by Tom Abrahams
Emmett’s face curled into a pout. “That’s a joke. Kid’s a kid. His momma’s dead. He’s gonna be dead. Here you are with your pleasantries and whatnot. I don’t get you sometimes, Grat.”
Grat turned to look at his brother. He sniffed the cold snot dripping at the end of his long, thin nose and then spat a thick wad of it onto the road. “I don’t care what you get, Emmett.”
CHAPTER 19
OCTOBER 15, 2037, 12:02 PM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
ABILENE, TEXAS
Cyrus Skinner licked the blood from the tip of his middle finger. He’d sliced it on a shard of wood as he picked his way back through the HQ and into his office.
He checked it for a splinter, spreading open the paper-thin gash until another bloom of blood filled the space. Finding none, he sucked it clean again and found his way to the corner of the unrecognizable room.
He took off his white hat and set it carefully on the floor next to him and lowered himself to his knees. He ran his hands along the wood planks on the floor, occasionally tapping on them with his knuckles. He worked one board and then the next, brushing away debris and dust, until a tap produced a hollow sound.
Skinner looked over his shoulder, assuring none of the hundred men gathering outside the HQ on Walnut Street had slipped inside. Confident nobody was in the room with him, he fished a pocketknife from his pants and slid the two-inch blade into the joint between a pair of hollow planks. He leveraged the blade until one of the planks popped up and he could fit his fingers underneath the gap.
Skinner pulled on the board until the three-foot length of it broke free, cracking into two pieces. He folded the knife, returned it to his pants, and used both hands to free the adjacent boards.
He tossed the boards aside, sucked the sting from his finger, and leaned over to peer into the subfloor compartment. The light filtering in through the window was enough for him to see the treasure buried there.
Skinner reached into the hole and pressed his hand flat against an electronic panel. Nothing happened. He tried again. Nothing. Either the blood on his finger or a dead internal battery rendered the fingerprint recognition useless.
Skinner cursed under his breath and searched his memory.
“Yes,” he hissed when the numbers raced back to his consciousness. He grasped the cylinder, spun it to the left three times, and found the right number. He spun it to the right and again to the left then cranked an adjacent lever to open the Cartel’s emergency safe.
Skinner pulled on the heavy iron door and it opened outward. The safe was sitting on its back, its contents placed there neatly. Skinner pulled them out one by one and set them next to his hat.
He looked toward the window and smiled at the dusty sunlight beaming through. Skinner needed sunlight today. He reached one more time into the safe and removed a small black bag. He opened the bag and filled it with the treasure, slung it over his shoulder, and trudged across the debris back to Walnut Street.
A cacophony of gritty, drawling voices met him as he stepped from the wide sidewalk onto the street. He drew his lower lip up toward his nose and nodded. Skinner figured there had to be as many as a hundred fifty, maybe two hundred men crowding the street. Some of them were gathered around a box truck. Others were checking the oil on a rusting black SUV. There was a landscaping trailer draped with a large blue tarp attached to the back of the SUV.
There were countless horses and a couple of motorcycles. Men not preoccupied with prepping their transportation were talking, smoking, checking their weapons. None of them paid Skinner any mind. The grunts and bosses were focused.
This was good. No more child’s play. No more special forces scout teams. They needed overkill to handle Mad Max. Skinner tried to remind himself he knew the infidel’s real name now. It was Battle. Battle. He whispered the name to himself again and again as he walked south on Walnut, away from his army. Battle. He cursed the name. He cursed the man. He cursed his predicament.
Skinner looked up at the sky, took the bag from his shoulder, and dropped to a knee in the middle of the street. He opened up the satchel and pulled out a two-pound, eleven-inch, black-fabric-covered square. He carefully unfolded the square, revealing three panels. The panels were coated with solar cells. Skinner laid the portable charger on its back and plugged a long, kinked cord into a port along its bottom edge. A red light illuminated and began flashing.
