by Tom Abrahams
“You’re gonna need to step away from that car,” said the man. He kept his position on the edge of the road, but he’d lowered the long gun and was aiming it at Ana from his waist.
“Step away,” said the woman. She stepped closer. Ana could see the grit under the woman’s long fingernails. They were as black as the land beyond the highway.
Ana took a deep breath and raised her hands. “Fine,” she said. “Let me get my baby out of the backseat.”
“You got a baby?” the woman asked. “A real live baby?”
Ana hesitated. “Yes.”
“She got a baby,” the woman called back to the man out of the corner of her mouth without taking her eye from Ana.
“I heard that,” said the man. “A real live baby.”
“We had a baby,” said the woman. “A little girl.”
The woman’s shoulders curled forward and she lowered her aim. Her gaze drifted for a moment.
“She caught the Scourge,” said the man. “Died fast.”
“I’m sorry,” said Ana. “I—”
“You’re not sorry,” snapped the woman. Her shoulders squared and the aim returned to Ana’s head. “You got no reason to be sorry. You don’t know us.”
“I’m only—”
“Shut up and get the baby,” the woman said, moving the barrel as she talked. “I wanna see the baby.”
“Is it a girl?” the man asked.
Ana nodded.
“Get the girl,” said the woman. She took another step forward. “I wanna see her.”
“What’s her name?” asked the man, stopping Ana as she reached for the rear door handle.
Ana pulled on the door handle and cracked open the door, triggering the interior light. “Penny.”
“Oh,” cooed the woman. She craned her neck to see inside the car. “I think I see her. I think I see that beautiful girl.”
“We may have to take the girl too,” said the man. “The car and the girl. I think that’s how it’s gonna have to be.”
“We did say everything inside the car,” said the woman, the joy evaporating from her face as she looked back at Ana. “Hurry up.”
Ana turned her back on the couple and reached into the car. She whispered to Penny, “Mama will be right back,” and she grabbed the automatic rifle. She slapped the safety lever down and spun around with her finger on the trigger.
She shoved the rifle to her shoulder as she depressed the trigger, holding it in place, spraying its contents at the couple. Ana didn’t expect the recoil and was knocked back into the car. She kept firing, the fully automatic shots sounding like keys on an electric typewriter as they zipped through the air.
The first volley arced into the air. As Ana fell backward from the recoil, the weapon aimed upward. The first several bullets from the seventy-five-round barrel magazine were close to true and hit the woman twice in the gut. She dropped her long gun and grabbed her midsection, crying out in pain and cursing Ana.
The man reacted quickly. He fired off a pair of shots aimed at Ana’s head. She fell back into the side of the car from the recoil, the twin rounds missing her head by inches and slugging the Lexus.
Ana regained her balance and pushed her right hand against the wooden club stock to tighten the rifle against her shoulder and applied steady pressure to the trigger. This time she unleashed a sustained volley of rounds. The first dozen drilled the woman to the road face-first. Her body twitched on the highway as if she were trying to break-dance.
Convinced the woman was no longer a threat, Ana swung the weapon to her left and found the man as he approached. A sting in her left arm near her shoulder altered the first couple of shots, but the trail of gunfire found its mark and cut a swath across the man’s chest. His arms flung outward and his long gun rattled to the ground. His body shuddered and convulsed before he stumbled forward and slid onto the asphalt.
Ana held the trigger for a moment longer, the stock thumping against her right shoulder as she struggled to hold the heavy weapon in place. As the last of the shots echoed into the expanse on either side of the highway, Penny’s whimper became audible. The child wasn’t inconsolable, but Ana could tell she was upset. How couldn’t she be? The sound of screaming and gunfire would bring virtually anyone to tears. Ana took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to slow her racing pulse. She stretched her mouth wide, trying to ease the thick ringing in her ears.
