The Traveler 01-03 Home, Canyon, Wall

by Tom Abrahams

  Marcus had finished the tour. He’d gone home. He’d requested an honorable discharge. Within days, a buddy from West Point had offered him a lucrative consulting job. He’d taken it, along with the cash he’d squirreled away, and they’d moved to the middle of Nowhere, Texas.

  “Let’s do it,” Sylvia said, snapping him from his daydream. “Let’s find out.”

  The doctor nodded to the nurse. “Gel, please.”

  “Are you excited?” Sylvia looked up at Marcus. “Or are you going to vomit?”

  “I’m so excited I think I’ll vomit,” he deadpanned.

  Sylvia squeezed his hand again. “You’re hilarious, Major Battle.”

  The doctor squeezed warm gel onto Sylvia’s belly. “Major Battle?” He smirked, with one eyebrow drawn higher than the other.

  Marcus rolled his eyes. “Yes. Army. You serve?”

  “Semper Fi,” the doctor said. “Annapolis Class of ’10.”

  “My condolences.” Marcus winked. “West Point ’19.”

  “Good for you.” The doctor took the probe and touched it to Sylvia’s belly. He turned his attention to the ultrasound monitor and kept talking. “I’ve got a joke I think you’ll appreciate, Major.”

  “I’ll bite,” said Marcus. “I wasn’t aware Marines had a sense of humor.”

  The doctor touched a button on the ultrasound and swirled the probe. He stopped near Sylvia’s navel and pressed. “An army officer is standing at the bottom of a hill with a platoon of soldiers. He looks up the hill and grabs one of his men by the shoulder. With a ridiculous amount of seriousness he says, ‘Soldier, there’s a drunken Marine at the top of the hill, talking about our mothers. Go get that Marine and bring him here to me.’ The soldier obeys the order but minutes later comes rolling back down the hill, beaten to a pulp. So the officer sends a fire team up the hill. He shouts, ‘Bring that Marine to me now!’ Three soldiers come rolling down the hill, bloodied and embarrassed. The officer sends the rest of the platoon up the hill to bring down the Marine for a good army whooping. The whole platoon returns humiliated and without the Marine. The officer grabs an injured soldier by the collar of his filthy uniform and demands an explanation. ‘What is your problem, son? Why can’t you bring me that Marine for a good army whooping?’ The soldier, out of breath, says, ‘Sorry, Colonel. It’s a trap. There are two of them.’”

  The doctor kept his eyes on the monitor, his shoulders shuddering with laughter. The nurse chuckled. Sylvia pursed her lips and looked at her husband.

  Marcus didn’t laugh. “I think we may have the wrong doctor,” he said. “Then again, if he tells us it’s a girl, we could use him for a reference when she applies to Annapolis.”

  “That’s sexist,” said Sylvia, pausing for effect. “Women are stronger than most Marines.”

  The doctor turned from the monitor and looked straight at Marcus. “I like her,” he said. “How she ended up with a dogface is beyond me.” A smile snaked across his face.

  “I’ll agree with that assessment,” Marcus said. “So is it a boy or a Marine?”

  “Just a second more,” the doctor said. “I need to check some measurements. We’ll let you listen to the heartbeat and then I’ll let you know it’s a boy.”

  “A boy?” Sylvia’s eyes welled instantly. She looked back at Marcus. His eyes were as glossy as hers. “Did you hear that, Marcus? A boy?”

  Marcus nodded and blinked back the unexpected pool of tears in his eyes. “I love you,” he said to his wife and moved his hand to her shoulder. He leaned over and kissed her on the lips. He could taste the salt on her warm lips.

  “He’s growing well,” the doctor said, wheeling the ultrasound machine closer to the bed. “You can see his head here.” He ran his finger across the screen, circling the obvious three-dimensional representation of their son’s melon-shaped head.

  “He’s got an enormous head,” Marcus said. “Is that normal?”

  “For a Marine.” The doctor chuckled. “Actually, yes. It’s just fine. Everything is developing normally. And here is where we can tell he is, in fact, a boy.”

