by Tom Abrahams
He considered his options, looking at the moon slip behind a bank of clouds moving slowly across the Amarillo sky. He could move or advance. Both of those possibilities exposed him to return fire.
He could stay in place. There was no threat in any direction but from the rocks to his north. That was the best bet.
***
The portly Dweller was side by side with the woman marching south. The two of them moved cautiously, taking advantage of the cloud cover to advance more quickly than they might have otherwise, especially given they were inching forward on their bellies.
The muzzle flashes had momentarily stopped. A breeze swirled, whistling through the dry foliage clinging to the trees dotting the area near the rim.
She’d sent a pair of Dwellers southwest and two more southeast to provide cover on either side. If the friendlies attacking the Cartel from the south were still alive, something of which she could not be sure, they’d have the enemies outflanked.
The woman Dweller had taken the lead because nobody else seemed willing to do it. They’d listened to her and were taking her direction. Even the portly Dweller followed orders.
The woman, who’d come to the Dwellers as the lone Scourge survivor among her husband and four children, had never asked for much. She’d given greatly, always eager to volunteer for whatever task Juliana Paagal assigned her.
That included raising her hand to take a shift on the rim. She had nothing to lose and was willing to sacrifice herself to warn or protect those in the canyon below.
She’d taken the Dweller name Ma-an. None of the men in her squad had asked her name, however, so she’d not shared it with them.
As Ma-an and the portly Dweller drew closer to the rocks, she could sense his fear. His breathing was short and loud, and the rifle rattled in his hands.
“What is your name?” she whispered.
He glanced at her wide-eyed. “Galaphulla.”
“I’m Ma-an.”
Galaphulla nodded. He inched ahead of Ma-an and stopped, pointing to their right.
One of the Dwellers sent to the southwest was standing. He had his rifle pulled tight to his shoulder. His large silhouette was intimidating in the moonlight escaping the patch of clouds.
Ma-an readied her rifle. She motioned for Galaphulla to do the same. The standing Dweller took a pair of shots at the rocks directly ahead of them.
***
The shots came from the left, unexpectedly. They shattered the relative silence of the moment and took the life of the boss crouched next to the recon leader. The leader was jolted and spun to face the new threat.
He was looking west now and saw a gunman standing in the moonlight. His rifle was aimed straight at the leader. There was no time to take proper aim in defense. The leader closed his eyes, resigned to his fate, when a loud percussive echo exploded behind him.
Rat-tat-tat.
The only other surviving boss had sighted the standing gunman and opened fire. His quick trigger downed the standing gunman.
Rat-tat-tat.
Another quick trio of shots found another Dweller crouched in the same spot. Two down in a matter of seconds.
The recon leader spun to thank the boss for saving his life in time to see a muzzle flash from the corner of his eye. It was from the southwest.
Thump, thump, thump. Thump, thump, thump.
The boss’s head snapped backward and he dropped. His eyes were fixed to the leader as the shots drilled through his brain. The leader blinked away the spray of blood that splattered across his face and neck. He was alone. The last survivor.
The leader, as mean a cuss as anyone could find, was like most sad men when faced with the prospect of pending death. He raised his hands and begged for his life.
He tossed his rifle to the ground. “I surrender!” he said as loud as his shaky voice would carry. “I surrender.”
His head swiveled, searching the dark for approaching Dwellers. His body tense, he raised his hands higher above his head, anticipating a rifle shot to the gut at any second.
“I surrender,” he repeated, his words falling flat in the air. “I’m the last one. I give up. Don’t shoot.”
***
Battle jumped to his feet and pressed the HK’s stock into his shoulder, advancing slowly. He’d heard the man announce his surrender. He caught the operator’s eyes, and the two of them moved in tandem toward the rocks.
From behind the rocks, a woman’s voice said, “Move toward me. Slowly. Hands above your head.”
Battle pressed forward, and the man began to move. He was wearing a dark cowboy hat. Battle guessed the man was a posse boss. His hands raised high, he shuffled away from the rock and to the west.
“We’re right behind him,” a man’s voice announced from the east. A pair of Dwellers, rifles at the ready, emerged from the darkness, following the boss.
One of them noticed Battle and the operator. “Who are you?” He switched his aim, pointing his rifle directly at the operator.
“We’re Dwellers,” said Battle. “Paagal sent us to help. She told us one of the squads was hit.”
“Just two of you?”
“No,” said the operator. “We lost two others.”
Battle motioned his rifle toward the recon boss. “Let’s all row in the same direction. Keep our weapons aimed at the boss here. Move slowly. We can figure it out on the other side of the rocks.”
The Dweller nodded. “We’ve got two more coming with us,” he called out to the woman. “We’re all armed.”
“Got it,” said the woman. “Move slowly.”
The five men, including the posse boss, rounded the rocks. The woman and a short, chubby Dweller awaited them.
The woman had her eyes and weapon trained on the boss. “Is he it? Is he the only one left?”
“It looks like it,” said Battle.
The woman looked Battle up and down. “And who are you?”
“My name is Battle,” he said. “I’m…helping out.”
