by Tom Abrahams
“It’s not,” said Battle. “You shook your head no while you were telling me it was okay. Subconsciously, you’d rather I not have interrupted.”
Paagal smirked. “A dose of my own medicine, as it were?”
Battle shrugged. “Maybe. I think you’re going to want to hear what we’ve got to say.”
Lola sidled up to Battle. She reached for Sawyer’s hand and held it, lacing her fingers between her son’s. Paagal folded her arms across her chest.
“What is it?” asked Baadal when nobody else took the lead. He sensed Battle, Lola, and Sawyer had something important, something urgent to tell them. He could see it on their faces.
Battle, he’d learned, was aptly named. It wasn’t only because of his survival skills or tenacity. It was also because the man always wore the face of someone in pain, trouble brewing beneath the surface and ready to erupt in the right conditions.
Lola, Baadal had come to believe in the short time he’d known her, was like reading an open book written in large bold print for kindergartners. Her emotions were sprawled on her face, in the way she stood, in the tone of her voice.
Lola squeezed her son’s hand and cleared her throat. “Battle told us you’re about to go to war with the Cartel. You been planning it, he said.”
Paagal nodded. Her eyes bounced between Lola and Battle. “Yes. That’s true.”
“He said you would offer help getting past the wall if we agreed to stay and fight,” said Lola.
“Yes. That is also true.”
“You’ll be able to get us to the other side?”
“Yes.”
Lola took a step toward Paagal, bringing Sawyer with her, and offered her free hand to the leader of the Dwellers. Paagal looked down at the offer and took Lola’s hand. She shook it firmly.
“We’ll fight,” said Lola resolutely. “Whatever we need to do to put an end to them, we’ll do.”
Paagal let go of Lola’s hand and nodded. “Good,” she said. “We’ll meet tonight to discuss what we do here in the canyon. The plan itself is already under way.”
Battle’s eyes went hard and his shoulders squared. “What do you mean already under way?”
Baadal had deduced the high-level conversation that forced him from the confines of the tent was specifically about whatever effort Paagal had initiated. He looked at her as she pressed her lips together, seemingly weighing the pros and cons of divulging too much information to relative outsiders.
“C’mon,” Battle pushed. “We agreed to fight for you, to give our lives for your cause. You can tell us what’s happening.”
Paagal crossed her arms and snickered condescendingly. “Let’s not confuse our mutually beneficial arrangement with benevolence on either of our parts.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” asked Lola.
Paagal opened her mouth to speak but paused. She took a deep breath and let it out. “It means,” she said, “this is a quid pro quo. I said as much when we spoke early this morning. You do for us and we do for you. You’re not helping us out of the kindness of your hearts, Lola. And we’re not taking you to the wall because we’re offering a free taxi service.”
Battle looked at Lola and then back at Paagal. He pointed his finger at her as he spoke in a measured but forceful tone. “Nobody said anything about benevolence or a free ride other than you. My point was that you need to trust us with information if we’re going to fight for your cause. Regardless of the motivation behind our help, you owe us that much.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” said Paagal. “You came here as a guest. You can leave whenever you want.” She pointed back at Battle, her finger wagging amongst Lola, Sawyer, and him.
Paagal stepped closer to Battle, her arms straight at her sides. Her hands were squeezed into fists. Any hint of a smile had melted from the fiery gaze she shot at Battle. “The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy so that he cannot fathom our real intent,” she seethed. “Whoever is first in the field and awaits the coming of the enemy will be fresh for the fight.”
“So you can quote Sun Tzu,” said Battle, his eyes searching hers as he spoke. “That doesn’t make you a general.”
“Neither does being a soldier,” she spat, her muscular arms flexing with the intensity of her words. “Nor does being a man on the brink of insanity. You speak of trust? Trust me when I tell you we are already winning the war. You either join us tonight to learn what comes next or you don’t.”
