The Traveler 01-03 Home, Canyon, Wall

by Tom Abrahams

  Her wailing grew louder, and she was waving her hands and crying out in despair before giving up and returning to the apartment. Battle could hear her anguished voice even once she’d disappeared.

  His eyes found the rifle on the street. He looked for signs of others shooters and didn’t see any. Battle tucked the handgun in his waistband, tightened his grip on Buck, and dashed into the street. He quickly squatted and grabbed the rifle. Rather than retrace his steps, he moved directly underneath the balcony on which he killed the silhouetted rifleman. The woman’s shrieks were overhead now.

  He leaned back against the cracked stucco wall and checked the rifle for damage. It was the Type 56 he’d heard earlier. It was fitted with the distinctive slant compensator found on the AK-47. That wasn’t standard to the Type 56. It had an under folding spike bayonet and a chrome-plated bore chamber. He guessed it weighed eight or nine pounds and was easily heavier than his HK416. It had English control markings on it. It was in the F position.

  Battle checked the magazine, which he figured was the midsize box that held thirty rounds. It was half empty.

  He’d seen the weapon demonstrated but had never fired it. He had no concept for how sensitive the automatic trigger might be. Regardless, this was better than the handgun. He suddenly felt better about their chances.

  Battle held the rifle at his side, the muzzle inches from the ground, edging his way along the side of the building, trying to keep himself in the shadows. He reached the nearest intersection and stopped at the corner. He looked to his left, swinging Buck’s body with him, and then looked to his right. He looked back to the left again and a flush of panic washed over him. His pulse quickened. His back tensed again and he shifted his weight to his left leg.

  He closed his eyes and tried to retrace his steps, but all he could think about was that he couldn’t think. He shook his head and focused. Had he passed two east-west intersections or three? Or was it four? It was three. Or four. How far south had he moved? Was he still north of the bridge? He was north of it. No. He’d gone too far. His breathing accelerated.

  In the confusion of the gunfire, despite his efforts to maintain calm, he’d become confused.

  Battle was lost.

  CHAPTER 26

  OCTOBER 15, 2037, 4:20 PM

  SCOURGE + 5 YEARS

  LUBBOCK, TEXAS

  Marcus knew it was a dream. The colors were too bright and his heart too full for it not to be a dream.

  He was with Wesson. They were at the back edge of their property, up early enough to see the sun rise and their breath puff in the morning air before the chill burned off.

  Marcus sipped hot coffee. It was black and strong. He could taste the caffeine and feel it coursing through his veins, energizing him with each careful slurp.

  Sylvia had brewed the pot before they left. She’d also mixed a cup of Swiss Miss for Wesson and poured it into a matching Golden Knights thermos. Wesson insisted they have the same containers, the same hats, the same camouflage bib.

  It was their first hunt together. Wesson was talking incessantly. He was fidgeting, snapping dead branches and crunching leaves in his palms. Marcus had to remind him to keep quiet every couple of minutes.

  “Buddy,” he whispered, wrapping his arm around his son’s narrow shoulders, “we’ve got to be quiet. We don’t want to spook the deer.”

  Wesson nodded like a bobblehead and raised his gloved finger to his lips. He smiled and immediately snapped a dead branch from the sapling next to him.

  Marcus could smell the mesquite, the damp oak, and the dirt when they settled into their blind. He pulled a bolt from the quiver and loaded it into his crossbow. He did the same for Wesson, with a much smaller, lighter weapon, and handed it to him.

  “You remember what I taught you?” he asked, nuzzling beside his son to make sure Wesson was holding the bow correctly.

  The boy nodded and showed his dad the proper form.

  “Now we wait,” said Marcus, his mind knowing full well it was a dream as he sipped the coffee and inhaled the aroma of Arabica mixed with the smoky air of the central Texas woods.

  The two Battles sat there in the blind, enjoying one another’s company, the elder soaking up the sudden maturity of his son, the younger relishing the bonding time with his idol.