It wasn’t until after she’d lowered her weapon that she realized she’d been shot. She was bleeding. When the adrenaline of the moment left her body, the wound began to throb.
Ana winced and carried the weapon with her right arm, walking over to the would-be carjackers. She checked the woman first. She was dead on her side, her neck turned awkwardly. The bottoms of her feet were black. The rest of her was coated in grime and blood.
The man was flat on his stomach. Ana couldn’t see his face. Blood leached onto the highway from underneath his body. She turned back to the car, reset the safety, and gently laid it where she’d retrieved it.
She consoled Penny for a moment and then turned back to grab the other weapons from the couple, who wouldn’t need them any longer. The woman’s weapon was a shotgun of some kind. It had two barrels. Ana took the weapon back to the car and then searched the woman’s grisly remains for any ammunition. The pain of the bullet wound was spreading down her arm. Her hand felt stiff.
She found a handful of red and brass colored shells in one of the wide pockets in the woman’s cargo shorts. Rather than try to carry them, she used her right hand to remove the woman’s shorts. She struggled to yank them over the hips, but once she’d managed that, the task was easy. Ana balled up the shorts and tossed them into the foot well of the driver’s side rear seat next to her rifle and the woman’s shotgun.
She trudged back to the man’s rifle. It was smaller than hers and lighter. She flipped its safety and carried it back to the car to place it with the others. Unlike the woman, the man had an ammo pouch on his hip.
It was looped into his belt, a thin braided leather, and she couldn’t pull hard enough with one hand to remove it.
Ana cursed and sat down on the road next to the man’s body, careful to avoid the pool of his blood. She used her heels to flip him over onto his back so she could unlatch the belt buckle and free the ammo bag. He turned over like a drunk man, his tongue hanging from his mouth and his eyes wide open.
He stared toward the sky. It was a blank, distant stare Ana thought looked peaceful. As if the man had seen the stars or the moon for which she’d been searching and was imagining a better life far from the planet on which he was stuck.
Ana leaned over, trying not to look at his eyes, and undid the buckle. She plucked the brass prong from the braid and then tugged on the buckle’s frame. It slid easily from the belt loops in his pants and the ammo bag dropped to the road. She took the ammo bag without looking in it and tossed it into the back of the car.
She felt light-headed and leaned against the open door, her forehead resting across her right forearm. She knew she was losing blood and she touched her right hand to the back of her shoulder. There was no exit wound. The pain was intensifying.
Ana knew she’d need to take care of the wound. Otherwise, she’d be a one-armed unconscious single mother stranded in the dark on a lonely post-apocalyptic highway.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
OCTOBER 25, 2037, 10:21 PM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
PALO DURO CANYON, TEXAS
Baadal was on first watch. As the leader of his squad, he took the first two hours of the rotation. Twenty minutes in, several of the men were already asleep. A couple of them snored loudly enough that Baadal wondered if he’d be able to fall asleep when his turn came.
He had nine minutes until the next radio check. This would be a long night.
Baadal walked along the rim, his feet dragging in the dirt. When he stepped farther from the snoring, he could hear a whistle.
At first he thought it might be the
wind, but the closer he moved to its source, the more apparent to him it was a tune, a melody of some kind. Baadal didn’t recognize it, but it was catchy.
His pace quickened, and he raised his rifle, closing the twenty-yard gap between the whistling and his spot along the rim. He was within a few feet when he recognized the whistler.
Baadal stopped and lowered his weapon. “It?”
The whistling stopped and the man turned around. “Baadal? That you?”
“Yes,” Baadal said. “What’re you doing?”
Itihaas turned to fully face Baadal. He drove his hands into his pockets. His rifle was slung across his back. “Just whistling,” he said. “Can’t sleep.”
“What’re you whistling?”
“It’s an old song,” Itihaas said. “It’s called ‘New World in the Morning’. It’s by a fellow named Roger Whitaker. My father used to whistle it. I picked it up.”
