by Tom Abrahams
“I just stumbled in here,” Pierce had lied. “I was out for a walk…”
The sentry had stepped into the cave, aiming a penlight at Pierce’s face. It had been otherwise dark save the glowing green and blue lights on the two-way transmitters. “It’s two o’clock in the morning.”
“Yeah.” Pierce had shrugged before making his deadly move. Now he found himself dragging a body along the canyon floor.
The canyon was immense in size. It ran seventy miles long and, at its widest, twenty miles across. Its walls stretched skyward close to nine hundred feet from the floor. Pierce had learned in his brief stay that the Dwellers were experts at navigating and protecting it. Pierce had done everything he could to soak in as much information as possible. He’d listened to conversations, observed patterns of movement and behavior, and he’d absorbed the bizarre philosophical bent of the bellicose pacifists who gave themselves Hindi names in a freakish ritual that, to Pierce’s limited theological education, bore no resemblance to Hinduism.
Pierce had done his job invisibly until he’d killed the sentry. He’d performed exactly as the general had instructed.
“Be a fly on the wall,” General Roof had said the night before he put him in the Jones. “Learn as much as you can about how they work. Then, when we attack, damage whatever defensive systems you can and run.”
They were broad orders with little assurance of survival. Pierce gladly accepted the challenge. He had no family. He’d grown tired of his monotonous and sour post-scourge existence. This was an adventure with the promise of greater things to come should he succeed and live.
Pierce blinked against another flash of lightning and shivered at the first icy drops of rain that smacked against his head and shoulders. The storm was coming.
He was running out of time to dispose of the body in a way that made the sentry’s death look like an accident. He needed to finish the job and return to the camp before anyone knew he was missing.
Pierce looked around at his surroundings. He couldn’t see much beyond a few feet except when the lightning flashed. He decided this spot was as good as any. The ache in his lower back made the choice as much as his brain.
He lifted up his shirt and reached into his baggy, sweat- and dirt-stained pants. Strapped to his leg was a gift General Roof had given him. He flipped it open and pressed a series of numbers before pulling the satellite phone to his ear. It took a couple of minutes for the satellite to acquire his signal. When it did, he heard a series of warbling rings.
The general answered with a voice more gravelly than usual. “It’s two in the morning,” he said.
The rain was intensifying. The drops were heavier and equally as cold. Pierce wiped the water from his eyes. “I found their communications hub. They’re working with two-way radios. I’ve got the frequencies.”
“Go ahead,” said the general. “Give them to me.”
“Four sixty-seven point fifty-eight seventy-five,” Pierce answered. “Four sixty-two fifty-eight seventy-five. Four four six zero zero and four forty-six five.”
“Only four frequencies?”
“That I could tell.”
“So they’ve got a two-mile range.”
“I don’t know.”
“And they’re operational?”
Pierce squatted, resting his weight on his heels. He shielded his face from the rain and tried to cup the phone tight to his ear. The rain was making it difficult to hear. “What?”
“They’re operational?”
“They seem to be,” said Pierce. “They’ve got a generator charging the batteries.”
The signal was beginning to weaken. “Are they onto you?”
Pierce turned his back to the gusts of wind blowing through the canyon. “No.”
“You sure?”
“I had to kill a guy,” Pierce admitted. His body involuntarily trembled from the cold.
“That changes things.”
“I’ll be f-f-fine,” Pierce stammered. His jaw was beginning to ache from his chattering teeth. The temperature had dropped what felt like fifteen degrees in a few seconds. The rain was beating down, slapping Pierce’s neck and arms with a cold sting.
The general’s voice was hollow and digitally distorted. “Hello?”
Pierce pulled the phone from his ear and looked at the signal. It was nonexistent. He pressed a button to end the call, wiped the screen with the tail of his shirt, and stood to stuff it back into his pants.
“Pierce?” a voice called from behind him.
