The Traveler 01-03 Home, Canyon, Wall

by Tom Abrahams

Battle forged ahead in the fog and neared a narrow concrete driveway that connected to the highway. It was shrouded by a cluster of bald cypress that had wrecked the drive. Their root knees kicked their way through the concrete, making the short path look as if it had suffered earthquake damage.

  Battle turned onto the driveway and looped Aces’s lead around the narrow trunk of a young tree. He looked over to Pico and held his finger up to his lips. Pico nodded.

  With Lloyd in his hands and McDunnough in a holster strapped to his thigh, Battle left the horses and the grunt hidden amongst the trees. He walked north toward an aboveground pool and its neighboring house. Neither was in good shape.

  He wasn’t waiting for the posse to come to him. He was hunting them. He was a good fifty yards from the tree cluster when he changed his mind. He couldn’t be sure which side of the highway was occupied and couldn’t take the risk of choosing the wrong direction.

  He certainly didn’t want to get sandwiched between the half dozen men he imagined were coming for him once they regrouped.

  Battle jogged through the mist back to the horses, the goggles bouncing against his eyes. He slowed as he approached the trees. Pico was sitting as he’d left him, tied up and quiet.

  “Change of plans,” he said to Pico. He took the bungees and loosened them from the saddle horn before helping Pico dismount. “I’m gonna tie you to the tree.”

  He looped the bungee around the young cypress, pulling it tight to remove its slack. He knotted it on the side opposite Pico. “Too tight?”

  “Yes,” Pico complained. He was sitting with his back against the tree, his legs bound in front of him. “I can barely feel my hands.”

  Battle rounded the tree and smiled at Pico. “Good,” he said. “I won’t be long.”

  “I’m uncomfortable,” Pico whined.

  “It’s for your own protection,” Battle answered. “I need you alive. I told you that.”

  “Alive until you kill me.”

  “Pretty much.”

  Battle untied the paint from Aces and led it out onto the highway. He adjusted his goggles, made sure he had a good grip on the Browning, and slapped the horse on its hindquarters. It snorted and took off, trotting west along the highway.

  He waited about ten seconds and then started jogging behind the horse, running at a pace to keep his distance. His footsteps were masked by the clop of the iron shoes on the asphalt. It reminded him of running patrol on foot behind a Humvee.

  Controlling his breathing, he listened intently and, with the help of his goggles, scanned both sides of Highway 36. The horse kept its slow trot west, staying on the asphalt as if it knew the plan.

  Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!

  The shots came from the left, up ahead on the southern side of the highway. The horse snorted and squealed before accelerating into a gallop, disappearing into the fog up ahead. It had done its job as a decoy.

  Battle dropped to a knee and focused on the southern side of the highway. He pulled the weapon to his shoulder and aimed, waiting for someone to move into his orange field of view.

  He scanned to the right. Nothing. To the left. Nothing.

  And then, a thick burst of bright color in the goggles. It was maybe thirty yards ahead, at his ten o’clock. Battle exhaled and pressed his finger to the trigger.

  Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!

  He fished a pair of replacement shells from his chest pocket and slid them into the loading port at the bottom of the magazine. He took another pair and loaded them, ensuring they clicked when he pressed them up and inside the magazine.

  He stood, walking deliberately toward the target area. He scanned to the right, checking the north side of the road, before panning across the highway to the original spot.

  He knew from the number of shots fired there had to be at least two men. The Browning held four shells; there were five shots. The size of the orange glow in his goggles also indicated more than one person was standing at the edge of the highway.

  His deduction was confirmed by the pair of bodies lying next to one another in the weeds off the shoulder. One of the men was dead. The other was twitching and grabbing his stomach.

  Battle approached and then dropped to both knees next to the dying grunt. The man’s eyes were wide. He was gurgling, gasping for air. Blood was leaking from his mouth and nose. He had both hands at his stomach, but there was another hole closer to his neck. Battle was struck by how young he looked. Despite his unshaven appearance, the fear in his eyes betrayed his youth.

