The Traveler 01-03 Home, Canyon, Wall

by Tom Abrahams

  Pico saw the flail on the ground a few feet from the struggle. He crawled over to it and picked it up. With one hand he pushed himself to his feet and swung the heavy weapon in a circle, gaining momentum.

  He caught Baadal’s eyes and shouted, “Move!”

  Baadal released his hold and rolled away from the grunt. The grunt clutched his own neck, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. He likely never saw Pico slam the spinning spiked iron ball into his face. Blood, cartilage, and bone exploded outward. Pico let go of the weapon and left it embedded in the grunt.

  “Thank you,” he called to Baadal.

  The Dweller yanked the flail from the dead man, eliciting a sucking sound as he removed it. He nodded and waved Pico to follow him back toward the center of the field.

  Pico ran behind Baadal as he worked his way toward the action. The Dweller, Pico surmised, was not afraid. He whipped the flail to his side as he ran, spinning it like a wheel propelling him forward, spitting blood and matter onto Pico. He wiped it from his face and joined the fray, choosing to help one of the gladiators who’d already taken an arrow to his leg.

  The grunt drew a second bolt from his quiver and set it into the bow. He lowered it at the gladiator who was kneeling on his good leg. His injured one was extended outward as if he were stretching it. He was intermittently squealing in pain and begging for mercy.

  The grunt pulled his finger to the trigger, but before he fired, Baadal released the flail. He hurled it, whipping it a short distance through the air until it connected with the bow and knocked it from the grunt’s hands.

  Pico ran to the side of the horse and dove to the ground. He gathered the bow into his lap, aimed upward, and tugged on the trigger. The bolt shot forty-five degrees and drilled into the grunt’s side. The short distance meant the projectile was traveling with a lot of force.

  The grunt’s mouth dropped open. He blinked rapidly, his nostrils flaring. He reached for the bolt and tried tugging on it as he rode past Pico and Baadal. Baadal ran alongside the horse for a moment and then athletically leapt into the saddle behind the grunt, tossing him from the horse.

  Pico held onto the empty crossbow and, crouched low, made his way to the injured grunt as a shotgun blast tore through the man’s torso. The rider galloped past, reloading his Browning for another run.

  “Get the quiver!” Baadal yelled to Pico. “Get it now!” Baadal turned his horse and ran it toward the entrance to help surviving gladiators on that side of the field.

  Pico scurried to the grunt he’d killed with the bolt. Instead of grabbing the quiver, which was trapped underneath the man’s body, he drew a single bolt and loaded it into the crossbow.

  He got to his feet in time to see the shotgun-wielding grunt galloping straight at him. Pico didn’t take the time to aim. He fired. He missed.

  ***

  Battle saw three horses with riders. One of them carried Baadal. The Dweller was driving his horse toward him.

  One of the surviving grunts was farther away and was bearing down on Pico. The other, the one who Battle had thought was unarmed, was circling around for another pass; then Battle realized that the grunt was armed. He was flinging throwing stars at his prey. He’d punctured and killed two of the three remaining gladiators.

  “Throwing stars?” Battle thought aloud. “Are you kidding me? Does he think he’s a ninja?”

  The words of the grunt inside the holding area rang in his head. “Like I said, it ain’t fair. But that’s not to say we don’t want it to be entertaining.”

  Battle dumped the ball bearings into a pile on the ground. He knelt, grabbed a pair of them from the turf, fingered them into the leather pouch, and pulled the rubber tubing taut. He aimed at the approaching throwing-star ninja and plucked the fingers of his left hand free, releasing the pouch and firing the ballistic ball bearings with enough force that when they hit the ninja on the bridge of his nose, they shattered it.

  The grunt cried out, screaming, “My eyes! I can’t see!” He floundered atop the saddle, squirming in pain as his horse maintained its gallop toward Battle.

  Battle drew back the leather again.

  Pow!

  A deafening shotgun blast stopped Battle’s draw. The shell exploded into the ninja’s chest, making him immediately forget about his nose and eyes. He grunted and moaned, slumping forward.

