Wall: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 3)

by Tom Abrahams

  The general looked past Dalton and saw a lone boss on horseback perched behind the Humvee. “Good,” he said. “Go see if they have extra rides for us.”

  “Three?” asked Dalton. “I think Porky’s dead.”

  Roof glanced over at the bodies and stepped toward them. “I don’t know yet,” Roof said. “Go ahead and ask for three, though.”

  Dalton glanced at the bodies, licked his lips, nodded, and jogged back to the boss.

  Roof stood over the first body. It belonged to a Dweller. Death had frozen his eyes open. His corpse was bloodied and bullet-riddled. Roof kicked the Dweller’s legs out of habit, receiving no response.

  He took a dozen steps to the other body. It was Skinner. He was on his stomach. His head was turned to the side, blood leaking from his mouth.

  Roof knelt down and placed his hand on Skinner’s back. He felt the faint rise and fall of his lungs. Skinner was alive.

  Roof laid down his rifle and rolled Skinner onto his back, revealing the twin wounds in his gut. Skinner’s eyes were open. His hot, fetid breath came in heavy waves from his open, bleeding mouth.

  “You killed him,” said Roof. “You got the Dweller. You hit him four or five times. That’s more than he got you.” Roof tried smiling.

  Skinner blinked. He reached for the bleeding holes at his midsection and found them, pulling his hand back to his face. He looked at his bloodied fingers, and then his eyes locked onto Roof’s.

  “It ain’t good,” Roof said.

  Skinner turned his head to the side and spat. A spray of blood flew from his mouth. He closed his eyes and coughed. His eyes squeezed tight from what Roof imagined was ridiculous pain.

  “He gonna die?” Dalton was back. There was a boss and a couple of grunts standing behind him. He motioned at Skinner lying flat on his back in the mud. “The captain? He gonna die?”

  Still squatting beside the dying man, Roof looked at Dalton and nodded. He shifted his weight and placed his hand on Skinner’s chest. “What can I do? I owe you for your loyalty.”

  Tears welled in Cyrus Skinner’s eyes, spilling down his muddy cheeks. He looked up toward the sky and back at Roof. He dug his fingers into the mud and then waved for Dalton Grat to come closer before his hand plopped back to the ground.

  Dalton slowly approached. He stood beside Skinner until the captain motioned for him to come closer. Dalton obliged and knelt down in the mud.

  Skinner raised his left hand and, using his index finger, drew a letter on Dalton’s stained white shirt. He dipped his finger in the mud and painted another letter. And another. And another.

  When he was finished, Skinner pointed at the shirt. Dalton stood and tugged at the bottom of the shirt, stretching it to make the mud letters more legible.

  KILL ME

  Roof read the instructions and then grabbed Skinner by the jaw. He turned his face toward him so as to look him in the eyes. “You want me to kill you?”

  Skinner coughed again and nodded. His complexion was gray. His breathing was irregular and shallow. He sounded as if he was panting.

  Roof licked the front of his teeth and nodded. He looked over at Dalton and the others. “You all can go back to the rest of them. You have two horses?”

  Dalton nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Then go,” said Roof. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  The men retreated back to the posse. Roof could make out the rough shapes of the gathered men and horses waiting for him at the Humvee. He took a deep breath and exhaled.

  Roof started to reach for his SCAR 17, then tried counting in his head how many 308s he’d used, but couldn’t arrive at an answer, so he scooted to Skinner’s side and lowered his head closer to the captain.

  “This will only take a minute,” he said. He placed both hands over Skinner’s face, covered the captain’s nose and mouth, and pressed down. Skinner’s eyes bulged wide with surprise and fear.

  “Shhhhh,” said Roof. “Shhhh. Don’t fight it.”

  Skinner struggled against the pressure, grasping at Roof’s wrists. Roof responded by leaning on Skinner’s chest with his elbows. He pushed his weight into the dying man, expelling his stored air and his will.

  Cyrus Skinner’s grip weakened until his hands slipped to the ground. His kicking feet slowed, twitched, and then stopped. The look of fear melted into one of resignation and acceptance. Like that, one of the most feared men in the western Cartel territory was dead.

