The Traveler 01-03 Home, Canyon, Wall

by Tom Abrahams

  ***

  The last thing Grat Dalton wanted to do was sit in a saddle. His rear and his thighs were rubbed raw from the subtle slide back and forth on the leather. Orders were orders, though, even if they came thirdhand through the hefty grunt called “Porky”.

  Porky told them their mission was direct from General Roof. Captain Skinner had seen to it they picked the best teams to head north. Their job was simple: ride and observe. That was it.

  Emmett Dalton told his brother it was worth the saddle sores for the five days’ worth of fresh rations, a bottle each of Tito’s Vodka, and cold water in their canteens. Emmett was halfway through the Tito’s, relishing the hint of corn in every fiery swig, as he, his brother, and a third grunt named Jack Vermillion neared Abernathy. Abernathy was a nothing town even in the daylight. The Daltons had ridden past it before, both north and south along the interstate. They joked the town marker read “Now Leaving Abernathy” on both sides of the sign.

  Grat wasn’t joking with Emmett this trip. He was frustrated by his own aches and his brother’s drunken serenade. Jack Vermillion wasn’t doing anything to help. He was encouraging it by humming along.

  “C’mon now,” Grat said loudly enough for his brother to hear him over his own wail, “enough singing. My ears hurt.”

  Vermillion unscrewed his own half-empty bottle and raised it in a toast to Grat. “Give your brother a break. He’s just having fun.”

  Grat didn’t know Vermillion well, but he could tell from the man’s slur and his slack in the saddle, he was drunk. Grat would have loved to toss back some of the liquor himself. But with both companions already wasted, he couldn’t take the risk. They had a job to do.

  He leaned forward to get a better handle on his reins. His horse was as undisciplined as Emmett.

  He was looking down at the animal’s crest. He rested a hand on its coarse black mane. When he looked up again, he almost fell off the horse. Three men were standing in the middle of the highway. The building clouds had obscured the moon enough that he couldn’t see much more than their forms. The men looked big, and each of them looked to be holding a long gun of some kind. Grat couldn’t tell if they were rifles or shotguns. It didn’t matter much. The men had the drop on them. Grat tugged on the reins and slowed his horse to a stop.

  “Stop there,” one of the men ordered. “Get off your horses and drop your weapons to the ground.”

  ***

  Battle used the dark to his advantage. When he’d seen the approaching grunts, he’d run back to the group to get Charlie Pierce and Baadal. He borrowed the long walking sticks from Sawyer and Lola and handed one of them to Charlie. Baadal already had his own. Lola and Charlie stayed back and off to the side, ducking into a shallow culvert.

  “Hold these like rifles,” Battle told them and led them south toward the approaching horsemen. “It’s so dark, they might not know the difference.”

  He was right. The first of the men didn’t hesitate to raise his hands and dismount.

  “I’m gonna reach to my side,” the grunt said, “and pull my revolver. I’m gonna toss it.”

  “Do it slowly,” said Battle, aiming the stick at the grunt. “What’s your name?”

  “Grat Dalton,” he said. “You know you’re being stupid.”

  “Real stupid,” slurred one of the two grunts who hadn’t yet dismounted. “You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

  “Shut up, Emmett,” said Grat. “We ain’t in a position to be makin’ threats.”

  “I ain’t givin’ up my guns,” said Emmett. “Ain’t takin’ my Tito’s neither.” The drunkard laughed.

  “This isn’t a joke,” said Battle, his eyes darting amongst the trio of dark figures forty feet in front of them. “Get off your horses and step off the road.”

  “Seriously?” Charlie whispered into Battle’s ear. “We don’t have any real weapons. These are sticks.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Battle whispered back. Charlie had reminded Battle of the jackknife in his pocket. Still holding aim on the grunts, he fished out the knife and flipped it open with his thumb. “Get off the horses now, or you’re going to need another gallon of Tito’s to dull the pain.”

