by Tom Abrahams
“Computer, open email.”
The computer’s home screen gave way to an email program. Though Internet access in the Cartel’s territory was limited and slow, it worked. For most, the filters prevented most communication beyond what the generals approved. The captains, however, had unfettered access.
“New email message,” said Skinner. “Address to generals. Subject is…” Skinner paused. He didn’t know what to call the message. He didn’t really want to send it.
“Subject is Wild West,” he decided. The computer entered the email addresses for the generals, filled in the subject line, and presented a flashing cursor at the top line of a blank message.
Skinner sucked the cigarette. He pinched it between his fingers and pulled it from his lips. “Generals,” he began, “I’ve got a problem here in the Wild West. Long and short of it is a runaway thief wandered into some land we hadn’t secured. We chased her there but didn’t get her. The owner of that land killed some of our men and helped the thief.”
Skinner looked at what he’d dictated so far. He didn’t like it, and changed course.
“Computer, open live chat,” he said. “Call generals.”
The email program closed on the screen and a new application opened. Four windows appeared on the display. In the lower right, Skinner saw a delayed, choppy mirror image of himself, smoke trailing upward from the cigarette dangling from his lips.
The other boxes flashed the word “connecting” while the computer dialed the extensions for three generals. The first to answer was in Houston. His image appeared in the upper right box.
“Skinner?” he asked, rubbing his hands over his bald head. “What do you want?”
Another general answered the call from Dallas. His digitally distorted face filled the box in the upper left corner. “Skinner? Why are you waking me up?”
“I got a problem I need fixed,” Skinner said to the two of them. The box in the lower right was still dialing. The general on the other end wasn’t answering.
“You can’t fix it yourself?” asked the bald general. “This isn’t about the problems we keep having up near Amarillo, is it? Those people up there give me fits.”
“No,” Skinner said. “No problems in Amarillo. No problems with Palo Duro Canyon.”
“That’s a first,” chimed the second general. The resolution on his call was improving, revealing the general’s leathery face and neck. He was shirtless. “What’s the problem?”
Skinner took another drag and then thumped the ashes into a tray next to the monitor. “I’ll try to make a long story short.”
“You do that,” offered the bald general. “Otherwise I’m likely to hang up and go back to sleep.”
“We had a couple of thieves, a woman and her boy, working for us here in Abilene,” Skinner explained. “They ran away. We caught the boy. The woman found her way to some land we hadn’t cleared.”
“We know about the boy,” said the bald general. “General Roof told us about your plan to send him to Lubbock. We didn’t know about the woman. She’s still missing?”
“Yes,” said Skinner. “She is. I’m calling you because—”
“Stop there.” The leathery general stroked his unshaven chin. “Why was there uncleared land? Didn’t your bosses clear everything months ago? I thought I remembered you telling us that.”
“Yeah,” added the bald general. “He told us that. Skinner, you told us you’d acquired all of the outstanding land in your triangle.”
“I thought we had,” Skinner said. He pushed the cigarette into the ashtray and put it out. “There was this one plot, maybe forty or fifty acres near Rising Star that we ain’t got.”
The leathery general scratched his head. “So what’s the problem? Go get the land and get the woman.”
“That’s the thing.” Skinner looked at his reflection. He pulled his shoulders back and lifted his chin. “We done gone there. We sent a posse to get the woman and kill the man who owns the land. He killed ’em.”
“So send more men,” said the bald general, scratching his scalp.
“We did.”
The leathery general picked his front teeth, digging at the space between the center two. “And?”
“He killed them,” said Skinner. “Well, I think he killed ’em. So I personally sent one of my bosses to clean it up. He took a half dozen or so men. They been gone a day now. I ain’t heard from them. I’m thinking he got them too.”
The bald general leaned in, staring into his camera. “One man?”
Skinner nodded.
“Is that an answer, Skinner?” the bald general asked. “My signal’s choppy. Did you give me an answer?”
The leathery general chuckled. “He gave you an answer.”
