The Traveler (Book 2): Canyon

by Tom Abrahams

  “Battle! Up ahead!”

  Riding straight for them, three blocks north, were at least a dozen horses carrying armed men. They were Cartel. A couple of them wore the signature brown hats of posse bosses.

  Battle yanked the reins and drove his horse to the left. Lola and Pico followed without instruction.

  Pow!

  A single shot from a Browning chased them past the intersection as they sped west, racing parallel to the remnants of a drooping phone line, which ran infinitely along the length of the road.

  Battle raised up in his saddle and goaded his horse as fast as it could carry him. He lowered his head and looked under his arm to see Lola and Pico a length behind him. The posse wasn’t visible yet.

  Battle approached a wider intersection and he turned right. Heading north, he bolted between a high school football stadium to his left and a dirt racetrack to his right.

  Pow! Pow! Pow!

  The posse was behind them. Some of the men were firing off what were no better than warning shots as they gave chase. Battle peeked under his arm again. Pico and Lola were weaving their horses back and forth as they followed. There were no people anywhere. The streets and the houses were empty. It was a ghost town.

  Pow! Pow!

  While Battle knew the Brownings couldn’t hit a barn from the distance between them, the noise rattled his horse. It resisted his pull on the reins and, against his command, turned right back toward Broadway.

  Battle tried coaxing the horse, but it didn’t want to listen to him. It sped up, which was good. Then it turned again, too quickly, while Battle was adjusting his grip on the reins. He lost his balance in the saddle and was thrown, tumbling to the dirt as Lola and Pico rode past him.

  Though he was scraped up and bruised, Battle still had his wits about him. He pulled McDunnough and took aim at the first of the horsemen coming in his direction.

  He trained the nine millimeter and tracked the posse boss from left to right.

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  He hit the man, sending him from his saddle and into the dirt beside the road. He rolled over, his eyes still open.

  Pow! Pow!

  The explosion of the Brownings was louder than the approaching thunder of the posse. Battle knew he couldn’t fight them by himself. So he turned and ran.

  He slid between a pair of shotgun houses and scurried through the narrow space between them. It was too small for a horse to navigate. A pair of errant shots blasted behind him as he emerged on the other side of the homes. He crossed the street and darted down another narrow alleyway, diagonally racing toward an abandoned gas station. He’d eluded the bulk of the posse for the moment and was able to slide under the damaged garage bay door that stood open with a three-foot gap between its bottom and the concrete threshold.

  Battle was hit with a familiar, pungently sweet odor that immediately made him gag. He pushed himself to his feet. The only light in the space was coming from underneath the open bay door. It revealed nothing beyond the first couple of feet inside the garage.

  Battle stepped into the dark, swallowing against the fetor. He pulled his arm to his face and covered his nose with the crook of his elbow, but he couldn’t escape it. He could taste the fruity rot of it. It was the smell of death, human death.

  Battle knew from experience that dead people emitted an odor different than other animals. A field medic had told him at the end of a particularly difficult day in Isfahan, Iran, that a unique selection of chemicals was responsible for the distinct odor. That odor had permeated Iran after the death squads eliminated much of the opposition. It was prevalent in Syria too.

  That odor, the sour, cringe-inducing odor, was why Battle had been so quick to bury his son and wife after their deaths. He’d have lingered with their bodies for days, lamenting his inability to protect them had it not been for what he knew was coming.

  He refused to attach their memories to that smell. He couldn’t do it. He didn’t want to smell it ever again.

  But here he was, the odor enveloping him. He took brief, shallow breaths to avoid vomiting. His gag reflex was in overdrive. He gave in to it, bent over, and heaved. His stomach convulsed, his throat burning as he threw up what little was in his stomach. It was mostly bile. The taste, as awful as it was, muted the odor enough to make it tolerable.

  There was a voice outside of the garage. “You see him?”

  “I lost him,” said another.

  A third man cursed. “How’d he get away? We had him.”

