The Traveler 01-03 Home, Canyon, Wall

by Tom Abrahams

  The numbers are increasing exponentially by the day. Dr. Negro sees no end in sight.

  “The only people who will survive this,” he said at the conclusion of the news conference, “are those who have a natural immunity. And right now, there’s no way for us to know who those people are. The incubation period is anywhere from a couple of days to a full month.”

  Marcus closed his laptop and sat in the dark. From the kitchen he could hear the hum of the refrigerator. The ice maker clunked. The house was otherwise quiet. And then Wesson coughed.

  It was a wet hack that sounded croupy, full of phlegm, and was getting worse. In between coughs, Wes sucked in air as if he’d just surfaced from nearly drowning. Marcus hurried to his son’s side to find Sylvia already there. She was rubbing his back with one hand and holding an empty popcorn bowl in front of him with the other.

  “Get it out, Wes,” she said. “Spit it into the bowl if it helps.”

  Wes was hacking, shaking his head as he struggled. Marcus flipped on the overhead light and moved to the other side of the bed. He patted his son’s back and looked across to Sylvia. She was on the edge of the bed, wearing a loose tank top and baggy boxer shorts. She hadn’t changed clothes in two days. Her eyes were swollen from lack of sleep and her cheeks drawn from a lack of food.

  “Anything we can do to treat the symptoms?” she asked Marcus above the din of Wes’s fit.

  Marcus shook his head. The cough syrup, the lozenges, the analgesics, the ice packs—none of them had done anything in the last forty-eight hours to soothe the worsening signs of the plague.

  Wes caught his breath and reached for a glass of water at his bedside. He gulped it down like a toddler and wiped his watery eyes. “It’s hard to breathe,” he said. His voice sounded as though his vocal chords were shredded. “If I take a deep breath, I cough.”

  “Don’t take a deep breath,” Marcus suggested. He put his hand on the back of his son’s neck and gently squeezed. “Breathe in slowly through your nose.” His son’s skin was hot to the touch. His fever had to be above 102 degrees.

  Marcus exchanged glances with his wife. He could tell she was struggling to maintain her composure. Her eyes were as wet as their son’s. The puffiness, he reminded himself, was probably as much from crying as it was from sleeplessness.

  “Can I get you anything to eat?” Marcus asked. “A popsicle maybe? We still have cherry and lime.”

  Wes nodded. “Lime, please.”

  Marcus tousled his son’s sweaty head and smiled at him. “I’ll be right back.” He moved to the doorway when Wes stopped him with a question.

  “Dad,” he asked, his rasp making it difficult to understand him, “am I going to die?”

  Sylvia immediately spun around, away from her son and toward her husband. She was quietly sobbing, trying hard to control the shudder in her shoulders.

  Marcus put his hands on her shoulders. He looked at his son, who suddenly seemed more frail than he had a few seconds earlier. He couldn’t lie to him. He smiled. “That’s up to God, Wes. If he needs you more than us right now, then, yes, you will die. If he doesn’t, you’ll be fine before you know it. Either way, you win.”

  “I don’t want to die, Dad,” he whispered. “I don’t think I’m ready to go to Heaven.”

  “Nobody is ever ready to go to Heaven, Wes,” Marcus answered. He could feel his wife’s tears dampening his shirt at his stomach. “That’s why God makes the choice. He always knows the best time. I’ll be honest, Wes, if God is calling you first, that must mean you’re really special. It means you’re important.”

  Wes nodded at his dad. He reached out and put his hand on Sylvia’s back. He rubbed it back and forth. “Mom, it’s okay. It’s okay to be sad and scared. I’m scared. You don’t have to hide from me.”

  Sylvia slowly turned back to her son and flung her arms around him. Wes reciprocated and waved his father toward them.

  Marcus hesitated but sat next to Sylvia and joined the group hug. He pulled both of them toward him and took a deep breath. If his son was going to die, he might as well too. He willed the bacteria into his lungs with another deep breath. Sylvia kissed Wes’s head repeatedly. Her nose was running; her eyes were shut and squeezing tears down her cheeks.

