The Traveler 01-03 Home, Canyon, Wall

by Tom Abrahams

Pico hung his head and laughed before coughing. He shifted uncomfortably against the binds pinning him to the chair. “You really don’t know?”

  Battle put the canteen on the ground, sat back in the chair, and gripped the hat in his hands. He set his jaw and glared at the intruder.

  Pico picked up his head and lost the smile on his face. He licked his mustache with his tongue. “Everyone is Cartel. Everyone. Even your woman over there. Lola? She’s Cartel.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Cartel controls everything,” Pico explained. “If you’re not in the Cartel, you pay the Cartel. If you pay the Cartel, you ain’t gonna oppose them. So everybody’s a part of it. There’s no escaping it. You might be the only one in this part of the world who doesn’t know that.”

  Battle leaned forward again. “So how many?”

  Pico’s eyebrows arched as if he didn’t understand the question. He licked the thick white spittle from the corners of his mouth. “You can’t kill all of them.”

  Battle didn’t move. His gaze held Pico’s.

  “Ten thousand.”

  “Men?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And that’s Cartel regular, right?”

  Pico blinked. “Yeah.”

  “And the people who aren’t in the Cartel, but who support them?”

  “A couple thousand.”

  Battle sat back in the chair, his eyes wide. “Abilene had a hundred twenty thousand people living there.”

  Pico shrugged.

  “You’re telling me nine out of ten people are gone?”

  Pico shrugged.

  “All right then,” Battle said. He slapped his knees and stood from the chair. “You and me are heading there. I’m gonna thin out the herd a little bit and find that boy.”

  Pico shook his head. “Not a good idea. Not a good plan. You’re gonna get us both killed.”

  “You’re already a dead man, Salomon,” Battle said, sliding the brown hat onto his head. “And I’m a boss now,” he said, affecting Pico’s Southwestern twang. “Ain’t nobody gonna kill me.”

  ***

  OCTOBER 14, 2037, 3:04 AM

  SCOURGE + 5 YEARS

  ABILENE, TEXAS

  Cyrus Skinner pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. The machine-gun knock on his door jolted him from his sleep, but didn’t really wake him up.

  He was sitting in the living room of his three-bedroom house. He called it the parlor. Not many visitors saw more of the house than that room. As an area captain, Skinner liked his privacy.

  He sat in a high-back Fauteuil chair, his elbows resting on the exposed gilded wood-frame arms. He shifted against the quatrefoil fabric and blinked his eyes open to look at his early morning guest, Queho.

  “So you’re telling me that, after you decided to scale back and take a look-see before you attacked Mad Max, it was the wrong thing to do?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you want me to do what about it, seeing as how this mini-mission is already underway?”

  Queho was sitting low in a chenille sofa that had seen better days. His knees rose above his lap. He felt like an adult in a kid’s seat. He shrugged.

  Skinner mockingly shrugged in return. “That’s it? You wake me up at three in the morning for this?” He called over his shoulder, down the hall. “Woman! Get me a coffee.”

  “I thought it was a good idea to send a scout team,” Queho explained. “We didn’t know enough about this place or Mad Max to send an assault posse. We rushed exposing a lot of men without good intelligence. I mean, it was Pico giving us the information.”

  Skinner rubbed his chin and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He sounded like he was ticking off seconds as he thought about how to respond.

  “I’m flummoxed,” he finally offered. “I think that’s the right word. Flummoxed. You doubt how good Pico’s information is, so you trust his suggestion to send a scout team. Then you shoot Rudabaugh in the hand ’cause he questions you. So you make him the lead. And you don’t go with him. Yeah, flummoxed is the right word.”

  Queho started to answer but stopped when a tall, thin woman walked into the parlor, carrying a tray with two cups of coffee and a pile of sugar packets. She was hunched at the shoulders, as if she carried a hump on her back. Her eyes were set deep in her skull, her lips oversized for her narrow jaw. She set the tray on a polished cherry table and slowly backed out of the room. She never looked either of them in the eyes.

  Skinner reached for the coffee, and the lights flickered. “You were saying?”

