by Tom Abrahams
He inched his way to the dresser opposite the mattress and pulled open one drawer after the next. There were some clothes—shirts and jeans mostly. There were undergarments, which told Battle the body belonged to a woman. And there was a knife. It was a small jackknife with a three-inch blade, but it was something. He stuffed it into his pocket and bolted.
He emerged from the home to find his four companions waiting for him. Baadal was bent over, hands on his knees. Charlie Pierce was sitting in the dirt. Lola and Sawyer were leaning on each other.
“All right,” Battle said and pointed across the interstate. “We stay here for now. See that clump of trees on the other side of the highway?”
Baadal looked up, his hands still on his knees. “Yeah,” he said.
“We’ll make camp over there,” Battle said. “Right by those trees. We’ll chill until it’s dark. Then we go again.”
“We can’t go again if we don’t get some water,” said Charlie Pierce.
Battle held up the plastic bag and shook it. “Leave it to me.” He led the foursome across the highway to the grouping of shinnery oaks. They plopped into the dirt and weeds while Battle opened up the bag.
He pulled out a sandwich bag and opened it wide. He yanked on a low branch of the oak and stuffed its broad leaves into the bag, then took a pipe cleaner and twisted it around the top of the bag. He repeated the process six times.
“What is that?” asked Sawyer when Battle was twisting closed the final bag.
“I’m making water,” Battle said. “The leaves sweat like we do. I’m trapping it in the bag. At nightfall we should have a cup of water each. That’ll be a start.”
“It’s called transpiration,” said Charlie Pierce. “Hadn’t thought of doing that. It’s smart. It’ll work.”
“So we stay here until dark?” asked Lola. “Just sit here?”
“For now,” Battle said. He motioned to Baadal. “Since we have some time, tell us more about the canyon.”
Baadal sat up, arching his back. He was holding onto a large branch he’d fashioned into a walking stick and leaned on it. “We are strong people,” he said. “We didn’t succumb to the Cartel. Even as the government failed us, we fought for our freedom. We are doctors, farmers, honest politicians, lawyers, firefighters—”
Battle laughed. “Honest politicians?”
“There are not many of them, I’ll admit. But yes, there are some among us. Our leader, Paagal, says it is important to include all types. Every perspective is needed to effectively run a free society.”
“This Paagal,” said Battle. “How did he become leader?”
“She became leader because we chose her,” said Baadal. “She is forceful but merciful, intelligent but inquisitive. She believes the time is drawing near that we can disrupt the Cartel and lead an uprising. They are losing focus. We are gaining clarity.”
“You’re Baadal,” said Charlie Pierce. “She’s Paagal. What’s with the names?”
Battle looked over at Charlie. The farmer was enraptured, fully focused on the story Baadal was weaving. He’d pulled his knees up to his chest and had his arms wrapped around them, his right hand holding his left wrist for balance.
“They are Hindi,” said Baadal. “We all take Hindi names. They represent a rebirth, a cleansing from the filth of the Scourge and what it bore. Before I joined the Dwellers, my name was Felipe. Paagal’s was Juliana.”
“What do your new names mean?” asked Sawyer. He was playing with a large, straight branch he’d found on the ground, drawing circles with it in the dirt.
“Baadal means cloud.”
“And Paagal?” asked Battle.
A smile spread across Baadal’s face. “It means crazy.”
CHAPTER 34
OCTOBER 16, 2037, 4:50 PM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
LUBBOCK, TEXAS
Cyrus Skinner tapped the last cigarette out of the box. He’d smoked one after another since he’d left the Jones.
He was in a building adjacent to the stables outside the stadium, pacing back and forth. Though he was furious with the general, there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He was only a captain, a white hat. General Roof was a black hat. There was no arguing with a black hat. He dragged his fingers across his neck and winced at the tenderness along his windpipe.