Skinner adjusted the panels, ensuring they were getting as much light as possible, ran his fingers along the cord, and connected it to a satellite phone. He pushed the power button on the phone, and after a few seconds, the screen on the front of the phone flickered to life.
He looked at the charge indicator on the phone. Three percent. A tiny lightning bolt indicated the solar charger was doing its job.
Skinner pressed a combination to unlock the phone and then pressed a satellite location key. The phone alerted him the search mechanism was working.
He reached back into the bag and pulled out the most important pieces of the treasure: a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and a lighter.
He tore open the box and hungrily slipped a cigarette between his lips. He lit the rarefied treat and inhaled slowly, relishing the taste of a cigarette he’d not enjoyed in years. The crap he regularly smoked might as well have been filled with dirt and sawdust compared to the Marlboro.
The phone trilled with a tone, indicating it had located a satellite and was connected to the network. Skinner took another short drag and cradled the phone in his hands. He carefully dialed the prescribed series of numbers and hit send.
He lifted the phone to his ear and listened to a series of clicks, followed by a warbling ring, then someone answered.
“The emergency phone?” asked General Roof. His voice was raspy and hollow. He sounded like someone who’d spent a week in the desert without water.
Skinner pushed the phone against his ear. “No choice.”
“This Mad Max fellow is more of a problem than you led me to believe,” said the general.
“He’s a slippery one,” said Skinner. “But we’re not taking any chances. We’ve got a couple hundred men about to track him to Lubbock. We’ll get him.”
“A couple hundred men?” asked the general. “To stop one man? Is that necessary? That’s a lot of rations, wear on horses, and it puts our resources out of position.”
“We’ve tried smaller groups,” said Skinner. “It ain’t worked. He’s too good. I hate to say it, but he is. We are taking horses. We’re also taking part of the motor pool. He’s in a Humvee.”
“He’s trying to retrieve the boy. That’s why he’s going to Lubbock?”
“Yes.”
“I won’t ask how you know this. And I won’t ask how he has a Humvee. I don’t want to know.”
Skinner sucked on the cigarette and then blew out the smoke through his nose. He didn’t answer.
The general sighed. “You think you’ll get to him before he gets to Lubbock?”
“If we leave now. I got a handful of posses taking different roads. We’re bound to find him no matter what path he takes. I’m pretty certain of that.”
“Good,” said the general. “I’m going to send out a garrison we keep at the southern edge of Lubbock. I want them to squeeze Mad Max as he approaches. It’ll leave that edge of town unguarded, but it’s tactically smart. You agree?”
“Sure. We’ll get to him. One of the posses left twenty minutes ago. They’re headed full speed straight up 84.”
“Either way,” said Roof, “we’ll get him. And if you’re the one to do it, Cyrus, bring him with you to Lubbock.”
Skinner pulled the phone from his ear and looked at the connection indicator. It was solid. “Repeat that,” he said. “I don’t think I heard you.”
“Bring Mad Max to Lubbock.”
Skinner was incredulous, and his tone didn’t hide it. “You want him alive?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t get it.” Skinner looked at the thr
ee-quarters of a Marlboro between his fingers and dropped it to the ground. He stomped it out with his boot. It wasn’t appetizing anymore. “This man has killed I don’t know how many of our men. He’s blown up our HQ in Abilene. He set fire to my house with some blowtorch gun. He’s got it coming to him. I got plans, Roof.”
There was a pause. “Roof?”
Skinner swallowed. “Sorry. General, I meant to say. I got plans, General.”
“Those plans will need to wait until I meet our hero,” said the general. “I have plans for him too. You get him, and you bring him to Lubbock. Alive.”
“I still—”
“Do you understand, Cyrus?”
Skinner rolled his eyes and clenched his jaw. “Yes.”
“Say it.”
“Say what?”
“Say you understand that you are to bring him to Lubbock alive.”
Skinner turned around to see a posse of a couple dozen grunts mount their horses. A pair of bosses were leading them north on Walnut. They were on their way. Skinner had told the posse bosses to leave as soon as possible. He knew they’d need more time.