Pierce spun as thunder shuddered through his shivering body. A flash of lightning revealed a dark figure standing a few feet from him. Pierce couldn’t make out the man’s features, but he knew who it was and saw the gun in his hand.
“What are you doing, Pierce?” Marcus Battle asked the question as if he already knew the answer.
Pierce balled his hands into fists. He set his feet shoulder width apart and braced himself for the coming confrontation. “What do you think I’m doing?” he asked, the rain spilling into his eyes as he tried to focus on Battle’s right hand.
“Helping the Cartel.”
Pierce laughed. “You’re quick on the uptake,” he said. “I’ve been helping the Cartel since you chose to take me from the Jones. You’re not nearly as smart as you think you are.”
“You were a plant.”
“Something like that.”
Battle waved his weapon at the body on the ground. “And you killed this Dweller here?”
Pierce had his eyes on the gun. “Something like that.”
“Just killed him. No reason.”
Pierce shuddered against the cold. Rain sprayed from his lips as he spat. “Who the hell are you to judge which side is right and which is wrong? You’re a homeless vigilante. You—”
The single shot from Battle’s nine millimeter was hidden by the throaty roar of thunder rolling through the gypsum, shale, and sandstone walls, but it traveled straight into Pierce’s open mouth and dropped him where he stood.
“Homeless vigilante?” asked Battle. He stepped toward the pair of bodies on the flooding canyon floor and crouched down. He looked into Pierce’s eyes. “Something like that.”
CHAPTER 2
OCTOBER 25, 2037, 3:00 AM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
PALO DURO CANYON, TEXAS
Battle tossed the satellite phone onto the wood-planked table in front of Juliana Paagal. It slid to the edge and came to a rest between her elbows. Paagal was leaning forward, her chin resting on the knuckles of her folded hands.
She was a regal woman who carried herself with quiet dignity. Her ink-black short hair gave her a youthful appearance that belied her age. Her coffee-colored skin blended with the light brown sleeveless top hanging on her narrow shoulders.
Paagal, as she’d asked Battle to call her, had welcomed the weary travelers without question. She trusted fellow Dweller Baadal’s judgment as her own.
She and Battle were alone in her large ten-person tent. The rain was constant and deafening against the tent’s red nylon walls. There was a lone light hanging from the center pitch of the large space Paagal called her home. A bare mattress and lumpy feather pillow sat atop a futon in one corner, a threadbare wool sofa in another. An orange extension cord snaked its way across the dirt floor and provided enough electricity to power the light and a hot plate perched on one side of the table.
“So you were right,” she said, her ice blue eyes staring unblinkingly at Battle without lowering them to look at the satellite phone. “He was a spy.”
“I apologize for bringing him here,” said Battle. “It’s my fault.”
Paagal shook her head and smiled. Her eyes narrowed as she spoke. “It was not your fault, Marcus. I am the one who allowed you here. The blame rests with me.”
“He killed one of your sentries,” said Battle. “It happened inside a communications bunker a couple of miles from here. I wasn’t trailing close enough to stop him.”
“Ahhh,
” she said, lowering her arms and nodding. “That would be Sahaayak. He was a good helper. We will miss his kindness and his soul.”
Battle nodded at the phone. “Take a look at that,” he said. “Pierce used it to call the Cartel. I’m guessing he was giving them intelligence about your two-way radio system.”
The smile evaporated from Paagal’s face. “Where is Pierce?” she asked. “I can ask him directly what he was doing. I’d rather not make any assumptions.”
Battle hesitated and bit the inside of his cheek. “He’s dead.”
Paagal cupped a hand behind her ear, catching the large wooden hoop hanging from the lobe. “He’s what?”
The slap of the rain on the nylon made it hard to carry on a conversation, especially given that Battle didn’t really want Paagal to hear him. “I killed him,” he said above the din.
Paagal nodded. “I see.”
“I shot him. His body is next to Saya—”
Paagal spoke slowly, a syllable at a time. “Sa-ha-a-yak.”
“Sahaayak,” Battle said. “They’re maybe a quarter mile from the bunker.”