  The time came. A young buck appeared behind a fallen oak. It was alone. “Wesson,” Marcus whispered, “you see it?”

  Wesson nodded and drew his bow’s stock to his shoulder. He looked over at his father.

  “The limbs are taut,” Marcus said of the winged bow pieces that held the tension on the bowstrings. “The bolt is in the flight groove. Check your hand on the foregrip.”

  Wesson adjusted his left hand. Battle could see the glisten of sweat on the grip.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” said Marcus.

  The deer was still. Its large eyes were looking straight at them. It turned its head to the left, exposing the length of its body. It was a nice, wide target.

  Wesson kept both eyes open, as his father had instructed, and pulled the trigger.

  Clunk! Thooop!

  The bolt sailed through the air and into the deer. It hit the perfect spot, above and behind the right leg. The bolt drove through the deer’s heart and up into its right lung.

  It shuddered, ran a couple of yards, and collapsed into the bed of leaves coating the ground.

  Marcus watched the kill and turned to congratulate his son. Instead of the beaming smile he expected, Wesson was gasping for air. His son was coughing and convulsing.

  Marcus held his son’s shoulders, trying to steady him. The coughing grew more intense. Wesson was bleeding from his nose and ears.

  “This is your fault,” Sylvia said, appearing from nowhere. She was standing over Marcus’s shoulder as he struggled to calm his son. “You promised we would be safe,” she said. “You promised we would survive.”

  Marcus felt cold. Sweat was beading on his forehead and spilling into his eyes. He laid his son down and unzipped the bib. “It’ll be okay, son,” he told the boy. “It’ll be okay.”

  “It won’t be okay,” said Sylvia. “You can’t make it okay.”

  “Am I going to die?” Wesson asked between wet hacks. “Dad? Am I—”

  Marcus reminded himself it was a dream. He wanted to wake from it. He wanted the dream to end.

  Wake up!

  “All of your preparation,” sneered Sylvia. “All of your promises.”

  Wake up!

  “Dad? Am I going to die?”

  Wake up! Wake up!

  Battle’s eyes popped open. His body twitched. He took a deep, ragged breath. The dream was over. He’d merely traded one nightmare for another.

  He was in a dark room, save the fluorescent light above him that was dim and strobing. It gave the space the feeling of a Halloween haunted house.

  Battle was on a sofa. There was a large desk, a couple of chairs, a bookshelf, and some plaques on the walls. It looked like someone’s office. There weren’t any windows.

  He sat forward on the sofa and rose to his feet. The room started to wobble and he sat down. His head began throbbing, and he remembered what had happened. Somebody clocked him and knocked him unconscious.

  He had no concept of time or place, but he knew he couldn't stay in this room. Slowly, using the sofa’s firm arm, he pushed himself back to his feet and walked to the door. It was the only access to the room.

  The handle, as he expected it would be, was locked. The door was solid metal.

  Battle checked the locking mechanism, but in the dim light he couldn’t see anything. He figured they’d be coming for him soon. He needed to figure out as much about where he was as possible before they showed up.

  Dizzy and light-headed, he walked slowly to the desk. He inched his way around it to the large wooden chair behind it and sat down. He swiveled in the seat and tried each of the drawers on the desk’s face. Only one opened. It was empty.

  The desk was bare. There
was nothing on it but the inlaid cherry pattern running its rectangular perimeter.

  Battle spun in the chair and looked at the bookshelf. There were motivational titles, books about strategy, a New International Version Bible. There was nothing that gave away his location. Then he looked at the plaques on the wall.

  Each of them was an award for achievement. One was from the Associated Press for 2028 Coach of the Year. Another plaque was for the 2025 Big Twelve Conference Coach of the Year. All of the plaques honored the football coach for Texas Tech University.

  Battle nodded his head. He was in Lubbock, likely on the Tech campus. The Cartel brought him here because they knew he was looking for the kid. Maybe that meant the boy was still alive. He reminded himself that Skinner wasn’t allowed to kill him. Someone higher up on the Cartel food chain wanted him alive.