  Battle closed his eyes and prayed. “So far has He removed our transgressions from us.” He unholstered the six-shooters from both men, stuffed them in a deep vest pocket at his side, and grabbed one of the Brownings. As he shifted his weight to stand, the dying grunt grabbed his wrist with a blood-soaked hand.

  Battle looked the grunt in the eyes. He nodded, dropped the Browning, and pulled out one of the pistols. He pressed it against the grunt’s forehead, turned away, and fired. He felt the warm spray of mercy along his neck and the grunt’s hand released its hold on his wrist.

  He slipped the pistol back into the long, wide pocket at his waist and stood with a Browning in each hand. Holding them at his waist, leveled straight ahead, he marched south into the weeds. He scanned the area from left to right. If he saw anything move, anything with a heat signature, he was ready to open fire again.

  He looked left. Nothing. Right. Nothing. Left again. Nothing. He stepped deeper into the grass, the mud sucking at his boots as he moved.

  Crack! Crack!

  The shots came from behind him.

  Crack! Crack!

  Battle dove into the weeds, losing one of the weapons. He was face first in the mud. The goggles were coated with it. He spun around on his stomach and tore the goggles from his face. He didn’t have time to wipe them clean. The shots, as best he could tell, were from the north. From their volume, he figured they were fired at close range.

  He crawled forward on his knees and elbows toward a large tractor tire a few feet to his right. Once behind the tire, he caught his breath and listened. The shooter was probably reloading. If there was more than one attacker, he was in trouble. His only saving grace was the lifting fog and the incremental warmth of the early morning. It was still cool; the crisp fall air tightened his chest if he inhaled too deeply. He looked up through the mist to the sky. The thin clouds high above were tinged pink from the rising sun.

  A few more minutes, and the fog wouldn’t be a factor. That was both good and bad. Battle peeked around the side of the tire, still concealed by the grass. He couldn’t see anything of value. He closed his eyes and listened. At first, there was nothing but the ambient sound of a slight breeze blowing through the lifting fog.

  But in the subsequent stillness, he heard weeds brushing against something. It was close. Then the suction of mud slipping from a boot or a shoe to his right.

  Battle slid his finger onto the trigger, shot to his feet, emerging from the weeds in time to catch the gun-toting grunt off guard. The man fumbled to aim, but Battle was too fast. He pulled the trigger twice and dropped the man where he stood before again dipping below the protection of the high weeds.

  He crawled forward toward the grunt and found him on his back. Both shots had pegged him in the chest, blasting through him. His eyes were frozen with the same look he’d had the instant he realized Battle had the drop on him and he was about to die violently.

  Battle rummaged through the man’s pockets and took his extra shells. There was also a Leatherman multi-tool and an expired energy bar. Battle shoved the utility knife into his breast pocket and ripped open the energy bar.

  It crumbled in his mouth and tasted like dirt, but he needed something. He’d not eaten since before the attack the previous night, and the food he kept in the saddlebag was on the other side of the highway.

  Battle counted in his head. Six down. It was a good start.

  ***

  OCTOBER 14, 2037, 8:08 AM

>   SCOURGE + 5 YEARS

  TEXAS HIGHWAY 36

  CROSS PLAINS, TEXAS

  Queho heard the repeated shotgun blasts that sounded like they were coming from the other side of the highway. He was on foot with the two grunts, moving amongst the weeds and weaving between dilapidated mobile homes and trailers.

  The rusted frame of a 2018 Dodge Charger was on cinderblocks. Queho moved next to the Charger and stopped when he heard a noise on the other side of a white double-wide that blended into the mist. It was its rust and black roof that made it visible.

  Queho held up a hand to stop the two grunts walking behind him. He motioned for one of them to maneuver up against the double-wide and hold his position at the corner. Queho lowered himself to the ground and looked underneath the mobile home, but its foundation was too close to the ground for him to see anything. He could hear movement.

  Queho pushed himself back to his feet. The clubbed one was throbbing from the walking, the cold, and the intensity of the moment. He motioned for the second grunt to join him and they made their way to the double-wide. He pointed for the first grunt to move around the trailer home to the left. He and the other grunt would go right.

