by Tom Abrahams
“Whatcha gonna do, Boss Marcus?” Hedgepath sneered. He rapped his fingers on the table, tapping out a rhythm. “Whatcha gonna do?”
Battle slid two chips into the pile. Hedgepath matched him.
“Here’s the river,” said Hedgepath. “Let it flow, Boss Marcus.” He flipped the final card into the center of the table. It was a jack of clubs.
Battle checked his cards again. He looked at the pot. He looked at Hedgepath. “I’m all in.” He slid his remaining chips into the center.
“Oooh.” Hedgepath sat forward in his chair. “A player. Nice.” The kid had a ridiculous amount of confidence for a grunt, especially since Battle was selling himself as a boss.
That was his tell.
Battle concluded that somehow Hedgepath knew Boss Marcus wasn’t who he claimed to be. It was that conclusion that forced Battle’s hand. Despite holding a king high straight, he figured the cheater’s hand was better. His only option was to go all in and lose McDunnough to the pot. That would give him a chance to get it back into his hand.
Battle looked over his shoulder. The wiry grunt was leaning against a railing that separated the arena floor from the stadium seating. He was chewing on his fingernails and not really paying attention to the game.
“I’ll match you,” said Hedgepath, sliding more chips across the table. “Should we do this?”
Battle quickly checked the other grunts. They were preoccupied with the game. None of them was on alert; none of them suspected anything. One of them yawned, revealing his lack of teeth. “Sure,” Battle said, his eyes returning to the cheater. “You first.”
Hedgepath narrowed his eyes and looked at the cards, the handgun, and the other grunts. He shrugged. “Cool,” he said and flipped his cards. He revealed a pair of jacks.
“Full house,” said Battle. “You got me.” Battle flipped his cards. “I had a straight.”
A smile wormed its way across Hedgepath’s stubbled cheeks. He reached for the pot and drew the chips to his side of the table. “I’m gonna need that Glock,” he said. His right hand moved to his hip, disappearing under the table.
Battle tensed in his seat, his quick twitch muscles ready to fire. He slid one foot back and planted it in the dirt floor. “Sure thing,” he said. “But it’s not a Glock. It’s a Sig Sauer. See?”
Before any of the grunts could react, Battle pulled McDunnough into his hand and, with it still lying on its side on the table, pulled the trigger twice.
A pair of slugs ripped into Hedgepath just beneath his sternum. His body pulsed and jerked, his eyes popped wide with shock, and he fell to the side. By the time he’d slumped and the blood leaked through his gray T-shirt, Battle was on his feet, taking target practice. The shots echoed one after the other in the cavernous arena.
One of the grunts fumbled at his hip as a hollow-point round drilled into his throat and settled there. He abandoned the holster in favor of grasping at the hole in his neck, blood spurting through his fingers with each fading carotid pulse.
Battle popped another pair of shots between the eyes of the second grunt. His hand was so steady, both of the shots traveled through the same hole in the man’s skull. His jaw dropped and his head slapped onto the table before his body hit the floor.
The fourth grunt had his hands raised. He was shaking his head, pleading unintelligibly when a single shot exploded through his chest. He grabbed at the wound and stood, stumbling and tripping face first into the floor. He grabbed at the dirt, trying to claw his way to safety. Battle stopped him with a final shot to the back of his head. No sense in making him suffer.
All four card-playing grunts were dead within three seconds. Battle spun to check the wiry grunt as a shot zipped past his head. He dropped to a knee, turned, and leveled the Sig at the spot where he’d last seen him. The grunt wasn’t there; he was halfway up the stadium. The grunt fired another errant shot before lowering his revolver and running farther up the stairs. He lost his balance, tripping over his own feet as he scrambled toward the concourse. His Browning was still leaning against the railing.
Battle leapt to his feet and jumped over the railing into the first row of seats. He bounded over another set of seats until he found his footing in the aisle. The wiry grunt reached the top of the arena. The kid aimed, but pulled back the pistol and disappeared around the corner.
