were grunts. They were armed with Brownings, and they were coming straight for Battle, Lola, and Pico.

  ***

  Posse Boss Pony Diehl never thought he’d live to see a day like this one: the HQ blown up, Cyrus Skinner’s house set on fire, a mess of grunts killed around a card table at the motor pool, and another crushed by an old popcorn machine.

  By the time he and his men rode north up Walnut Street, he couldn’t comprehend the carnage laid out in his path. Diehl yanked on his reins and pulled his horse to a stop. The grunts followed, slowing their horses and easing alongside Diehl.

  “What the hell happened here?” one of them asked.

  “Damned if I know,” said Diehl. “Looks like a shoot-out.”

  “Looks like we lost,” grunted the other.

  Diehl’s eyes moved from the dead bodies to the three people crossing the street up ahead. He pulled his pistol and slipped his gloved finger onto the trigger. “Hey!” he called ahead to the trio. “Stop. Who are you?”

  Diehl kept his horse still for the moment, but he adjusted his boots in the stirrup irons, ready to slam his heels into the horse’s sides. He narrowed his focus and identified two men and a woman. The woman was a redhead. She was vaguely familiar. One of the men was wearing a boss’s hat like his though Diehl didn’t recognize him. The other man, with a bushy, unkempt mustache, he did know. Salomon Pico.

  Diehl lowered his weapon but kept his finger on the trigger. “Hey!” he repeated. “Answer me.”

  None of the three responded. They picked up their pace, hurrying to the post office fence line running north and south along Walnut.

  “Pico,” Diehl said. “Salomon Pico? I know you. What are you doing?”

  Pico’s gait hitched and he looked back at Diehl. He waved but didn’t say anything, then quickly disappeared around the corner with the other two.

  “That was weird,” said one of the grunts.

  “You ain’t kiddin’,” said Diehl. He looked down at the dead in the street and then glanced over at the HQ. There was movement inside the shattered front door, and he raised his pistol again.

  “Pony Diehl,” a voice called from inside the HQ. It was resonant and full of gravel. “That you?” Cyrus Skinner emerged from the darkness of the building, his boots crunching on broken glass. His ear was bloodied.

  “Yeah.” Diehl palmed the saddle horn and swung his leg over the horse to dismount. He holstered his pistol
and met Skinner where the sidewalk met the street. “Just got back from the Expo Center.”

  “And?”

  Diehl motioned his head toward the bodies in the street. “It looks a lot like this.”

  “Yeah,” said Skinner. “Seems Mad Max is a tough one. And Pico’s working for him.”

  The color sank from Diehl’s face. His jaw dropped. “I just saw him,” he said, thumbing his hand over his shoulder. “Right there. I just—”

  Skinner’s face reddened. His body stiffened. “What?”

  “He was there…with two other people.”

  Skinner’s bloodshot eyes found the gun at Diehl’s hip. “And you didn’t kill him?”

  Diehl took a step back. “No. I didn’t know—”

  Skinner’s eyes lifted to Diehl’s. He spoke through clenched teeth. “You…just…let…him…walk?”

  “I—”

  Skinner roared, “Go get him!”

  Diehl spun back to mount his horse. He wrapped the reins around his glove and kick-started his horse. The two grunts followed him at a gallop. Diehl’s heart was pounding, his hands suddenly sweaty inside his gloves.

  He looked over his shoulder as he rounded the corner where he’d last seen Pico. Skinner was yelling at the HQ, and men climbed from its hull onto the street. Whatever had happened sent Skinner retreating and forced him to hide.

  Diehl was more frightened by that revelation than by Skinner’s admonition or the dead bodies strewn on Walnut. In the years since the Scourge, since he’d gone from being a punk kid with a puncture-proof attitude to the day Skinner put the brown hat on his head as posse boss, Pony Diehl had never seen Skinner cower.

  Cyrus Skinner was the meanest, toughest, most heartless man he’d ever known. He’d once seen a drunk grunt attack Skinner at a bar. The grunt had a knife. Skinner had been unarmed. The grunt had driven the knife into Skinner’s side and let go of it. Skinner, without so much as a whimper or a wince, had slowly, deliberately withdrawn the blade. His gaze had never left the drunk grunt’s glassy eyes as he’d turned the knife and slammed it to its hilt through the top of the man’s head.