Paagal spun on her heel and turned back to her tent. She slapped at the entry flap and ducked inside. Baadal looked at Battle, offered an unspoken apology, and ducked into the tent behind his lover.
“What the hell happened?” asked Lola.
“She let me know who is in control,” he said, “and it’s not us.”
***
Battle motioned for Lola and Sawyer to follow him back toward their tents. Theirs were about one hundred yards from Paagal’s command center, tucked amidst a dozen rows of similar four-person tents. Lola had offered to share with Battle, telling him they were only three. A four-person tent, she’d suggested, would be enough. Battle had declined, using the excuse that tents actually only comfortably accommodated half the number of those advertised. He’d told her she should be happy to have her own space.
They reached their row, their tents adjacent to each other, and Battle suggested they get some rest. Once the fighting started, it could be days before anybody got any real sleep.
Sawyer ducked inside and left Lola and Battle standing in the alley between the tents. It was quiet other than the flapping of the nylon pitches against the swirling breeze and the rustle of thirsty, dying leaves on the nearby outcrop of soapberry trees.
“You might have crossed a line with her,” Lola said softly.
Battle cocked his head. “How so?”
“The trust thing,” she said. “Everyone is entitled to skepticism without judgment, Marcus.”
Battle laughed. “Maybe some,” he said. “Not all.”
Lola looked at the dirt. “Masochism isn’t attractive,” she said and took a step closer to Battle. She stood on her tiptoes, pulled him forward by his shoulders, and kissed his cheek. She blushed. “I’m taking that nap you suggested,” she said and ducked into her tent without waiting for her dumbstruck mark to react.
Battle stood motionless for a moment. It had happened so quickly and he’d acquiesced without pulling away. What did that mean?
“It means you’re human.” Sylvia’s voice was back. “It means you haven’t entirely lost who you are.”
Battle hastily unzipped his tent and crawled inside. Although the soft bluish hue of the interior was calming, he was agitated. He pulled off his boots and tossed them into the corner. They kicked up dust when they clanked against the taut blue nylon wall and the top of the metal spike affixed to the outside of the tent.
“You’re not listening to me,” Sylvia droned. “She’s telling you how she feels. She wants to connect with you, Marcus. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Marcus tried to ignore Sylvia and instead concentrated on what Paagal had said to him before she’d turned away in anger. She’d quoted Sun Tzu for a reason. She’d chosen those passages from his work for a reason. It wasn’t arbitrary.
She wanted him to know what the plans were without appearing to have given in to his demands. She wanted to appear strong and resolute. Battle acknowledged to himself that was a smart thing to do. Baadal, and others, could only respect a strong leader who refused to negotiate.
If she’d outright told him her plans after he complained, it would get back to others that she’d caved against her better judgment. It would filter through the camps that Battle had bullied Paagal into divulging sensitive information.
She’d appear weak. He’d appear to be strong. The Dwellers could turn on her and follow him, defer to him, die for him.
Battle sat on the spongy cot that filled most of his tent and pulled his knees up to his chest. He crossed his ankles an
d wrapped his arms around his legs, holding them there with clasped hands. He rocked, thinking back to the conversation in Paagal’s tent that morning.
He remembered the hypnotic sound of the rain slapping the tent, the ethereal red glow that filled the space, Paagal’s calm temper. She’d as much as told him then how the war would begin on her terms.
“Ever since the truce,” she’d said, “we’ve been dispatching cells. They’ve lived and worked amongst the Cartel in those cities you mention. They’ve painstakingly recruited allies. All of them are ready to pounce when we signal them. We can end the Cartel. You’ve come at the right time.”
She’d signaled them. The viral cells she’d implanted within the Cartel were live. They were spreading. She was doing what the Cartel least expected, attacking them on their own turf without warning.
Paagal was smart. Battle stopped rocking, let loose of his hold around his legs and fell back onto the cot. It was only moderately more comfortable than the dirt, and it had the dank smell of mildew and sweat. It would do. He’d slept in worse places.