The bald general tapped on his screen. “Who is this one man?”
Skinner cleared his throat. “We call him Mad Max.”
“Mad Max.”
“From the movie.”
“I know what it’s from.” The bald general raised his voice. “It’s stupid. You’re stupid. You’ve wasted who knows how many men on some woman thief. Then you call us at the butt crack of dawn to ask us how to handle it.”
“I’m not asking for advice.” Skinner stuck out his chin, his eyes unblinking. “I don’t need your advice. I’m giving you a heads-up about what’s going on.”
The bald general grimaced. “Sounds to me like you need advice,” he grunted. “You can’t kill one man? I’m disappointed in you, Skinner.”
“I can’t say I’m too impressed neither,” added the leathery general with a digitized shake of his head. “You best clean up this mess right quick. And you better make an example out of this Mad Max.”
“Understood. I’ll let you know as soon as it’s done.” Skinner glanced at the empty box on the screen. “You’ll fill in General Roof?”
“We’ll tell him what an incompetent you’ve become, if that’s what you’re asking,” replied the bald general before he punched out of the call.
“He’s on his way to Lubbock already,” said the leathery general. “He said you already made the arrangements.”
“Yes,” said Skinner. “He had to go there anyhow, I’m told, to check on inventory. I figured we could send a message by having the boy there and letting everyone know—”
The leathery general frowned and ended his call without saying anything further.
“Computer, off,” Skinner said. He pulled on a pair of jeans, his boots, and a long-sleeved T-shirt. He slid his hat, cigarettes, and lighter from the bedside table and walked toward his kitchen. The pale pink light of predawn hadn’t yet begun to peek through the windows. It was still dark. Skinner knew this was going to be a long day. He needed some coffee and another cigarette.
CHAPTER 5
JANUARY 3, 2020, 4:27 PM
SCOURGE -12 YEARS, 9 MONTHS
ALEPPO, SYRIA
It was dark, which Battle tried to sell to Buck as a mixed blessing. True, it was harder to see their enemies. It also was harder for their enemies to see them.
The intermittent pop and rattle of gunfire was steadier now. Battle could see the flashes in the distance as the percussion bounced off the densely packed buildings.
“We’re screwed,” Buck said. He was slurring his words. His eyes were barely open. “I’m screwed. It’s like I can feel the life oozing from my body.”
“That’s the drugs,” said Battle. “You’ll be fine.”
“If I survive this,” Buck said, “I’m getting out. I’m done fighting other people’s wars. I’ll fight my own.”
Battle checked his GPS, hoping he’d find a new, alternative route he hadn’t discovered the previous fifteen times he’d checked. “Your own war? What does that even mean?”
“I know people. They know people. I’m getting mine when I get back. That’s all I’m saying.”
“You’re not making any sense,” Battle said. “Shut up and let me focus on how to get us out of here.”
The
two were tucked in a narrow alley near Ofra Avenue. Despite having the GPS, Battle took them too far north. Now they were faced with having to dart across an exposed train yard to head straight east to the checkpoint.
In the alley, it was dark. They were hidden. Once they left the security of the high-walled alley, they’d be bathed in the orange glow of the train yard lights. They’d be a target for anyone perched on either side of the tracks.
“You know what the markup is for Mexican meth?” Buck asked. “And black tar heroin? It’s ridiculous. So cheap. I’m taking my check from Uncle Sam and I’m buying a bar.” Buck sounded delirious. “I’m buying a bar. Everything’s cash in a bar. So easy to wash money in a bar.”
“Dude.” Battle held his finger up to his mouth. “Be quiet. I don’t want to hear this.”
“I’m gonna be the rich dude, Battle,” he said. “Right now we’re fighting other people’s wars. When we’re the rich dudes, we have people fighting our wars. That’s how the world works. Old rich men send young poor men to fight. It’s always been that way. Now we’re here. They’re in bed with their young, hot wives drinking caviar and eating champagne.”
