The Traveler 01-03 Home, Canyon, Wall

by Tom Abrahams

  A half dozen of the enemy, some in uniform, reached the middle of the bridge. They were calling out in Arabic, yelling in Battle’s direction.

  Two of the men picked up Nazir’s body, holding him up by his armpits. They turned him to face the checkpoint. From the distance between them, Battle couldn’t tell if Nazir was still alive or if Allah had mercifully hastened his death.

  It appeared not to matter to the men holding up his body. They dragged him forward, the tops of his sandaled feet scraping along the ground. A third man came up from behind them and gripped the top of Nazir’s head, yanking it backward. He then wielded a large reflective blade and sliced it across Nazir’s neck, a fountain of blood spraying outward.

  Battle closed his eyes to the sound of the men cheering their baseness. He opened them again to see Nazir’s head held high by the swordsman’s hand.

  The man shook the head, screamed something at Battle, and then heaved it into the canal. The two men holding the headless body dropped it on the bridge and kicked it. Another man spat on it. A fourth and a fifth did the same.

  Battle’s fists clenched and he gnashed his teeth. His pain evaporated. It was replaced with a seething he’d never felt. It was the desire for revenge, the guilt-fueled need to exact torture on the men who needlessly killed a selfless doctor, father, and grandfather.

  As the MPs led Battle back to the confines of a small military installation inside what used to be Maysaloun Park, he tried to rationalize what he’d witnessed. He came to the conclusion, as much because of its truth as its ability to help Battle cope, that Nazir died because he’d left his home.

  The doctor’s world had ceased to exist as he knew it. War, famine, and disease had decayed Aleppo. All he had left was his family. He chose to expose that family to risk and danger by allowing them to venture outside. Had they never left home, they’d have never encountered two injured American soldiers they felt compelled to help.

  Their selflessness in the face of a post-apocalyptic landscape had ruined them. Nazir was dead. Afifiah would never know what became of the man she called father. Her children would wonder about him the entirety of their lives, however long they may be.

  Battle resolved he would prepare for the end of days. He would make a home worth defending, one from which he would never have to stray. That was the way to survive.

  It was the only way.

  CHAPTER 33

  OCTOBER 16, 2037, 4:30 PM

  SCOURGE +5 YEARS

  ABERNATHY, TEXAS

  Baadal leading the group, they walked silently north on Interstate 27.

  “The canyon is about a hundred miles from here,” he explained. “The first scout is maybe seventy or eighty miles. We need to find water or we won’t make it. We’ve been walking for six hours.”

  “We need to keep moving or we won’t make it,” said Battle. “They’re not letting us get away as easy as the general made it sound.”

  “I’m dehydrated too,” said the gladiator. His name was Charlie Pierce. He told them he was a grass farmer who’d refused to increase his crop supply to the Cartel. They’d punished him, killing his wife and taking his farm. He was sent to the Jones to die.

  “I hear you,” said Battle. He licked his dry lips. The cracks told him he needed water. All of them did. “We’ll figure it out.”

  Lola and Sawyer dragged behind. They were talking to each other in hushed voices, and Battle didn’t want to interrupt. As long as they kept pace, they were fine.

  Ahead on the right, there was a mobile home. Even from a distance, Battle could see it was a wreck. It was the first house they’d passed outside of Lubbock.

  “I’m gonna run ahead,” Battle said. “Meet me outside that house.”

  Battle jogged ahead, his head throbbing. He pushed his way into the trailer, kicking in the thin, hollow-core door.

  He was immediately hit with the odor of urine and feces. A pair of rats scurried past him, diving into holes at the baseboards. He covered his mouth and nose with the crook of his arm, his eyes burning from the acidity in the air. He shuffled his way through what he imagined was the living area and found the kitchenette. With one hand he flung open cabinet doors above and below the laminate countertops that ran the length of the galley.

  From the cabinets he pulled three large plastic cups, an open box of sandwich bags, and some pipe cleaners. He stuffed the findings into a plastic grocery bag he found on the floor. He looked for utensils but didn’t find any.

