by Tom Abrahams
Battle snickered. “Surprised they’re not hanging you in the town square, then. Seems to be their style.”
Pico frowned. “Not funny.”
“I’m just saying we could survive this,” Battle explained. “Then what?”
“I don’t—”
The door swung open again and the armed grunts tossed in a third gladiator. This one was tall and wiry. His face looked younger than the cynicism in his eyes. His mop of red hair hung over his ears. It was the hair that gave him away.
“Sawyer?” Battle asked as the door slammed shut.
The boy’s eyes tightened. He scowled warily at Battle and then at Pico. He kept his distance, standing where the guards left him.
Battle took a step forward; his voice softened. “You’re Sawyer, right? Your mother is Lola?”
The boy tensed. His hands balled into fists. His feet spread to shoulder width. “Who are you?”
“I’m Marcus Battle,” he said. “You’re Sawyer, right?”
The boy nodded almost imperceptibly. “Yeah. I’m Sawyer. You knew my mom?”
Battle took another careful step toward the boy, trying not to spook him. “A bit. She ended up on my land after the Cartel caught you. She’s been looking for you. We’ve been looking for you.”
Sawyer motioned to Pico. “Who’re you?”
“I’m Salomon Pico,” he said. “I was trying to help too.”
“You look like Cartel.”
“I was,” Pico admitted. “Not anymore.”
The boy took a half step back toward the door. His glassy eyes moved between Battle and Pico. “How did she die?” He lifted his head, apparently bracing himself for the answer.
“I don’t know that she’s dead.”
The boy’s eyes widened; his brow lifted. “She’s alive?”
“I don’t know that either.”
The hope on Sawyer’s face collapsed into confusion. He shook his head and tried speaking with his hands. Nothing came out. Tears forming in the corners of his eyes streamed along his cheeks.
“She was alive this afternoon,” said Pico. “I was with her. We got separated. I don’t know where she is now.”
“So she could be alive?”
“Yes,” said Pico. “She could be.”
Sawyer stepped forward and swept his bangs from his forehead. “We need to find her,” he said. “If she’s still alive, we have to find her.”
Battle stepped closer still and held his hands in front of him, assuring the boy he meant no harm. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Sawyer,” he said, measuring his words carefully, “but we’re not in a position to go looking for your mom right now. We’re prisoners here. We’re about to be thrown to the lions.”
Sawyer’s eyes fidgeted. He flexed his fingers and pushed aside his hair again. “We can’t just sit here, though. There’s gotta be a way…”
Battle indulged him. “A way to what?”
“A way to find out if she’s alive,” Sawyer explained. “If she is, we can figure out a way to save her. You found me, didn’t you?”
Battle chortled. “True, but this isn’t exactly ideal.”
Pico interjected. “You’re not making sense, kid. You’re just—”
Sawyer’s eyes lit with fire. He clenched his jaw. His face grew red. He started toward Pico, and Battle stepped in front of him. He gently put his hands on the boy’s shoulders, noticing how tall the young man was. He was big for thirteen.
“We can try,” Battle said softly. “We will try to find out if she’s alive. If she is, we’ll try to figure out a way to save her. We’ll do exactly what you suggested. Okay? We also need to focus on ourselves. We have to devise a plan of action when they throw us onto the field.”
Sawyer’s glare cooled and his eyes moved from Pico back to Battle. He looked up at Battle and nodded. He rubbed his right shoulder and squinted.
“You hurt?” Battle asked.
“A little. I’ll be all right,” he said. “I fell on it.”
Battle led Sawyer over to a stool and offered him a seat. “Chill,” he said. “It’s going to be a long night.”
***
The door flung open again with a bang. The familiar grunts were manhandling an unfamiliar man. They shoved him in the back and he fell, catching himself with the flats of his palms. He grunted and then collapsed. He was filthy.
Even in the low light, Battle knew the man hadn’t bathed or cleaned himself in days. He could smell it. It was an offensive odor he’d encountered countless times in Syria and Iran and Afghanistan. Both the people in-country and his own men had succumbed to the foul stench after extended engagements.