“Well—” Paagal sighed “—I’ll go ahead and make an assumption then. I’ll assume your life was in danger and you had no choice but to defend yourself. Otherwise, killing Pierce would have been a reckless and cruel act unbefitting a man who, up until now, I’ve given great respect. You’re former military. You know the value of a prisoner who has information to impart voluntarily…or involuntarily, especially given all of the extra Cartel patrols we’ve spotted nearing the rim.”
Battle pulled out a chair and sat down at the table across from Paagal. He leaned in, his forearms resting on the rough-hewn wood. “My life wasn’t in danger. I wish I could say it was self-defense. I think I lost that impulse-control mechanism a while ago.”
Paagal leaned back in her chair and folded her long, lean arms across her chest. Her biceps flexed as she adjusted herself. “As you judged Pierce, I should not judge you,” she said with more than a hint of irony. “We all learn to function, to cope in different ways. Yours is to kill at the hint of a threat. I see a man who struggles with his own darkness. You see the light. You want to live in the light. But the dark is more comfortable for you, so you slink into its embrace at every opportunity.”
Battle laughed. “You were a shrink before the Scourge, weren’t you?”
Paagal nodded. A smile spread across her face. “You might consider I am still a shrink,” she said. “Being a leader requires the effective use of psychology.”
Battle scowled. “So what now?”
“I suppose I should ask you that question,” Paagal said. “You arrived here a week ago. You’ve recovered from your injuries. Your woman, Lola, is—”
“She’s not my woman,” said Battle.
Paagal’s eyebrows arched with doubt. She raised her hands in surrender. “Whatever you say. Your friend Lola is again walking without a limp. Her son seems healthy.”
“Your point?”
“We’ve not discussed your plans,” she said. “You are our guests for as long as you like,” her voice lilted.
“But…?”
“But,” she continued, “there is a war coming. You are a soldier.”
“I was a soldier.”
“Semantics, Mr. Battle,” she replied. “Do you plan to help us? Our common enemy is knocking at our door.”
Battle squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll be honest,” he said, “I need to get to the wall.”
“The wall.”
“The wall,” he repeated. “Lola and Sawyer need a fresh start, as fresh as can be had in this wasteland.”
“And you?”
Battle shrugged. “I don’t know about me. But I need to get them there.”
“It sounds to me as if you’re looking for a quid pro quo,” said Paagal. “You help us. We help you. I know Baadal discussed with you the wall and what may lie beyond.”
“He didn’t tell me what was on the other side,” Battle said. “I know the Cartel doesn’t exist north, east, or west of it.”
Juliana Paagal stared at Battle without saying anything for several minutes. Battle felt as if she were taking some sort of psychic inventory, taking mental notes without permission. He sat there, staring back at her, trying not to give away anything.
“Here’s what I want from you, Marcus Battle,” she said. “You help us defeat the Cartel, or degrade them such that they dare not attack us again, and we will help you find your way beyond the wall.”
Battle shook his head. “You can’t beat them,” he said. “They’re not only here. They’re everywhere. Abilene. Houston. Dallas. San Antonio. Austin. Galveston. You know that better than I.”
“That man, Pierce, the one you brought here is not the only spy,” she said. “We too have the ability to infiltrate.”
“Really.” It was less a question and more a doubtful dismissive.
“Ever since the truce,” she said, “we’ve been dispatching cells. They’ve lived and worked amongst the Cartel in those cities you mention. They’ve painstakingly recruited allies. All of them are ready to pounce when we signal them. We can end the Cartel. You’ve come at the right time.”
“Or the wrong time.” He sighed. “You’re talking about war.”
Paagal pressed her lips together. She scratched her left bicep and nodded. “I prefer to call it an insurrection or a revolution.”
“Semantics,” he said.
“Touché.”
“So you can beat the Cartel?”
“We believe so,” she said. “The time is upon us.”
“Then once the Cartel is beaten,” Battle said, leaning in, “I won’t need your help.”