He’d thought about killing Roof right there in the stadium. He could have drawn his pistol and shot him in the chest before the general knew what hit him. Cyrus Skinner’s life was a series of regrets and miscalculations. Not killing the general when he had the chance was one of them.
Cyrus thought the plan was flawed. He believed the Dwellers were constantly changing and shifting their defenses, and that was why they were virtually impenetrable. The Dwellers also knew every Godforsaken inch of Palo Duro Canyon and its vicinity.
They had the advantage, no matter what kind of surveillance the Cartel undertook. Brute force would have been smart, Skinner thought. Send in everyone at once and end it.
Skinner thumbed his lighter and held it to the cigarette. He inhaled deeply and held the smoke in his lungs. Sometimes the generals were too smart for their own good.
Porky walked into Skinner’s office, knocking on the open door. “Captain?”
“What?” Skinner spun on his boot heel to look Porky in the eyes.
Porky immediately averted his gaze and stared at the floor. “The first team is on its way,” Porky said. “I sent the Dalton brothers and another grunt. They’re on horseback.”
“So they’re a few hours behind Battle and his friends,” said Skinner.
“Yes, sir. They’ll catch up by nightfall. They’re headed straight north on the interstate. I told them to keep their distance. I said you don’t want Battle to know he’s being followed.”
“Fine,” said Skinner. “When’s the next team leaving?”
“In a minute,” said Porky. “They’re in an SUV. They’re gonna move east on 62 and then take it north until they connect with 70. That’ll take them into Plainview ahead of when Battle should get there. They can set up a watch there.”
“Good.”
“Captain,” said Porky, his eyes still on the floor, “can I ask what they’re doing? What are the men looking for?”
“The canyon,” said Skinner. “They’re looking for a way into the canyon and how the Dwellers are set up to protect it.”
Porky looked up from the floor, his mouth agape. “The Dwellers? I thought they were gone. I thought the Cartel—”
“You thought wrong, Porky,” said Skinner. “The Dwellers are alive. They hold the canyon.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” said Skinner. “The generals made a truce with them. Now it seems the generals don’t want the truce no more.”
Porky shook his head. “So we don’t… I mean, the Cartel don’t control everything this side of the wall?”
“No.”
“What would happen if that got out? I mean, if people knew—”
“That’s why we got to put an end to the Dwellers,” said Skinner. “They been quiet since the truce two years ago. If they decided to make noise, it could be trouble.”
Porky drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Dwellers…”
Skinner flicked the remains of his last cigarette to the floor. “You ain’t got no idea, Porky. Dwellers ain’t the half of it,” he said. He flicked his tongue across his teeth and made a high-pitched squeaking sound. He pointed at Porky and shooed him away,
“Go get me some more smokes,” he ordered. “I’m out and I’m gonna need ’em for the trip.”
CHAPTER 35
OCTOBER 16, 2037, 7:00 PM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
ABERNATHY, TEXAS
The sun hung low on the horizon, obscured by the distant line of scrub oaks at the edge of the dirt plain on which Battle stood. It dipped lower, clouds filling the dark blue sky. The clouds would trap what little heat was left from the day. It wouldn’t be quite as cold over
night.
He touched the bottom of one of the plastic bags hanging on the tree beside him. It was heavy with water.
“Everybody take a bag,” he said, passing out the cups. “We got a cup of water each. Drink it slow. Sip it. Take turns with the cups. Sawyer gets two bags.”
The group was sluggish. They were smart to have stopped and taken a break for a few hours. If they’d kept going, Battle’s head would be throbbing more than it was, and there was a good chance more than one of them would have collapsed.
Battle unwound the pipe cleaner from his bag and carefully pulled the plastic from around the perspiring evergreen leaves. He zipped the bag three-quarters of the way and then drew the opening to his lips. The water was cold. He licked it across his lips, feeling it moisten the cracks, and then swallowed successive sips until he’d finished the bag.
Battle dipped his hand inside the plastic and ran his damp hand across his forehead and cheeks. The others were finishing their allotment. Baadal had his bag turned inside out and was licking the remaining moisture from the plastic.