  Marcus sat back, releasing his hold, and stood. “I’ll go get the popsicle.” He walked to the kitchen without turning around.

  He opened the freezer door and stood in the blast of cold air. He reached into the popsicle box and fished around. He’d miscalculated. The box was empty.

  CHAPTER 13

  OCTOBER 13, 2037, 9:04 PM

  SCOURGE + 5 YEARS

  TEXAS HIGHWAY 36

  EAST OF RISING STAR, TEXAS

  Battle called out to Lola above the whistle of the intensifying wind. “Can you pass me Inspector, please?”

  “Which one is that?”

  “The long rifle. It’s got a camouflage finish. The shotgun, the Browning, is called Lloyd.”

  Lola stood at the base of the oak, looking up to the treehouse trapdoor. She raised Inspector up above her head. “Why do you name your weapons?”

  Battle peeked through the trapdoor opening. It was dark, but with his thermal goggles he could see her leaning against the tree. He grabbed the weapon and set it inside the treehouse. “I just do.”

  “Please tell me,” Lola asked, picking a couple of leaves from her hair.

  Battle sighed. “Did you ever see that old movie Cast Away?”

  “No. I don’t watch movies. I haven’t had a lot of downtime in the last few years, Battle.”

  “You asked. You wanna know or not?”

  “Yes. Sorry.”

  “I watch a lot of movies,” he called down to her. “I have a collection on a ten terabyte hard drive. Cast Away is like, I don’t know, more than thirty years old now.”

  “What about it?” Lola shrugged, her orange glow flexing in the artificial goggle light on Battle’s eyes.

  “The main character, a guy named Chuck Nolan, gets stranded on an island after a plane crash. He’s alone for four years. His only companion is a volleyball he names Wilson. He talks to the ball and becomes emotionally connected to Wilson.”

  “A volleyball? How’d he get a volleyball?”

  “It washes ashore in a package,” Battle said, “but that’s not the point. The point is, he has no human interaction. He personifies the ball to stay sane, to simulate normalcy.”

  “So you have a relationship with the guns for the same reason?”

  “More or less.”

  “You talk to them?”

  Battle didn’t answer. He regretted telling her. He shouldn’t have told her. She couldn’t possibly understand. She’d lived among people, albeit evil ones, since the Scourge had swept across the globe and left little standing in its wake.

  She could poke fun, she could mock, she could question. But she couldn’t understand.

  There was a very thin line between sanity and…the alternative.

  Lightning flickered in the distance, and the accompanying thunder was a low rumble.

  “What happened to the ball?” Lola called up to him. Her voice was louder than it had been. She was closer.

  Battle looked out the trapdoor. Lola was standing on her good foot halfway up the ladder. “I’m sorry.”

  “You say that a lot.”

  “Because I am. What happened to the ball?”

  “He lost it. It floated off into the ocean.”

  Lola stood in the dark, her orange image dancing in Battle’s thermal goggles, her bad ankle dangling in the air. Lloyd was strapped to her back.

  Battle offered her a hand, reaching out in the darkness and grabbing her wrist. He pulled her up the ladder and into the treehouse. She sat next to him on the floor.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “We watch.” He took off the goggles and handed them to her.

  Lola slid the goggles over her eyes. “Whoa. This is weird. Everything is orange.”


  “Keep those on,” he said. “They’re thermal. You’ll see people moving around no problem. Just don’t kill me.”

  “What are you going to use?”

  “I’ve got a scope on my rifle. I’ll use that. Follow me.”

  Battle inched his way to the front of the treehouse, the perch from which he first saw Lola running onto his land. He looked through the scope. There was nothing yet.

  “You’re going to be here,” he said. “I want you to point that weapon through this opening. It doesn’t matter if you hit anything. You’re here to confuse them and keep them away from the house.”

  A gust of wind howled through the pine slats. It was cold and damp. Lightning flashed, illuminating the stark inside of the treehouse. The thunder followed immediately and rattled the tree.

  Lola lifted the goggles onto her forehead. “You’re not going to be here with me?”