The man pushed himself to his feet, his head down, and brushed the dirt from his clothing. He was dressed differently than others Battle had seen. He wasn’t wearing the ill-fitting pants of a grunt or the overalls the townsfolk wore. He was wearing loose-fitting cotton pants, like sweatpants but thinner. His shirt was reminiscent of a Mexican guayabera. It was distinctive because of the two vertical rows of closely sewn pleats that ran the length of both sides of the shirt. There were tea-colored stains encircling his armpits. Battle hadn’t seen anyone wearing clothing like that during his brief trek across central Texas.
The man’s head was shaved clean. He was tan, his skin leathery despite what Battle imagined was his relatively young age. He was lanky and the shirt hung wide on his thin build.
“Do you have water?” he asked nobody in particular. “Please.”
Battle shook his head. “No. They haven’t given us any.”
“They want us weak,” the man said. He walked across the room to find his own stool, carrying with him a stench-laden breeze that wafted across the room. He pulled it between his legs and sat, leaning forward and dropping his elbows onto his thighs. His long, bony fingers dangled between his legs.
“Who are you?” Sawyer asked. “Are you Cartel?”
The man shook his head without looking up from the floor. “No,” he said. “I’m not Cartel.”
“Then what are you?” Sawyer pressed.
“I’m Baadal,” he said. “I’m a Dweller.”
Pico stood from his stool so quickly it toppled over, his face ashen. He pointed at the man, his finger trembling. “That can’t be.”
The man glared up at Pico. He licked his dry, cracked lips. “It has to be. That’s what I am.”
Pico paced back and forth, three steps left, three steps right. “There’s no such thing,” he said. “The Dwellers, they’re legend. The Cartel wiped them out.”
Battle raised his hands and waved them. “Wait,” he said. “I don’t understand. What’s going on, Pico?”
Pico shook his finger at the man who called himself Baadal, his eyes large beneath his arched brow. “He says he’s a Dweller. The Dwellers don’t exist. He can’t be—”
“Slow down,” said Battle. “What’s a Dweller?”
“We are a tribe of people who’ve resisted the Cartel,” he said. “We live by our own rules, on our land, without Cartel interference. At least there’s not much interference.”
Battle took a step toward the man to get a better look at him. “And you’re called Dwellers?”
“Yes,” said Baadal. “We live in Palo Duro Canyon near Amarillo. We control the canyon. The Cartel has no influence there.”
“I don’t understand,” said Battle. “I thought the Cartel controlled everything between Louisiana, New Mexico, and Oklahoma.”
“They do,” said Pico. “He’s lying. The Cartel controls everything.”
“Why would I lie?” asked Baadal. “I am a prisoner as you are. What might I gain through dishonesty?”
“Exactly,” said Pico, pointing at him. His eyes darted between Battle and Baadal. “Exactly. If you’re a Dweller, why are you a prisoner? You said the Cartel can’t touch you.”
“I am a scout,” Baadal said. He sat up and pulled his shoulders back. He raised his chin. “My job is to warn the elders of any Cartel incursion. I was captured and brou
ght here. I would not talk. I am now with you, destined to die in the Jones.”
“I’m totally confused,” said Battle. “One, I don’t get why you’re freaked out, Pico. And two, how is it that the Cartel hasn’t taken the canyon? Who exactly are the Dwellers?”
“The Dwellers don’t exist,” said Pico. “If they did, that would mean there’s a way out. If there’s a way out, that means I’ve been wasting my life. It’s legend.”
“A way out? Wait. What?” Battle squeezed his eyes shut with frustration. “You’re talking in riddles.”
“It is true,” said Baadal. “We exist. We live in the canyon. We have fought back the Cartel. We know of ways to leave, a path north of the wall that separates the Cartel from everyone else.”
“I’m completely lost,” said Sawyer. “Can somebody start from the beginning?”
“Good idea,” said Battle.