“Got my attention,” said Baadal. He looked out over the rim again, straining his eyes to see anything beyond the darkness.
“I don’t know,” said It. “I thought it was appropriate. Tomorrow brings a new world, right?”
Baadal shrugged. “I suppose.” He turned back to It. “May I ask you a question?”
Itihaas nodded. “Shoot.”
Baadal traced his finger down his face. “How’d you…”
“Get the scar?”
Baadal nodded.
“It was on the other side of the wall.”
“You’ve been over the wall?”
It nodded.
“What was it like?”
“That’s a tough question to answer,” said Baadal. “How do you describe chaos disguised as order? It was deceptively dangerous. No better than here, really. On this side of the wall you can see the danger coming. Up there, on the other side, it’s too late by the time you sense it.”
Baadal took another step closer to It. “How so?”
“There’s a government,” he said. “There’s a military. There’s power, most of the time, and there’s food.”
“That’s all good,” Baadal said.
“It’s all window dressing,” It said. “It’s corrupt. It’s smoke and mirrors. There’s no such thing as an honest living there. I mean, don’t get me wrong, if you’re willing to go along to get along, it’s better up there than it is down here. But if you want to make a go of it, if you want a piece for yourself, you gotta fight bigger, nastier dogs for it. Problem is, you never see their teeth until they’re ripping into your throat. By then it’s too late.”
“Is that why you came back?”
“I didn’t come back by choice,” It said. He ran his finger along his scar. “After I was attacked, I was tossed back here. Exiled.”
“How’d you end up in the canyon?”
“Scavengers along the wall stripped me of everything. They left me for dead,” he said. “Some sentries found me, patched me up, and brought me here. That was more than a year ago. I was thankful enough that once I healed, I became a sentry.”
Baadal checked his watch. It was time for a check. “Hang on a second,” he said, raising a finger to Itihaas. “I gotta get on the radio.”
Itihaas nodded. “You do what you gotta do.”
“This is Red squad one,” said Baadal. “Please advise of your status. Over.” He let go of the key and then held the radio to his ear.
There was static and then a voice. “Red squad two. Status normal. Over.”
“Squad three, Red,” buzzed another voice. “Status normal. Over.”
Six more signaled their situation was normal. The last one, southern rim squad ten, did not.
Baadal looked over at Itihaas and then pulled the radio close to his mouth. “This is southern rim squad one,” he said calmly. “Please advise of your status, squad ten. Over.”
Nothing.
“Squad ten.” Baadal’s voice carried more urgency. He shook the radio as he spoke into it. “This is Red squad one. Please advise of your status, squad ten. Over.”
Static. Then nothing.
Itihaas moved next to Baadal. The two of them glared at the radio, as if somehow looking at it might produce a response Baadal knew wasn’t coming.
“Who’s the closest squad to ten?” asked It. “I know we’re in the middle of things.”
“Eight,” said Baadal. He pressed the radio. “Squad eight,” he said, the urgency having morphed into desperation. “Please advise of your status, Red squad eight. Over.”
The response was immediate. “Red squad eight. Status normal. Over.”
“Red squad eight,” said Baadal, “shift half position east to squad ten location. Advance with caution. Squad ten is not responding. Over.”
“You’re moving squad eight?” It asked.
“Half of them,” said Baadal. “We can’t leave a gap.” He spun a knob on the top of the radio. “Blue squad one. Please advise of your status. This is Red squad one. Over.”
The radio crackled and beeped. “This is Blue squad one. Status normal. Over.”
Baadal pressed the radio key. “Blue squad one, please provide assistance to Red. Red squad ten not responding. Squad eight moving now with half response. Over.”
“Copy that.” The radio was overmodulated but intelligible. “Shifting half position Blue squad nine to assist. Will advise. Over.”
“This isn’t good,” Baadal said. He switched his frequency again so he could communicate with Paagal. She wouldn’t be happy.