  Roof ran his fingers across Skinner’s open eyes, sliding the lids shut. “I always figured it’d be the cigarettes that killed you,” he said and used Skinner’s body to push himself to his feet.

  He turned back to the men gathered at the Humvee. “Men,” he called with his hands cupped around his mouth, “come get the weapons from these Dwellers.”

  A group of grunts led by Dalton marched forward. While the others spread out in search of long guns, Grat Dalton stopped at Skinner’s body. “I didn’t hear a gunshot,” he said. “How’d you do it?”

  Roof wiped his hands on his thighs and reached over to grab his rifle. “I didn’t want to waste the ammunition,” he said. “We need every bullet we’ve got.” He shot Dalton a look and stared at the grunt expressionlessly for a moment before walking past him toward the Humvee. “Sometimes you need to be careful what you wish for.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  OCTOBER 26, 2037, 5:01 AM

  SCOURGE +5 YEARS

  PALO DURO CANYON, TEXAS

  “It’s time to go,” Battle was saying before he stuck his head into Lola’s tent. “Paagal wants us at the narrow entry point.”

  Lola was sitting cross-legged on the ground, eating a slice of cucumber. Sawyer was trying to squeeze his feet into his shoes.

  Battle pointed at the boy but looked at Lola. “Where’s he going?”

  “With us.”

  Battle shook his head and stepped fully inside the tent. “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t think that’s—”

  “He’s going,” said Lola.

  “We’re going to be at the entry to the canyon,” Battle said. “He’s a kid. It’s going to be way too dangerous.”

  Sawyer stood and wiggled his foot into the shoe. “I can handle it,” he said.

  “He can handle it,” said Lola, pushing herself to her feet. “He’s grown up surrounded by danger. Besides, I’m not leaving him here.”

  Battle shrugged. “I was just—”

  “You were trying to tell me what to do with my son,” she said. “I’m not letting him leave my side. I lost him once. That’s not happening again.”

  Battle raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay,” he relented. “He’s coming with us.”

  Lola stepped to Battle and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said, patting his chest and sliding past him out of the tent.

  “Ew,” said Sawyer. The boy rolled his eyes before they hardened into a glare. “I’m not a kid, Mr. Battle. Not anymore.”

  Battle smirked and followed the boy from the tent into the predawn morning. They had three hours until sunrise. According to recon posse boss Frank Canton, the Cartel’s onslaught would begin at some point in the next one hundred and eighty minutes.

  The tent city on the canyon’s floor was abuzz with activity. Men and women prepared themselves for the defense of the homes. Most of them were armed with long guns. Some carried crossbows and wore bolt-filled quivers across their backs. Others had knives or swords.

  Battle surveyed the surreality of the scene playing out before him. It was as if he were caught in a medieval film. He half expected a knight in black armor to ride past him en route to a jousting tournament.

  Battle told Lola and Sawyer to wait for a moment and ducked into his tent. He emerged with two rifles, both of them roughly identical to the HK he’d taken with him to the rim. The Dwellers to whom they’d previously belonged were dead.

  He held one in each hand and extended his arms to the mother and son duo. “Take these,” he said, his warm breath visible
in the cold morning air. “You’ll need them.”

  A smile spread across Sawyer’s face. He took the weapon by its fore stock with a strong grip and tested its weight in his hand.

  Lola took her weapon with less gusto. “Thanks,” she said. “Got a name for this one?”

  Battle pursed his lips to one side of his mouth. “Aldo.”

  Lola shifted the weapon to her other hand. “Aldo?”

  “Main character in an old Quentin Tarantino flick.”

  “Who?” asked Sawyer.

  Battle motioned for them to start walking. “He was a movie director,” he said. “All of his movies were comically violent.”

  “Not sure I like the name, then,” said Lola, sniffing at the cold.

  Battle shook his head, thinking about the film in which actor Brad Pitt played the fictional World War II Army lieutenant. “Aldo was a bad dude,” said Battle, “and I mean bad in a good way. He was one of the heroes.”

  Sawyer squeezed his way between his mom and Battle as they moved. “I wanna see it,” he said. “I’ve never seen a movie. I’ve seen a couple of old television shows, but never a movie.”