“In the early days after the Scourge,” said Baadal, “the government collapsed. The national guard was deployed. The federal government used active-duty soldiers from military bases to try to restore order. It didn’t work. Too many of their resources were dead or dying from disease. Criminal organizations, corrupt politicians, crooked businesses, they joined forces to seize the opportunity provided by the chaos. They formed the Cartel.”
Baadal looked at Pico. “Am I correct so far?”
Pico nodded.
“At the same time,” Baadal continued, “there were good people who refused to join the Cartel or become subservient to their dictates.”
“How many people?” Battle asked.
“Several thousand,” said Baadal. “Of course, we weren’t as strong in number as the Cartel, but we were smart. We quickly mobilized and found a singular location to consolidate our strengths. Our leader, Paagal, chose Palo Duro Canyon. It provided us with a natural advantage. There is water at its floor and the terrain is difficult to navigate for those unfamiliar with it.”
“Living in a canyon is not a tactical advantage,” said Battle. “Why not the high ground? The Fort Davis Mountains maybe?”
“The canyon is intimidating,” said Baadal. “It is large. Our patrols need only protect the western edge. Over the last five years, we have made it a fortress. Again, it allows for a tight consolidation of people and resources.”
“And the Cartel hasn’t tried to attack you?” Battle asked.
“Of course they have,” said Baadal. “But our scouts have always given plenty of warning. Our defenses are strong. Each time they would attempt to destroy us, we would decimate their posses. Two years ago, after we killed one of their four generals, we reached a truce. They let us live in the canyon. We promised not to help non-Dwellers escape Cartel-controlled territory.”
“If there’s a truce,” Pico sniped, “why are you a scout? Why are you here?”
“We don’t trust the Cartel,” said Baadal. “That is why we patrol beyond our land and scout their advances. We know, if captured, we are subject to the Jones. It’s a risk we take willingly to protect our fellow Dwellers.”
“So why does Pico think you’re legend?” asked Battle. “Why doesn’t he believe you?”
“Because the Cartel has told its people we don’t exist.” Baadal shrugged. “If people believed they could live in relative peace without the daily fear of the Cartel’s indiscriminate evildoings, it could incite an uprising.”
Pico rubbed his mustache, his eyes narrowed with doubt.
“Pico doesn’t want to believe we exist because it undermines what he’s been taught, Baadal said. “It validates his inability to have acted against the totalitarian state. It’s an admission of gullibility and weakness. Those are the traits upon which the Cartel feeds. It’s how it has devoured what was once a proud state.”
“I’m not weak,” snapped Pico. “I’m not gullible.”
Baadal looked at Pico without responding, then turned to Battle. “We choose to let the Cartel spread the lies about us because it only helps insulate us. If we are legend, nobody tries to find us or seek our help in escaping. It makes it easier for us to hold up our end of the bargain.”
“You keep talking about escaping, about finding a way out,” said Battle. “What do you mean?”
“There is a wall that surrounds Cartel territory,” said Baadal. “The United States, or what is left of it, built an enormous wall that stretches roughly around what used to be the perimeter of Texas.”
“A wall?” asked Battle. “On all but the southern border of Texas?”
“Yes,” said Baadal. “It is an incredible sight. It rivals the Great Wall of China. It provided those living outside Texas with jobs and rations at a time when there was little of either. It took two years.”
“And the Cartel let them build it?” Sawyer asked.
“Of course,” answered Baadal. “It kept the United States out as much as it kept the Cartel in. It provided a real barrier, a finite and physical depiction of their influence.”
“But you helped people escape?” Battle asked.
“For a while,” said Baadal. “But again, the treaty prevents it. The Cartel has sentries on the wall. If we’re caught helping someone to the other side, it could reignite the war between us. Nobody wants that.”
Battle asked Pico, “You’re still not buying this?”
Pico took a deep breath and plopped onto the stool behind him. His reticence was more than enough answer for Battle. He wouldn’t press.