“So much for the new world starting tomorrow,” said It. “It’s happening now.”
***
The leader of General Roof’s reconnaissance posse couldn’t believe his good fortune. The team of six men, all of them smart and wily posse bosses, had moved quickly north to the edge of the canyon’s easternmost southern rim three hours ahead of schedule.
Roof had told them to expect sentries to interrupt their progress or misdirect their path. Neither had happened and they’d easily found themselves in an enviable position. They’d stationed themselves behind a clump of large rocks about seventy-five yards from the rim and what appeared to be an unprepared patrol squadron.
The squadron included a larger number of armed combatants than the quick-footed recon posse, but they were inexperienced. They didn’t carry themselves with swag. They were too relaxed.
Rather than the Browning shotgun that most of the Cartel carried as standard issue, the recon posse was armed with SCAR-17s similar to General Roof's. There were bipods connected to the barrels, twenty round magazines, and stock was designed to make it easier to secure the weighty weapon against the shooter’s shoulder.
In the years before the Scourge, Russian crime lords had provided caseloads of SCAR-17s to those engaged in the Afghani heroin trade. Those same weapons found their way to South and Central America and the nasty drug gangs that populated that early part of the twenty-first century.
Other than the Brownings, which were the most plentiful weapon post-Scourge, the SCAR-17 was the Cartel leadership’s weapon of convenience. Six seasoned malevolents armed with the semiautomatic rifle capable of quickly emptying the magazine were likely to defeat most similar-sized opposition.
The leader signaled for two of the men to take positions on either side of the rocks. Both of the men had the added benefit of AAC Cyclone silencers on their weapons. The suppressors lessened the volume of the rifles when fired, making the shots sound more like pneumatic nail gun shots than full-blown semiautomatic rifle fire.
Each man took his position, prone, and set their respective bipods in the dirt. On the leader’s signal, they took aim.
One by one, like a shooting gallery at a carnival, the men smacked their targets. Some of the targets were already on the ground. In the dark, the shooters could only see the jerk of their bodies as the .308-inch rounds drilled into the opposition two or three at a time. The others, who were standing, dropped instantly from the staccato rhythm of those brass slugs peppering the life out of them.
&
nbsp; Within fifteen seconds, the entire Dweller patrol was done. The recon posse hadn’t broken a sweat, and they moved quickly to search their marks. They took what weapons and rations they could use and stuffed them into the light rucksacks on their backs.
The leader opened a satellite phone and awaited the signal before he dialed General Roof. The ring warbled twice before the general answered.
“What?”
“We’ve made our first contact,” said the leader. “Easy pickings. Probably a dozen of their sentries are down.”
“No resistance?” asked Roof.
“They never saw what hit ’em,” said the recon posse leader. “We’ve got maps, a radio, some weapons, light rations.”
“Good job,” said Roof. “Keep me posted. Move along the rim, disabling whatever defenses they have working the edge. The more damage you do, the easier it’ll be tomorrow.”
The leader hung up, closed the satellite phone, and slipped it into his rucksack. It was dark, but the clouds were clearing, and the moon was providing enough light for the tasks at hand.
He was turning to the group to relay their instructions to the other five bosses when the radio crackled to life. A series of squads checked in with their base. He listened to the number of sentry squads placed along the southern rim: six, seven, eight, nine…
Nobody answered at number ten. The commander called out for number ten again. No response.
“I’m guessing that’s us, boys,” said the leader. The men chuckled in agreement.
The radio squawked again. “Red squad eight,” said the anxious voice sending the orders. “Shift half position east to squad ten location. Advance with caution. Squad ten is not responding. Over.”
The leader turned to his left and pointed into the darkness. “We’re gonna get company,” said the leader. “It’s gonna be coming from the west. We need to look for it.”
The radio chirped. The voice ordered another squad to move.
“We’re gonna get it from the north too,” one of the men added. “What do you want us to do?”