  “When we make it to the other side of the wall,” said Battle, “we’ll find a copy. I’m sure it exists somewhere. Somebody will be able to find us a download.”

  Sawyer skipped ahead and walked backward, carefully maneuvering his way along an aisle of tents. “What should I name my rifle?”

  Battle looked at Lola, who gave him a warning shot with her eyes. He sighed. “Let me think on that.”

  “Something good,” said Sawyer, his mind distracted for the moment from the brutal reality of what lay in front of them. “Make it something good.”

  Battle led Lola and Sawyer through the maze of Dwellers. They reached the far edge of the encampment, clearing their way past the last of the tents. All three of them were outfitted with light packs that contained extra ammunition, folding knives, rations, and rudimentary first aid supplies. They also carried canteens.

  They walked quietly amongst the flow of other well-armed Dwellers on their respective paths to war. Sawyer uncapped his canteen and pulled a long swig, losing some of the precious liquid from the corners of his mouth.

  Battle pressed his finger against the wet spot spreading across the collar of Sawyer’s shirt. “You’re going to want to save that. Sip it. Don’t guzzle. Just enough to wet your whistle. It’s going to be a long day.”

  “Or days,” added a Dweller slogging in the same direction. “Who knows how long we’ll have to fight to keep them at bay?”

  He was middle-aged, like Battle, but he was thinner and taller. His eyes were sunken with disappointment. His mouth appeared stuck in a permanent frown. The rifle he carried against his shoulder was as big around as the arm holding it.

  “Days?” asked Sawyer, sounding more like an impatient child than the wizened teen who’d survived on his wit and guile. “Seriously?”

  Battle put his hand on Sawyer’s head. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “We worry about what we can control. Nothing else. Got it?”

  Sawyer offered Battle a smile and nodded. He tucked his thumbs under his pack straps and tugged. Battle caught Lola smiling too from the corner of his eye.

  The thin man sped up his gait to keep up with Battle. “Where are you headed?” he asked. “What’s your responsibility?”

  “The narrow passage that descends into the canyon,” said Battle.

  The thin man’s eyebrows arched and he motioned toward Sawyer with his head. “With the kid?”

  Sawyer arched his back and set his jaw. “I’m not a—”

  Battle put his hand on Sawyer’s head, palming it like a basketball, and gently squeezed. “Yes,” he said, “including this young man. He’ll be an asset.” Battle didn’t fully believe what he was saying, but given there was no turning back, he deemed it better to praise Sawyer. The higher the boy’s spirits, the greater his confidence, the better chance they all had of surviving the Cartel’s advance.

  The man’s frown deepened, accentuated by his cold-reddened nose and cheeks. “Huh,” he said. “All right then. I’m headed in the same direction. Have the same job. I’m not crazy about a child getting in the way.”

  Despite the frosty morning, the man’s forehead was glistening with sweat. He kept rubbing his thumb across the buttstock of his rifle.

  “We’ll be fine,” said Battle. “This kid here isn’t a kid. He’s seen and survived more than most. We’re lucky to have him with us.”

  The man wiped his brow and grunted something unintelligible. He slowed his pace, allowing Battle, Lola, and Sawyer to march ahead of him.

  Battle looked over his shoulder and waved at the thin man. “We’ll see you up there.”

  Lola sidestepped to move closer to Battle, cursing the thin man under her breath.

  “He’s nervous,” said Battle. His words weren’t as easy to come by as they began their slight ascent toward the elevated plateau at the mouth of the narrow passage. He sucked in a deep breath through his nose and blew it out. “I’ve got a name for your rifle,” he said to Sawyer, trying to distract him.

  Sawyer’s eyes lit up. A smile returned to his face. “What is it? Did you make it good?”

  Battle was conflicted by the boy’s internal dichotomy. On one hand, Sawyer was a grizzled survivalist who’d lived more than his share of heartache and knew too well the faces of evil. Then there were flashes of adolescent exuberance.

  His eyes lost focus for an instant, the corners of his lips pulled downward. The Scourge had killed two-thirds of the world’s population. It also killed childhood.