“That was a smart idea,” said Charlie Pierce. “You probably saved us from getting sick.”
“Saw a video online about it before the Scourge,” Battle said. “I tried it out a couple of times with the oaks on my land. It worked pretty well.”
“Where was your land?”
“Near Abilene,” Battle said, taking the plastic bags from everyone to save them for later use. “You?”
“Seguin,” he said. “Near San Antonio.”
“Grass farmer, you said?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Hay, alfalfa, that sort of stuff. Kept the livestock fed.”
“We should hit the road. The clouds are gonna cover up that moon and make it pretty dark.”
“How far are we gonna walk?” Sawyer asked.
“If we walk at a good pace,” said Baadal, “we should reach the first scouts before sunset tomorrow.”
“I’m hungry.” Sawyer sounded every bit the teenager that he was. “My legs hurt.”
“We’ll find something,” said Battle.
“What?” asked Lola. “There’s nothing.”
“We’ll find something.”
They left the trees and headed north along Highway 27. Battle walked behind the group, making sure everyone stayed together. Baadal was in front, marching like a soldier. Charlie was a step behind him. Lola and Sawyer walked together. She held his hand. Both were using walking sticks. Sawyer took Baadal’s lead and picked the dead leaves off a pair of branches, keeping one for himself and giving one to his mother. Battle noticed her limp was less pronounced. She was improving. That was good.
They’d walked for close to an hour when Sylvia’s voice filled Battle’s head. “You like her.”
Battle tried to ignore it. He didn’t want to have a conversation. He was too tired.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You’ve been alone a long time.”
“I’m not interested,” he mumbled under his breath.
“Don’t lie to me, Marcus Battle,” Sylvia’s voice countered. “I know when you’re lying. I see the way you look at her. I see the way she looks at you.”
Battle looked up at the sky at the first stars twinkling between the clouds. He exhaled through his mouth, puffing his cheeks.
“Marcus,” she said, “you can’t be alone forever. You’ve left our home. You’ve moved on.”
Battle gritted his teeth. “I haven’t moved on. You’re wrong.”
Lola turned around and looked at Battle over her shoulder. “Did you say something?”
Battle waved her off. “No,” he said. “Just thinking aloud.”
Lola’s eyes lingered as she kept walking. The corner of her mouth curled into a knowing smile. It looked like pity to Battle.
“She knows,” he whispered. “She knows I talk to you.”
“All the more reason to like her,” said Sylvia. “She knows about it and doesn’t think you’re crazy.”
“I am crazy,” Battle whispered. “I’ve been hanging onto my sanity by an unwinding thread since you left me.”
“It’s okay with me too, Dad,” Wesson said, joining the conversation. “She has a son who needs a father.”
“He does,” Sylvia added. “You’re such a good father.”
Battle stopped walking and clenched his fists. He drew in a long, steady breath and exhaled, trying to slow his pulse. He turned south, away from the group, and bent over with his hands clasped behind his neck. He needed to clear the voices.
He squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath. The group had walked far enough he couldn’t hear their footsteps. It was quiet, save the distant, high-pitched chirp of cicadas.
He stood there motionless for a moment. The voices in his head stopped. He opened his eyes and looked south along the highway they’d already walked. Battle was about to catch up with the group when he saw something reflected in the moonlight. It was a flash more than a true reflection. He waited. There it was again. Then he heard a noise. No. It was more of a song. Somebody was singing. Somebody was following them. Battle spun around and sprinted to catch up to the group. They needed to get off of the road.
***
The last thing Grat Dalton wanted to do was sit in a saddle. His rear and his thighs were rubbed raw from the subtle slide back and forth on the leather. Orders were orders, though, even if they came thirdhand through the hefty grunt called “Porky”.
Porky told them their mission was direct from General Roof. Captain Skinner had seen to it they picked the best teams to head north. Their job was simple: ride and observe. That was it.