  Battle turned to his left and saw Sawyer with the smoking shotgun pulled to his shoulder. The horse galloped past them and Sawyer anxiously looked at Battle.

  “Good job,” Battle said with a hint of surprise.

  There was one grunt left. He was halfway across the field between Pico and Baadal.

  Battle looked over toward the crowd, an indistinguishable mass of people cheering death. In a place rife with decay and pain, they wanted more. Or maybe they wanted others to suffer a fate worse than their own. Human nature was a bitch.

  ***

  Pico’s errant shot should have been the end of him. For the second time in as many minutes, Baadal was in the right place at the right time.

  The grunt pulled the trigger on his Browning the split second after Baadal dove from his horse and tackled the grunt, knocking both of them to the ground.

  The shotgun blast sprayed to the left of Pico, grazing his leg but doing little damage. Baadal, though, was knocked unconscious by the leap and fall.

  The grunt was dazed but awake. He rolled over onto Baadal and started pounding him with his fists. Unable to fight back, the Dweller absorbed the beating, unaware of what was happening to him.

  Pico scrambled to his feet and ran to the grunt. He pulled back his right leg and drove his foot into the side of the grunt’s face. The grunt flew from Baadal’s limp body, hitting his head on the ground.

  Pico looked around and found the shotgun still loaded with a single shell. As the grunt tried dragging himself away from Pico, the mustachioed Cartel traitor stuck the barrel against the grunt’s spine and pulled the trigger.

  Pico moved back to Baadal and knelt beside him. He shook the Dweller awake.

  Baadal was bleeding from his nose and mouth. He was missing teeth. His jaw was the color of rotten banana: brown and black and bruised. His eyes fluttered open and he tried to speak, though a groan was all he could muster.

  “You saved me again,” Pico said. “I owe you twice now.”

  Pico looked across the field, surveying the aftermath.

  All six of the grunts were dead. Five of the gladiators lived. At the middle of the field was a gladiator he didn’t know. The man was on his knees but alive. Across the other side of the field, walking toward him, were Battle and Lola’s boy, Sawyer.

  Sawyer carried a shotgun over his shoulder. Battle had something in his left hand. Pico couldn’t tell what it was. Pico smiled. His eyes dampened and welled.

  They’d survived. They’d beaten the Cartel again.

  Pico looked down again at Baadal. The Dweller’s pupils were dilated. His breathing was normal.

  “Seems like you saved me once,” said Baadal, his voice raspier. “So you only owe me once more.”

  Pico laughed and reached out to help Baadal sit up. He turned his back to the stadium crowd, his hands tucked under the Dweller’s arms, and lifted him to his feet.

  Salomon Pico didn’t see Cyrus Skinner take aim and fire the shot that killed him. However, he heard it. And he felt it. At first he thought someone had punched him in the back. Then the searing heat told him it wasn’t a punch. He felt a tear in his abdomen. The heat from the bullet ripping through him evaporated into nothing. His legs went numb and he dropped to his knees, falling into the back of Baadal’s legs.

  Pico heard a woman’s scream from the crowd. He heard Battle calling out to him. He sensed Baadal trying to help him. Pico knew it was futile.

  He couldn’t feel his legs or move his arms as he lay there on the turf, his blood pooling underneath his paralyzed body and adding to the brown patina of the field.

  Pico was on his stomach, his head turn
ed to the side. He tried focusing his vision but couldn’t. He saw flashes of his life advancing like a slideshow in front of him. There was the sting of his mother’s drunken slap and her prophecy that he would amount to nothing. He relived the confusion and desperation of watching his father wave goodbye and never come back. He smelled the sweet aroma of marijuana and felt the pangs of hunger his first high invoked. Pico felt the rumble of his Camaro’s engine as he shifted into third, the squeeze of his girlfriend’s hand on his leg. He recalled his fingers spinning the lock on a safe, the satisfaction of sensing he’d hit the combination, and the anticipation of that moment before he pulled it open. He saw himself pouring a shot of Jägermeister for a patron and then downing one himself while looking over his shoulder at the boss’s office door. Pico could taste the licorice on his tongue and hear Dusty Hill and Billy Gibbons strumming in the background.