  Sawyer nudged Battle’s arm. “Battle? What’s the name?”

  Battle’s eyes blinked back to the moment. “Jed.”

  “Jed?”

  “Main character in the movie Red Dawn,” Battle explained. “It was a movie about a bunch of teenagers who fight back when their hometown gets invaded by foreign enemies.”

  “Who were the enemies?”

  “In the original, which is maybe fifty years old now, it was the Russians,” said Battle. “In the remake, which I saw as a kid, it was the Chinese.”

  “That’s another one to watch,” said Sawyer. He held up the rifle in front of him. “Jed. I like it.”

  “What about you, Marcus?” asked Lola.

  “What about me?”

  Lola glanced at Battle’s hands. “What are you going to name your rifle?”

  Battle looked at the HK and shrugged. “It doesn’t need a name,” he said. “I’ve got people now.”

  Lola held his gaze for moment until Battle felt a burning sensation in his chest. He smiled and she looked at the ground in front of her.

  Battle couldn’t be sure if the redness in her cheeks was from the cold or from what he’d said. Sawyer answered it for him.

  “You two are disgusting.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  OCTOBER 26, 2037, 5:16 AM

  SCOURGE +5 YEARS

  DALLAS, TEXAS

  The cavernous, eleven-thousand-square-foot motorcycle showroom was empty. Ana shone the flashlight across the gray tile floor and the gray-paneled walls of the front area. The red triangular Ducati emblem on the wall behind the service counter was cracked. A large square sales poster was ripped in half. Others were evidently missing, only the hanging mechanisms intact against the wall.

  Ana jumped when a large possum scurried past her, its long claws clicking across the floor. It stopped in the beam of light and hissed at her, baring its tiny, sharp teeth before dashing off into a dark corner of the large room.

  Without the stroller, Ana kept Penny on her chest in the pack converted into a baby carrier. Penny was chewing on her fist. Her lower teeth had begun to come in. She was drooling and babbling as she gnawed on the meat of her hand.

  Ana scoured the showroom, methodically working through the connected rooms. There was nothing. It was a bust.

  Dejected, she found her way back to the main
room and the service counter. She swiped off the thick layer of dust and grime with her hands, clapped them as clean as she could, and unloaded her baby-filled pack onto the counter’s grimy surface. She turned Penny around so she was facing her and gave her a kiss on the forehead. She turned off the crank flashlight and slid it into her pocket.

  Ana stepped back clear of the counter and stretched her arms above her head. She bent over at her waist and touched her toes. Her lower back and shoulders appreciated the relief. She turned her head from side to side, wincing at the cracking sound of air pockets popping in the joint fluid in her neck.

  She stretched her shoulders and her ankles. The exercise was as much an energizing tension reliever as it was a stalling tactic. Ana had no idea what was next. Then she saw a folded piece of paper on the floor, half of it sticking out from underneath the service counter.

  She reached for the piece of paper and slid it out from under the counter. She picked it up and unfolded it. It was a map. She spread it out on the counter next to Penny.

  She pulled the flashlight from her pocket, cranked it, and turned it on. The map was of Texas before the Scourge. It was tattered and torn in spots at the worn folds. There were stains that obscured some of the markings and town names. It had highlighted scenic motorcycle routes throughout the state. Most of them were far west of her in what used to be known as the Hill Country.

  Ana aimed the light at Palo Duro Canyon, east of Amarillo. With one hand she guided the light along the straightest viable route to Dallas while she traced it with a finger from the other hand.

  Looking at the legend on the bottom right, she estimated she had as much as four hundred miles to go. Ana looked over her shoulder toward the parking lot. The horse could move at maybe twenty to thirty miles per hour on average, she guessed. It would take her another day, if she were lucky, to get to the canyon. She hadn’t been lucky so far.

  She slid her finger north along Interstate 35 and aimed the light at Gainesville, Texas. It was only a few miles south of the Red River, the natural border between Texas and Oklahoma. She didn’t know exactly where the wall was built, but she could reasonably assume it was somewhere between Gainesville and the river. That was maybe an eighty-mile trip. She could make that in less than half a day, no problem.