  Vermillion reached out and pushed Emmett in the shoulder. “I reckon we listen to the—”

  Emmett pushed him back. “I ain’t listening to these fools,” he spat. He hopped off his horse, dropping the near empty bottle, which shattered on the asphalt. “Now see, that’s just infuriating.” He stomped his foot and started marching toward Battle.

  Emmett shoved his way past his brother and reached to his hip to pull his revolver. He was twenty feet from them when he pulled the trigger.

  Pow!

  Drunk as he was, Emmett couldn’t have hit a barn from three feet. The shot was errant and missed all three men. Battle’s aim was true.

  At the instant the shot was fired, he’d flung the knife, end over end, at the growing target in front of him. It hit Emmett above his heart on the left side of his chest. The blade carved into him to its hilt.

  Emmett dropped his pistol and staggered backward. He looked down at the knife handle protruding from him and gripped it, wrenching it from his body. That was a bad move.

  Blood coursed from the wound, draining faster than Emmett could plug the hole with his fingers. He looked back at his brother, mumbled, and fell over onto the interstate, the knife still in his hand.

  Grat backed away from his dying brother and moved deliberately to the shoulder of the road. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes stayed glued to Emmett struggling and twitching on the asphalt.

  Vermillion raised his hands and jumped from his horse. He dropped his pistol and quickly joined Grat at the edge of the highway.

  Battle advanced quickly and picked up Emmett’s pistol, aiming it at Grat. He tossed the stick to the ground, pulled the knife from Emmett’s hand, and watched the horror envelop Grat’s face as the grunt realized he’d been had by a man armed only with a knife.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” Grat said. He swallowed hard, his eyes drifting to his brother. He looked back at Battle, cursed him and spat in his face. Battle could see the man’s fear morphing into defiant anger.

  “I know who you are,” Grat said through clenched teeth. “You’re that fella from the Jones. Skinner shoulda shot you dead instead of Pico.”

  “Shoulda killed both of you,” Vermillion said. “That’s what I woulda done.”

  Battle wiped the spit from his forehead. “Coulda, woulda, shoulda. Too late now.” He raised the pistol and pressed it against Grat’s forehead.

  Grat squeezed his eyes shut. “Just do it. Get it over with.”

  Battle stood with the weapon at Grat’s head until the grunt opened his eyes. Then he lowered it.

  “C’mon, guys,” he called to Baadal and Charlie. “Get the horses.” He walked backward to the horse Grat had been riding and took the reins with one hand. The other trained the pistol on the grunts. “Mount up.”

  Each of the men heaved themselves into their saddles. Baadal and Charlie started their horses north.

  “Looks like we got some food here,” said Battle. “And a full canteen of water.” He reached into the saddlebag and pulled out Grat’s unopened bottle of vodka. He tossed it to the grunt and spurred the horse north to join the others.

  Grat juggled the bottle, but caught it before it hit the ground. “Wait,” he said. “You gonna leave us here?” Grat snarled. “You kill my brother for nothin’ and then leave us in the middle of nowhere? No food? No water?”

  “We walked here from Lubbock,” said Battle. “No food. No water.”

  Vermillion called out, “You can’t leave us here. We walk back to town, we’re as good as dead.”

  “Better drink up, then, fellas,” Battle said over his shoulder. He slid the pistol onto his hip and controlled the horse with one hand.

  He brought the horse to a canter until he reached Lola. He offered her a hand and pulled her onto the saddle behind him. S
awyer climbed aboard Charlie’s horse. Baadal led the way north.

  “We can be there before sunrise,” he said to the others. He pulled his canteen and drew a long drink before coaxing his horse to a gallop. “We’ll probably reach a scout not long after midnight.”

  Lola wrapped her arms around Battle’s waist, her hands pressed flat against his chest. He turned his head toward hers as his horse picked up speed. “You okay?”

  “For now,” she said. “I’ve got Sawyer. I’ve got you. And we’re going to a place the Cartel can’t touch us.”

  Battle took one of her hands and squeezed. She leaned into his back, resting her head against his neck. It was the most human contact Battle had experienced in five years. It felt alien yet comforting. It took his breath away. He allowed himself to enjoy it.

