The Traveler (Book 2): Canyon

by Tom Abrahams

  The man’s head was shaved clean. He was tan, his skin leathery despite what Battle imagined was his relatively young age. He was lanky and the shirt hung wide on his thin build.

  “Do you have water?” he asked nobody in particular. “Please.”

  Battle shook his head. “No. They haven’t given us any.”

  “They want us weak,” the man said. He walked across the room to find his own stool, carrying with him a stench-laden breeze that wafted across the room. He pulled it between his legs and sat, leaning forward and dropping his elbows onto his thighs. His long, bony fingers dangled between his legs.

  “Who are you?” Sawyer asked. “Are you Cartel?”

  The man shook his head without looking up from the floor. “No,” he said. “I’m not Cartel.”

  “Then what are you?” Sawyer pressed.

  “I’m Baadal,” he said. “I’m a Dweller.”

  Pico stood from his stool so quickly it toppled over, his face ashen. He pointed at the man, his finger trembling. “That can’t be.”

  The man glared up at Pico. He licked his dry, cracked lips. “It has to be. That’s what I am.”

  Pico paced back and forth, three steps left, three steps right. “There’s no such thing,” he said. “The Dwellers, they’re legend. The Cartel wiped them out.”

  Battle raised his hands and waved them. “Wait,” he said. “I don’t understand. What’s going on, Pico?”

  Pico shook his finger at the man who called himself Baadal, his eyes large beneath his arched brow. “He says he’s a Dweller. The Dwellers don’t exist. He can’t be—”

  “Slow down,” said Battle. “What’s a Dweller?”

  “We are a tribe of people who’ve resisted the Cartel,” he said. “We live by our own rules, on our land, without Cartel interference. At least there’s not much interference.”

  Battle took a step toward the man to get a better look at him. “And you’re called Dwellers?”

  “Yes,” said Baadal. “We live in Palo Duro Canyon near Amarillo. We control the canyon. The Cartel has no influence there.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Battle. “I thought the Cartel controlled everything between Louisiana, New Mexico, and Oklahoma.”

  “They do,” said Pico. “He’s lying. The Cartel controls everything.”

  “Why would I lie?” asked Baadal. “I am a prisoner as you are. What might I gain through dishonesty?”

  “Exactly,” said Pico, pointing at him. His eyes darted between Battle and Baadal. “Exactly. If you’re a Dweller, why are you a prisoner? You said the Cartel can’t touch you.”

  “I am a scout,” Baadal said. He sat up and pulled his shoulders back. He raised his chin. “My job is to warn the elders of any Cartel incursion. I was captured and brought here. I would not talk. I am now with you, destined to die in the Jones.”

  “I’m totally confused,” said Battle. “One, I don’t get why you’re freaked out, Pico. And two, how is it that the Cartel hasn’t taken the canyon? Who exactly are the Dwellers?”

  “The Dwellers don’t exist,” said Pico. “If they did, that would mean there’s a way out. If there’s a way out, that means I’ve been wasting my life. It’s legend.”

  “A way out? Wait. What?” Battle squeezed his eyes shut with frustration. “You’re talking in riddles.”

  “It is true,” said Baadal. “We exist. We live in the canyon. We have fought back the Cartel. We know of ways to leave, a path north of the wall that separates the Cartel from everyone else.”

  “I’m completely lost,” said Sawyer. “Can somebody start from the beginning?”

  “Good idea,” said Battle.

  “In the early days after the Scourge,” said Baadal, “the government collapsed. The national guard was deployed. The federal government used active-duty soldiers from military bases to try to restore order. It didn’t work. Too many of their resources were dead or dying from disease. Criminal organizations, corrupt politicians, crooked businesses, they joined forces to seize the opportunity provided by the chaos. They formed the Cartel.”

  Baadal looked at Pico. “Am I correct so far?”

  Pico nodded.

  “At the same time,” Baadal continued, “there were good people who refused to join the Cartel or become subservient to their dictates.”

  “How many people?” Battle asked.