  Battle stood quietly in the dark, his muscles frozen. The men kept talking, but their voices grew more distant.

  Battle exhaled, allowing himself to breathe once the men were far enough away. He was reminded of the odor when he inhaled. Slowly, he removed his backpack and set it on the ground in front of him. He knelt down and rummaged through the pack. Near the bottom, he found a Ziploc bag. He pulled it from the pack and blindly opened it, removing a box of waterproof matches.

  Battle zipped the plastic bag and stuffed it back into his pack. He pushed open the matchbook, pulled out a stick, and struck it across the rough striking surface, igniting the red phosphorus on the end of the match. It was actually a regular match that Battle had coated with clear nail polish. The polish made the tip essentially waterproof. It lit easily when struck.

  Battle held the match up in front of his face, but it didn’t do much to help. By the time he’d taken a couple of steps farther into the blackness of the garage, the flame was singeing his finger. He blew it out and lit another. A few more steps. Still nothing. Another match. A few more steps. And—

  Battle let the match burn to his finger and snuffed it with a pinch, a flash of what he saw still visible in the afterimage of the dark.

  Against the back wall of the garage, stacked like cordwood, were countless bodies.

  Battle took another match. He squeezed his eyes closed, popped them open, and struck the match. The gruesome work of the Cartel was as shocking the second time.

  Old. Young. Man. Woman. Boy. Girl. Infant. The Cartel’s henchmen had not discriminated. Some of the women were nude. So were some of the men.

  The match burned to his finger, stinging it again before he put out the flame. He stood there in the dark, welcoming it.

  Battle couldn’t know what it was the people had done to deserve their fate. Chances were good they’d done nothing. Maybe they’d protested giving up their crops or their land. Maybe they’d mouthed off to the wrong posse boss. Maybe they were executed when they ceased being useful, for whatever purposes. It didn’t matter.

  Battle clenched his jaw and his fists, inadvertently crushing the matchbook in his left hand. The Cartel was worse than the Scourge. There were those who were immune to the pneumonia, those who were beyond its reach. Nobody, it seemed, was immune from the Cartel.

  Battle stuffed the crumpled matchbook into his pocket and found his way to his backpack. He lay down on his stomach and crawled toward the light. He inched toward the support beam that separated the twin garage doors and lay behind it just inside the space.

  He peeked out from underneath the open door. There was nobody there. He listened. Nothing. He was safe for the moment.

  From his position on the floor, Battle reached into his breast pocket, inside the partially zipped hoodie, and gripped a piece of photographic paper.

  On the paper was a picture of a man Battle barely recognized. His eyes shone, his muddy brown hair was neatly cropped. He was tanned and healthy. Filling his cheeks was a broad, genuine smile. His teeth were remarkably white.

  To his left was a gorgeous dark-haired woman. Her eyes drilled through him, even from the faded photograph. She was grinning, a hint of devilishness on her face. Her left arm was hidden behind the man’s back, her right hand placed lovingly on his chest.

  To the man’s right was a young boy who was the diminutive clone of the two adults. He was blessed with her eyes. His smile was his father’s. His wiry, prepubescent arms were wrapped around his dad’s nec
k. Behind them was a treehouse. He pulled the photograph to his face and inhaled. The photograph smelled of smoke. It was intoxicating.

  Battle’s eyes welled. A knot tied itself thickly into the base of his throat. He blinked away the tears, swallowed the knot whole, and replaced the paper in his breast pocket. He held his hand at his chest for a moment and exhaled.

  Battle slid out from underneath the door and slugged his pack onto both shoulders. He tightened the waist strap and checked McDunnough. He had plenty of ammunition should he need it.

  He had no idea where Lola or Pico had gone. He didn’t have any clue as to where the posse was or how close Skinner might be getting.

  He hoped, for his friends’ sakes, they’d kept north to Lubbock, but knew them well enough to believe they’d come back for him. That could be fatal for all of them.

  If the Cartel would summarily assassinate a town full of people over what was likely nothing, he could only imagine what they’d do to someone who’d challenged them and threatened them the way he had.