The horses, even at a full gallop, could only hit twenty-five to thirty miles an hour. They’d be driving twice that fast in the trucks.
Skinner turned back and looked at the crushed Marlboro on the ground. He regretted snuffing it. “I understand I gotta bring Mad Max…uh…Battle to Lubbock, and he’s gotta be alive when we get there.”
General Roof’s voice pitched. “What did you say?”
“I said I’d keep him alive.”
“No,” Roof said. “You said Battle. What’s Battle?”
Skinner watched another large posse head north. “Battle is his name, I guess. We’ve been calling him Mad Max ’cause he won’t die. One of my grunts got his name and told me. It’s Battle.”
“Odd name.”
Skinner said, “Fits him, though.”
“Perhaps.”
“I gotta go,” said Skinner. “We’re losing time. I don’t want him getting to Lubbock before I get a chance to look at him eye to eye.”
“Use this line to let me know when you’ve retrieved him,” said General Roof. “I’ll let you know then exactly where I want you to deliver him.”
“Got it.” Skinner disconnected the call and stuffed the treasure into the bag. He marched back to the remaining men. Two more posses were gone. He approached a fat grunt leaning against the black SUV. The grunt pulled up his pants and stood at attention when the white hat headed toward him.
Skinner pointed at the grunt, his finger a few inches from the man’s pudgy face. “You the driver?”
The grunt’s cheeks and lips flapped as he nodded nervously. “Yes, sir. I’m supposed to drive you. I’ve got the truck ready to go.”
Skinner took a good look at the grunt. His waist was hidden behind the girth pouring over his belt. His pants were too short and were frayed at the bottom. His leather boots were stained and scarred with deep scratches. His ill-fitted chambray shirt revealed the need for push-ups. His face looked as though it were squeezed between a closing door and its jamb.
“How in the world does a man get fat after the world goes to hell?” Skinner asked with all seriousness.
The man’s eyes dropped to his feet, had he been able to see them, and his shoulders drew inward. He stammered out an apology and Skinner thumped him in the shoulder with a fist.
“I’m messing with you, Porky,” he said. “More power to you. Just know that if we get stranded without food, I’m eating you first. Let’s go.”
Porky opened the rear driver’s side door. Skinner slid into the SUV and onto the cracked black leather seat. They were cold to the touch. He dropped the bag on the seat next to him. Another grunt jumped into the front passenger seat. A third hopped into the back, next to Skinner’s bag. His eyes widened. He was sitting next to the captain.
“The weapons loaded into the back?” Skinner asked, pulling his revolver from his hip and setting it on top of the bag.
Porky looked into the rearview mirror and adjusted it. “Yes, sir. There’s a whole stack of shotguns. I got plenty of shells too.”
“Let’s roll out, then,” Skinner said. “Time’s a-wastin’.”
CHAPTER 20
OCTOBER 15, 2037, 12:31 PM
SCOURGE + 5 YEARS
NEAR DERMOTT, TEXAS
Lola stood on the shoulder of the highway, her hands on her forehead. “How is that possible?”
They were stuck. The Humvee had stalled, or worse, about a half mile south of the town of Dermott along Highway 84.
“Are you sure it’s not the gas?” she asked Battle.
Battle pulled off the brown Stetson and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead with the back of his fleece sleeve. “It’s not the gas,” he said. “I emptied that ten-gallon can we had. Even if the tank were bone dry, ten gallons would get us into town. The engine would start.”
“I don’t know what it is,” said Pico. “Oil maybe? I don’t know.”
Lola dropped her arms to her sides, planting her hands on her hips. “All right then,” she said. “Let’s get what we can and go. We’re wasting time here. We can be into Dermott in less than fifteen minutes if we walk fast.”
Battle motioned at her leg with his head. “Your ankle isn’t gonna be able to do that,” he said. “It’s a mile, right?”