  Battle sat down in the desk chair. His head hurt. He felt the spot where the grunt punched him and hit him with something. There was a large, tender knot behind his ear at the base of his skull.

  He leaned forward on the desk with his elbows and lowered his head into his hands. He couldn’t think straight enough to process what each of the clues meant. And none of them, even if he had been able to decipher them, would tell him if Lola and Pico were still alive.

  He closed his eyes, trying to will away the pain, when the door lock clicked, the handle spun, and the door swung open. Two men walked into the room. Even in the dim, flickering light, he recognized one of them as Cyrus Skinner. He didn’t know the other one, a tall, well-built soldier of a man. He was wearing a black hat and black boots. He carried himself with incredible confidence, despite a noticeable limp.

  A gray ponytail draped across one shoulder. He had a thick white beard that clung to his cheeks but hung low from his chin. He was more than a posse boss or a captain. Battle was smart enough to know that.

  “So you’re Mad Max,” the man said, “the great warrior who happens to be a major pain in my ass.”

  Battle pulled his elbows from the desk. He leaned back in the chair. The man approached the desk and planted his thick fingers on it, leaning forward as he spoke.

  “Mad Max, huh?” The man’s eyes narrowed and he exhaled through his nose. “I hear your real name is Battle. That so?”

  Battle folded his arms across his chest. “Yeah.”

  “Pleased to see you, Battle.” The man extended his right hand. “I’m General Roof. You can call me General.”

  Battle looked at the general’s hand and hesitated, but he thought it better not to aggravate the situation with unwarranted defiance. He took his hand and squeezed it as he shook it.

  “Nice grip,” said General Roof. “That’s a soldier’s handshake.”

  Skinner chuckled. He was standing near the sofa, his hands stuffed into his pockets. General Roof turned to look over his shoulder. His hand was still gripping Battle’s.

  “That’s rude,” he said to Skinner. “Apologize to the man, Captain Skinner.”

  Skinner jerked with surprise. “What?”

  Roof kept his eyes on Skinner and motioned to Battle with his head. “Apologize for your insolence.”

  “My ins—”

  “You were rude,” Roof said. “Apologize to our guest.”

  Skinner looked at the floor and scratched his chin. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and dropped it between his lips.

  Roof smiled. “I’ll apologize for him. That was unnecessary. He’s embarrassed that you made a fool of him. From what I understand you burned his house, blew up his HQ, and killed I don’t know how many men.”

  Battle shot Skinner a look. The smirk was long gone from the captain’s face.

  Roof turned to Skinner. “Don’t light that cigarette in here, Cyrus.”

  Skinner grumbled and mocked Roof like a petulant child when the general turned back to Battle. He licked his lips and stuffed the cigarette back in his pocket.

  “Here’s my problem, Battle,” said Roof, sitting on the edge of the desk. He scratched the scruff on his neck. “As much as I respect you, I can’t have you running roughshod over my land.”

  “This isn’t your land,” said Battle.

  Roof smiled again. “It is until somebody takes it from me,” he said. “The Cartel, my carefully pieced together organization, runs everything, you see. Everything. I mean, we earned it fair and square.”

  “Through muscle and fear,” corrected Battle.

  “Same thing. That’s beside the point. I’d prefer not to digress into the irrelevant facts. You are here on my land. You are creating problems for me. You are, therefore, not welcome.”

  Battle swiveled in the chair. He glanced at Skinner, who’d moved to the sofa and was sulking. As nasty as Skinner was, this general was worse. His intelligence and calm demeanor were far more frightening than the obvious bullying of the captain. He was guessing Roof was former military. He had that sense about him, a familiar cadence and quiet confidence. His eyes had seen things he couldn’t forget. They were etched in his gaze.

  “As much as I’d like to let you walk,” said Roof, “I can’t do that. It sends the wrong message to the troops. Plus my comrades, the other two generals with whom I run this joint, might have a problem with unilateral clemency.”

  Battle leaned into the desk and shrugged his shoulders. “So?”

