The Traveler 01-03 Home, Canyon, Wall

by Tom Abrahams

  “She say that,” said the man. He eyed the rifle, his eyes narrowed, and he looked back to Battle. “That gun. Not American Army.”

  “No,” Battle said. “I found it.”

  The man suppressed a laugh. “Find it? I don’t think so, American Army soldier. I hear shoot. I hear lots of shoot.”

  Battle sighed and flexed his neck and adjusted Buck on his shoulders. The tension sent another jolt of electricity running down his back and through his right leg.

  “I no like these men,” he said. “I like American Army soldier. I help.”

  Battle’s muscles involuntarily relaxed. “Thank you.”

  The man motioned to Buck. “You put down. I help. We go my house.”

  Battle shook his head. “I need to get across the bridge. There’s a checkpoint.”

  The man wagged his finger and pursed his lips. “No. No. Bridge no good. You come my house.” He reached again for Buck.

  Battle dropped to a knee, and the man helped lower Buck from his shoulders. Together the two of them carried Buck. They quickly followed his daughter and the children west, away from the bridge, and to a three-story building on a dark street.

  Battle considered the danger of letting the man help him. He didn’t know him. It could be a trap. He might be leading them to nasty, tortuous deaths. Then again, he could have shot them in the street. He hadn’t.

  This was worth the risk, especially if the bridge was as heavily guarded as the man suggested it was. They reached the battered door to the building, and the woman held it open for her father and Battle to rush Buck inside. The children led them up a narrow set of stairs to a landing on the second floor. They turned down a hallway, sconces lighting their way to its end. The woman rushed past Battle, Buck, and her father to the door, a waft of an organic, earthy, musky scent breezing behind her. She hurriedly jammed a key into the lock and turned it. She shouldered the door open and disappeared inside the apartment, waving the children to join her.

  The man led Buck and Battle through the door into a large, warmly lit open room. He guided Battle through the room, along a short hall, and into a sparsely decorated bedroom. The bed wasn’t much more than a thin mattress and some sheets. A bedside table held a lamp and a dog-eared copy of the Koran.

  The man helped Battle lay Buck on the mattress. Buck was still unconscious and unaffected by the movement of his arms and legs into the bed.

  The daughter appeared in the doorway of the room. She stood silently, her hands on the frame as she leaned against it.

  The man looked at Buck’s wound and his lips curled. He swallowed hard and looked at Battle. “We clean,” he said. Then he poked at Battle’s left arm, eliciting a wince. “We clean too.”

  The man turned to his daughter, pointed at her and motioned for her to leave. She disappeared toward the main living area of the apartment. He was speaking with his hands, searching for words in English. “I tell daughter,” he said, his eyes turned to the ceiling, “I tell her to get medicine. Clean. Yes?”

  Battle nodded. “I’m Captain Battle,” he said, offering his hand to the stranger. “Thank you.”

  The man took Battle’s hands with both of his, shaking them vigorously. “Battle is your name?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Nizar,” he said. “My daughter is Afifah.”

  Nizar braced himself against the side of the bed and lowered himself to his knees. He hooked his fingers inside the edges of the ragged hole in Buck’s pant leg. He pulled the hole wider, ripping the fabric and exposing the wound.

  Battle swallowed the bile rising in his throat when he got a clear look at the damage to Buck’s leg since they’d evacuated the IED blast site. It was varying shades of red and black, except for the torn pinkish meat climbing angrily outward from inside his leg.

  Nizar looked up at Battle, seemingly unfazed by the depth and condition of the filthy wound. “I was doctor,” he said. “Before war.”

  Afifah returned with her arms full. She was carrying a veritable first aid kit of supplies. She sidled up to the bed and dropped the bounty onto the floor next to her father.

  Nizar first took a pair of scissors and cut away Buck’s pant leg at the groin. He also cut free the tourniquet fashioned above Buck’s knee. The wound pooled with blood, and he picked up a clear bottle labeled in Arabic and unscrewed the cap. He held the bottle directly over the leg and then squeezed it, spraying the liquid into and around the wound. The flesh immediately sizzled white, bubbles expanding beyond its edge, draining from Buck’s leg onto the sheets.