  “I didn’t have the feeling in my gut before,” Queho said. “I figured the guys could handle it and we’d minimize the risk of losing more men. Now, I don’t know. They should be back by now.”

  Skinner pulled the steaming cup to his lips and sipped the scalding coffee. “This is where destroying cell phone towers doesn’t sound like such a good idea, does it?” He didn’t wince when the drink burned his tongue, the roof of his mouth, and his throat. He took a second sip and nodded toward the cup still on the tray.

  Queho took the coffee. “I never understood that,” he said. “It’s like biting off your nose to spit in your face.”

  “Spite your face.”

  “What?”

  “The saying,” Skinner smirked. “It’s ‘biting off your nose to spite your face’.”

  Queho blew into his cup. “Whatever. It didn’t make sense to me. We could have used cell phones to coordinate things, to communicate better.”

  Skinner set the coffee cup back on the tray. “The generals over in Houston and Dallas thought the risk outweighed the gains. They figured it was better that nobody had cells than for the early opposition to have them. Remember, in the days after the Scourge, we were fighting for control. We needed every advantage we could find. We had numbers. So it was better to level the technical playing field. Plus, those cells didn’t work out in rural Texas anyhow.”

  “Have they talked about fixing them? I mean, now that we control everything from Louisiana to New Mexico?”

  Skinner cracked his neck. “I dunno. Look, Queho, all of that’s beside the point. And they reserve their two-ways for the cities. The situations are more unstable there. Instant communication is more critical. Out here, in the great open spaces with a bunch of farmers, they didn’t see the need to share. They figured we could handle it without the creature comforts. And It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. We need to figure out how we handle this potential mess you’ve created.”

  Queho took a tentative sip of the coffee. “Okay.”

  “You take ten men,” he said. “Head toward the area Pico told you about. You got a general idea of where it’s at, right?”

  “Just past Rising Star.”

  “Good,” Skinner said. “Head there. Get going before sunup. You’ll either run into your search team…or you won’t. Either way, we know what to do.”

  “What is that?”

  “We end this guy. Mad Max. This is one guy, right?”

  “According to Pico.”

  Skinner shrugged. “So it’s one crazy guy. We end him. Kill the redheaded woman. She’s too much trouble.”

  “And the boy?”

  “He’s where I told you to put him?”

  Queho took another sip of coffee and swallowed it quickly so as to answer. “Yes.

  “Leave him there for now,” Skinner said. He leaned over, slid the cup from the table, and pulled it to his lips. He downed the rest of the coffee and licked his lips free of the stubborn sugar granules that refused to dissolve. “Once his momma’s dead, you be sure to tell him. Describe it in detail. Even if you gotta make it up. That’ll keep him in line.”

  Queho sipped from his cup and sank back against the worn cushion.

  “Don’t get comfortable,” Skinner said. “You gotta get going.”

  ***

  OCTOBER 14, 2037, 5:40 AM

  SCOURGE + 5 YEARS

  TEXAS
HIGHWAY 36

  EAST OF RISING STAR, TEXAS

  Marcus stood at the edge of the highway. He walked behind the six horses tied to his fence, his boots scraping across the cracked and pitted asphalt. He was far enough back from their hind legs to avoid a swift kick to the head but close enough, with the help of a flashlight, to inspect them and pick the best of the lot. He was wearing tactical cargo pants and a matching vest. The vest, covered with various-sized pockets, was stuffed with ammunition and first aid supplies.

  “This is a good one.” He aimed the light at a thick Appaloosa. It was dark with a black-spotted white blanket over its loin and hips. Its mane was black. It looked healthier than the others.

  “I don’t know a lot about horses,” he admitted, sidling up to the Appaloosa, “but I know they have durable hooves. I like that.” He turned off the light and came around to face the animal.

  The horse looked at him with its human-esque eyes and nickered. It was a guttural pulse of a greeting that told Battle the horse liked him.

  “I like you too.” Battle patted the Appaloosa’s forehead, lightly dragging his hand down to its muzzle. He carefully took the cheek pieces in each hand and tugged. The horse snorted.