  “Several thousand,” said Baadal. “Of course, we weren’t as strong in number as the Cartel, but we were smart. We quickly mobilized and found a singular location to consolidate our strengths. Our leader, Paagal, chose Palo Duro Canyon. It provided us with a natural advantage. There is water at its floor and the terrain is difficult to navigate for those unfamiliar with it.”

  “Living in a canyon is not a tactical advantage,” said Battle. “Why not the high ground? The Fort Davis Mountains maybe?”

  “The canyon is intimidating,” said Baadal. “It is large. Our patrols need only protect the western edge. Over the last five years, we have made it a fortress. Again, it allows for a tight consolidation of people and resources.”

  “And the Cartel hasn’t tried to attack you?” Battle asked.

  “Of course they have,” said Baadal. “But our scouts have always given plenty of warning. Our defenses are strong. Each time they would attempt to destroy us, we would decimate their posses. Two years ago, after we killed one of their four generals, we reached a truce. They let us live in the canyon. We promised not to help non-Dwellers escape Cartel-controlled territory.”

  “If there’s a truce,” Pico sniped, “why are you a scout? Why are you here?”

  “We don’t trust the Cartel,” said Baadal. “That is why we patrol beyond our land and scout their advances. We know, if captured, we are subject to the Jones. It’s a risk we take willingly to protect our fellow Dwellers.”

  “So why does Pico think you’re legend?” asked Battle. “Why doesn’t he believe you?”

  “Because the Cartel has told its people we don’t exist.” Baadal shrugged. “If people believed they could live in relative peace without the daily fear of the Cartel’s indiscriminate evildoings, it could incite an uprising.”

  Pico rubbed his mustache, his eyes narrowed with doubt.

  “Pico doesn’t want to believe we exist because it undermines what he’s been taught, Baadal said. “It validates his inability to have acted against the totalitarian state. It’s an admission of gullibility and weakness. Those are the traits upon which the Cartel feeds. It’s how it has devoured what was once a proud state.”

  “I’m not weak,” snapped Pico. “I’m not gullible.”

  Baadal looked at Pico without responding, then turned to Battle. “We choose to let the Cartel spread the lies about us because it only helps insulate us. If we are legend, nobody tries to find us or seek our help in escaping. It makes it easier for us to hold up our end of the bargain.”

  “You keep talking about escaping, about finding a way out,” said Battle. “What do you mean?”

  “There is a wall that surrounds Cartel territory,” said Baadal. “The United States, or what is left of it, built an enormous wall that stretches roughly around what used to be the perimeter of Texas.”

  “A wall?” asked Battle. “On all but the southern border of Texas?”

  “Yes,” said Baadal. “It is an incredible sight. It rivals the Great Wall of China. It provided those living outside Texas with jobs and rations at a time when there was little of either. It took two years.”

  “And the Cartel let them build it?” Sawyer asked.

  “Of course,” answered Baadal. “It kept the United States out as much as it kept the Cartel in. It provided a real barrier, a finite and physical depiction of their influence.”

  “But you helped people escape?” Battle asked.

  “For a while,” said Baadal. “But again, the treaty prevents it. The Cartel has sentries on the wall. If we’re caught helping someone to the other side, it could reignite the war between us.
Nobody wants that.”

  Battle asked Pico, “You’re still not buying this?”

  Pico took a deep breath and plopped onto the stool behind him. His reticence was more than enough answer for Battle. He wouldn’t press.

  “So you know how the Jones works, then?” Battle asked Baadal.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ll tell us?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if we survive, you’ll take us to the canyon, to the other Dwellers?”

  Baadal’s eyes passed from Battle, to Pico, to Sawyer, and back to Battle. “Yes.”

  CHAPTER 28

  JANUARY 3, 2020, 8:16 PM

  SCOURGE -12 YEARS, 9 MONTHS

  ALEPPO, SYRIA

  Battle retraced his steps in his mind. He replayed the crawl under the fence, heaving Buck onto his shoulders as a last resort, and working his way south and east, closer to the middle of the three bridges.