  Lola was right about two things. She had Sawyer. She had him. He didn’t want to tell her that deep down he believed the Cartel’s arms were long enough to always reach them, even in the canyon.

  CHAPTER 36

  OCTOBER 17, 2037, 1:00 AM

  SCOURGE +5 YEARS

  LUBBOCK, TEXAS

  General Roof stood in front of a panel of large monitors on the wall of the Lubbock HQ office. He was alone. He’d shooed away the grunts and bosses who were hanging around drinking and smoking. He poured himself a cup of coffee. It was black and like mud, but he was tired and needed the jolt of caffeine.

  The power in Lubbock was better than in some of the less populated areas. It was necessary, given Lubbock’s importance to their drug trade, that the electricity be more stable. Roof was thankful for that as he pressed a remote on the desk to activate the office computer.

  “Computer on,” he said. The trio of wide screens flickered to life. “Conference Generals. Live chat.”

  A series of numbers and letters moved across the center screen. It went black and then turned on again. Roof’s mirror image filled the screen. The monitors to either side buzzed to life. A bald man appeared in the screen to the left, and a leathery one was visible on the right.

  “We need to talk,” said Roof. “You have a minute?”

  “It’s late,” said the bald general. General Harvey Logan. Roof could hear a woman in the background. She was complaining about the interruption. Logan ignored her.

  “I’m good,” said the leathery one, Parrott Manuse. “What do you need?”

  “I think I’ve found a way to deal with the Dwellers,” said Roof.

  “We dealt with them two years ago,” said Manuse. “We signed a truce. We told everyone we’d eliminated them. What’s the problem?”

  “It’s only a matter of time before their influence spreads,” said Roof. “We’ve caught their scouts farther and farther away from the canyon. They’re planning something. We need to be proactive.”

  “So what is this proactive approach?” asked Logan. “What have you concocted this time?”

  “You know about the man they called Mad Max.”

  Both generals nodded and acknowledged they knew of him. “What about him?” asked Logan, rubbing his head.

  “He survived the Jones,” said Roof. “He and four others.”

  Logan cursed. “How?”

  “He’s a warrior,” said Roof, looking directly into the camera at the top of the center monitor. “He survived. I let him go.”

  Manuse leaned into his camera, his face growing large and out of focus on the screen. “What? Who gave you that sole authority? We have rules, Roof. We have three generals for a reason.”

  “We had four generals,” said Logan. “Your last plan to end the Dwellers and take the canyon left us with three. You recall that, Roof?”

  “I recall that,” said Roof. “That’s why it’s imperative we take care of them now.”

  Manuse sat back in his chair. His face pulled into focus. “What does Mad Max have to do with the Dwellers?”

  “One of the men traveling with him is a Dweller. He survived too. He’s going to lead Mad Max and a couple of others straight to the canyon. I’ve got teams following them, looking for defense strategy.”

  “That’s not enough,” said Logan. “They shift their defenses constantly. That’s why we can’t defeat them. Surveillance won’t be good for more than a day. It’s a waste.”

  “You better have something else,” said Manuse.

  Roof smiled. “I do.”

  “What is it?” asked Logan. “Stop being coy.”

  “One of the men traveling with Mad Max is one of ours,” said Roof. “A captain from Houston. I brought him with me to Lubbock. I put him in the Jones and told the fighters not to touch him. His name is Charlie Pierce. He’s smart. And he’s going to be on the inside.”

  Logan nodded. “So the surveillance is a decoy?”

  “Exactly,” said Roof. “It’s a distraction. Mad Max, whose name is Battle by the way, will spot them. He’ll probably kill some of them. Pierce will work hard to gain Battle’s confidence. Pierce is our real weapon. He’ll walk right into the canyon with a friendly escort and a badass warrior at his side.”

  The generals congratulated Roof on his brilliance and they agreed to talk soon. Roof ended the call and shut down the computers.