  Battle opened the refrigerator but instantly closed it when he found a nest of rodents chirping back at him, their eyes reflecting what little light had seeped into the box. He didn’t bother with the freezer.

  Nauseated, he hopscotched his way to the bedroom on the opposite side of the trailer. On a bare mattress in the corner of the room, there was a body. It was shriveled and decaying. A rat was chewing on the corpse’s arm. Battle couldn’t tell if the body belonged to a man or a woman.

  He inched his way to the dresser opposite the mattress and pulled open one drawer after the next. There were some clothes—shirts and jeans mostly. There were undergarments, which told Battle the body belonged to a woman. And there was a knife. It was a small jackknife with a three-inch blade, but it was something. He stuffed it into his pocket and bolted.

  He emerged from the home to find his four companions waiting for him. Baadal was bent over, hands on his knees. Charlie Pierce was sitting in the dirt. Lola and Sawyer were leaning on each other.

  “All right,” Battle said and pointed across the interstate. “We stay here for now. See that clump of trees on the other side of the highway?”

  Baadal looked up, his hands still on his knees. “Yeah,” he said.

  “We’ll make camp over there,” Battle said. “Right by those trees. We’ll chill until it’s dark. Then we go again.”

  “We can’t go again if we don’t get some water,” said Charlie Pierce.

  Battle held up the plastic bag and shook it. “Leave it to me.” He led the foursome across the highway to the grouping of shinnery oaks. They plopped into the dirt and weeds while Battle opened up the bag.

  He pulled out a sandwich bag and opened it wide. He yanked on a low branch of the oak and stuffed its broad leaves into the bag, then took a pipe cleaner and twisted it around the top of the bag. He repeated the process six times.

  “What is that?” asked Sawyer when Battle was twisting closed the final bag.

  “I’m making water,” Battle said. “The leaves sweat like we do. I’m trapping it in the bag. At nightfall we should have a cup of water each. That’ll be a start.”

  “It’s called transpiration,” said Charlie Pierce. “Hadn’t thought of doing that. It’s smart. It’ll work.”

  “So we stay here until dark?” asked Lola. “Just sit here?”

  “For now,” Battle said. He motioned to Baadal. “Since we have some time, tell us more about the canyon.”

  Baadal sat up, arching his back. He was holding onto a large branch he’d fashioned into a walking stick and leaned on it. “We are strong people,” he said. “We didn’t succumb to the Cartel. Even as the government failed us, we fought for our freedom. We are doctors, farmers, honest politicians, lawyers, firefighters—”

  Battle laughed. “Honest politicians?”

  “There are not many of them, I’ll admit. But yes, there are some among us. Our leader, Paagal, says it is important to include all types. Every perspective is needed to effectively run a free society.”

  “This Paagal,” said Battle. “How did he become leader?”

  “She became leader because we chose her,” said Baadal. “She is forceful but merciful, intelligent but inquisitive. She believes the time is drawing near that we can disrupt the Cartel and lead an uprising. They are losing focus. We are gaining clarity.”

  “You’re Baadal,” said Charlie Pierce. “She’s Paagal. What’s with the names?”

  Battle looked over at Charlie. The farmer was enraptured, fully focused
on the story Baadal was weaving. He’d pulled his knees up to his chest and had his arms wrapped around them, his right hand holding his left wrist for balance.

  “They are Hindi,” said Baadal. “We all take Hindi names. They represent a rebirth, a cleansing from the filth of the Scourge and what it bore. Before I joined the Dwellers, my name was Felipe. Paagal’s was Juliana.”

  “What do your new names mean?” asked Sawyer. He was playing with a large, straight branch he’d found on the ground, drawing circles with it in the dirt.

  “Baadal means cloud.”

  “And Paagal?” asked Battle.

  A smile spread across Baadal’s face. “It means crazy.”

  CHAPTER 34

  OCTOBER 16, 2037, 4:50 PM

  SCOURGE +5 YEARS

  LUBBOCK, TEXAS

  Cyrus Skinner tapped the last cigarette out of the box. He’d smoked one after another since he’d left the Jones.