  The grunt nodded his understanding and checked the safety on his shotgun. Queho held up his hand with three fingers extended. Two. One.

  They swiftly rounded the edge of the trailer, appearing on the opposite side. Queho had his shotgun pressed to his shoulder, his right eye glued to the sight. He swung from right to left and touched his finger to the trigger.

  He located his target. Aimed. And, at the last moment, released his finger. “Hold up! Don’t fire.”

  Queho and his grunts had found two more survivors of the initial ambush. They were astride their horses. They dismounted when they saw their posse boss on foot.

  “Good to see you, boss,” one of them said. “We got separated when our horses got spooked. We didn’t know who was alive and who wasn’t.”

  “It’s just the two of you?” Queho asked. He looked over his shoulder and then past the men standing in front of him. The fog was burning off much faster now. It was turning into a clear fall morning. He shifted his weight onto his good foot. “You ain’t seen anyone else?”

  They shook their heads. “No,” they said in unison.

  Queho looked over the men, taking inventory. There were five of them together. He didn’t know whether that was more or less than the attackers might have. He’d heard a lot of gunfire.

  “So it’s us, then.” He shrugged. “We got to find our way outta here and make it east.” He pointed at the two grunts they’d just encountered and told them to get back on their horses.

  They remounted the animals and awaited their instructions. One of them offered water to the others.

  “We need to stay close to the road,” suggested Queho, “but far enough away from it that we can keep cover. You on the horses, take the lead.”

  The two nodded and got their horses headed east. They weaved through a maze of houses and low-slung grain silos, leading the group south, back toward the highway. They moved slowly, each of the men with their weapons at the ready. The fog was all but gone by the time they reached a cluster of bald cypress trees north of the road.

  Queho stepped ahead of the group. There was a large horse tied to a tree. It turned toward Queho and nickered. The horse looked familiar. It was dark with a black-spotted white blanket over its loin and hips and a black mane. When he got closer, the horse nickered again and snorted. Queho placed his hand on the animal’s poll, the spot atop its head between the ears and the run of the mane down its neck. He rubbed it then ran his fingers down its crest to its withers. He patted it gently.

  “Is that Rudabaugh’s horse?” asked one of the grunts. The group had gathered behind him under the wide canopy of the tree.

  “I think it is,” said Queho. “It’s an Appaloosa and looks the same. The spots and such.”

  “What’s it doing here?” asked the grunt. “That don’t make any sense.”

  Queho was piecing it together in his head when he heard a noise from underneath a nearby tree. He raised the Browning and leveled it waist high, stepping around the horse.

  Fifteen feet in front of him was a man tied to a tree trunk. At first, Queho didn’t recognize him, though he knew it wasn’t Rudabaugh.

  The man’s head was hung low, his face not visible. He was wearing a thick long-sleeved shirt. His arms were tied behind his back, attached to the trunk with a cord.

  “Hey,” he called out to the man. “Hey, you. What are you doing here? Who tied you up?”

  The man shook his head but didn’t raise it. He pulled his feet into his body as if he was trying to curl into a ball. As if that made him less visible.

  “Hey, you.” Queho aimed the barrel at the man’s head. “I’m gonna shoot if you don’t look up at me. I need to know why you’re here and why you got a Cartel horse right next to you.”

  The four grunts held their positions while Queho inched his way closer to the man under the tree. All of them had their shotguns ready to fire.

  Queho kicked the man’s leg and shoved the muzzle into his chest, poking him with it. “Hey. Look up or I pull the trigger.”

  The man slowly raised his head, looking Queho in the eyes. Queho jumped back, nearly tripping over his bad foot. “Pico? That you?”

  Pico nodded almost imperceptibly. He mumbled something Queho couldn’t hear.

  “What are you doing here? Where is Rudabaugh? What happened?”

  “Can you untie me?” Pico asked. “I can’t feel my hands. My arms are falling asleep.”

