The Traveler 01-03 Home, Canyon, Wall

by Tom Abrahams

  Rudabaugh looked over his shoulder. Queho was leaning against the doorjamb, his hands stuffed in his pockets. His holster was slung low on his hip, and his brown hat was tipped back on his head, revealing a widow’s peak.

  “You weren’t invited to this meeting,” Rudabaugh sneered. “This is between me and Cyrus.”

  Queho chuckled. “Sounds like it’s between you and me and you want to go bringing the boss into it.” He craned his neck to look past Rudabaugh and catch Skinner’s eye. “That what it sounds like to you, Skin?”

  Skinner lifted his feet from the desk and leaned forward in the creaking swivel chair. “Yeah. It does. Honestly, Queho, I don’t have time for this. You two need to work it out. You got a job to do tonight.”

  Rudabaugh turned, his wide frame open to both men. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. He tugged on his belt buckle. “I ain’t done with this. This is not the end of it.” Rudabaugh tipped his brown hat to Skinner, grunted, and elbowed his way past Queho, almost knocking him from the doorway.

  Queho ignored the transgression and laughed as he sidled up to Skinner’s desk. He sat on the edge of the desk opposite Skinner. “You believe that? He’s gonna come to you?”

  Cyrus Skinner rubbed his chin in thought. “I’m as much a bastard as the next man, but you can’t go around shooting another posse boss. If it was anyone but you, I’d be putting a hole through your hand.” He smiled, took another drag, and exhaled.

  “Rud’s not an equal, Skin,” Queho argued. “He’s a fat, lazy drunk who’s only in the spot he’s in because of connections.”

  Skinner’s geniality dissipated with the smoke. His eyes turned dark and he leaned forward, pointing the remnants of his cigarette at Queho. “You’re only where you are because of connections. Don’t make me regret my decisions, Queho. Now get off of my desk, out of my office, and go kill Mad Max.”

  Queho immediately stood and stepped back from the desk. He tipped his hat to Skinner. “Sorry, Skin. My bad.”

  “It’s fine. Just don’t forget your place. Make peace with Rud.”

  Queho nodded and turned to leave the office.

  “How you gonna do it?” Skinner pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and lit it. “You got a good plan? Pico give you good information?”

  “We’re not killing him tonight,” Queho said over his shoulder. “We’re testing his defenses. No need to risk killing more men tonight.”

  “Whatever you think is best, Queho. Don’t let me down. Or I’ll have to start listening to Rudabaugh.” He sucked another drag from the cigarette and threw his feet back onto the desk.

  Queho stuffed his hands back into his pockets and left the office for the bar. Skinner chuckled to himself as his right-hand man left in a huff. He’d never pick Rud over Queho. For anything. But he couldn’t let Queho, an ex-con who’d worked for Skinner behind bars, ever think he was too big for a swift kick.

  Cyrus Skinner had a gift for giving people enough rope to hang themselves. He’d work that noose up and down, toying with them. Just when they thought he was going easy on them, he yanked a little harder. Then, when they felt the life slipping from their pores, he let loose, giving them new purpose.

  He’d dangle Queho enough to make the others uncomfortable. Every once in a while, though, when Queho got too comfortable with his swing, Skinner would wrap the rope around his fist and tug.

  The post-Scourge world was meant for men like Cyrus Skinner. He was in his element. There were no rules except for the ones he created. And even then, he could ignore them if he was so inclined.

  CHAPTER 10

  NOVEMBER 3, 2032, 4:00 PM

  SCOURGE +32 DAYS

  EAST OF RISING STAR, TEXAS

  The onions came out in clumps, the sharp smell sticking to Marcus’s hands as he knelt in the thick black soil, harvesting the food-ready vegetables from the garden. Fall was always a tricky time of year. Other than the green onions, Marcus found he was limited to crops that grew underground. They needed the warmth of the soil to protect them from the cold wind and drop in temperatures that blew into Abilene every year at the same time.

  He cursed himself for pulling the onions first, forgetting their pungency would rub off on the kale and chard as he plucked them from the ground. He should have done the onions last.