Battle sprinted up the steps, his lungs protesting. They weren’t at full strength after inhaling too much smoke in his burning home just hours earlier. He made it to the concourse seconds after the grunt, sliding into the wide-open hallway on both feet in time to hear a loud crash and a woman’s shriek.
He turned left to the concession stand and saw the door open, the wiry grunt’s legs on the floor and extending into the hallway. Battle could only see the bottom half of his body, a pool of dark red fluid leaching across the floor.
Battle gathered his momentum and ran to the doorway. “Lola! Pico!”
He reached the opening and saw Pico leaning over the popcorn machine, which covered the wiry grunt’s head and torso. Pico looked up as if he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, as if killing the grunt wasn’t the right thing to do.
Battle caught his breath and stood over the body in the doorway. “You okay?”
Pico stood and nodded. “We heard the gunshots. We didn’t know what was happening.”
“We grabbed the popcorn machine,” said Lola, appearing from the darkness of the room. She had her hands over her mouth. “When he opened the door, we heaved it onto him. It knocked him over into the door and then fell on his head.”
“We didn’t think we’d kill him,” said Pico. “We didn’t even know who it was. We were trying—”
Battle put his hand on Pico’s shoulder. “You don’t owe me an apology. You did what you had to do.”
Pico shook his head. He was pale. “Yeah, but—”
Lola gagged. “His head popped. We didn’t—” She retched again and turned around to vomit.
Battle looked down again and, for the first time, saw the damage. There was a disgusting mix of hair, skin, bone shards, and brain matter on the floor. He grabbed Pico’s shoulder and yanked him clear of the body. He offered his hand to Lola and waved for her to take hold. He helped her step over the wiry, headless grunt and into the concourse and noticed that some of the grunt was on her clothing. He couldn’t understand the physics of it as he looked at the mess. It didn’t seem possible they could have crushed his skull with the machine or that he would have fallen face down like that. But there it was. Everywhere.
Lola bent over at her waist and put her hands on her knees. Her back was heaving, her breath hitching.
“You’re hyperventilating,” Pico said. He too was splashed with gray matter. “Slow down your breathing.”
Lola shook her head, working to catch her breath.
“It could have been you,” Pico said, wiping sweat and blood from his brow. “I think that’s what has her spooked. We didn’t know if it was you until you called out to us. For a split second we thought we killed you.”
“You didn’t, though,” Battle said. “I’m good. We’re good. The others are dead.”
“Now what?”
“Yeah,” Lola said in between gulps of air. “Now what?”
Battle adjusted his Stetson and gestured with McDunnough toward the arena. “We steal a truck and get your son.”
Canyon
A Post-Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure
The Traveler Series Book Two
Tom Abrahams
For Courtney, Samantha, & Luke;
My bright, shining lights
“Those to whom evil is done do evil in return.”
—W.H. Auden, Poet
CHAPTER 1
JANUARY 3, 2020, 2:31 PM
SCOURGE -12 YEARS, 9 MONTHS
ALEPPO, SYRIA
The IED ruptured without warning, blasting pieces of pipe, shards of glass, ball bearings, red fur, and carpenter screws into three of the six
soldiers on patrol near Abdul Wahhab Agha Hospital on the city’s western edge.
The concussion blew Captain Marcus Battle from his feet, slapping the back of his helmet on the cratered pavement of Assultan Suliaman Alqunoony Avenue. He was dazed, a sharp ringing in his ears overpowering his thoughts.
For an instant, as he stared into the cloudless pale blue sky, he thought he was in Killeen, lying in the grass with Sylvia. Almost as quickly as the delusion formed, it evaporated. The muted sounds of shrieks and pained screams accompanied the high-pitched tone of the ringing.
He rolled over onto his side, facing the spot where the tattered Elmo doll had exploded. Two of his comrades were on their feet, tending to what was left of the other three. Then he saw one of them spasm. He shuddered, his head snapped backward, and he went limp in a spray of red.