  Buck’s eyes popped wide for an instant, and he eked out a semblance of a groan. He tried sitting up.

  Nizar looked at Battle. “Help him.”

  Battle moved to Buck’s head and pressed gently on his shoulder, forcing him to lie flat. Buck mumbled something and a stray tear ran from his eye along his cheek.

  Nizar then took a pair of large tweezers in one hand and a lighter in the other. He flicked the lighter and ran the tweezer through the flame. He blew on the wound to lessen the still-percolating peroxide and picked through the wound with the tweezers.

  His eyes tightened and his jaw set as he pulled out a bullet fragment. He dropped it on the floor and plucked two more pieces from the mess of Buck’s lower leg.

  Battle turned his attention from the surgery and focused on Buck as Nizar poured sugar into the wound. Battle knew from anecdotal battlefield chatter that sugar liquefied when mixed with any fluid, including blood. If poured into a wound, it pulled the moisture from tissue exposed to bacteria, killing or lessening the chance for infection.

  Nizar sprinkled granules around the edges of the injury. “The bone is broken. I cannot fix. I can stop bleeding. It will hurt.”

  He gave instructions to Afifah. A minute later she returned with what looked like a short-handled branding iron. It was glowing red.

  Nizar put his hand on Battle’s shoulder and then hugged himself tightly. “You hold him,” he told Battle. “Hold him.”

  Battle’s eyes danced between the doctor and the red-hot iron. He laid his torso on top of Buck’s to press him into the mattress and turned his head away from Nizar as the doctor pressed the iron onto the wound.

  Battle squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to block the sound of skin sizzling, the smell of it burning. With a delayed nervous response, Buck seized and then jerked against Battle’s body. A guttural moan crescendoed into a curdled scream. Buck was thrashing in the bed, violently resisting the pain.

  Nazir again touched Battle on his shoulder. “Good,” he said.

  Battle, his body still pushing down on Buck’s, turned to see Afifah leaving the room with the iron. Buck’s flailing diminished, and Battle pushed himself to his feet. Buck’s chest was heaving. Sweat pooled on his neck, and his hair was matted flat against his head.

  Nazir tore open a square package with his teeth and pulled out what looked like gauze. He separated it into several sheets and, one by one, stuffed them into the gaping, cauterized hole running across Buck’s shin and calf.

  Once he’d finished packing the wound, Nazir took a wide strip of fabric and wound it around what was left of Buck’s lower leg. He called something to Afifah, who appeared a moment later with a glass of water and some pills.

  “Kill pain,” Nazir said. He cradled Buck’s head and force-fed him the medicine. “He live. Foot no good. He live. Now you.”

  Battle nodded and sat on the edge of the bed, ready to be the patient to his newfound doctor friend. “Why are you helping us?”

  Nazir shrugged as he cut away Battle’s sleeve. “American Army help me. Help my daughter. Help her children.”

  Battle winced and bit the inside of his cheek as the man probed his injury. It was deeper than a graze. “How?”

  “My family like America. Like Army. You help Syria. Some people do not like American Army. They do not like me. They kill my son. Almost kill me and my family. American Army stop them.”

  “Why not leave?” Battle a
sked. “If you’re in danger.”

  Nazir laughed and stopped working on the injury. He held Battle’s arm with the nimble fingers of a surgeon. His smile faded and his stare intensified. He spoke slowly and clearly. “Syria is my home. A man does not leave his home. I…protect…hide…stay quiet. No people take my home from me. If I die, I die here. My home.”

  CHAPTER 29

  OCTOBER 16, 2037, 7:53 AM

  SCOURGE + 5 YEARS

  LUBBOCK, TEXAS

  It was a Friday. The sun was low on the flat horizon surrounding Lubbock, Texas. Jones Stadium’s walls climbed steeply toward the clear pale blue morning. High wisps of clouds floated above an otherwise empty sky.

  The stadium could hold sixty thousand people. There were maybe five thousand cluttered along the lower levels near what would have been the field’s fifty-yard line.