  The garden had started as an experiment not long after they’d finished construction on the main house. There were leftover timbers and stone and, rather than toss them out, give them away, or pile them up behind the barn, Sylvia had suggested her prepper husband start a vegetable garden. He could build out the frame with the leftover construction supplies.

  She’d already been canning her own jams and preserves as a contribution to their readiness and thought it would be therapeutic and productive for Marcus to give gardening a shot.

  Marcus had hedged at first. “I don’t have a green thumb. I can’t even grow a weed.”

  “I believe you can do anything you put your mind to doing,” Sylvia had encouraged him. “Plus, the smell of potting soil is a real turn-on.”

  He’d built the garden frame, complete with its own dedicated irrigation, in less than a week. His first crop of carrots, peas, and potatoes was paltry at best. But with each subsequent season, his skill improved, as did the yields.

  Some of the vegetables they ate the day he picked them. Others they froze in bags and used before self-created expiration dates. They learned the hard way that snap peas weren’t good after much longer than six months.

  They’d packed their first summer crop of cucumbers in vinegar, water, and salt and had pickles for the better part of a year. With each crop, their pickling formula got better: a little less vinegar, a little more salt.

  Marcus’s bag was getting heavy. By the time he’d added the radishes to the bag, his knees and lower back needed a break. He stood at the garden’s edge and brushed the soil from his knees. He knew he’d need to cut back the plants soon and start planning his next rotation, but it was getting close to dinnertime. He knew Sylvia was in the kitchen, awaiting the kale. They were having a salad to go with their meal of chicken and homemade sourdough bread. She’d cooked a lot in the last couple of weeks as they’d stayed isolated.

  Marcus didn’t want her in town, nor did he want Wes at school. He didn’t take any trips. Despite the protests from his wife, his son’s teachers, and his bosses, he was doing what had to be done.

  The plague was coming. There was no stopping it. They could avoid the worst of it if they stayed to themselves, hidden from the rest of the world.

  Sylvia conceded after week two, he’d been right. They were watching late-night cable news again. Instead of the mask-clad reporters telling stories from refugee camps in the Middle East, they were live outside of overwhelmed hospitals in Miami, Cleveland, Los Angeles, Chicago, Houston, San Antonio, and Dallas.

  It was getting worse by the day. As the disease moved closer, it was strengthening, like a hurricane in the Gulf. People were dying in less than twenty-four hours after showing the first symptoms. The global death toll was becoming incalculable. Instead of reporting numbers, governments were issuing percentages. The 2032 presidential election was postponed until spring 2033 because of fears that gathering to vote could worsen the spread of the disease.

  In their idyllic fifty acres, the Battles were safe, healthy, and prepared.

  Marcus trudged the short distance from the garden to the rear entrance of the house. He stepped into the mudroom, slid his shoes off with his toes, and carried the vegetable haul into the kitchen.

  “Hey, Sylv—” Marcus stopped himself. They had a visitor. A woman was sitting on a barstool at their kitchen island. She was breathing their air; her hands were touching their granite.

  Sylvia forced a smile. “Hi, hon. This is my friend Roseann.”

  The woman turned on the stool, looking over her shoulder at Marcus. She raised a hand from the granite and waved at him. “Hello. I’m so sorry to intrude.”

  Marcus didn’t respon
d. He didn’t move. He stood in the kitchen entry, gripping the heavy bag of vegetables. He shot a look at his wife.

  “Roseann is looking for some help, Marcus,” Sylvia said. Marcus recognized her sanitized tone. His wife was uncomfortable; something was wrong.

  “What kind of help?” Marcus said, his eyes shifting back to the intruder.

  “I know your wife from church,” Roseann said. “She’s such a good Christian woman. You’re blessed.”

  Marcus didn’t like where this was going. The woman wanted something he knew he wasn’t going to give her. “I’m very blessed. In many ways.”

  “She’s told me you served in Syria and Iran,” Roseann said. “Thank you for your sacrifice, Mr. Battle.” Her smile was genuine, though Marcus sensed the flattery was not. “She also told me your military training prepared you quite well. She told me you’ve built quite a place here.”

  “What kind of help do you need?” Marcus said bluntly.