“So you know how the Jones works, then?” Battle asked Baadal.
“Yes.”
“And you’ll tell us?”
“Yes.”
“And if we survive, you’ll take us to the canyon, to the other Dwellers?”
Baadal’s eyes passed from Battle, to Pico, to Sawyer, and back to Battle. “Yes.”
CHAPTER 28
JANUARY 3, 2020, 8:16 PM
SCOURGE -12 YEARS, 9 MONTHS
ALEPPO, SYRIA
Battle retraced his steps in his mind. He replayed the crawl under the fence, heaving Buck onto his shoulders as a last resort, and working his way south and east, closer to the middle of the three bridges.
He rewound his movements to the spot where he was pinned by crossfire. He remembered killing the silhouette, hearing the grieving woman, and retrieving the Type 56 Chinese rifle he now held in his left hand.
Crawl. Shoulders. Pinned. Silhouette. Woman. Weapon.
He looked to his left again. He squeezed his eyes shut.
Pinned. Woman. Weapon.
Battle counted one more time as he took shallow breaths to regulate his elevated heartbeat. He knew where he was. He thought he did. He was maybe one block north and one block west of the bridge. A quick zigzag and he’d be at the western edge of the canal. From there he’d be able to see the checkpoint.
He stepped from the edge of the building and rounded the corner to his left. His head down, he turned to head east and didn’t see the woman walking toward him until she was a yard from him. Battle looked up before he ran into her. In the dim, flickering yellow light of a dying streetlamp, he could see her eyes peering at him from behind her black hijab. She was with two children: a boy holding her right hand, a girl holding her left. The three of them froze mid-stride, as did Battle.
They stared at each other without saying anything. She could call out at any second. Help would come. It would rain lead. He’d be done.
She glanced at the gun. Her son couldn’t take his eyes from it. The girl kept tugging on her mother’s arm as if she had something important to say.
Battle knew enough about Islam and Sharia law to understand the delicacy of her situation. It wasn’t outright illegal, but it was certainly questionable for a woman to be alone, outside, at night without her husband. Even with two children at her side, she could face serious consequences if the wrong jihadis came to her defense.
Their eyes collectively transfixed, Battle greeted her in Arabic with a customary Islamic greeting, “As-Salaam Alaykum.” Peace be unto you.
Battle tried to smile and he repeated himself but looked at the boy. “As-Salaam Alaykum,” he said and grunted from another seizure in his lower back. He tried again to shift his weight from the nerve pain in his right leg.
The woman bowed her head and replied, “Wa-Alaykum.” She looked up again and her eyes shifted from Battle’s to over his left shoulder and grew wide with panic.
“Afifah,” a man’s voice called from behind Battle. It was gruff and insistent, demanding she come to him. “Afifah, tueal ’iilaa huna.”
The woman bowed her head again and pulled her children past Battle, scurrying toward the voice. Battle’s muscles tensed. He squeezed his eyes shut and stood as motionless as he could with Buck draped over his shoulders.
“You are American?” the man asked. “You are American Army?”
“Yes,” Battle said, turning only slightly to address the man.
“What happen your friend soldier?” The voice was louder and accompanied by deliberate footsteps. The man said something to the woman, Afifah, and she responded. Battle couldn’t understand the exchange. “What happen?” the man repeated.
“He’s badly hurt,” said Battle. “He was shot in his leg. He’s lost a lot of blood.”
The man stepped to face Battle. He was average height and build. His wiry, short black hair was gray at the temples. His face was peppered with at least a couple of days’ worth of stubble. He was wearing jeans and a dark-colored shirt, its collar curled at the ends.
He had a pistol in his hands. Battle guessed it was a GSh-18. It looked Russian and was a pretty common find on Syrian civilians. It could hold nine shots. Battle concluded, without thought, that one was enough given the current circumstances.
The man stood directly in front of Battle and waved the handgun as he spoke. “You talk my daughter?”
Battle stopped himself from reflexively turning around to look at the woman. “Yes. I wished her peace.”