“Yes, you will,” she said. “The Cartel is the largest, vilest of the organized groups to emerge after the Scourge. But they are not the only one. There are pockets of thieves and killers who live along the wall, who worm from one side of it to the other, feeding off of those who would cross it. You will need our help.”
Battle leaned back. He nodded. He knew he had no choice in the matter. “For being such a proclaimed pacifist, you seem eager to fight,” Battle observed. “Seems hypocritical.”
“Does it?” Paagal asked, her expression unchanged.
“I’m violent for the sake of violence,” he said. “Though I don’t like it, I admit it. It’s my cross to bear.” Battle thought about how he hadn’t prayed in days. He was losing his religion in the wilds of the untamed landscape that surrounded him. It wasn’t that he’d forgotten to pray. He didn’t feel like it.
“Interesting self-awareness,” said Paagal. “I would counter your assertion by suggesting I am for violence only because nonviolence means we continue postponing a solution.”
“Paraphrasing Malcolm X, are you?” Battle asked.
A sly grin crept across Paagal’s face, her magically white teeth aglow in the red hue of the tent. “Be peaceful, be courteous, obey the law, respect everyone; but if someone puts his hand on you, send him to the cemetery,” she said. “By any means necessary.”
CHAPTER 3
OCTOBER 25, 2037, 7:49 AM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
HOUSTON, TEXAS
Ana Montes was late. She hurried down the frozen escalator, her right hand sliding along the rubber railing as she descended into the darkness, her feet clomping on the aluminum steps. Even in the blackness of the underground tunnel, she knew where she was and where she needed to be. Ana stepped off the escalator threshold twenty feet below what remained of downtown Houston, Texas, and took fifteen steps straight ahead before turning ninety degrees to the right. Her footsteps echoed against the walls of the six-mile-long tunnel system, and she made another ninety-degree turn.
She could hear the hushed voices of the others. They’d begun without her. She took a deep breath and pushed her way into the room. It was lit with LED flashlights illuminating the faces of the dozen men and women who crowded around a map on a table.
All of them looked up at her when she slid into the room.
“You’re late,” growled the man at the center of the group. “We had to begin without you.”
“I couldn’t get away,” she said breathlessly and found her spot at the table. From her perspective, the map was upside down. She was opposite the man in charge.
His name was Sidney Reilly. Everyone called him Sid. He was the one who’d recruited most of them to join the Dwellers’ resistance.
His eyes lingered on Ana as he spoke. “As I was saying,” he huffed, “we are getting close. Within a day, maybe two, we’ll begin. Our job—”
“That soon?” Ana interrupted. “A day or two? I don’t think—”
Sid’s eyes narrowed; the shadows cast from the flashlight deepened across his furrowed brow. “I didn’t ask what you think. We move when we move. You’re either with us or you’re not, Ana.”
Ana shrank back from the table, trying to lessen the burn from the eyes glaring at her. She nodded and bit her lower lip. “I’m with you.”
Sid nodded and continued the briefing. Ana wasn’t listening. She was looking at the men and women flanking her to either side. One by one, Sid had convinced each of them the Cartel’s rule was coming to an end. All it would take was enough people to rise up. The ones at the table bought what he was selling.
Each of them then recruited their own cadre of revolutionaries. Those people, in turn, recruited another group. It was an uprising’s equivalent of multilevel marketing, and it provided for a stopgap plausible deniability should any one person flip or be discovered by the Cartel.
In all, Sid estimated they had as many as five thousand people on board. That number, they all knew, paled in comparison to Cartel loyalists. But under the right circumstances they were large enough to deliver crippling blows to the despots in charge of their city.
Next to Sid was Nancy Wake. She was a Cartel bookkeeper who had access to the locations and depth of their provisions, illicit drugs, weapons, transportation, and other holdings. Her husband, Wendell, was a disillusioned posse boss. Together, they were the deepest penetration into the Cartel’s Houston structure.