  He rewound his movements to the spot where he was pinned by crossfire. He remembered killing the silhouette, hearing the grieving woman, and retrieving the Type 56 Chinese rifle he now held in his left hand.

  Crawl. Shoulders. Pinned. Silhouette. Woman. Weapon.

  He looked to his left again. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  Pinned. Woman. Weapon.

  Battle counted one more time as he took shallow breaths to regulate his elevated heartbeat. He knew where he was. He thought he did. He was maybe one block north and one block west of the bridge. A quick zigzag and he’d be at the western edge of the canal. From there he’d be able to see the checkpoint.

  He stepped from the edge of the building and rounded the corner to his left. His head down, he turned to head east and didn’t see the woman walking toward him until she was a yard from him. Battle looked up before he ran into her. In the dim, flickering yellow light of a dying streetlamp, he could see her eyes peering at him from behind her black hijab. She was with two children: a boy holding her right hand, a girl holding her left. The three of them froze mid-stride, as did Battle.

  They stared at each other without saying anything. She could call out at any second. Help would come. It would rain lead. He’d be done.

  She glanced at the gun. Her son couldn’t take his eyes from it. The girl kept tugging on her mother’s arm as if she had something important to say.

  Battle knew enough about Islam and Sharia law to understand the delicacy of her situation. It wasn’t outright illegal, but it was certainly questionable for a woman to be alone, outside, at night without her husband. Even with two children at her side, she could face serious consequences if the wrong jihadis came to her defense.

  Their eyes collectively transfixed, Battle greeted her in Arabic with a customary Islamic greeting, “As-Salaam Alaykum.” Peace be unto you.

  The woman blinked for the first time. Because of the hijab, Battle couldn’t read her reaction, if there was one. She looked down at her son and then at her daughter. The girl was still squeezing her mother’s hand and yanking on her arm. The boy had his gaze locked on the Type 56.

  Battle tried to smile and he repeated himself but looked at the boy. “As-Salaam Alaykum,” he said and grunted from another seizure in his lower back. He tried again to shift his weight from the nerve pain in his right leg.

  The woman bowed her head and replied, “Wa-Alaykum.” She looked up again and her eyes shifted from Battle’s to over his left shoulder and grew wide with panic.

  “Afifah,” a man’s voice called from behind Battle. It was gruff and insistent, demanding she come to him. “Afifah, tueal ’iilaa huna.”

  The woman bowed her head again and pulled her children past Battle, scurrying toward the voice. Battle’s muscles tensed. He squeezed his eyes shut and stood as motionless as he could with Buck draped over his shoulders.

  “You are American?” the man asked. “You are American Army?”

  “Yes,” Battle said, turning only slightly to address the man.

  “What happen your friend soldier?” The voice was louder and accompanied by deliberate footsteps. The man said something to the woman, Afifah, and she responded. Battle couldn’t understand the exchange. “What happen?” the man repeated.

  “He’s badly hurt,” said Battle. “He was shot in his leg. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  The man stepped to face Battle. He was average height and build. His wiry, short black hair was gray at the temples. His face was peppered with at least a couple of days’ worth of stubble. He was wearing jeans and a dark-colored shirt, its collar curled at the ends.

  He had a pistol in his hands. Battle guessed it was a GSh-18. It looked Russian and was a pretty common find on Syrian civilians. It could hold nine shots. Battle concluded, without thought, that one was enough given the current circumstances.

  The man stood directly in front of Battle and waved the handgun as he spoke. “You talk my daughter?”

  Battle stopped himself from reflexively turning around to look at the woman. “Yes. I wished her peace.”

  “She say that,” said the man. He eyed the rifle, his eyes narrowed, and he looked back to Battle. “That gun. Not American Army.”

  “No,” Battle said. “I found it.”

  The man suppressed a laugh. “Find it? I don’t think so, American Army soldier. I hear shoot. I hear lots of shoot.”

  Battle sighed and flexed his neck and adjusted Buck on his shoulders. The tension sent another jolt of electricity running down his back and through his right leg.