He turned onto his side and closed his eyes, trying to envision the chaos enveloping the Cartel’s major cities. He smiled thinking about it.
Battle dozed off into a light sleep, contemplating the odds. They might have a chance to win, or at the very least degrade the Cartel enough that they could find passage beyond the wall.
***
Felipe Baadal sat across from Paagal in her tent. She was gritting her teeth, rapping her knuckles on the desk. She’d not said a word to him in the half hour since Battle had incited her, but Baadal was as curious about her plans as Battle had been.
“What’s beyond the wall?” he asked. He was taking the circuitous route to the point.
Paagal stopped thumping her knuckles. “Why?”
“I’m curious,” he said. “I’d never given it any thought. Now Battle wants to cross it. I’m wondering what he’s going to find.”
Paagal leaned on her elbows and sighed. “I don’t know what he’ll find,” she said. “It depends on where exactly he crosses. It depends on what time of day it is. It depends on so many different things.”
“You’ve crossed the wall?” asked Baadal, thinking he’d gotten the conversation started. “You’ve been to the other side, then?”
“Twice,” she said. “That was enough.”
Baadal’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“So you’ve not crossed the wall?” asked Paagal. “I’d have thought as a sentry and a scout you might have been north of it.”
Baadal lowered his eyes and shook his head.
“It’s not what Battle thinks it is,” she said, her gaze softening into the distance over Baadal’s shoulder. “It’s not…”
“Not what?”
Paagal’s mind was elsewhere. Maybe it was beyond the wall, visiting things she’d as soon have never seen. Maybe she was thinking about the war at hand. Baadal waved his hand in front of her face. She blinked and snapped back into the present, into the confines of her command tent.
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s not easy to talk about.” There was a quiver in her voice. Her eyes suddenly appeared glassy.
“I’m the one who should be sorry,” Baadal said. “I didn’t know.”
“You wouldn’t know,” she said, wiping the corner of her eye with her finger. “Not unless you’d been there.”
Baadal shrugged. “So why does anyone want passage to the other side?”
“People always want what they think they need,” she said. “Rarely do they need what they have. It’s the human condition. It’s the idea that something out there can fulfill them, can make their lives better, fill the holes within their being.”
Baadal leaned back in his chair, away from Paagal. “Isn’t that called hope?”
“How so?”
“I mean to suggest…” Baadal searched for the words. “I have not lived a life of purity. I’ve sinned. I’ve been a perpetrator and a victim. But always in the back of my mind was this idea that I could be better. I thought things would get better. I wanted to believe that I would find a happier…” He used his hands to search for the words.
“Existence?” Paagal suggested.
Baadal nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Perhaps that’s the right word. Existence. A happier existence. That’s not me being ungrateful for surviving the Scourge, having a roof over my head most nights, or food on most days. It’s me being hopeful.”
Paagal sat silently. She adjusted her elbows on the table but said nothing.
“Maybe that’s all Battle wants,” he said. “Maybe he’s hoping for something better.”
“He won’t find it on the other side of the wall,” she said.
Baadal leaned in. He pressed his hands flat against the table. “Why don’t you tell him that?”
“He has to discover it for himself,” she said.
“That’s not—”
“Nice?”
Baadal shrugged.
“I told you, Felipe,” she said. “I’m not a good person. A leader doesn’t have to be good. She has to be strong. She has to do what’s right for her survival.”
Baadal nodded. He understood the strong pull of self-preservation at the expense of morality. He decided against asking about the plans already under way. He’d find out with the rest of them. Maybe not knowing was better.
CHAPTER NINE
OCTOBER 25, 2037, 5:35 PM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
HOUSTON, TEXAS
Dead weight was a colloquialism Ana Montes had never fully understood until she helped carry one. General Harvey Logan was not a small man. Disposing of his body was not a minor task.