  “I think you’re the one,” he said. “What’s it name?” he called over his shoulder to Pico.

  Pico stood inside the fence line. His hands were bound together. His legs were tied such that he could walk but not run. “Aces,” he said. “That was Rudabaugh’s horse. You’re wearing his hat.”

  Battle took off the brown cowboy hat and looked at it before replacing it atop his head. “Only makes sense I should take his horse if I already have the hat. Which one is yours?”

  Pico nodded his head to a paint on the end. “That’s mine. His name is Venganza.”

  “Okay,” Battle said. “You’re not taking him. I don’t want you on a familiar horse. But thanks for the honesty.” Battle pointed to another paint. “You can have that one.”

  “Lola, can you help me, please?”

  She huffed, hopped over the fence, and moved next to Battle. She adjusted her T-shirt and folded her arms across her chest. “What?”

  “I need you to help me load up the horses with the gear,” he said, hanging a Kevlar vest on the fence post. “I’d appreciate it. Please.”

  She grabbed a couple of saddlebags they’d retrieved from the barn while Battle worked on attaching his gear to Aces.

  “I should go with you,” she said, handing him one of the bags. “Let me wear the vest.”

  Battle rolled his eyes and checked the straps of the rifle scabbard then slid it under his saddle. He ignored her at first. It was difficult enough to leave the house, the barn, his family. It was even tougher to leave Lola in charge of the place. He didn’t want to rehash an argument over leaving her behind.

  “The sun’s up in two hours,” he said to Pico. “We should hit the road. I need you to change into some different clothes for me, and I’ll need a lead from the back of my horse to yours.”

  Lola took a step toward Battle. “Did you hear me?”

  Battle nodded. “I heard you,” he said. “This is too dangerous. And I don’t want the house empty. Plus the vest wouldn’t fit you.”

  She threw her hands up. “I can’t protect the house alone,” she argued. “And you’re going to find my son.”

  Battle adjusted the leathers. He was taller than Rudabaugh. The stirrups needed to hang lower. “I’m not going to argue about this. If you remember, a few hours ago, I wasn’t ever going to leave my land. Ever. Now I’m doing it. Just stay in the house.”

  “But—”

  “Please.”

  Lola pulled her hair behind her ears and bent over to pick up a bag. She tossed it to Battle. “Fine. Please bring me back my son.”

  “You’re not coming back alive,” Pico said. He was kicking his toes into the mud. “They’re gonna kill both of us. Then they’ll come here and they’ll kill her.”

  Lola’s eyes flashed from Battle to Pico and back to Battle again. Her jaw tightened. She clenched her fist and took two big steps to the fence. She leapt over it, despite her injured ankle, planted her feet in the mud, and threw all of her weight into Salomon Pico. She drove her shoulder into his gut and knocked him to the ground. He unsuccessfully tried defending himself with his bound hands.

  “Get her off me!” he wailed. Lola pushed her left hand onto his face and shoved his head deeper into the mud. With her right hand, she swung wildly with a closed fist. She connected with his neck and jaw.

  “Help me!”

  “I’ll. Help. You. You mother—” Lola grunted between swings.

  Battle took his time moving to the fence. He climbed over it one leg at a time and strode a few steps with his hands in his pockets. “Lola.” His voice was soft at first, as if he didn’t really want her to hear him.

  “I remember you,” she snarled and punched him in the throat. “I remember.”

  Battle’s voice was louder. “Lola.”

  “My son. He’s a child.” She was crying, her arms flailing, but she kept connecting with the now bloodied Pico.

  Battle grabbed her shoulder. “Stop.” He squeezed, his grip tightening. “That’s enough.”

  Lola pounded on Pico’s chest twice more before sliding off him into the mud. Battle helped her to her feet and put his arms around her. He held her while she released the last of her outburst into his chest.

  “It’s okay,” he told her, questioning his own compassion. “I’ll find him. I promise.” He regretted it immediately.

  Lola’s sobs slowed and she pushed away from Battle. “What did you say?” She sniffed and rubbed the snot from her nose.