  “I no like these men,” he said. “I like American Army soldier. I help.”

  Battle’s muscles involuntarily relaxed. “Thank you.”

  The man motioned to Buck. “You put down. I help. We go my house.”

  Battle shook his head. “I need to get across the bridge. There’s a checkpoint.”

  The man wagged his finger and pursed his lips. “No. No. Bridge no good. You come my house.” He reached again for Buck.

  Battle dropped to a knee, and the man helped lower Buck from his shoulders. Together the two of them carried Buck. They quickly followed his daughter and the children west, away from the bridge, and to a three-story building on a dark street.

  Battle considered the danger of letting the man help him. He didn’t know him. It could be a trap. He might be leading them to nasty, tortuous deaths. Then again, he could have shot them in the street. He hadn’t.

  This was worth the risk, especially if the bridge was as heavily guarded as the man suggested it was. They reached the battered door to the building, and the woman held it open for her father and Battle to rush Buck inside. The children led them up a narrow set of stairs to a landing on the second floor. They turned down a hallway, sconces lighting their way to its end. The woman rushed past Battle, Buck, and her father to the door, a waft of an organic, earthy, musky scent breezing behind her. She hurriedly jammed a key into the lock and turned it. She shouldered the door open and disappeared inside the apartment, waving the children to join her.

  The man led Buck and Battle through the door into a large, warmly lit open room. He guided Battle through the room, along a short hall, and into a sparsely decorated bedroom. The bed wasn’t much more than a thin mattress and some sheets. A bedside table held a lamp and a dog-eared copy of the Koran.

  The man helped Battle lay Buck on the mattress. Buck was still unconscious and unaffected by the movement of his arms and legs into the bed.

  The daughter appeared in the doorway of the room. She stood silently, her hands on the frame as she leaned against it.

  The man looked at Buck’s wound and his lips curled. He swallowed hard and looked at Battle. “We clean,” he said. Then he poked at Battle’s left arm, eliciting a wince. “We clean too.”

  The man turned to his daughter, pointed at her and motioned for her to leave. She disappeared toward the main living area of the apartment. He was speaking with his hands, searching for words in English. “I tell daughter,” he said, his eyes turned to the ceiling, “I tell her to get medicine.
Clean. Yes?”

  Battle nodded. “I’m Captain Battle,” he said, offering his hand to the stranger. “Thank you.”

  The man took Battle’s hands with both of his, shaking them vigorously. “Battle is your name?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Nizar,” he said. “My daughter is Afifah.”

  Nizar braced himself against the side of the bed and lowered himself to his knees. He hooked his fingers inside the edges of the ragged hole in Buck’s pant leg. He pulled the hole wider, ripping the fabric and exposing the wound.

  Battle swallowed the bile rising in his throat when he got a clear look at the damage to Buck’s leg since they’d evacuated the IED blast site. It was varying shades of red and black, except for the torn pinkish meat climbing angrily outward from inside his leg.

  Nizar looked up at Battle, seemingly unfazed by the depth and condition of the filthy wound. “I was doctor,” he said. “Before war.”

  Afifah returned with her arms full. She was carrying a veritable first aid kit of supplies. She sidled up to the bed and dropped the bounty onto the floor next to her father.

  Nizar first took a pair of scissors and cut away Buck’s pant leg at the groin. He also cut free the tourniquet fashioned above Buck’s knee. The wound pooled with blood, and he picked up a clear bottle labeled in Arabic and unscrewed the cap. He held the bottle directly over the leg and then squeezed it, spraying the liquid into and around the wound. The flesh immediately sizzled white, bubbles expanding beyond its edge, draining from Buck’s leg onto the sheets.

  Buck’s eyes popped wide for an instant, and he eked out a semblance of a groan. He tried sitting up.

  Nizar looked at Battle. “Help him.”

  Battle moved to Buck’s head and pressed gently on his shoulder, forcing him to lie flat. Buck mumbled something and a stray tear ran from his eye along his cheek.