  “That’s enormous too,” said Marcus. “Like a soldier.”

  “You wish.” Sylvia giggled.

  The red-faced nurse cleared her throat. “Any names?” she asked.

  “Wesson,” said Sylvia. “It’s my maiden name.”

  “Wes for short,” added Marcus. “His middle name will be Isaac. It’s my middle name too.”

  “Beautiful name,” the nurse said. “Wesson Isaac Battle. Very nice.”

  “Did you have any girl’s names picked out?” the doctor asked.

  “We were down to two,” Sylvia offered. “Marcus liked Lilly.”

  “And you?” the nurse asked, handing the doctor a damp cloth to clean Sylvia’s belly. “What name did you like?”

  “I’ve always liked Lola,” she said. “If our baby had been a girl, I would have picked Lola.”

  CHAPTER 24

  OCTOBER 14, 2037, 3:57 PM

  SCOURGE + 5 YEARS

  EAST OF RISING STAR, TEXAS

  Battle slowly regained consciousness, struggling against the paralysis of sleep. His neck and back were drenched with sweat. He blinked open his eyes and felt a deep, muscular pain pulsing throughout his body. He shifted in the cot and felt the sting of burned skin.

  He turned his head and looked at his surroundings. He was in his barn. He didn’t remember getting there. The last thing he remembered was the fire. There was too much smoke. It was too hot.

  He struggled to sit up, but a hand caught his shoulder and gently urged him back onto the cot. It was Lola.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked. “You’ve been out for a couple of hours. Your breathing sounds better, though.”

  Battle tried to speak, but nothing came out. He licked his lips and shook his head.

  “Pico,” she called, “I need a cup of water.”

  A moment later, Salomon Pico appeared next to Lola, holding a Solo cup.

  “Lean up slowly,” Lola suggested. She took the cup and drew it to Battle’s lips.

  The water was ice cold. It soothed the dry scratch that ran from the roof of his mouth to deep in his throat. He was too eager and coughed up a swallow of it, spraying it all over himself. Pico patted him on the back. Lola withdrew the cup.

  “Small sips, Battle. You nearly died. You probably did some serious damage to your lungs.”

  Battle coughed, gasped for air, and motioned for more water. He took smaller sips, relishing the relief.

  “Take these.” Lola handed him a pair of red capsules. “Advil. It’ll help with the pain from the burns.”

  He took the pills and shook them down his throat, gulping past the pain. His throat felt sunburned.

  Battle sat up on his elbows and looked at the large six-inch-square bandage on his side. It was stained with blood and ointment.

  “I cleaned it out and put Polysporin on it,” Lola said. “It’s not as bad as it probably feels. Everything was pretty superficial.”

  Battle swallowed and winced, managing to eke out a few words. “Thank you, Lola,” he said. “Thank you, Pico.”

  “You saved us,” Pico said. “Well, I mean to say you saved her. You kinda saved me. You almost killed me. But—”

  Lola shot him a disapproving glare. “Pico,” she said.

  “You’re welcome,” Battle said.

  “What were you doing in the house?” Lola took a damp cloth and draped it on Battle’s neck.

  “I needed something,” he said, his voice full of gravel. His eyes widened and his body tensed with the panic of sudden recognition. “Wait. Where is it?” He tried pushing himself from the cot, but Lola stopped him.

  “The photograph?” she asked calmly. “I have it. It’s on the shelves over there.” She pointed over her shoulder to the storage racks along the back wall of the barn. “The frame is broken, but the photograph is okay.”

  Battle’s body relaxed and he lowered himself flat ont
o the cot. He exhaled and closed his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “Why the hell would you risk your life for a picture?” said Pico, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his ill-fitting jeans. “That don’t make no sense. I mean, you done killed all those people and then you run into a burning house for a picture?”

  Battle opened his eyes and stared at the high wooden beams that framed the barn’s roof. He slowly inhaled as deep a breath as possible through his nose and then exhaled through his mouth. With each breath he was able to inhale incrementally deeper.