  He walked over to the desk in the corner of the room and sat on its edge. He picked up the mug of coffee and took a healthy swig, wincing at the bitterness of it. It was cold too, but it was coffee. He finished it and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Roof pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. It would be a long few nights waiting for word from Charlie Pierce. It would be worth it in the end.

  They’d rid themselves of the threat from the Dwellers. They’d truly establish dominion over the two hundred and seventy-thousand square miles they’d fought hard to control in the months after the Scourge.

  The best part of it was that an old friend was unwittingly doing his bidding for him. Marcus Battle, the war hero, was under his command. He laughed thinking about how Battle hadn’t recognized him. Maybe it was the ponytail or the beard. Maybe too many years had passed. It didn’t matter. It was better that Battle was clueless.

  General Roof reached inside his shirt and pulled out a pair of dog tags that hung around his neck on a thin ball chain. He’d worn them every day since his enlistment more than twenty-five years earlier; before earning his E-7 stripes, before Syria, before Landstuhl and Walter Reed, the meth and the heroine, the riches, the Scourge, the Cartel, the depravity, before…

  The chain was long enough that he could read the stamped lettering on the tags. He ran his thumb across it, reminding himself of who he’d once been.

  BUCK

  RUFUS

  000-11-0200

  O NEG

  CHRISTIAN

  Wall

  A Post-Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure

  The Traveler Series Book Three

  Tom Abrahams

  For Don

  Ching Ching.

  “We shall draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival.”

  —Winston Churchill

  CHAPTER 1

  OCTOBER 25, 2037, 2:00 AM

  SCOURGE +5 YEARS

  PALO DURO CANYON, TEXAS

  Dragging a fresh corpse across the canyon’s floor wasn’t part of the plan. Not much that had happened in the week since he’d arrived had gone as Charlie Pierce expected, but there was a job to do.

  Regardless of the obstacles or the unforeseen circumstances, Pierce had to deliver. General Roof was relying on his surveillance for the coming assault.

  Pierce was bent over at the waist, slogging backwards on his heels as he pulled the body through brush, over rock, and across dry creek beds. He didn’t know how far he’d have to go to find the right spot to dump the man he was forced to execute. He’d know it when he found it.

  Lightning flashed in the sky above, illuminating the steep, jagged walls of the canyon. Thunder followed and reverberated as it traveled the wide valley of Palo Duro.
Pierce stopped and dropped the body. He stood erect and put his hands on his hips. He was winded and, despite near freezing temperatures, was sweating through his shirt. He could feel the perspiration chill as it dripped from the nape of his neck down his back.

  Another fork of light jabbed the black sky, pulsing as the thunder cracked and rumbled before the afterglow was gone. The storm was getting closer.

  Pierce wondered if the turn in the weather was a good thing. A heavy rain would wash away the impression of the body from having pulled it through the dirt.

  He’d snapped the man’s neck during a brief struggle. The man, a sentry for the Dwellers, had asked too many questions. He’d pressed too hard about Pierce’s intentions. Although Pierce had tried to talk his way out of the predicament, it hadn’t worked.

  Pierce had found a communications bunker on the canyon’s floor. It was two miles from the Dwellers’ central encampment.

  The bunker wasn’t much more than a grotto nature had carved into the mesa walls. There were several two-way radio base stations, their orange displays casting a warm, fire-like glow on the cave’s pale walls. It was the rumble and hum of a generator that had led Pierce to the grotto. Sound traveled in the desert night, and the rumble was unmistakable from a half mile away.

  A thin, camouflaged wire serving as an antenna extension ran up the steep wall as far as Pierce had been able to see in the dark. The Dwellers’ communication system was a fortunate but critical find for the spy. If he couldn’t disable the two-way system as the attack occurred, he could at the very least relay frequencies to the Cartel so they could monitor the Dwellers’ tactical positions. The sentry had surprised him as he was checking those frequencies.

  “Hey,” the sentry had called out from beyond the bunker’s entrance, his voice echoing inside the small cave. “What are you doing? You’re not supposed to be in there.”