by Tom Abrahams
“Yes,” she said and sniffed. “He was hungry. Food distribution wasn’t for another day and—”
“Food distribution?”
“Yes,” she said. “I told you, they control everything. Everything.”
“So he stole the orange…”
“From a man in our apartment building,” she said. “He wasn’t home. His door was unlocked. Sawyer always saw the man with food, so he snuck in to take an orange. The man walked in on him.”
“I’m assuming he was Cartel.” Battle pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed the lack of sleep from his eyes. “The man. That’s why he always had food?”
Lola nodded and buried her face in her hands. Battle let her cry without interruption or consolation. He started to reach for her a couple of times, but stopped himself. He waited until the emotional wave subsided.
“What did they do?” he asked.
“They made us their slaves.”
“You were already a slave, though,” Battle reasoned. “Weren’t you?”
“We were more like indentured servants,” she corrected him. “We got paid. We worked at a laundry. It was the only job I could find for us. It was enough to survive, most of the time. When Sawyer stole from them, when he took one orange so he wouldn’t go to bed hungry again, they took our jobs from us. They made us work on one of their farms, in the fields. Sunup to sundown. They moved us to a commune. Thirty-two people in a room. Sixteen beds.”
“How old is he?”
“Thirteen.”
“When did this happen?”
“Six months ago.”
“Where is he now?”
Lola’s face lost all expression, her eyes fixed in the distance. She began rocking again, faster than before, her foot pumping up and down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Battle thought she hadn’t heard the question, so he repeated it.
“Where is he now?”
Nothing.
“Lola!”
Her eyes fluttered and the rocking slowed. She turned to Battle and looked him in the eyes for long enough that Battle had to glance away.
“He’s still with them,” she said. “There were four of us who tried to escape. Two were…they didn’t make it out of the commune. Sawyer and I made it out. We ran. We ran…so fast…”
“How far did you get?”
“We were gone for a couple of days, I think,” she said. “We fell asleep. Somewhere not far from here. Maybe a couple of hours. They found us. Followed our tracks maybe, or moles ratted us out, I don’t know. But they found us.
“They grabbed me first,” she said, her lower lip quivering again. “Sawyer kicked one of them and that distracted them. I got free and…”
“And what?”
“He told me to run.” She popped up from the rocking chair and turned away from Battle, balancing herself on her good leg. “Sawyer yelled for me to run. I didn’t want to. A mother shouldn’t—”
“You ran.”
Though her back was to Battle, he could see her head nod, backlit against the rising sun. Her shoulders trembled and she sobbed.
Battle slowly rose and stepped closer to Lola. His hands felt foreign to him, as if they were someone else’s, and he reached out to place them on her heaving shoulders. She flinched when he touched her then turned and threw her arms around him. He froze for a moment before pulling her into his body and holding her.
His fingers could count her ribs against her back. She was muscle and bone. Lola had suffered since the Scourge. Battle felt guilty for his relative fortune.
She pulled away from him, gripping his arms as she stepped back, the thick callouses on her fingers grazing Battle’s triceps. “I went back for him. I didn’t run far. I turned around and followed them. There were five of them. One of them was on a horse. The rest of them were walking. They had Sawyer tied to the horse.”
“So he’s alive.”
“I think so,” she said. “I wasn’t able to follow them for long before one of them spotted me. The one on the horse took Sawyer and ordered the rest of them to catch me. He yelled after them that they might as well not come back to the commune if they didn’t get me.”
“And they chased you here?”
“Yes. I had maybe a five-minute head start on them. I ran for an hour maybe. In circles. Finally, I saw your gravel road and thought I might find a hiding place.”
Battle smirked. “I guess you did.”
“Thank you again.”
“Don’t thank me,” Battle said, looking toward the sun, which was clear of the nearest oaks in a cloudless sky. The air was crisp. He took a deep breath. “I was protecting myself as much as I was saving you.”