The second soldier dropped to his chest, quickly engaging his HK416 rifle, thumping random targets as he searched for the source of the gunfire and took two shots in his left leg.
Battle, still dazed, rolled over and found his HK416 on the ground next to him. He dragged it into position, pulled himself to one knee, and started firing.
He couldn’t hear and could barely focus, he didn’t know who was dead or alive, but he stood and started moving toward the gunfire. Bullets whizzed past his head and ricocheted off the ground around him. He took one in the side that slugged his Kevlar. It knocked him back for a second and felt like a thick punch to his gut. Battle kept moving forward, fully exposed, until he emptied the thirty-round magazine and found some protection behind the overturned charred frame of a pickup truck.
“Battle!” the wounded soldier called during a momentary lapse in gunfire. He’d managed to find adequate protection behind a concrete road barrier, having dragged himself there with one good leg. “I’m pinned. The others are gone. Get out of here. Try to find us help.”
Battle couldn’t hear him. The dog whistle piercing his ears hadn’t subsided. At least his vision was clearing. He exchanged magazines and looked through the holes in the truck’s frame. Behind him was a three-story building. Most of the windows were shattered or cracked, but he couldn’t tell from which spot the sniper was taking shots. Battle looked back toward his patrol partner. It was only a matter of minutes and he’d be dead. He couldn’t leave him.
Battle, his back pressed against the underside of the truck frame, said a prayer and spun around free of the truck. He aimed up at the building and pulled the trigger, releasing a quick burst for cover. He dashed across a short field of debris to the building’s entrance and bolted through. He found himself inside a narrow concrete stairwell that stank of urine.
Battle bounced up the first flight of stairs, and feeling the vibration of gunfire against the stair rail, he knew it was coming from a higher floor. He pressed his eyes closed against a searing headache and clenched his jaw as he climbed the second flight of steps. He stood still and felt the vibrations of the gunfire, unable to distinguish from which direction they were coming.
He was about to move to the third floor when, through the ringing, he heard a garbled, guttural-sounding discussion between two men. They were on the second floor. No doubt.
Battle stood to the left of the door, his back against the wall, and with his left hand pulled on the handle to swing the door wide open. He guessed he had maybe twenty-five rounds left in the magazine. He took a deep breath, spun the handle, and moved into the open doorway with his HK416 leveled at whatever waited on the other side.
Nobody was there. It was an empty hallway. It was dark, except at the far left end. From the corner of his eyes, he saw movement in that light. An open door led to the two men unleashing the barrage onto his fellow soldier.
The men were preoccupied with reloading what looked to Battle like a Kalashnikov AK-103-4. One of them was pacing back and forth with a pair of binoculars. He was pointing wildly and yelling at the other man, who was manually loading a new clip. That explained the long pauses between volleys. Behind them was a window devoid of glass and an armoire pressed up against it they were using for cover.
This was his chance.
Battle took another deep breath and took off in a full sprint. As he bounded along the hallway, yelling at the top of his lungs, he tapped the trigger.
Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!
The spotter turned to face Battle as the bullets slapped into his chest. He dropped the binoculars and stumbled backward. Battle pressed the trigger again as he reached the open doorway.
Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!
The second volley found the man’s neck, throwing him against the corner of the room in a violent heap. Battle burst into the room, shifted his momentum, and slid toward the dead spotter. To his right, the shooter was still on one knee, trying to engage the magazine. He was too late. Battle held down the trigger.
Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!
The bullets tore through the shooter, rattling his body as they knocked him onto his back. Battle lowered his weapon, aiming it directly at the shooter’s head, and tapped the trigger for good measure.
Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!
Battle checked the rest of the room, which he figured was once a dorm room for the medical school or nearby university. There was a mattress on the floor. A desk was on its side. The bullet-riddled armoire blocked half of the open-air window. On top of it, Battle saw what looked like a crude detonator. He looked to his right. The wall was adorned with Arabic graffiti he couldn’t read and bullet holes he imagined were from return fire.