“I know you,” said the portly Dweller. “I saw you at the bonfire. You’re not a Dweller.”
“No. I’m also not the issue right now.” Battle nodded at the posse boss. “He is.”
“Agreed,” the woman said. “We need to get him to Paagal and find out what he knows.”
“We can take him,” said the operator.
“Good,” said the woman. “We’ll take care of this and radio the other squads.”
“I’d keep the radio talk to a minimum,” said Battle. “We don’t know yet if this is the only team, and this guy has one of your radios.”
The woman stepped forward and grabbed the radio from the boss. She glared at the prisoner then turned to Battle. “Go ahead,” she said. “Take him to Paagal. We’ll get back to work here.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
OCTOBER 25, 2037, 11:40 PM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
INTERSTATE 27, NEW DEAL, TEXAS
Roof sat in the passenger’s seat of the Humvee. The low rumble of the engine, the smell of diesel, and the threadbare interior of the vehicle stimulated his memory.
He ran his fingers through his beard and stared out the window at the moonscape along Interstate 27. His mind drifted from the northbound convoy to the moments before his life changed in Syria nearly eighteen years earlier.
The patrol was routine. He and the five others were alone in an area not far from the university. They’d completed countless similar missions in Aleppo with no casualties. They were armed, they were doing their job, but Roof, known then as Sergeant First Class Rufus Buck, had the sense they weren’t as vigilant as they should have been.
Despite warnings from their superior officer, Captain Marcus Battle, they’d been talking about their upcoming leave. The men were looking forward to their R&R. Or as Roof had called it, I&I. Instead of rest and relaxation, he’d joked, it was more about intoxication and intercourse.
That sort of irreverence was a tricky proposition in the Muslim nations that ja
iled people for virtually any public displays of affection. Roof was schooling the younger men on ways to subvert authority and where they could find forbidden fruit when Battle chastised them for their lack of focus.
Roof was walking behind Battle with the other men. They were six or seven steps behind him. Roof silently mocked him with a lazy salute. The other men laughed. When Battle turned around, one of them poked his rifle at a moldy stuffed Elmo doll lying in their path.
The doll was filled with carpenter screws, ball bearings, and a pipe containing explosive material. Elmo exploded as the soldier stood above it.
He and the two men closest to him died instantly. Roof, Battle, and another soldier were thrown clear of the immediate blast.
No sooner they got their wits about them when the man next to Roof was gunned down. They’d stepped into an ambush. The combatants who’d detonated the doll were showering them with lead.
Roof was hit and dropped. His leg below his knee was mangled. He was trapped and unable to move.
The man he’d mocked moments earlier was his only salvation. From behind a concrete barrier, the fearless captain found the source of the gunfire and neutralized it.
He then returned and, at the risk of his own life, helped Roof to safety. It was the longest night of his life before the Scourge took hold. It was the night he learned what heroism was. He also learned he wasn’t capable of it.
When they crossed a bridge and checkpoint the following morning, they underwent a thorough debriefing. Every aspect of the previous afternoon and night was discussed repeatedly.
Battle was insistent he receive no medal for his actions. He’d told his superiors that if he’d done his job, if he’d kept his men focused, they never would have come under fire.
Roof, more jealous of his comrade’s selflessness than thankful for it, agreed that Battle had not commanded his patrol with authority. While he was grateful for the captain’s efforts to save his life, he didn’t promote the idea of any commendation. His ego wouldn’t allow it.
Both men were sent home from the tour. Roof never saw him again, except in nightmares when he relived the pain and embarrassment of relying on someone else to keep him alive.
And then karma played its hand. Battle, of all people, was the thorn in the Cartel’s side. On the eve of the war that would give them dominion of their lands, the fight that would put an end to the only organized opposition, Marcus Battle reappeared.
Roof was certain that when he confronted Battle before the Jones, the good captain would recognize him. For some reason, he hadn’t. Battle had no idea who Roof really was. The general was so shocked by it that he had to let the man live. He had to give him the same gift he’d received. So he did. He thought it would ease him of his guilt, the inadequacy that guided his life.
It didn’t.
Instead, it only reopened the festering wound, left it gaping and subject to infection. Letting Battle live was a mistake, just as Battle’s having let him live so many years ago was a mistake. Had Battle let him die, the Cartel never would have risen to power.
Now they were back where they began. Together in war. This time, though, they were on opposite sides. They were enemies. One or both of them would have to die. Karma, Roof believed, demanded it.
A knock on the thin window behind Roof’s head shook him from his trance. It was Skinner. He was riding in the back of the Humvee with the ambitious grunt Grat Dalton.
Roof looked over his shoulder. Skinner was pointing across the highway. Roof nodded and leaned forward to look through the front windshield. There was lightning off in the distance. The forks and flashes illuminated the storm clouds gathering in the dark. They spread wide across the direction in which they were heading.
It was impossible to tell how far north the storm might be. He hoped it would dissipate or move on before they drove into its path.