Lola folded her arms across her chest. Goosebumps popped on her bare arms, products of the early morning cool and the darkness that lay ahead.
“So what’s your plan?” Battle asked. He knew the answer.
“I’ve got to find my son,” she said. She looked up at Battle, her eyes pleading with him. “Will you help me?”
Battle took a step back from Lola and looked at the limestone pavers beneath their feet. He focused on the worn brown leather toe of his boot. “Sorry, Lola. Not a chance.”
***
OCTOBER 13, 2037, 8:17 AM
SCOURGE + 5 YEARS
TEXAS HIGHWAY 36
BETWEEN RISING STAR AND ABILENE
Salomon Pico was heading northwest toward Abilene. He slowed from a jog to a walk, out of breath and beginning to taste the dryness in his mouth. He needed to slow down. He shook the last couple of water drops from his canteen and clipped it back onto his belt.
His feet were sore and the sting of blisters were bubbling on the back of his booted heels. He had another eight hours of walking, he guessed, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to make it.
The posse boss told him not to come back if he didn’t have the woman with him. Three of his Cartel brothers had heeded the warning and wound up dead. He’d run instead. Whoever their killer was, he was too much for Salomon. The slightly built, wiry henchman was only good in a pack. When the last of his brothers died, he knew he needed to bug out.
He rubbed the back of his neck, then ran his sweaty hand up along the back of his bald head. The sun was rising in the East. It would be warmer soon and the walk would be tougher. Even in October, Abilene could have its hot spells.
He licked his cracked upper lip, feeling the bristle of his thick mustache, and pounded his feet along the edge of the asphalt one step at a time.
Salomon Pico knew there would be hell to pay at the end of the long walk. That, as much as his exhaustion, fueled his decision to walk instead of run. He needed time to think of the best way to handle his failure.
Pico was low on the Cartel totem pole. He didn’t even have a rank or a title. Nobody answered to him. He was a grunt and he knew it.
However, Pico reckoned that being a low man on the only totem that mattered was better than being atop a heap of losers. That was how he saw the world after the Scourge—Cartel and losers.
He adjusted his jeans, which were riding up his crotch. The sweat was chafing him in uncomfortable places. The jeans didn’t fit right anyhow. He hadn’t owned the right fit of jeans in over a year. Grunts couldn’t be choosers. They were grunts.
Or better yet, Pico secretly told himself, he was a runt. He suckled at the smallest tit, if and when it was available.
His mind drifted as he walked, back to the days before the Scourge. He had a 2019 Camaro, a condo in Fort Worth, and a girlfriend who danced at a local club where he tended bar. He’d occasionally delve into the criminal world. A petty thief, Pico had a knack for cracking safes. It was a skill that paid enough to keep his girlfriend with him long after he knew she wasn’t interested anymore. It was a sad relationship but exactly what Pico thought he deserved. He thought about that Camaro, imagining himself behind the wheel and cruising the interstate. The windows were down, or better yet, the air-conditioning was cranked. The music was cranked. Maybe old ZZ Top. “La Grange”. H
is woman in the seat next to him, her hand on his leg.
He was so enraptured with the mirage he didn’t see the man in a cowboy hat riding horseback and galloping toward him.
“Pico!” the man yelled, snapping the grunt from his daydream. “Where are the others?”
Pico focused on the man, looking up at him as he gathered his wits about him. His own pitiful reflection stared back at him from the man’s reflective sunglasses. “You have some water?” He plucked his empty canteen from his hip and waved it at the man.
“I got water,” he said, dismounting from the horse, landing awkwardly on a club foot. “But you gotta tell me what happened to the others. Why are you out here wandering on the highway?”
“There were…problems.”
“What kind of problems?” The man took a canteen from his saddlebag but kept it at arm’s length. He balanced himself against the horse, tugging on the leathers above the stirrup iron.
“She ran down some road to a house.” Pico eyed the water. “It was more than a house. It was like a fort. There was a guy there.” He reached for the canteen.
The man pulled it back. “What guy?”