“A few more feet,” said Sidney Reilly, grunting as he walked backwards and grappled with Logan’s arms. “Just. A. Few. More. Feet.”
“You keep saying that,” Ana moaned. She kept losing her grip on Logan’s heels as they maneuvered their way along the narrow hallway that separated the sitting area from the bedrooms.
They bounded along the hall, banging into the walls as they moved. They reached the end of it and struggled through the doorway into the master bedroom.
Ana crossed the threshold and dropped Logan’s feet. “Hang on.” She waved at Sidney and bent over at her waist. “I need to catch my breath for a second. He’s so heavy. Remind me why we couldn’t have left him in the sitting room? We’re leaving here anyhow.”
“It might be a couple of days,” Sidney said, still holding Logan’s wrists. The general’s head was flopped backward, his Adam’s apple exposed. “You don’t want a dead body lying on the floor.”
“Maybe,” she said, wiping the bloom of sweat from the back of her neck.
“The tub is already filled with ice, right?” he asked.
“As filled as I could get it,” she said.
“I thought you had a freezer full of ice in the garage,” he said. “He’s a general. Ice is a perk, isn’t it?”
“We have ice in a freezer, sure,” she clarified. “But it wasn’t full. It was never full.”
Sidney rolled his eyes, huffed, and dropped Logan’s wrists. He turned to go to the bathroom and the dead man’s head hit the floor with a thud. Even though he was dead, the sound was painful to Ana.
Sidney called from the bathroom. “This is enough,” he said. “This will keep the body cold enough for a day or two.” He reemerged and bent over to pick up Logan’s arms. “Let’s finish this, Ana.”
She bent at her knees, grabbed Logan’s ankles, and heaved upward. A few awkward steps and they’d navigated the rest of the distance. They rolled Logan’s nude body into the tub and onto a bed of ice.
Ana stared at the body for a moment, recalling the wretched way in which the father of her child had died. It was hard to reconcile what she’d done, despite knowing it was for the greater good.
Sidney put his arm around her shoulder, leading her out of the bathroom. “You did a good job,” he said. “This was the first step. It was
the most important.”
“I don’t know,” said Ana, stopping at her bed and dropping to sit on its edge. “I’m not any better than them.”
Sidney knelt down in front of her as if he were proposing marriage. He took her hands in his. “What you did was self-defense. What we are all doing is self-defense. It will end the Cartel’s hold over us. It will bring about a new time. Things will be better than they’ve been in years.”
“I wish I could believe that,” said Ana. “I wish I knew what we were doing was right.”
Sidney squeezed her hands. “C’mon, let’s go.” He stood and pulled her from the bed and opened his arms wide, offering her a consoling hug.
She took his offer and buried her face in his chest. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around his back. She didn’t see him pull the knife from his waist, but she opened her eyes in time to see the glint of the blade reflect in a wall-hung mirror.
She jerked away from his hold as he swung the knife around toward her back. Ana deflected the swipe with her forearm and instinctively drove her knee upward with as much force as she could muster.
The shot to his groin slugged into him the moment he drove his arm downward. The blade sliced the back of Ana’s arm, and she repeated the upward movement of her knee, slamming him for a second time.
Sidney dropped the knife and grabbed himself as he crumpled to the floor, groaning. There was drool pooling on the floor beneath his mouth.
The pain of the wound numb from adrenaline, Ana scooted back onto the bed and away from Sidney. She rolled over and grabbed a large leaded-glass candlestick from the bedside table.
Sidney was struggling to find his feet. He looked up at Ana with the gaze of a drunk. His mouth was agape, his eyes clearly unable to find their focus. He mumbled something, drool leaking from the corners of his mouth.
Ana tightened her grip on the large candlestick and bounded toward Sidney. She reared back and swung the glass like a hammer onto the back of his head. The glass vibrated in her hand as it smacked his skull.
Sidney dropped flat to the floor, unconscious. A dark stain of blood spread across the back of his head.