“All right.” Battle took Buck’s collar and yanked him forward. “Shut up. We can talk about this later. We need to get out of here.”
Buck chuckled and mocked Battle, holding a finger up to his own lips. Battle let go a huff. “Whatever, man.”
He looked back at the GPS. There were no options. He couldn’t wait until daylight. Buck would be dead by then. It might already be too late for him, but Battle wasn’t going to give up. They had to cut across the train tracks. That was their only option.
He helped Buck to his feet, slung him over his back, and inched from the alley. If he took incoming fire, the best he could do was run. He’d crossed Ofra and run along Kinda Street, which ran east until it ended at the train yard. Battle stopped at the dead end, which, thankfully, was out of reach of the orange lights perched high above the tracks. There was a high chain-link fence separating them from the yard.
Battle set Buck and his rifle on the ground, pulled the sweat rag from around his neck, and wrapped it around a link closest to the ground near a metal post. Resting on his kneepads, he pulled a set of wire cutters from one of his vest pockets and cranked it onto the cloth-covered link. He felt a snap and removed the cloth, working the half-cut link back and forth. A few pulls and tugs and it snapped. He methodically repeated the process five more times.
“What’s with the rag?” Buck asked.
“It keeps the noise down,” Battle answered. “We don’t know where the enemy is.”
Buck laughed, his eyes wide. “They’re everywhere.”
Battle worked the fence from the ground up and folded back the links to create a gap high enough for the two of them to crawl under. Battle went first, using his elbows and knees to slip under the fence.
“Scoot over here,” he whispered to Buck. “On your stomach. I’m pulling you through.”
To Battle’s surprise, Buck complied and positioned himself at the edge of the fence opening. He reached under the chain link with his hands, stretching for Battle.
“Take this and stuff it in your mouth.”
“No way.”
“Do it. It’s an order.”
Buck took the rag and stuffed it into his mouth, gagging on it as he repositioned himself, extending both hands again.
“Not that way.” Battle sat up and braced his feet on the fence post. He leaned on his side, reached back under the fence, and grabbed Buck’s vest at the shoulders. “This is gonna hurt your leg. Bite down on that rag.”
Buck shook his head in protest as Battle was already tugging, yanking him under the fence. The injured soldier was essentially dead weight, and Battle was already exhausted from carrying him as far as he had. He found something deep inside that helped him propel Buck through the opening. Even as Buck screamed in pain, his voice muffled by the rag, Battle pulled him clear of the chain link.
Once he was through, Battle rolled onto his back. His chest was heaving, his arms and lower back thickened with exhaustion. He took deep breaths in through his nose, trying not to make too much noise.
Buck was whimpering next to him until he reached over and pulled out the rag. Buck cursed at him, at his injuries, at God. “There ain’t enough morphine in the world for what you did to me.”
“Sorry,” Battle said, looking at the clear sky above them. “Had to get you through there.”
Buck lifted his shaky hand and offered Battle a one-fingered salute. He was grunting through clenched teeth.
Battle surveyed the open valley of the tracks. Directly in front of them, there was a steep decline into the valley. There were four sets of tracks, two of which had train cars on them, and a shed on the opposite side. A sharp incline led to the opposite edge and another fence.
Beyond that, it was too dark for Battle to see much of anything. He knew there was a wall of tall buildings behind them. On the far side, there was a cluster of lights, which Battle assumed were buildings. There didn’t appear to be the concentration of threats they faced from behind and from the open tracks. Once they crossed the valley and cut their way through the fence on the opposite side, they’d only be a few hundred yards from the checkpoint and relative safety. Battle wished he’d recovered an XM25 from one of his dead compatriots. It was a tactical mistake. He’d been too consumed with helping Buck and hadn’t thought with enough clarity.