“I dunno.” Pico licked his lips. “He was like Mad Max. He ambushed us.”
“So they’re dead.”
“Yes.”
“And the woman?”
“I dunno.”
“Because you left.”
Pico hung his head. “I had no choice. He would have killed me.”
“And…” The man slid his free hand onto his holster.
Pico tried to rearrange his jumbled thoughts, sensing the clock was ticking fast. “And if he’d killed me, then I couldn’t come back and tell you where she is,” he spat. “I couldn’t have led you to them. I couldn’t have helped you—”
The man held up his hand, pulling it from the holster. “I got it.” He reached out with the other hand, giving Pico the canteen. “You make a good point. I’m surprised, but you did the right thing, Pico.”
Pico uncapped the canteen and poured the water into his mouth, as much of it running down the sides of his face as his throat. He gulped and gasped. He only stopped when he choked.
“Easy there, Pico.” The man adjusted the wide-brimmed brown cowboy hat on his head, tilting it lower on his forehead. The Cartel posse bosses wore brown cowboy hats. It was as much a warning to others as it was a privilege to the men who wore them.
Pico stopped coughing and caught his breath. “Thank you, Queho. Thank you.”
Queho leaned on his good foot and took back the empty canteen. “Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “I ain’t decided if you’re living long term. I’m just not killing you here and now.”
Pico thanked him again and went to shake Queho’s hand. Queho stepped back.
“We’re not friends, Pico. You work for me. How it’s always been and how it’s always gonna be.” Queho stuffed the canteen into the saddlebag, gripped the pommel, and pulled himself onto the horse. “Get on,” he ordered without offering a hand.
Pico clumsily reached with one hand onto the cantle on the back of the wide saddle. He stuffed the other hand under the saddle and gripped the gullet. With what little strength he had left, he managed to heave himself on the back of the horse and swing a leg over to the other side.
“I didn’t think you’d make it,” Queho said. He chuckled and dug his spurs into the side of the horse, yanking the reins to turn it around. The horse snorted, shook its head, and trotted northwest back to Abilene.
“We should be there in fifteen minutes or so,” Queho called back to Pico. “You’re gonna need to tell the men what you told me. Give us details. Tell us what you know about the fort.”
“When are we going back?” Pico had his hands behind him, white-knuckling the back of the saddle. As the horse picked up speed, he held on tighter. He wasn’t about to ask Queho if he could hold onto him.
“When I say.” Queho pulled tight on the reins, stopping the horse. A stray mutt, mange creeping along its back and ears, was walking in the dirt some twenty yards to the right of the highway. Queho pulled a revolver from his hip and leveled it at the dog, tracking it as it slugged along, head dragging. “It’ll be soon.”
Pow! The shot rolled along the open plain like thunder. The dog dropped dead, the single bullet ending its sad life before it could yelp.
“I hate dogs,” said Queho. He holstered the six-shooter and spurred the horse.
Pico affixed his grip as they gathered speed, his eyes on the dead mutt bleeding out in the dirt.
CHAPTER 4
AUGUST 5, 2032, 12:04 PM
SCOURGE -2 MONTHS
ABILENE, TEXAS
Bible Hardware was located at 333 Walnut Street between Third and Fourth Streets in historic Abilene. Family owned and always stocked, Marcus Battle preferred Bible to the other places in town.
He pulled his 2025 F150 up to the curb in front of the store, parking in front of the painted green awning that hung at the entrance. He looked across the wide street at the back of the main post office. The fenced parking lot was dotted with white mail trucks. He walked through the open glass double doors. A woman sat in a swivel chair at the entrance, surrounded on three sides by a large blue counter. Marcus said hello, grabbed a basket, and shuffled down the aisles, checking his phone for his list.
Shopping Bible Hardware was like stepping back in time. The store hadn’t changed all that much since it had opened ninety years earlier. There was something comforting about the familiarity of it, though the irony of shopping there for the end of the world as he knew it wasn’t lost on Marcus.