  Rain started thumping against the roof. It was an intermittent patter before intensifying to a heavy, rhythmic beat.

  “No,” he said above the din. “I’m going to be on the other side of the yard. If you hear me open fire and then stop, that’s your cue to pop off a couple of shots. I need you to distract them and draw their attention while I reload.”

  “You mean draw their fire?”

  Battle shrugged. She wasn’t stupid. “Put your goggles on,” he said and backed away from the perch toward the trapdoor. “I’m closing this behind me. There’s a latch on it. Lock it once I drop down.”

  “What do I do if…”

  “If they kill me?”

  Lola nodded. Lightning flashed and cracked an instant before thunder crashed around them.

  “They won’t.”

  Battle slipped down the opening and pulled the trapdoor over his head, descending into the rain. The drops were heavy and cold and they were relentless.

  McDunnough was strapped to his hip, his canvas bag slung over his chest. It thumped his back as he jogged toward his position, the toys inside clacking and clanging as he moved. He held Inspector with both hands and pounded through the mud on his way across the yard. He moved north, closer to the house to avoid the line of traps, and then turned south once he crossed the driveway.

  About thirty feet east of the driveway was a large oak tree. It had grown faster than most of the others he’d planted. He reached its trunk and looked up, rain falling into his eyes. He figured if he climbed halfway up the thirty-foot oak, he’d be in a good position.

  He rubbed the bottoms of his rubber-soled boots on the base of the tree to free them of mud, slung Inspector over his head, and grabbed a pair of thick branches above his head. He hoisted himself with ease and navigated his way up the tree to the bottom of its dying canopy.

  He set himself in a thick fork near the trunk and stuck his bag in a crook next to him. Satisfied it was secure, he pulled Inspector over his head and set it in his lap. His back was against the trunk and he had one knee pulled close to his chest.

  The rain slapped against the branches above him, some of it pooling before streaming down like a small waterfall onto his head. It was miserable, but he was focused. His training came back to him like muscle memory. He was attuned to his surroundings but undistracted by them.

  Battle thumbed the rain from both sides of the scope and pulled it to his eye. The rain distorted his view. The infrared scope wasn’t the best in fog or heavy rain. Marcus cursed the weather.

  He was essentially blind and they were coming.

  ***

  Pico found the driveway with little problem. Despite the high grass, tall weeds, and intense rain, he led the posse straight to the area where it intersected the highway. Rudabaugh told the five other men to dismount and tie their horses to the fencing that separated the wide easement from Mad Max’s land.

  “Make sure you got enough ammo,” Rudabaugh called out. “We don’t want to run out and get trapped. Pico takes the lead. He knows the land, so he says.”

  “We staying together or splitting up?” asked one of the grunts.

  “Two teams of three,” he said. “Pico takes two and heads straight ahead. I’ll follow with two more. Once we get past the interior fence, we’ll split. I’ll head left, Pico heads right.”

  The sky lit up and the ground rumbled as lightning forked directly beside them. A deafening boom shook them as they split into their teams. The men were armed with identical shotguns, the same model as the one he’d lost to Mad Max the night before. They also carried side pieces slung low on their legs, long-barrel pistols loaded and ready to fire.

  “We get past that inside fence Pico talked about,” Rudabaugh ordered, “we check it out, better figure out what he’s got close to the house, and we pull back.”

  “What if he shoots first?” asked one of the grunts, wiping the rain from his face. “We supposed to hightail it, or are we staying and fighting?”

  “Mad Max shoots first and we fight back, boys,” Rudabaugh said, water pouring in sheets from the brim of his hat. “We ain’t running if there are bullets flying. If we have to end him tonight, we do it.”

  “I don’t think—” Pico started.

  Rudabaugh grabbed Pico’s collar, wringing the water from it with his fist. “You ain’t supposed to think. You got us here. Now you do what I say.”

  Pico coughed and nodded. He regretted having said anything. He stumbled backward when Rudabaugh let go of his collar and shoved him in the chest.