  He was in a building adjacent to the stables outside the stadium, pacing back and forth. Though he was furious with the general, there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He was only a captain, a white hat. General Roof was a black hat. There was no arguing with a black hat. He dragged his fingers across his neck and winced at the tenderness along his windpipe.

  He’d thought about killing Roof right there in the stadium. He could have drawn his pistol and shot him in the chest before the general knew what hit him. Cyrus Skinner’s life was a series of regrets and miscalculations. Not killing the general when he had the chance was one of them.

  Cyrus thought the plan was flawed. He believed the Dwellers were constantly changing and shifting their defenses, and that was why they were virtually impenetrable. The Dwellers also knew every Godforsaken inch of Palo Duro Canyon and its vicinity.

  They had the advantage, no matter what kind of surveillance the Cartel undertook. Brute force would have been smart, Skinner thought. Send in everyone at once and end it.

  Skinner thumbed his lighter and held it to the cigarette. He inhaled deeply and held the smoke in his lungs. Sometimes the generals were too smart for their own good.

  Porky walked into Skinner’s office, knocking on the open door. “Captain?”

  “What?” Skinner spun on his boot heel to look Porky in the eyes.

  Porky immediately averted his gaze and stared at the floor. “The first team is on its way,” Porky said. “I sent the Dalton brothers and another grunt. They’re on horseback.”

  “So they’re a few hours behind Battle and his friends,” said Skinner.

  “Yes, sir. They’ll catch up by nightfall. They’re headed straight north on the interstate. I told them to keep their distance. I said you don’t want Battle to know he’s being followed.”

  “Fine,” said Skinner. “When’s the next team leaving?”

  “In a minute,” said Porky. “They’re in an SUV. They’re gonna move east on 62 and then take it north until they connect with 70. That’ll take them into Plainview ahead of when Battle should get there. They can set up a watch there.”

  “Good.”

  “Captain,” said Porky, his eyes still on the floor, “can I ask what they’re doing? What are the men looking for?”

  “The canyon,” said Skinner. “They’re looking for a way into the canyon and how the Dwellers are set up to protect it.”

  Porky looked up from the floor, his mouth agape. “The Dwellers? I thought they were gone. I thought the Cartel—”

  “You thought wrong, Porky,” said Skinner. “The Dwellers are alive. They hold the canyon.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing,” said Skinner. “The generals made a truce with them. Now it seems the generals don’t want the truce no more.”

  Porky shook his head. “So we don’t… I mean, the Cartel don’t control everything this side of the wall?”

  “No.”

  “What would happen if that got out? I mean, if people knew—”

  “That’s why we got to put an end to the Dwellers,” said Skinner. “They been quiet since the truce two years ago. If they decided to make noise, it could be trouble.”

  Porky drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Dwellers…”

  Skinner flicked the remains of his last cigarette to the floor. “You ain’t got no idea, Porky. Dwellers ain’t the half of it,” he said. He flicked his tongue across his teeth and made a high-pitched squeaking sound. He pointed at Porky and shooed him away,

  “Go get me some more smokes,” he ordered. “I’m out and I’m gonna need ’em for the trip.”

  CHAPTER 35

  OCTOBER 16, 2037, 7:00 PM

  SCOURGE +5 YEARS

  ABERNATHY, TEXAS

  The sun hung low on the horizon, obscured by the distant line of scrub oaks at the edge of the dirt plain on which Battle stood. It dipped lower, clouds filling the dark blue sky. The clouds would trap what little heat was left from the day. It wouldn’t be quite as cold overnight.

  He touched the bottom of one of the plastic bags hanging on the tree beside him. It was heavy with water.

  “Everybody take a bag,” he said, passing out the cups. “We got a cup of water each. Drink it slow. Sip it. Take turns with the cups. Sawyer gets two bags.”

  The group was sluggish. They were smart to have stopped and taken a break for a few hours. If they’d kept going, Battle’s head would be throbbing more than it was, and there was a good chance more than one of them would have collapsed.