A kind older man named Don walked up to Marcus and patted him on the back. “Can I help you?” He laughed when Marcus turned around. “Oh, Marcus! I didn’t recognize you with that ball cap pulled over your head.”
“Hi, Don.” Marcus took his hand and gripped it. “I’m good. Only got a few items on the list today.”
“What’s the date?” Don asked, stuffing his hands into the front pocket of his work apron.
“For what?”
“TEOTWAWKI?”
Marcus chuckled and dropped a package of AAA batteries in the basket. “I couldn’t tell you, Don. That’s a question for Sunday mornings. I want to be prepared when it comes.”
Don winked. “Seems like Sunday morning would be the best time to get prepared. We haven’t seen you in a few weeks.”
“No excuses,” Marcus said. “We just haven’t made the time. We should, I know. It’s good for us, and our boy loves Sunday school.”
“No judgment,” Don said. “I promise. But we’d love to see you.”
“I got it. I shop at a place called Bible Hardware, I’m bound to talk about church, right?”
Don winked again, gave Marcus a thumbs-up, and backed down the aisle. “Let me know if you need anything. Say hi to Sylvia for me.”
“Will do, Don.” Marcus waved goodbye and found the AA batteries. He dropped several packages into his basket and rounded the corner, looking for LED lightbulbs. Even though they didn’t expire, he liked keeping a stockpile of five for every bulb in the house. He needed a couple to round out the requisite stockpile.
He cut through the pesticide aisle and found Don helping a woman who wouldn’t stop scratching her head.
“Hey, Marcus,” Don said. “You got any pets?”
“No.” Marcus made a wide berth around the head scratcher. “Why?”
“This young lady here is the fifth person this week to come here looking for flea prevention.”
“Is that unusual?”
“It is because all the vets are out,” Don answered. “Apparently there’s some sort of flea outbreak.”
“Hadn’t heard about it.”
“Something about the unusually warm summer all over the country.”
“It’s always hot down here.” Marcus inched past Don and stopped at the end of the aisle. “So I wouldn’t have figured.”
“True enough.” Don winked and tu
rned back to the itchy woman.
Marcus finished his shopping and plunked the loaded basket onto the counter. He still had a half hour to grab some refills at the grocery store and hit the ETA he’d promised to Sylvia.
“No flea dip, Marcus?” the clerk asked, scanning the batteries, some six-inch-long galvanized plumbing pipe, and a rubber mallet. “You’re about the first one today who hasn’t had it in their basket or asked me where to find it.”
“I didn’t even know you carried it,” he said, reaching for his phone. He slid it over the payment panel at the edge of the counter and waited for the total.
“There’s been a run on it,” she said, finishing up the scan. “Crazy, right? We can’t keep it in stock. I hear it’s a problem all over the world. Fleas are the new locusts.” She laughed.
Marcus closed his eyes, recalling the exact words from Exodus. “And the Lord said to Moses, ‘Stretch out your hand over Egypt so that locusts swarm over the land and devour everything growing in the fields, everything left by the hail.’”
“Wow, Marcus,” she said, nodding her head. “Had no idea you were so well versed with the good book.”
“I don’t advertise it.”
“Let’s hope it’s not the end of days.” She chuckled. “It would be awful if the good Lord promised no more locusts and tricked us by swapping them out for fleas.”
“Glad I don’t have a dog.” Marcus bagged his bounty himself and gathered the bags.
“I have three cats,” she said and stuffed a paper receipt into one of the plastic bags. “They’ve got flea collars. Seems to do the trick. Plus they’re inside only. That helps.”
“I bet it does.” Marcus smiled. “See you next time.” He carried his bags out through the open doors, stepped from the curb, and tossed the bags into the bed of the truck. His cell phone buzzed.
“I’m on time,” he said preemptively.
“It’s not that,” Sylvia said. “I need a few extra things at the grocery. I’ll text you the list.”
“Does it include more wine?”