  “So—” he chuckled “—I’m going to have to make an example of you. People need to know they cannot challenge the status quo and get away with it. Hell, even the United States government knew to fall in line and leave us alone.”

  “You do what you need to do,” said Battle, looking at Skinner as he spoke to Roof. “I’ll deal.”

  Roof slapped the desk. “I know you will,” he said. “We’re going to put you into the Jones. It’s our Roman Colosseum, our Thunderdome, if you will.”

  “Meaning what?”

  Roof stood from the desk. “Meaning we toss you into the stadium with a couple of other haters. Then you die at the hands of some of our better grunts.”

  “What purpose does that serve?”

  “Well,” Roof said, “it’s a very public way to die. It’s fun entertainment for the folks who like us, and it’s a darn clear warning for those who don’t.”

  “Fits.”

  “Fits?”

  “Yeah,” said Battle. “It fits. You’re afraid of losing control. You don’t have as strong a hold on your land as you’d like me to believe. Otherwise, there’d be no need to warn anyone. They’d already know.”

  General Roof nodded. He took a good long look at Battle and then turned to leave. He limped toward the door. “Skinner here will see you get the prep you need,” he said without turning around. “We’ll move you to the locker room for the night. You’ll fight at first light tomorrow.”

  Roof walked out into what Battle assumed was a hallway. He stopped and stuck his head back into the room. “You’re exactly who I thought you were, Battle. You didn’t disappoint.”

  CHAPTER 27

  OCTOBER 15, 2037, 5:00 PM

  SCOURGE + 5 YEARS

  LUBBOCK, TEXAS

  The locker room was dank and ripe with the overwhelming smell of mildew. At least there was a light and slow spinning ceiling fan at one end of the long open space.

  Battle found a wooden stool, dragged it into the light, and sat on it. He leaned it back onto two of its legs and rested his back against the painted cinder-block wall.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes. While he wasn’t anxious to fall asleep, given what he’d encountered the last time he dreamt, there wasn’t anything else to do other than imagine what he would face in the morning.

  Battle never considered himself a warrior or a gladiator. He was simply a smart guy who knew how to take orders and survive. He considered the odds against him and was okay with them.

  If his lot was to die on the artificial turf of a football stadium, so be it. He was ready to join his wife and son in heaven. But there was a nagging thought that p
icked at the peace to which he’d arrived: he’d promised Lola he’d rescue her son.

  If he died tomorrow, he’d have failed her. It would be yet another promise he couldn’t keep. At least he’d tried. There was that.

  Battle had drifted to that odd place between consciousness and sleep when he heard the door to the locker room slam open.

  From his spot in the corner of the room, he could only see shadows in the doorway. There were a pair of grunts on either side of a smaller man. They shoved the man inside. He stumbled and fell onto his knees. The grunts laughed at him and pulled the door shut.

  The man slowly walked into the light. His head was down, but as soon as Battle saw him, he recognized him. The mustache was unmistakable.

  Battle pushed his back from the wall and dropped the stool onto all four legs. “Salomon Pico?”

  Pico looked up. One eye was swollen shut, the puffy flesh around it black and deep purple. His nose looked broken. There was a long gash along the top of it, and dried blood caked the edges of his nostrils.

  Battle stood from the stool, measured his balance, and then moved to Pico’s side. “What did they do?”

  “They caught me outside of Post,” Pico said. “Right after you disappeared. A whole bunch of them. They knew me. They took it out on me.”

  “Where’s Lola?”

  Pico looked up, his open eye searching Battle’s. “I dunno,” he said. “We got separated. She disappeared into a cornfield. I dunno what happened. I gotta guess it ain’t good.”

  Pico’s revelation socked Battle in the gut. He didn’t want to think about what might have happened to her. “So you’re joining me in the Jones?” he asked, trying to redirect the conversation to the least distasteful of all the nasty possibilities.

  “Yeah,” Pico said. “They told me I’m getting a traitor’s death—public and painful.”