  He left the gas station and turned back toward the shotgun houses, hoping he’d find a stray horse. There was the possibility, he reasoned, that his horse had stayed in the area. There was also a chance the dead posse boss’s animal was nearby.

  He jogged across the street and hurriedly wove his way between two sets of houses, finding himself at the spot where he’d fallen off his horse. As he emerged from the narrow space, he didn’t find any horses.

  Instead he found a Browning shotgun aimed at his head. At the other end of that muzzle was a man in a white hat leaning against a matching SUV. He was flanked by too many men to count. They too were armed.

  “Mad Max, I presume?” he drawled, a sneer snaking across his face as he spoke from behind the shotgun’s iron sights. A limp cigarette was dancing on his lips as he spoke.

  Battle weighed his options. There weren’t any. He dropped McDunnough to the dirt and raised his hands above his head. “Cyrus Skinner, I’m guessing.”

  The man grumbled out a laugh that sounded like a car failing to start. “What gave me away?”

  “The stench.”

  The sneer on Skinner’s face retreated into a frown. He motioned to his men. Four of them marched for Battle. Two of them took him by the arms while the others kept their weapons trained at his face. They forcibly walked him toward the white-hatted heathen in command.

  “Despite my better judgment,” Skinner said, “I’m gonna have to keep you alive.”

  Battle struggled against the grunts but didn’t say anything. He kept his glare fixed on Skinner, a man whose countenance was different from the other depraved grunts and bosses he’d seen.

  There was something missing in his eyes, a conscience, or maybe a soul altogether. Battle studied the lines that ran along the edges of the man’s nose, the nasty curl of his mouth, the gaunt, skeletal shape of his cheeks. His right ear was blackened with dried blood. It looked as if a tiny piece might be missing near the lobe.

  Skinner lowered his weapon and leaned it against the front of the SUV. He pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit the cigarette. His thick chest broadened as he inhaled deeply, his black eyes narrowing. He exhaled, blowing the smoke directly into Battle’s face. “That don’t mean I can’t rough you up a bit, though,” he said.

  Battle didn’t react. He was stoic.

  Skinner pinched the cigarette and drew it from his lips. He stepped toward Battle and, his eyes never leaving Battle’s, pressed it into the side of his neck.

  Battle flinched at the initial burn, but he bit down on the inside of his cheek to counteract the pain. Even as his eyes watered from the sting, he didn’t lose eye contact with Skinner.

  Skinner pulled the cigarette from Battle’s neck and immediately pressed it to another spot, his face alit with sadistic joy. Battle tensed again and cleared his throat. Still, he remained silent. Skinner twisted the cigarette against Battle’s neck, putting it out against his skin. He flicked the butt against Battle’s face and leaned back against the SUV with his arms folded.

  “Battle’s a funny name,” he said. The collection of grunts around him laughed. “That a real name, or you come up with it to sound tough?”

  Battle said nothing.

  Skinner looked over at one of the grunts with a Browning pointed at Battle. He waved his hand at him. “Hand me that gun,” he said. “The nine millimeter. I wanna see it.”

  The grunt handed over McDunnough. Skinner turned it over in his hand, apparently admiring its craftsmanship. He shook it in his hand. “Nice,” he said and pointed it at Battle’s face, pushing the bushing at the end of the muzzle into his brow.

  Battle resisted the temptation to close his eyes. He didn’t even blink.

  “You need to start talking,” said Skinner. “Or I’m gonna have to disobey my orders.”

  “Let me ask a question,” Battle said.

  “He speaks,” Skinner said to the assembled grunts. He laughed. They laughed. “Go ahead, Battle.”

  Battle sighed. “What happened to the people in this town?”

  Skinner tilted his head like a dog and squeezed his eyes. “What people?”

  “All of them.”

  Skinner twisted the handgun against Battle’s skin. “You’re speaking in riddles.”

  “Everyone in this town is dead,” Battle replied. “You killed them.”