Battle pinched the bridge of his nose and loosened his helmet’s chin strap. The ringing was subsiding. He could hear yelling from across the street, but he resisted the urge to move to the window. It could subject him to friendly fire.
He fished around the back of his neck for his earpiece and found it, plugging it into his right ear. He pushed the button on his comms. It didn’t work. So he yelled from inside the building, hoping his voice would carry far enough.
“This is Battle! All clear! Threat neutralized!”
“Battle, this is Buck. I’m injured. Need assistance.”
Buck. Rufus Buck. That was who survived. The men liked him. He was a natural leader. He was a fellow Texan, though he wasn’t one of Battle’s favorite people. He didn’t always adhere to the rules of engagement, as they were. He liked to bend them in his favor. Still, he was American, he was a soldier, and he needed help.
“On my way.” Battle cleared the room, found his way back down the stairwell, and maneuvered through smoking debris into the street.
He crossed the crumbling asphalt to its opposite side, for the first time seeing the full impact of the IED Elmo. Bile rose in his throat. He couldn’t distinguish arms from legs or one man from another. Only the names on the ragged, bloodied strips of the digital camouflage uniforms told him who was who.
“You’re it?” Battle asked Sergeant First Class Buck. He was an enlisted man, an E-7 NCO who didn’t always play well with the commissioned officers who he considered fast-trackers.
“Roger that.” Buck was still leaning against the concrete barrier. “I don’t know for how much longer, though.”
Battle stepped to the other side of the barrier and saw the extent of the sergeant’s injuries. He had a tourniquet tied above his knee. Below his knee was a bloody mess. His foot was wonky, turned at an unnatural angle.
“I’m gonna need your help.” The sergeant was pale, his eyes sunken. Battle knew he’d lost a lot of blood. “I’ve called for help. Nobody’s coming. Our comms are busted.”
“I know. Can you walk?”
“What do you think?”
“Had to ask.” Battle scanned the debris field. “I’m guessing the medic’s kit is gone.”
“Good guess.”
Battle put his rifle on the ground and stepped over Buck. “I’m gonna carry you.”
“You’re what?”
“We’ve got no choice. I’m gonna put you on my back and car
ry you back to the checkpoint. Then we can get help.”
“That’s gotta be an hour away.”
“At least.”
“You’re not gonna make it. I’m gonna bleed out.”
“Give me a better option.”
“Go get help. Come back for me.”
“That’ll take too long,” Battle argued. “And clearly, the faction we thought was controlling this part of the city isn’t really in control. You’ll be dead before I get back.”
Buck was pointing behind Battle with a trembling, blood-soaked finger. “What about that?”
Battle turned around and saw a small wheelbarrow. It was on its side, its load of rice spilled onto the ground. He ran over and uprighted it, tested the wobbly, loose wheel, and rolled it back to Buck.
“Hang on a second,” Battle said, moving toward the remains of their fellow soldiers. For all of them, he tugged the dog tags from their necks. He carefully placed one from each set in the mouth of its corresponding soldier. He stuffed the duplicates into his pockets.
“Let’s give it a go,” Battle said, having completed the morbid but necessary task. He helped Buck into the tray, his injured leg dangling off the side.
Buck unstrapped his helmet and tossed it to the ground. “All right.” He grimaced. “Let’s do this.”
CHAPTER 2
OCTOBER 15, 2037, 4:48 AM
SCOURGE + 5 YEARS
ABILENE, TEXAS
“We’re gonna leave the bodies here?” Lola asked. “Out in the open?”
Battle looked at his handiwork, his hands on his hips. “Yeah. We don’t have time to drag them outside and bury them.”
There were four bodies. All of them were grunts who’d overplayed their hands. In a matter of seconds, Battle had unloaded his 9mm Sig Sauer nicknamed McDunnough. They’d never had a chance. Their low-level existence in the Cartel’s hierarchy came to a sudden, bloody end.