  “Nothing. Just that it’ll be okay.”

  She pulled strands of muddied red hair from her face. “That’s not what you said.”

  Battle bit his lip. He averted his eyes, choosing to look at the pitifully wounded punching bag lying in the mud.

  “You promised to find him. You promised.” She thumped his chest with the back of her hand.

  He looked back at her and nodded. “I guess I did.”

  Battle couldn’t account for the one-hundred-and-eighty-degree flip. He didn’t know why he’d subconsciously relented to the emotional pressure of helping Lola find her son. But he had.

  A shaky smile spread across Lola’s face. She nodded and blinked back tears. “Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know what else to say.”

  Battle shrugged. “There’s nothing to say. Keep an eye on the place while I’m gone. Let’s get these extra horses into the barn.”

  CHAPTER 17

  NOVEMBER 12, 2032, 5:18 PM

  SCOURGE +43 DAYS

  EAST OF RISING STAR, TEXAS

  Marcus wiped the sweat from Sylvia’s forehead. She was in their bed and barely conscious. She’d deteriorated almost as quickly as Wesson.

  Her breathing was shallow and rapid, like a dog panting. Her cough was thick with mucus and a yellow pus from her lungs that had become pinkish from blood in the last few hours.

  Marcus hadn’t slept since their argument in the kitchen. He’d dozed off for a minute or two in the chair next to the bed, but that was it. He couldn’t risk being asleep when she died.

  “I love you, Sylvia,” he’d said at regular intervals during his vigil. He held her hand and talked softly to her.

  During her first day confined to the bed, when she’d become too weak to stand, she watched his eyes intently as he spoke. Occasionally she managed a hint of a smile.

  “I remember seeing you for the first time,” he’d recalled. “It was at graduation. The Goat had just crossed the stage and taken his money. We’d cheered wildly for him. I glanced into the crowd at Michie Stadium and noticed this adorable yellow sundress attached to a gorgeous woman. You glanced back.

  “The ceremony ended and I looked for your dress. I found it. You were still attached to it.” He’d chuckled. “Turned out the Goat was your brother. Hilarious. I pretended I was ther
e to congratulate him, which I did. I introduced myself to your mom. And your brother introduced you to me.”

  Sylvia had interrupted the story with a violent cough. Marcus had patted her back and wiped her chin free of phlegm. Once she’d lain back against the mountain of pillows behind her head and back, he’d retaken her hand.

  “So,” he’d said, “I offered to shake your hand, but you saluted me. You insisted I give you my silver dollar. I said I couldn’t. West Point tradition is explicit. The coin goes to the first enlisted person to salute a graduate. You argued that since your brother was in the army and your father had died in Fallujah when you were a young girl, you’d involuntarily enlisted.”

  “You gave me your coin,” Sylvia had whispered through the rattle in her lungs.

  Marcus had squeezed her hand, which he’d taken with both of his. “I did. There was no point in arguing with you. Especially since I wanted to see more of you.”

  Sylvia turned her head and looked at the ceiling. Above her a fan was spinning. Its pull chain whipping gently in its breeze was the only sound in the room. She tried to take a deep breath but couldn’t. She wheezed and coughed again. With each percussive coughing fit, she emerged with less strength. Marcus could see the disease devouring her by the hour.

  “You always kept me on my toes,” he’d told her. “I was a fresh second lieutenant. You may as well have been my CO, the way you led me around. I was whooped. Still am.”

  Sylvia had turned her head back to him and rolled her eyes. There was no smile anymore. She couldn’t manage the strength for it. But he’d seen the smile mixed with the sarcasm of the eye roll.

  Now, he sat beside her in her final hours, contemplating, regretting all of the mistakes he’d made. There were so many.

  When they’d married before his first deployment to Iran, he’d promised her everything would be okay. Her brother, who hadn’t risen through the ranks as quickly as Marcus, was assigned to his company. When Sylvia had kissed her husband goodbye, she’d held his face in her hands.

  “I know you’ll come back,” she’d told him. “You’re too strong not to come back. But my brother, please take care of him. Please tell me he’ll come back too.”