  His mind snapped to the day his girlfriend died on the floor of their efficiency apartment above the club where she danced, coughing and wheezing until the fluid in her lungs was too much. He was holding her hand as the warmth dissipated, until she was cold. Pico was growing cold. The warmth of his body was draining from him.

  He took his last ragged breath thinking about what he could have done differently, how he could have lived his life more honorably than he had.

  The air left his lungs and didn’t return. Pico’s eyes, still wet with fresh tears of unmitigated joy, fixed. His tongue dropped from his open lips. His fingers twitched and stopped.

  Salomon Pico was dead. This time it was for real.

  CHAPTER 30

  JANUARY 4, 2020, 6:43 AM

  SCOURGE -12 YEARS, 9 MONTHS

  ALEPPO, SYRIA

  Battle opened his eyes to a low hum and cold toes. He was on the vinyl sofa in Nazir’s living room. The sun, peeking above the horizon, cast a pinkish-orange hue through the open eastern-facing window. The warmth of the space had given way to the chill of dawn.

  Nazir was kneeling on a prayer rug, his back to the window. He was reciting the Salat al-Fajr, the first of the five daily Muslim prayers. Battle closed his eyes and listened to Nazir’s soft voice, his cadence as he recited the words. He opened them again when Nazir was quiet.

  He was rolling up his rug, respectfully tending to its edges. He looked over at Battle and bowed his head.

  “Good morning, Battle,” he said, a smile spreading across his stubbled cheeks. “You sleep good. You snore.”

  Battle sat up and spun his feet to the floor. He looked at the bandage cleanly wrapped around his upper arm. “How is Buck?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “We need to leave,” said Battle.

  “Too much danger.”

  “I need to get him back to the checkpoint and back to base. They can airlift him to Landstuhl from there. You helped him, but he has to get to a hospital or he loses his foot.”

  “Landstuhl. American Army hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  “No,” Nazir said. “We will wait.”

  “We can’t wait, Nazir,” Battle pressed. “We cannot stay here. We thank you. We hope for peace for you and your family. We have got to go.”

  “Too much danger.”

  “Okay,” Battle said. “You tell me when there isn’t too much danger and we’ll go then.”

  Nazir turned, the prayer rug tucked under his arm, and looked out the window. He took a deep breath and walked to it, staring out above the rooftops. He was looking east, toward the checkpoint on the other side of the canal.

  Nazir held his shoulders back, his chest out. His feet were shoulder-width apart, planted firmly on the terrazzo floor. Without turning around, he answered Battle’s question. “You are right, Battle. There is no time when danger leaves.”

  Battle sat forward on the sofa, the vinyl squeaking under his shifting weight. He took as deep a breath as he had in two days and exhaled. His back felt thick with bruising, and his neck throbbed from aching, strained muscles.

  “We will go,” said Nazir. He turned around, his eyes focused on Battle’s. “I will take you.”

  Battle rose to his feet. “No. You shouldn’t do that. We’ll make it.”

  Nazir motioned over his shoulder toward the window. “No. The bridge is too much. You need help.”

  Battle walked to Nazir and stood in front of him. “Tell us what to do, how to cross the bridge. You cannot leave your daughter and your grandchildren.”

  “Allah will watch over me,” Nazir said, his eyes glossy with emotion. “Allah will provide what is meant to be. I go talk with Afifah. We get you clothing.”

  Thirty minutes later Battle, Buck, and Nazir left the apartment building, stepping into the crisp winter morning. The streets were mostly empty. It was a Saturday morning. The shops and cafes hadn’t yet opened. The late morning hustle was hours away.

  All three men were wearing traditional kaftans and white headscarves. Battle and Nazir were armed with handguns. Buck used a snapped broomstick as a cane and leaned on Battle to limp along. He was groggy from the painkillers, and Battle was convinced Buck was only partially aware.

  As they moved into the street, Nazir turned to look back at his home. Afifah was standing at the open window, her children flanking her. They waved in unison. The girl was leaning on the sill, rocking back and forth. The boy offered a toothy smile to his grandfather.

  Nazir offered a final wave and blew a kiss. His daughter caught it and pulled the children away from the window, sliding it closed.