Roof turned around and acknowledged Skinner. He shrugged. There wasn’t anything he could do about it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
OCTOBER 26, 2037, 12:00 AM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
INTERSTATE 45, RICHLAND, TEXAS
The Lexus rattled to a stop. Steam poured from underneath the cratered hood. The car was overheated. There was nothing Ana could do about it. What she’d hoped would be a straight trip to the canyon without interruption was stalled for the third time.
Ana pounded her fists against the top of the steering wheel. It was midnight in the middle of nowhere. She unbuckled her belt, slung it off her waist, and huffed.
She knew from the rusting green road sign on the side of the highway that she was outside Richland, Texas. That meant nothing to her except that it wasn’t Palo Duro Canyon. Ana would have to start walking.
Penny was asleep in the backseat. Ana looked at her and pursed her lips. Waking a sleeping baby was never a good idea.
The car wasn’t running, but its headlights still worked. She flipped on the high beams to give herself more vision ahead. They didn’t do much. They did, however, reveal an exit to the right and what looked like a building in the distance.
Ana elbowed herself out of the Lexus and stood in the road. It was quiet aside from the chirp of insects and frogs. The air was still and edging on crisp.
She pulled out the stroller and popped it open. She stuffed the car emergency kit into the pouch hanging off the back of the stroller near its handles. She took the stuffed backpack from the trunk and noticed the rubber nipple poking out from between the teeth of the open zipper.
She’d forgotten she packed a bottle. It could have saved her some time had she remembered, and might have allowed her to get farther than Richland. It didn’t matter now. She was glad to have the bottle. She opened the pack’s main compartment to remind herself of what else she’d packed in the fog of a post-homicidal escape. There were some reusable cloth diapers, some clothes for Penny, and a half-empty jar of Vaseline. Ana rolled her eyes at her own lack of creativity and closed the pack to sling it on her back.
She grabbed each of the weapons she’d stored in the back of the car and laid them on the road next to each other. She could only carry one. She folded her arms and strummed her fingers on her elbow. She picked up the pair of weapons from the would-be carjackers and tossed them into the trunk of the car.
The weapon left in the road was the assault rifle she’d taken from Nancy Wake. She grasped its varnished wood stock and held it tight in her hand. It had the round drum of ammunition underneath the barrel. Ana knew it had to hold more ammunition than the smaller, lighter weapons the carjackers had unknowingly gifted her.
Having killed two people with it, the rifle already felt familiar in her hand. She made sure the safety lever was in the “safe” position and leaned it against the side of the Lexus.
Penny was awake. Her eyes fluttered and her brow furrowed as she stretched her nine-month-old body against the backseat. Penny’s sighed with relief. She wouldn’t have to wake her and face “angry baby wrath”.
Ana reached into the car to unbelt her child. “Hi, baby,” she cooed in the sweetest voice she could muster. Babies were like dogs, Ana had discovered in her short time as a mother. Tone and pitch mattered a lot more than words.
Penny smiled and patted her mother on her nose. “Mamamama,” she babbled.
Ana hooked her hands underneath Penny’s armpits and gently pulled her from the Lexus. Free of the car, she spun around in circles. “Wheeee!” she said, giggling and looking her daughter in the eyes as she twirled. “Wheeee!”
Penny giggled and cupped her hands together. Her dangling baby feet fluttered until Ana plopped her into the stroller and latched the nylon belt across her lap and between her chubby legs.
Ana placed the long gun over the stroller’s handles and wrapped one hand around the wooden pistol grip. She shrugged the pack up more comfortably onto her shoulders and started pushing the stroller. The first twenty yards or so, she stayed in the center of the road, using the headlights to guide her path. When she walke
d past the edge of the dimming light, she moved to the edge of the highway, closer to the exit. The closer she got to the building, the more its form took shape.
By the time she’d exited, she could make out the high, steep ridge of the roofline. Another twenty yards and she saw a large welcome sign to the right of the road. It was fronted by dirt and a W-shaped wall made of jagged limestone rocks. The signage was a dark color, maybe rust, and was decorated with bold white lettering, some of which was missing.
It read “TE AS DEP RT ENT O TRAN PORTA ION” across the top and “N VARRO C U TY SAFETY RE T A EA”. Ana stopped to make out the words. She chuckled to herself that the only word not missing any letters was safety.
She shoved the stroller past the sign, the wheels crunching along the pitted asphalt leading to the building. The rest area was larger than she’d anticipated from its moonlit silhouette.
It, like the signage, was built behind a limestone wall. A large area in front of the main building was a mixture of dirt, weeds, and tall unkempt grass. The building itself had a large covered porch and looked like a mix between ranch and shake architecture. It was constructed, best she could tell, of stone and wood siding. The siding was rotting so much in some spots it was evident in the dark. The large glass windows that framed the front of the first floor were dark. A couple of them were broken. Ana thought it had been some time since anyone had been here.
She inched her way up the path between the patches of weeds and grass and onto the porch. She rolled straight into a thick spiderweb that caught her across the forehead. Ana instinctively drew her hands to her face and head to swipe away the silky, sticky strings trailing across her eyes and mouth.
The gun fell and rattled against the concrete floor and reverberated against the walls and ceiling of the porch, making a noise loud enough to awaken anyone sleeping within a hundred yards.
It did.