  They were huddled in coats and jackets. Some of them had blankets draped across their shoulders or laps. The collective puffs of breath from the waiting crowd hung in a haze above them.

  The field was covered with remnants of artificial turf. It wasn’t the bright cheerful green that had greeted football players before the Scourge. It was more of a brownish color, stained in large splotches from the blood of those who’d been forced into the arena and lost.

  Battle was standing inside a holding area at one end of the stadium. He was one of twelve gladiators chosen to fight that day. Each of the men carried their own manifestation of fear on their faces. Some were wide-eyed, others were trembling. A few seemed defiant and brimming with testosterone. The group was ripe with body odor and the smell of urine.

  Battle didn’t fear death; however, the idea of pain, of not knowing how much suffering he might endure, was all consuming. He’d learned in the Army that the threat of pain was far more effective a weapon than the pain itself. It was true.

  Battle put his hand on Sawyer’s shoulder and whispered into the boy’s ear, “Stay with me. Stay close. Do what I tell you to do. We’ll make it.”

  Sawyer nodded and bit his lower lip. He brushed the hair from in front of his eyes. Battle felt the tension in the boy’s shoulder as he gripped it and let go.

  The large doors that separated the holding area from the stadium floor swung open, sending in the blinding pinkish light of the dawn and the loud rumble of the awaiting crowd. Three grunts powered through the opening and slammed the door behind them. The loud bang sent a shudder through Battle’s core.

  “All right,” one of the grunts announced, “here’s how it’s gonna work. There are twelve of you. All of you are traitors, thieves, or people we don’t like. We could have killed you already.”

  One of the testosterone-emitting gladiators snarled, “Why didn’t you?”

  “This is more fun,” said the grunt. He licked his teeth. “I mean, I ain’t a history student, but this is good for morale. The Romans did it. They was an empire. If it’s good enough for the Romans, my guess is the generals think it’s good enough for the Cartel.”

  The same gladiator snickered. “Killing us is good for morale?”

  “Seems to be,” said the grunt. “We always get good crowds. They come from all over the region. Now shut up and listen.”

  A grumble rolled through the assembled gladiators. Battle eyed the men he didn’t know. None of them looked capable of surviving the Jones. Granted, Battle didn’t know exactly what lay ahead, but he couldn’t see any of the men faring well in a game designed to kill them.

  “There are six from the Cartel that’s gonna fight you,” said the grunt. “They’ll have horses and weapons. You don’t. It ain’t gonna be a fair fight.”

  “No weapons?” said one of the gladiators standing behind Battle. “We get nothing?”

  “I didn’t say that,” said the grunt. “You don’t walk into the Jones with any weapons. There’s a few out there on the ground if you can get ’em. Like I said, it ain’t fair. That’s not to say we don’t want it to be entertaining.”

  “So there are weapons?” asked another gladiator. “We just have to find them?”

  “Yup.”

  Battle cleared his throat. “What happens when we kill all of the fighters?”

  The three grunts laughed. “When?”

  “When,” Battle stated.

  “That’s funny,” said the leader of the grunts. “You’re funny. I can’t tell you what would happen if you killed ’em all ’cause ain’t nobody ever done it.”

  The grunts laughed again.

  “All right,” said the grunt leader. “We’re gonna open the doors here in a second. Then you run out and you fight. I mean run. Don’t walk. Don’t be lackadaisical. Run.”

  The grunt leader planted his hands on his hips. He eyeballed the assembled gladiators and pointed at them. “You can kill each other if you want, but it probably ain’t a good idea if you plan on killing all of our fighters.”

  Battle looked at Sawyer, Pico, and Baadal the Dweller. They nodded at each other, acknowledging they’d do what they could to keep each other alive.

  From beyond the doors there was a loud roar and the rhythmic thump of feet pounding on the aluminum stadium bleachers.

  The doors swung open. “Go now!” yelled the grunts. “Go! Go! Go!”

  The dozen men pushed against one another out onto the edge of the field. To their right was a large crowd.

  Battle’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the light as he ran to the front of the pack. By the time they did, he was a quarter of the way across the field, nearing its center. He scanned the turf, looking for weapons and for his adversaries. He didn’t see either.