  “I have a husband and three children,” Roseann said. “There’s Billy, Jimmy, and Tammy. My husband is—”

  “What do you want?”

  “Marcus…” Sylvia chided.

  “What do you want?” Marcus asked for the fourth time. “I don’t have time for pleasantries and small talk, Roseann. I need to know what you want so I deny you and you can leave.”

  “Well,” Roseann huffed, her dramatic glare bouncing back and forth between Sylvia and Marcus. “I’m not sure what to say to that, Mr. Battle. I understand I’m a guest in your home, but I don’t see the need for—”

  “You’re not a guest, Roseann,” Marcus said. “You’re an intruder. My wife has a softer heart than I do. I wouldn’t have answered the door, let alone allowed you into our kitchen. But Sylvia, being the good woman you say she is, wasn’t about to turn you away.”

  “I—” Marcus held up his hand to stop the woman from saying another word. “You want our food. Am I right?”

  “I-I—”

  “You’re wasting my time,” he said. “Tell me what you want.”

  Roseann lowered her head and her cheeks flushed pink. “Yes. I am here asking for some food. Only enough for a day or two. We haven’t eaten since Sunday night.”

  Marcus shook his head. “No.”

  Sylvia pleaded to Marcus with her eyes. “Can’t we—?”

  “No,” he repeated. “And I’ll tell you why. We give you food now and we create a bigger problem. You’ll eat the day or two supply and then you’ll get hungry again. A week from now, if not sooner, you’re back. And then you bring your neighbors with you. They want food too. Do I say yes to you and no to them? Do I help all of you, shortening the limited supply I have for my family? I give you anything today and it begins a never-ending cycle of dependency on your part.”

  Roseann shook her head. “That’s not—”

  “If I say no to you today, you don’t come back. You curse me, you hate me, your neighbors hate me—everyone hates me. But nobody comes here looking for a handout.”

  Roseann coughed into her hand and sniffled. She hefted herself from the stool and tugged on the bottom of her ill-fitting blouse. She stuck her chin up in the air and marched toward the hallway. She stopped at the entrance to the kitchen and spun around. “Matthew 19:21. Look it up.”

  A smile edged onto the corner of Marcus’s lips. “Jesus said unto him, If thou wilt be perfect, go sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come and follow me.”

  Roseann’s eyes narrowed. “God have mercy on your souls, Sylvia. I’ll show myself out.” She bounded from the room, opening and slamming the front door behind her.

  “Two things,” Sylvia said. “Why can’t we give them something? We have plenty.”

  “We have plenty today. We won’t in a month or two or six. We don’t know how long this plague will last. I don’t want to create our own little welfare state.”

  “I still think—”

  “Trust me,” he said. “I know what I’m doing. What’s the second thing?”

  “How did you know that Bible verse?”

  “I know a lot of verses. I read a lot at night when I was on a tour.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “I don’t like advertising my faith. But when that self-righteous beggar tried to shame me, I couldn’t help myself.”

  Sylvia moved from behind the island and walked to her husband. She put her hands on either side of his face. “I know you’re not the proselytizing type, Marcus, but you could have shared that with me. I think it’s wonderful you read the Bible when you were over there. It makes me love you even more.”

  Marcus thumbed the platinum cross hanging around her neck. “So you didn’t love me as much as you do now?”

  “You’re ridiculous.” She patted his chest. “But yes. And I’ll love you even more tomorrow. Just don’t hide something so important from me. We should be able to share our faith.”

  “Gotcha.” Marcus wasn’t much for emotion or sharing too much. He was strong. He was a man. He needed to project his unwavering stoicism, even to his wife. If he was vulnerable or perceived as weak, their world could crumble.

  Sylvia took a step back. “You’re being dismissive.”

  “No,” he said. “I need to make sure Roseann doesn’t steal from us. “Where’s Wes, by the way?”

  “Out front. In the treehouse maybe.”

  Marcus pecked Sylvia on the cheek, put the vegetables on the counter, and hurried out front. He stepped from the front stoop to the yard, saw Roseann’s Chrysler minivan in the drive, and turned to his right. Wes was underneath the treehouse oak. He had a visitor. Roseann. And he was pointing her toward the barn.