“Yeah,” said Pico. “We passed a sign a mile back that said two miles. So I figure that’s about right.”
“I’ll be fine,” Lola said.
“Okay,” Battle said, reaching into the back of the Humvee for his gear. “Grab your gear. Lola, pick what you need and hand it to me.”
Lola frowned. “Why?”
“We need to make good time,” Battle said. “The less weight you carry, the better off we are. I’ll carry your load.”
Lola reluctantly agreed and handed Battle some food, her canteen, and extra ammunition. She tucked a nine millimeter in her front waistband and took a Browning shotgun. “I can carry my own weapon.”
The three walked silently, but briskly, toward town. At its peak in the sky, the sun did little to burn off the chill in the air. There was an occasional wind that blew directly into their faces as they marched. Lola worked hard to keep pace and did so without complaint.
In less than twenty minutes they found themselves standing in Dermott. Calling it a town was generous. It was really more of a waypoint between Abilene and Lubbock and consisted of a large steel-framed maintenance barn for Scurry County. It was one of those old Texas towns that had followed the railroads one hundred and thirty years earlier.
The oil boom of 1949 put what was otherwise a farming depot on the map. It went bust two years later. By the 1990s, it had a population of five.
It was, however, one of the few places where the number of residents increased after the Scourge. The Cartel put a permanent crew in Dermott because of its location along one of its drug-running routes. Twenty men were stationed there at any given time. The lowest of the grunts and a couple of unpopular posse bosses rotated two-month shifts. They lived and worked in the maintenance barn, where the Cartel also stored small amounts of rations and bales of its drug supply.
Battle stood on the far eastern edge of Highway 84, looking at the gray metal barn. He, Lola, and Pico were hiding behind a large rusted utility box opposite the barn. They’d approached with caution once they’d seen the sun reflecting off the barn’s silver roof from a couple hundred yards away.
Despite Pico’s warning that the barn might be a storage depot of some kind for the Cartel, they hadn’t seen anybody milling about. It looked, from a distance, as if it might be abandoned.
Up close, Battle could see it had a single door and a lone nine-pane square window facing the highway. To the right of the barn was a cement slab covered with the same tin roof that pitched atop the barn. There were a couple dozen horses tied to the vertical iron posts supporting the roof. Though a three-foot-high barbed fence separate
d the trio from the building, the gate was unhitched, a looped chain unfastened and hanging free.
The horses told Battle the place wasn’t abandoned. The gate told him the occupants weren’t particularly vigilant.
“That’s convenient,” Battle said. “Nice of them to leave the gate unlocked.”
“What are we going to do?” asked Pico.
“We need those horses,” said Lola.
Battle agreed. “That we do,” he said. “Let’s go take them.”
Pico looked at Battle and then searched the property from behind the relative safety of the utility box. “Really?”
Battle shrugged, bouncing the heavy pack on his back. “I’m not going to knock on the door and ask permission.”
“We don’t know how many of them could be inside,” said Lola. “We could get slaughtered.”
“I think we take our chances,” Battle suggested. “In and out. Find a horse you like. Hop on. Ride off.”
“For being a soldier,” said Lola, “I really question your strategy.”
“He was a soldier?” asked Pico.
“Was,” said Battle. “I was a soldier. Not anymore.” He glared at both of them for good measure and then took off across the road.
He jogged through the gate to the covered area next to the barn, his boots crunching the eroding gravel lot between the highway and the concrete foundation of the barn.
“Pick one and hop on,” he said over his shoulder as he moved quickly to the horses. He held his rifle in both hands as he scurried. “Slide your shotguns through the saddle’s billet strap if you don’t have a scabbard.”
He darted onto the concrete and found a horse, but before he mounted it, he helped Lola. He grabbed her thin hips, feeling the sharp crest of her pelvic bone. She was so thin.
She adjusted herself in the saddle. The stirrups were too low for her feet, but she held tight to the saddle horn. Battle slid her shotgun into the billet strap. He turned to look for Pico when he heard a man shouting at them.