  “What’s he doing?” Pico asked Lola.

  She put a finger to her lips. “Give him a few minutes,” she said as if Battle weren’t in the room. “He’s lost everything. That house was his connection to his family. It was the only thing that kept him sane, kept him grounded. It was his castle. He spent every day since the Scourge protecting it. Now it’s gone.”

  “What’s that got to do with a picture?”

  “It’s of his family,” she said. “Don’t you understand that?”

  Pico shook his head. “I ain’t never had one. Not that I remember.”

  The three were silent for a long time, each of them lost in their own minds. Each of them likely mourning the lives they’d lost as much as dreading the days to come. Finally, Battle broke the silence.

  “We need to find your son,” he said. “And we need to find him before the Cartel finds out what happened here.”

  ***

  OCTOBER 14, 2037, 5:14 PM

  SCOURGE + 5 YEARS

  EAST OF RISING STAR, TEXAS

  Marcus Battle looked at the open gun cabinet along the eastern wall of the barn. All twenty-five feet of weapons and ammunition were exposed. There was an empty spot where Inspector usually hung.

  “Tell me again how you broke into this and took the rifle?” He folded his arms across his chest, his skin stinging as he did.

  “I have a knack,” said Pico. “I just…I know how to open these things.”

  “Huh,” Battle said. “Good to know. Where is Inspector, by the way?”

  “The what?”

  “The rifle you took?”

  “It’s over by the door. You left it in the yard. I figured you’d need it later. Why’d you call it Inspector?”

  “Long story,” said Battle. “All right. I need you to grab a couple of backpacks off the shelf. Stuff them full of whatever you think we’re gonna need. Food, supplies, extra socks.”

  “Socks?”

  “Nothing’s worse than wet feet.”

  “Okay.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m taking inventory,” he said. “I’m deciding what weapons we’re taking with us.”

  “And Lola?”

  “She’s feeding the horses,” Battle said. “They need to eat and drink before we head out.”

  Pico left Battle at the armory to do what was asked of him. Battle pulled out a clipboard on which he kept a meticulous inventory of all weapons. He ripped a sheet of paper in half and marked it with a pencil.

  What we need

  3 Brownings—loaded, one box of ammo

  3 9mm—three boxes ammo—armor piercing

  dozen hand grenades

  3 smoke grenades/flash bangs

  XM25, ammo

  Inspector, ammo

  slingshot

  He held the pencil above the piece of paper as he reviewed his list. It was good.

  They’d use the Brownings to mask their identities from the Cartel once they reached Abilene. They were easy to carry on horseback and fire on the move if necessary.

  They’d each get a sidearm. He’d keep McDunnough for himself, and he had a couple of Glocks with which he’d happily part. The ammo was the same for the Glocks as it was for his Sig.

  The hand grenades were good for getting them out of a jam or providing additional cover. While he’d learned Lola could handle herself, he still wasn’t sure about Pico. There was a weakness, an insecurity in the man that made Battle question his fortitude.

  The smoke grenades, assuming he had room for them, would be a nice bonus should they have to gain entry into a guarded or heavily armored building. He’d used them more times than he could count in Syria.

  The XM25 was a unique piece of the arsenal and Battle shouldn’t have had one. It was one of the weapons the army used to replace the long-used M16.

  A gas-operated semiautomatic air-bursting assault weapon, the XM25 was initially too heavy. In the early 2000s, Special Forces units refused to deploy with it. At fourteen pounds and capable of only five shots at a time, it wasn’t a viable option for the elite teams who relied on ease of movement and stealth to execute the most critically sensitive missions.

  Battle had procured one through questionable methods. He’d paid through the nose for it and five rounds each of three different types of ammunition. The twenty-five-millimeter color-coded rounds were task specific. Yellow rounds were the most important. They were the high-explosive air-bursting projectiles. The red were armor-piercing. The orange were door busters.