  “Hey!” Marcus called out, catching their attention. “Wes! Don’t talk to her!” Marcus waved his hands and started running toward them. He slowed when he got close enough to see Roseann holding his son by the back of the neck with one hand. Her other hand was hidden behind his back.

  “What are you doing?” Marcus approached with his hands up. “Roseann, this is not how to handle this. My son has nothing to do with my choices.”

  “Yes, he does!” she spat, venom dripping from her lips. She was shaking, pulling Wes backward toward the barn as Marcus moved closer. “He’s your son. He has everything to do with your choices.”

  “Let go of him, Roseann.” Marcus kept stepping toward her. “Let’s work this out, you and me.”

  Roseann pulled her hand from behind Wes’s back and stuck the muzzle of a semiautomatic pistol against the side of his head. She looked over her shoulder, watching her step as she tugged backward and closer to the barn.

  “Dad!” Wes cried out, his face squeezed with fear. His shoes were untied, and his little feet shuffled heels first in the dry grass.

  From behind him, Sylvia shrieked. She was calling out Wesson’s name as she sprinted toward them. She was out of breath by the time she reached Marcus.

  “Roseann?!” Sylvia’s voice warbled. “What are you doing? This isn’t you.”

  “Stop where you are, Sylvia!” She jerked Wesson’s head with a shove of the gun. “Don’t get closer. Tell your husband to stop too. Tell him to stop!”

  Sylvia raised her hands and stopped. “Marcus, listen to her. Stop.”

  Marcus took a deep breath and, against his better judgment, stopped. “What do you want? How do we end this without anyone getting hurt?”

  “Give me food from that barn,” she said, coughing between words. “I have kids to feed too. They need food. I can’t go back and tell them I don’t have any.”

  “Fine,” Marcus said. “Let go of Wes. I’ll give you enough canned food to last a week. Deal?”

  “A month,” she said. “I want enough for a month. And I want meat too.”

  “Fine,” Sylvia answered. “A month. And we’ll give you some meat from the freezer.”

  Marcus nodded his agreement. “Let Wes go. I’ll get you the food from the barn.”

  “You get the food,�
�� Roseann snapped, “then I let go of your son.”

  Her hand was shaky. She was jittery. Marcus didn’t like it. “Pull the gun from his head.”

  “No!”

  “Pull the gun down or you’re not getting anything.”

  “Marcus!” Sylvia protested.

  Wes whimpered as he kept shuffling backwards against his will. “Dad!”

  “You’re not going to kill him,” Marcus said. “You kill him and I kill you. Then your kids get nothing and they starve.”

  Roseann pressed the gun against Wesson’s head. “I don’t—”

  “Put down the gun! Otherwise we all lose. You don’t want that.”

  Roseann’s eyes darted back and forth between Marcus and Sylvia. She stopped moving. The four of them stood in silence. Marcus knew she was playing out the scenarios in her head and kept coming to the same conclusion. Her only option was to lower the gun, and she did.

  “Thank you,” Sylvia said. “Thank you, Roseann.”

  “Get my food,” she snarled and coughed.

  Marcus took a step toward Roseann and Wes. “You’re sick, aren’t you?”

  Roseann wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “It’s allergies, that’s all.”

  Marcus took another step. “Look, let go of Wes. Put the gun on me. We’ll go into the barn together and I’ll let you pick the food. I don’t want you coughing on my son again.”

  “You keep trying stuff,” she argued. “We agreed! I put down the gun. You go get my food.”

  “You’re sick,” he repeated and stepped closer. “It’s not allergies. You know it. How many of your kids are coughing?”

  Roseann’s eyes welled. Her face reddened. Her grip on Wesson’s neck tightened and he winced.

  “My hands are up.” Marcus tried to reason with her. “I don’t have a weapon, you do. Point the gun at me and let go of my son.”

  Roseann’s chest started heaving as her breaths became more shallow. She was shaking. “No,” she said. “I’m not doing that.” She took another step backward. Her heel caught a shallow root from a young, dying oak and she fell, losing her grip on Wesson.