  Then the crowd roared and Battle heard the thunder of horses behind him. He spun around in time to see the slowest of the gladiators knocked to the ground and trampled.

  There were six horses and six men atop them. Battle stood frozen with Sawyer at his side. Three of the men had shotguns. One of them had some sort of flail or mace, which he was swinging in a large circle at the end of its chain. One looked to be unarmed, but Battle couldn’t be certain. The last was carrying a crossbow, a quiver of bolts strapped to his back. He unwound an arrow right into a gladiator’s back and through his chest. The gladiator squeaked, grappled with the arrow as he fell, and collapsed.

  The horses were approaching fast and fanning out to attack the gladiators one on one. Battle looked past them toward the doors through which they’d entered. To the left of the doors, pressed against the wall of the stadium, was a small pile of objects. He couldn’t tell what they were, but guessed they were the promised weapons. He’d have to get past the horses and their armed riders to reach them. Battle took a deep breath, trying to slow the chaos around him. He gained focus and ran straight at the horses approaching him.

  One of the shotgun-carrying grunts took aim at a short gladiator who seemed dumbstruck. An easy target, the man took two in the chest and fell to the ground in a heap. The grunt who killed him didn’t adjust his path, and his horse tripped over the dying gladiator. It tumbled to the ground, snorting and neighing as it fell, its fragile legs kicking up into the air. It landed on top of its rider, crushing him. Battle was feet from the horse. He bolted toward it with a quick step and pulled the shotgun from underneath the animal. The rider wouldn’t need it anymore.

  He knew it was empty from the twin shots that had killed the gladiator. He gripped it like a baseball bat and wrapped both of his hands around the warm barrel. He planted his feet and swung at the next approaching rider. Swinging as hard as he could, he hit the rider across his side, knocking the grunt from his saddle. His shotgun flew to the ground, and Sawyer scrambled to pick it up.

  “Run to the doors!” Battle called and moved to the stunned, winded grunt gasping for air on the ground. Battle swung the Browning again, this time like an axe, and drove the butt into the man’s chest. He swung again, connected again, and was rewarded with a shallow crack.

  Battle tossed the shotgun to the ground and ran, blinders on, toward the pile of weapons. Sawyer b
eat him there. He was already picking through the offerings.

  “This is all junk!” Sawyer said. “A pocketknife, a two-by-four, a can of ball bearings, and a slingshot.”

  Battle smirked. It was his slingshot. “The slingshot will do. You good with that shotgun?”

  Sawyer shrugged.

  “Point it away from me,” Battle said. “You’ll be fine.”

  Battle spun back to gauge the fight’s progress. He counted five gladiators on the ground. There were four horsemen still on the attack. Only one of them had a shotgun.

  Battle slid the tactical slingshot onto his right wrist and eased the pistol grip into his hand. He uncapped the bottle of ball bearings with his teeth and stood up.

  “Let’s get back there,” he said to Sawyer.

  ***

  Salomon Pico was running for his life. The grunt with the flail was behind him and gaining. Pico tried to dodge him by darting back and forth, but it didn’t work. They were at the far end of the field, well past where anyone else had run. Pico turned at the moment the spiked head of the flail swung upward at him. He ducked, lost his balance, and tumbled to the ground. He slid along the stained, aged turf and into the stadium wall.

  Pico was done. He backed himself against the wall and tried unsuccessfully to regain his footing. The grunt laughed and pulled his horse to a stop. He dismounted and for effect turned to the crowd a half-stadium away and raised his arms in triumph. The crowd roared its approval.

  He swung the flail in circles. Faster and faster it spun, and he walked toward Pico, who cowered against the wall.

  Pico buried his head and covered it with his arms. He squeezed his eyes shut, expecting a fatal blow at any second. Worse, he thought, would be a nonfatal blow. Instead he heard a grunt, cursing, and the sound of a scuffle.

  He looked up to see Baadal on top of the grunt. He had him pinned to the ground, his legs wrapped around the grunt’s neck. The grunt’s eyes bulged as he reached for Baadal’s thighs, clawing for breath.