  Battle unwound the pipe cleaner from his bag and carefully pulled the plastic from around the perspiring evergreen leaves. He zipped the bag three-quarters of the way and then drew the opening to his lips. The water was cold. He licked it across his lips, feeling it moisten the cracks, and then swallowed successive sips until he’d finished the bag.

  Battle dipped his hand inside the plastic and ran his damp hand across his forehead and cheeks. The others were finishing their allotment. Baadal had his bag turned inside out and was licking the remaining moisture from the plastic.

  “That was a smart idea,” said Charlie Pierce. “You probably saved us from getting sick.”

  “Saw a video online about it before the Scourge,” Battle said. “I tried it out a couple of times with the oaks on my land. It worked pretty well.”

  “Where was your land?”

  “Near Abilene,” Battle said, taking the plastic bags from everyone to save them for later use. “You?”

  “Seguin,” he said. “Near San Antonio.”

  “Grass farmer, you said?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Hay, alfalfa, that sort of stuff. Kept the livestock fed.”

  “We should hit the road. The clouds are gonna cover up that moon and make it pretty dark.”

  “How far are we gonna walk?” Sawyer asked.

  “If we walk at a good pace,” said Baadal, “we should reach the first scouts before sunset tomorrow.”

  “I’m hungry.” Sawyer sounded every bit the teenager that he was. “My legs hurt.”

  “We’ll find something,” said Battle.

  “What?” asked Lola. “There’s nothing.”

  “We’ll find something.”

  They left the trees and headed north along Highway 27. Battle walked behind the group, making sure everyone stayed together. Baadal was in front, marching like a soldier. Charlie was a step behind him. Lola and Sawyer walked together. She held his hand. Both were using walking sticks. Sawyer took Baadal’s lead and picked the dead leaves off a pair of branches, keeping one for himself and giving one to his mother. Battle noticed her limp was less pronounced. She was improving. That was good.

  They’d walked for close to an hour when Sylvia’s voice filled Battle’s head. “You like her.”

  Battle tried to ignore it. He didn’t want to have a conversation. He was too tired.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “You’ve been alone a long time.”

  “I’m not interested,” he mumbled under his breath.

  “Don’t lie to me, Mar
cus Battle,” Sylvia’s voice countered. “I know when you’re lying. I see the way you look at her. I see the way she looks at you.”

  Battle looked up at the sky at the first stars twinkling between the clouds. He exhaled through his mouth, puffing his cheeks.

  “Marcus,” she said, “you can’t be alone forever. You’ve left our home. You’ve moved on.”

  Battle gritted his teeth. “I haven’t moved on. You’re wrong.”

  Lola turned around and looked at Battle over her shoulder. “Did you say something?”

  Battle waved her off. “No,” he said. “Just thinking aloud.”

  Lola’s eyes lingered as she kept walking. The corner of her mouth curled into a knowing smile. It looked like pity to Battle.

  “She knows,” he whispered. “She knows I talk to you.”

  “All the more reason to like her,” said Sylvia. “She knows about it and doesn’t think you’re crazy.”

  “I am crazy,” Battle whispered. “I’ve been hanging onto my sanity by an unwinding thread since you left me.”

  “It’s okay with me too, Dad,” Wesson said, joining the conversation. “She has a son who needs a father.”

  “He does,” Sylvia added. “You’re such a good father.”

  Battle stopped walking and clenched his fists. He drew in a long, steady breath and exhaled, trying to slow his pulse. He turned south, away from the group, and bent over with his hands clasped behind his neck. He needed to clear the voices.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath. The group had walked far enough he couldn’t hear their footsteps. It was quiet, save the distant, high-pitched chirp of cicadas.

  He stood there motionless for a moment. The voices in his head stopped. He opened his eyes and looked south along the highway they’d already walked. Battle was about to catch up with the group when he saw something reflected in the moonlight. It was a flash more than a true reflection. He waited. There it was again. Then he heard a noise. No. It was more of a song. Somebody was singing. Somebody was following them. Battle spun around and sprinted to catch up to the group. They needed to get off of the road.