  “So you know what happened to them, then.” Skinner chuckled.

  “Why did you kill all of them?” Battle asked. “What did they do?”

  Skinner held up three fingers with his free hand and thumped Battle’s forehead with McDunnough three times. “That’s three questions.”

  Battle sniffed. He didn’t respond.

  “I dunno,” Skinner said. “’Cause we could. Ain’t nothing in this town we need. Ain’t nobody we need. Somebody might have lipped off. Who knows? Why do you care anyhow?”

  Battle swallowed. “I didn’t say I cared.”

  “Tough guy.” Skinner pulled the gun from Battle’s head and stuck it in his empty holster. He motioned at one of the grunts holding Battle by the arm. The grunt reared back and slammed the butt of his shotgun into the side of Battle’s head.

  “Time to go,” Skinner said. He slid into his seat and activated the satellite phone. It took a moment to produce a signal. “We got him,” he said. “We’re on our way.”

  The men loaded Battle into the back of the SUV. They’d be in Lubbock before sundown.

  CHAPTER 24

  OCTOBER 15, 2037, 2:35 PM

  SCOURGE + 5 YEARS

  NORTH OF POST, TEXAS

  “We need to go back,” Lola called to Pico. “We saved him once. We could do it again.”

  They were riding north on state Highway 207. It split from Highway 84 on the eastern side of Post. They’d outdistanced the posse chasing them in town and were a good three miles from it.

  “We can’t,” Pico said. “If they got him, we can’t help him. There were too many of them. If they didn’t get him, he’ll be fine. We’ll meet him in Lubbock.”

  Lola gripped the saddle horn and rubbed it with her palm. The constant waves of guilt she felt over losing her son were always roiling beneath the surface. The idea that she’d abandoned the man who was helping her rescue Sawyer was overwhelming. She sank in the saddle as the horse galloped forward. There was something deep within her that told her Sawyer was alive. That same voice was certain Battle was dead. Lola was a realist. She had to be in the dusty, violent hell forged by the plague and its survivors.

  Before the Scourge, Lola had lived the life of an eternal optimist. A native Floridian, she’d grown up in Jacksonville. She was an only child. Her father was retired Navy. He was a demanding but loving man who raised her by himself after his wife left him when Lola was nine.

  Her father had retreated into a shell, and Lola became the caretaker at a young age. It was her responsibility, she had resolved, to provide the light where she could see only dark. And she had.
/>   Her sunny disposition, and constant belief that tomorrow would be better than today, eventually had drawn her father back to the living. Her love for life, despite its difficulties, was infectious.

  It was that ebullience that attracted a fellow student at the University of North Florida. He was on the basketball team. He was popular. And he’d fallen hard for Lola.

  They were married a week after graduating. He’d found a job as an accountant at the Mayo Clinic. She’d been hired as a dental hygienist. They’d worked hard during the week and spent their weekends at the beach. Lola had always worn too much sunscreen. Her husband had enjoyed applying it.

  Four years after they married, they’d bought a home on the St. Johns River. It was small, but with an incredible view. Lola and her husband had known they were blessed.

  Six months after that, while they were still repainting the exterior and improving the landscaping in the tiny front yard, they were expecting their first child. It was a boy.

  He was healthy, he was happy and, incredibly, slept through the night. They’d named him Sawyer, after her father.

  They’d tried to have more children, but Lola miscarried twice. Despite the heartache, she’d reminded herself daily of her fortune. She had a healthy son, a loving husband, and a beautiful home.

  Lola would have liked to stay home with her son, but the house had been expensive and the couple reasoned her income would eventually help pay for college.

  Life had been good. Like so many families in 2032, they’d had plans for the future.

  Sawyer’s eighth birthday had been the beginning of the end of those plans. It was the day Lola’s father died of pneumonia.

  Lola’s husband had known the global threat called the Scourge was beginning to take hold in the United States. There had been loud whispers at the Mayo Clinic about failed vaccine trials and increasing patient loads.