  “She is not my true daughter,” said Nazir. “She is my son’s wife. I call her daughter. Her parents are also dead.”

  “You take care of her?” Battle asked.

  “She takes care of me,” he said. “Her family blessed us with many riches before the war. Praise be to Allah.”

  They stepped onto the narrow, crumbling sidewalk on the side of the street opposite Nazir’s home. Battle helped Buck navigate the curb and they turned the corner to the spot where they’d encountered each other the night before.

  “The kaftan helps from a distance,” said Nazir. “When we are close to the bridge, it will not help.”

  “Roger that,” said Battle.

  They walked opposite oncoming traffic, which was virtually nonexistent, and approached the final intersection before reaching the bridge. They stopped at the corner and Battle looked east to the canal. There were two uniformed, armed guards standing at the stone balustrades that marked either side of the bridge. They were wearing the same paramilitary outfits as the men Battle confronted at the railyard the night before. There was a third walking west across the bridge. All three carried AK rifles.

  “You think we can talk our way past?” Battle asked.

  Nazir shrugged and started across the street. “I hope. I have idea.” He clasped his hands together, the wide draped sleeves of his kaftan hiding his gun. Battle did the same and followed Nazir to the bridge. Buck used the cane and Battle’s shoulder for balance while he essentially hopped along.

  They were halfway across the street when the guards saw them. The two at the balustrades immediately raised their weapons and pulled them to their shoulders, aiming the muzzles directly at Nazir, who was a couple of steps ahead of Battle and Buck.

  The third guard stopped short of the western edge of the canal and leaned on the southern railing, using it for leverage and he too aimed his weapon at Nazir.

  Nazir called out to the men in Arabic and kept approaching. The men replied aggressively. Battle was certain they were telling Nazir to stop. He could sense their tension, even from a distance.

  Nazir appeared undeterred by the guards. He shuffled forward until he was within a few feet of them. He looked back at Battle and Buck, referencing them with his head as he spoke.

  The guards listened but did not lower their weapons. One of them kept glancing over at Battle and Buck as they moved closer. Battle lowered his head and suggested Buck do the same; the less obvious their ethnicity, the better.

  Battle wat
ched his sandaled feet move step by step. He glanced up occasionally to make sure he was headed straight for the bridge. He was looking down when he heard Nazir raise his voice. He shouted something in Arabic before calling to Battle, “Run!”

  CHAPTER 31

  OCTOBER 16, 2037, 8:15 AM

  SCOURGE + 5 YEARS

  LUBBOCK, TEXAS

  Battle heard the shot and saw Pico drop to his knees, falling into Baadal. The sound of it cracked through the air like thunder and silenced the crowd. He ran toward Pico, knowing all the while there was nothing he could do to help him. To his right, standing inside the barrier that separated the field from the bleachers, was Cyrus Skinner. His white hat shadowed his face, but Battle knew it was him.

  His six-shooter was aimed at where Pico had stood, a thin trail of smoke drifting upward from the muzzle. He lowered the weapon and holstered it, turning away from the man he’d killed and climbing over the barrier back into the stands.

  Battle reached Pico after he took his last breath. He slid to his knees and rolled Pico over onto his back. Battle looked at his friend’s dead eyes, his tongue flapping from his open mouth, the broad stain of blood on his shirt.

  “Skinner!” he screamed, more of a primal roar than a warning or a threat.

  Battle picked up the crossbow from the ground, loaded a bolt, and began a precise march toward the crowd. Skinner had blended into the mass of people in the stands, and Battle couldn’t find him. He scanned from left to right, the bow following his gaze as he panned. The crowd shifted, ducked, and screamed as he searched for the target.

  He reached the center of the field and was feet from the barrier when he saw the innumerable weapons pointing back at him. Still, he pivoted from left to right to left with his finger on the crossbow’s trigger.

  “Hold up there,” came a voice from the crowd. “Put down the bow before you get hurt, Battle.”

  Battle swung the bow toward the voice. On the other end of the bolt was General Roof in his distinctive black hat and white beard. “I’m not putting this down.” Seething anger dripped with each word.