The XM25 was a smart weapon that fired up to twenty-five rounds of laser-guided grenades. If Battle had it, he could aim it into the darkness at a perceived threat and fire with ridiculous accuracy. Even if he missed a target, the grenades would explode in the air at the designated distance. Despite its relatively heavy weight, every patrol that wanted one had one of them as a backstop. Battle cursed himself and calculated what he needed to do to escape with an injured soldier, a sidearm, and an HK416. He came to a difficult conclusion.
Battle reached out and put his hand on Buck’s shoulder. “I think you’re going to have to walk from here.”
Buck coughed out a laugh. “Funny.”
“I’m serious. I can’t carry you and return fire. It would take me too long to get you off my back and then reposition into a defensive posture. Can’t use the fireman’s carry. Can’t do the pack strap. You’ve got to walk.”
“How the hell am I supposed to walk? I barely have the energy to keep breathing.”
“Your heart rate is slow because of the morphine and the Phenergan. You’ve lost blood. You’re not dying.”
“If I weren’t dying,” Buck answered, “you wouldn’t be in such a hurry to get us out of here. You’d be holed up in that alley back there, waiting for daylight.”
Buck was right, of course, though Battle wasn’t going to admit it. “Not true. The longer we stay here, the more vulnerable we are. The daylight isn’t necessarily our friend. We got blown up in daylight, remember?”
Buck sighed. “How are we going to do this?”
“Walk assist. I’ll put your arm around my shoulder and then hold it with my hand. My body will be your crutch. You shouldn’t have to put any weight on your injured leg. I’ll have my other arm around your back. I can hold my rifle. If we take fire, I can let go of you quickly and defend us.”
“I don’t know if—”
“You don’t have a choice. It’s what we’re doing. I want you to take my sidearm. That’ll give us two weapons ready to return fire.”
Buck cursed and gritted his teeth. “Fine. Let’s do this.”
CHAPTER 6
OCTOBER 15, 2037, 5:57 AM
SCOURGE + 5 YEARS
ABILENE, TEXAS
Battle stood in the back of the Humvee, his legs working to keep balance while Pico drove toward the center of town. He had his Prairie Panther rifle at his shoulder. After considering the Browning as an option, he’d thought better of it. The Inspector, as he called 5.56 caliber semiautomatic, was a far superior weapon at lon
g range.
He adjusted his hat when Pico picked up speed out of a turn. The hat, Battle hoped, would give any hostiles pause. They’d think he was a posse boss until they realized he wasn’t. That was more than enough time for Battle to set, aim, and fire.
Pico was rolling dark. The Humvee’s light array was off. They were as stealthy as they could be in a large armored vehicle.
Battle scanned the road ahead of them and swiveled from side to side, sweeping the streets with his eyes and the rifle. They still had about ninety minutes until sunrise. The streets were empty. Most of the houses and buildings were dark.
The air was cold and the wind swept past Battle as the Humvee pressed forward. His ears stung; his nose ran. He ignored both.
The Humvee turned off of Fourth Street and rolled onto Walnut Street. For the first time, he recognized where they were. He remembered the wide street, the old buildings, and the green awning that hung from Bible Hardware.
It wasn’t Bible Hardware anymore, though. It was the Cartel’s Abilene headquarters.
Pico slowed to a stop in front of the awning. Battle looked across the street to a large fenced lot that surrounded the old post office. There was concertina wire wrapped around the top of the fence. He didn’t remember that. He rubbed his chin and looked back at the awning. A lone streetlight strobed above them.
“Battle.” Pico was standing outside the idling Humvee. “We’re here. What next?”
Battle looked down at Pico and handed him his rifle. He pulled a backpack from the supplies littering the vehicle’s open bed and slung it over both shoulders. He climbed from the Humvee and took the rifle back from Pico.
Battle pointed to the post office. “What’s that over there?”
Pico shrugged. “I think they keep a lot of weapons and such inside that building. It was a post office.”
“It was.” Battle took a step toward the middle of the road. “You’re saying it’s an armory now?”
“I think so,” Pico said. “I ain’t never been in there, so I can’t be sure. I heard talk about that, though.”