  “Screw it,” Rudabaugh snarled. “I’ll take the lead. Pico, you and your guys are behind us. When we get to the fence, we’ll go left. You go right.”

  Pico pointed to the two men he’d take with him. They were grunts too, so they weren’t gonna back-talk him or bust his chops. They’d do what he said because Rud told them he was the leader.

  Rud and his two grunts disappeared into the sheet of rain and darkness. The only concept of how far they’d gotten was when a lightning flash gave away their position. Pico spit the water from his lips and waved his two men forward. He motioned for one of them to take his right and the other his left. He could feel the gravel crunching under his boots as they marched forward, but he couldn’t hear it. The steady rain was too loud. They’d made it only halfway between the road and the interior fence when Pico saw a bright flash at eye level followed by a series of smaller flickers closer to the ground. A moment later came the crack of an explosion and the subsequent pops of gunfire.

  ***

  Rudabaugh and his two men were walking shoulder to shoulder, traipsing through the high weeds and mud. They were off the gravel driveway and moving straight north.

  In a flash of lightning, Rud saw the main house beyond a low wooden fence. To the far left, in the corner of his eyes, he thought he spotted what looked like a treehouse. He couldn’t be sure. So he reached out and gripped the shoulder of the grunt to his left.

  “Go ahead,” he said above the percussion of the rain. “Walk a few steps to the left and then move to the fence. I think there’s a fort or something in the tree.”

  The grunt nodded and moved to the northwest a few steps ahead of Rud and the other grunt.

  Rudabaugh gripped his weapon and marched forward, turning his attention to the right. He was waiting for another flash of lightning to reveal more of the layout when a bright explosion boomed to his left.

  He snapped his attention toward the explosion in time to see another flash and hear what sounded like a shotgun blast. The grunt wailed and started cursing. Rudabaugh responded by picking up his feet and running through the mud, splashing his way toward the grunt.

  As he approached, his eyes, nose, and throat started burning. His eyes reflexively squeezed shut. He tried opening them but couldn’t.

  “I can’t see!” screamed the grunt. “I think my eyes got shot. I can’t see.” The grunt’s hands were covering his face. He was wandering aimlessly in circles and ran into Rudabaugh.

  “What the—” Rudabaugh pushed back against the grunt and knocked him to the ground. The grunt roll
ed in the mud, unarmed and crying.

  The sting was dissipating and Rudabaugh figured he was breathing in some sort of pepper gas or mace. The rain was lessening its effects. He blinked back tears and forced himself to surveil the area around him. The grunt was useless.

  Rud raised his shotgun and spun in a semicircle, looking for whoever fired the gas canister. He still couldn’t account for the initial explosion. He licked the rain from his lips and pulled his wet shirt above his nose. It exposed his belly to the rain but helped him breathe and made the air around him less torturous.

  “Shut up,” he called to the roiling grunt. “You’re gonna get us killed.” Rud took another couple of steps, the Browning held at eye level. He panned the fence line as he approached it.

  Another flicker of lightning raised the hair on his neck and arms. Instantly a bolt cracked to his right, followed by another crash of thunder that rattled his teeth. For a split second he thought he saw someone perched in a tree outside the fence. He couldn’t be sure. He thought maybe the sniper had a rifle aimed directly at him. It was the snap of a rifle shot and a bullet ripping into his shoulder that confirmed it.

  ***

  Without the help of his scope, Battle knew he’d need to wait until somebody tripped a wire. The silent laser alarm he’d used the night before was useless in the rain. His watch, which connected to the alarm wirelessly, kept flashing false intrusions. He took it off and stuffed it into a pocket. He didn’t want the light giving away his position.

  A flash of lightning gave him the first hint that somebody was on his land. He saw three men walking side by side. He held his position and slowly raised the rifle. The scope was grainy, the rain blocking any accuracy it might have provided on a clear night.

  Then one of the men tripped the wire. The firework exploded, as intended, and immediately triggered the gas-filled shell. Battle couldn’t see what was happening, but he thought he heard a shriek and some yelling in the general direction of the trip.