Emmett Dalton told his brother it was worth the saddle sores for the five days’ worth of fresh rations, a bottle each of Tito’s Vodka, and cold water in their canteens. Emmett was halfway through the Tito’s, relishing the hint of corn in every fiery swig, as he, his brother, and a third grunt named Jack Vermillion neared Abernathy. Abernathy was a nothing town even in the daylight. The Daltons had ridden past it before, both north and south along the interstate. They joked the town marker read “Now Leaving Abernathy” on both sides of the sign.
Grat wasn’t joking with Emmett this trip. He was frustrated by his own aches and his brother’s drunken serenade. Jack Vermillion wasn’t doing anything to help. He was encouraging it by humming along.
“C’mon now,” Grat said loudly enough for his brother to hear him over his own wail, “enough singing. My ears hurt.”
Vermillion unscrewed his own half-empty bottle and raised it in a toast to Grat. “Give your brother a break. He’s just having fun.”
Grat didn’t know Vermillion well, but he could tell from the man’s slur and his slack in the saddle, he was drunk. Grat would have loved to toss back some of the liquor himself. But with both companions already wasted, he couldn’t take the risk. They had a job to do.
He leaned forward to get a better handle on his reins. His horse was as undisciplined as Emmett.
He was looking down at the animal’s crest. He rested a hand on its coarse black mane. When he looked up again, he almost fell off the horse. Three men were standing in the middle of the highway. The building clouds had obscured the moon enough that he couldn’t see much more than their forms. The men looked big, and each of them looked to be holding a long gun of some kind. Grat couldn’t tell if they were rifles or shotguns. It didn’t matter much. The men had the drop on them. Grat tugged on the reins and slowed his horse to a stop.
“Stop there,” one of the men ordered. “Get off your horses and drop your weapons to the ground.”
***
Battle used the dark to his advantage. When he’d seen the approaching grunts, he’d run back to the group to get Charlie Pierce and Baadal. He borrowed the long walking sticks from Sawyer and Lola and handed one of them to Charlie. Baadal already had his own. Lola and Charlie stayed back and off to the side, ducking into a shallow culvert.
“Hold these like rifles,” Battle told them and led them s
outh toward the approaching horsemen. “It’s so dark, they might not know the difference.”
He was right. The first of the men didn’t hesitate to raise his hands and dismount.
“I’m gonna reach to my side,” the grunt said, “and pull my revolver. I’m gonna toss it.”
“Do it slowly,” said Battle, aiming the stick at the grunt. “What’s your name?”
“Grat Dalton,” he said. “You know you’re being stupid.”
“Real stupid,” slurred one of the two grunts who hadn’t yet dismounted. “You’re gonna get yourself killed.”
“Shut up, Emmett,” said Grat. “We ain’t in a position to be makin’ threats.”
“I ain’t givin’ up my guns,” said Emmett. “Ain’t takin’ my Tito’s neither.” The drunkard laughed.
“This isn’t a joke,” said Battle, his eyes darting amongst the trio of dark figures forty feet in front of them. “Get off your horses and step off the road.”
“Seriously?” Charlie whispered into Battle’s ear. “We don’t have any real weapons. These are sticks.”
“We’ll be fine,” Battle whispered back. Charlie had reminded Battle of the jackknife in his pocket. Still holding aim on the grunts, he fished out the knife and flipped it open with his thumb. “Get off the horses now, or you’re going to need another gallon of Tito’s to dull the pain.”
Vermillion reached out and pushed Emmett in the shoulder. “I reckon we listen to the—”
Emmett pushed him back. “I ain’t listening to these fools,” he spat. He hopped off his horse, dropping the near empty bottle, which shattered on the asphalt. “Now see, that’s just infuriating.” He stomped his foot and started marching toward Battle.
Emmett shoved his way past his brother and reached to his hip to pull his revolver. He was twenty feet from them when he pulled the trigger.