  Queho looked over his shoulder and motioned to the grunts. “Cut him loose.” He looked back at the battered man he barely recognized. “You got the tar kicked out of you, huh?”

  Pico nodded. Two grunts worked from the back of the tree, cutting the bungee cords. Pico fell forward when they snapped. He rolled onto his side, his hands and feet still bound.

  Queho checked to make sure the grunts had him covered and set his weapon on the dirt at the edge of the driveway. He flipped out a switchblade and leaned forward to cut the ankle cords. He reached behind Pico and stuck the blade between his wrists, yanking it upward.

  “Ahhh,” Pico moaned and pulled his hands to his chest. “Thank you,” he exhaled. He flexed his fingers in and out. “Thank you.”

  Queho grabbed Pico underneath his bicep and helped him sit upright. He was squatting like a baseball catcher a few inches from the mustachioed grunt. “Pico, what happened? Where’s Rudabaugh?”

  Pico swallowed hard. “Can I get some water?”

  Queho studied him for a moment before snapping his fingers at one of the horseback grunts. He looked at Pico’s wounds, the clothes he was wearing, the tree under which he was hidden. Something didn’t sit right. They’d been ambushed less than an hour earlier, but Pico was acting as though he’d been tied to the tree for days.

  “You come here with Mad Max?”

  Pico nodded and looked at the grunt bringing him a canteen. He reached out for it and pulled it to his mouth, spilling as much of it as he was drinking.

  “I asked you a question, Pico.”

  Pico wiped his mouth and handed back the canteen. “I did. And I know his name. It’s Battle.”

  “Battle?”

  “Yep. He killed Rud and the others. He attacked me. She attacked me. He—”

  “Wait, wait, wait. Who exactly attacked you?”

  “First he attacked,” Pico said breathlessly. “I mean, he had booby traps. So we got caught, and everybody got killed.”

  “But he didn’t kill you?”

  “No,” Pico said. “He tied me to a chair and asked me questions.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “No,” Pico said, backing up against the tree trunk. “I swear, Queho. I didn’t tell him nothing.”

  “You said she attacked you. Who?”


  “The redhead we were chasing the other day,” Pico said. “I was all beat up. My hands were tied. She jumped me and started whaling on me.”

  Queho adjusted his hat. “How’d you end up here?”

  “He put me on a horse and led me here,” Pico said. “He wanted to go to Abilene and get back the redhead’s boy. He’s going to the HQ.”

  A knowing smile wormed across Queho’s face. He rubbed his chin. “That’s kinda funny, Pico.”

  Pico’s brow furrowed. “What?”

  “Twice now you’re the only one to survive this Battle’s violence,” Queho said. “Twice. Everybody else dies. You live. Then you tell me, you swear to me, you ain’t tell him nothing about nothing. But he knew we have an HQ in Abilene? How’s that possible if you ain’t tell him that?”

  “I-I—”

  “Yeah,” Queho said, pushing himself to his feet. “That’s what I thought.”

  Pico waved his hands in front of his face. “Please, Queho, I—”

  “I should’ve killed you when I found you wandering the highway yesterday, Pico. You survive an Armageddon that kills men better than you and it’s fishy. You do it twice? That’s downright impossible.”

  Pico slid his back up the side of the tree and stood, his trembling hands raised above his head.

  “Tell me this, Pico,” Queho sneered. “How many men does Battle have with him? How big is his posse?”

  “W-w-what do you mean?”

  Queho bent over and grabbed his gun from the ground and then rebalanced himself on his good foot. “How many men does he have with him? How many men ambushed us?”

  “It’s just him.”

  Queho’s eyes widened and he looked around at the other grunts. He didn’t question Pico. For some reason, as ridiculous as it seemed, he believed him.

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. He left me here. I haven’t seen him.”

  “Maybe he’s dead.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Where is the woman?”

  “She’s at the house,” Pico answered excitedly. “She’s alone. I could take you there, Queho. I could lead you straight to her.”

  Queho pouted and considered the offer. “Okay,” he said. “Why not? Hop up on Rudabaugh’s horse. You can lead the way. Let’s go.”