  He’d saved the weapon for the right moment and chose never to deploy it on his own property. Battle feared an errant shot, especially the air-bursting rounds, could damage or destroy his house, barn, or garage. It wasn’t worth the risk. Now, on the road with unforeseen challenges and obstacles in their way, he believed it was worth it despite the added weight to his horse.

  The last item on his list was a slingshot. It wasn’t a normal slingshot. It was tactical and could fire ball bearings capable of inflicting maiming or deadly penetration. The steel shots could travel up to five hundred fifty feet per second, a velocity much slower than a firearm. But the slingshot was silent. It was an outstanding close-range weapon for a sneak attack.

  He laid out the supplies in three separate piles on the long worktable in front of the weapon cabinet. Pico returned and dropped a backpack on the table.

  “I’m loading them up with the same stuff,” said Pico. “We each have our own share. That way if one of us goes down, the other two are good.”

  “Perfect,” said Battle.

  Lola limped through the barn doors, carrying a basket full of radishes and green onions she’d pulled from the garden.

  “I figure it can’t hurt to take some fresh food,” she explained, plopping the basket on the floor next to Battle.

  “Go ahead and ration it into plastic bags,” Battle instructed. “Give everybody the same amount. Horses are ready?”

  “They’re ready. So we’re good to go?” Lola asked. “We need to go.”

  “I’m good,” said Pico.

  “Almost,” said Battle, raising his hand. “You two get loaded up. I’ll meet you at the horses. I’ve got one more thing I gotta do.”

  ***

  Battle walked past the charred remains of his house. His eyes were drawn to the lingering hot spots, where flames continued to gnaw away at his home. It wasn’t really his home anymore; it was a burned heap of nothing now and not recognizable as the place where his family had lived and died. He took a wide berth around the char and walked straight for the gravestones at the rear of the interior acreage.

  Though the pain in his side was acute, he did his best to ignore it as he knelt in front of the limestone markers. He leaned over and wiped them clean of the soot and ash covering the etched lettering. The acrid smoke still hung in the air, and he could taste it in the back of his throat.

  “I’m leaving,” he said, his eyes drifting between the markers. “I can’t stay. The house is gone. Lola needs my help.”

  He rubbed his chin and ran his hand through is hair. Neither his wife nor his son responded.

  “I’m not only doing this for her,” he assured them. “It’s not just about her kid.”

  The air was colder than it had been earlier in the day. He felt it in his fingers as he clasped them in prayer.

  “I’m doing this for us,” he promised. “These people, the ones who came here and invad
ed our home, it wasn’t their choice. They were sent here. Somebody gave them orders. I’m going to find who it is. I’m going to tell him who I am. I’m going to tell them who you were. I’m going to kill him.”

  “Revenge isn’t the answer,” Sylvia said, breaking her silence. “It won’t bring us back. It won’t rebuild the house. That’s not who you are, Marcus.”

  “I need to do this,” he said. “I can’t let this go without punishment. I can’t leave you here, leave our home without a real purpose.”

  “Saving that boy is your purpose,” Sylvia said, her soft voice filling his head. “That’s all it needs to be.”

  Battle balled his fists and worked to control the rage he felt building in his core. All he’d wanted after Syria was to leave the violence behind. He wanted a simple, private life with his wife and child. He’d prayed to God for it and built it with hard work and faith.

  The Scourge and the Cartel had stolen it from him. They’d returned him to the bloody existence he’d lived for so long. He’d fallen into the very world he’d spent years trying to avoid.

  “Romans 12:17,” Sylvia said. “‘Repay no one evil for evil, but give thought to do what is honorable in the sight of all.’ First Peter 2:23, ‘When he was reviled, he did not revile in return; when he suffered, he did not threaten, but continued entrusting himself to him who judges justly.’ Matthew 5:7, ‘Blessed are—’”

  “I get it,” Battle said. “I get it.” He hung his head, knowing his wife was right. But he didn’t want to hear it.

  “God understands,” he said to her. “He has a sense of justice. He knows good and evil. He knows I am good. He knows I will do His will by extinguishing the evil.”