The Traveler 01-03 Home, Canyon, Wall

by Tom Abrahams

  Sawyer took the basket from his mother and held it for her. “What if it’s worse than this side of the wall?” he asked. “What if we have it better here than there?”

  Lola bristled. “I don’t know what could be worse than living under the Cartel,” she snapped, her eyes flashing with a bolt of anger before filling with sadness. “You know the things I’ve done to keep us alive.”

  Sawyer recoiled and stepped back from Lola, seemingly surprised by her reaction. “I was just saying—”

  “We know,” said Battle softly. “It’s a fair question, Sawyer. We could be jumping from the frying pan into the proverbial fire. We can’t live here.”

  Sawyer’s eyes darted between his mother and Battle. “Why not?”

  Battle didn’t have an answer for Sawyer. He couldn’t rationalize to a thirteen-year-old why they couldn’t stay in the canyon with the Dwellers. He knew instinctively this was not the place for them.

  He’d lived in environments like this before: pockets of resistance trying to overthrow powerful despots. If the insurgency failed, they’d die or live in fear of dying under conditions worse than those in which they’d previously lived. If it succeeded, the insurgents would rule a fractured state. At best, they’d restore a wire-thin order to a lawless land. At worst, the power vacuum created by the fall of the suppressive dictator would give rise to new, more violently desperate factions fighting to control the new world. It was best not to be on the southern side of the wall when that happened.

  Battle stepped to Sawyer and put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “We can’t,” he said. “We just can’t.”

  CHAPTER 6

  OCTOBER 25, 2037, 1:45 PM

  SCOURGE +5 YEARS

  HOUSTON, TEXAS

  Ana rocked in the chair, rolling her toes forward and back on the cold wood-planked floor as she comforted her daughter. Ana’s blouse was unbuttoned from having breast fed, and the child gripped her open collar. The child cooed and burped into her mother’s neck.

  Ana closed her eyes as she rocked. Back and forth. Back and forth. The movement was soothing to the child. For her, it was the equivalent of anxiously pacing. Her mind was swimming with regret.

  She never should have agreed to join the Dwellers. She never should have agreed to do the things they’d asked of her. She never should have had this child.

  A wave of guilt washed over her as that last thought played itself over and again in her mind. She pulled her hand from the child’s back and caressed her head. Her black hair was so soft. It was curly and had grown across the top of her head. Ana nuzzled the baby and inhaled her aroma before placing a kiss right behind her ear.

  Penny was the child’s name. She was beginning to socialize, to understand phrases, and babble. Ana knew it would only be a few weeks before Penny walked. She was already wobbling from table to table, chair to chair.

  She was as striking a child as her mother was a woman. Large, inviting brown eyes, light brown skin. Anyone who saw her was drawn to her as if her aura invited them closer.

  Ana was cursed with the same gift. It was why the Dwellers recruited her. They knew the task that they’d assigned was suited for her. She’d succeed, they’d told her.

  So far, she had.

  She shifted Penny from one shoulder to the other and gently rubbed her back until she sensed the baby falling asleep. Penny’s head was resting in her mother’s neck; a soft gurgle tickled her mother with each breath.

  Ana stopped rocking and tried to button her blouse with one hand without waking Penny. She’d completed one of the three when a voice in the doorway startled her.

  “You don’t have to button up on account of me,” said the tall, weathered man leaning against the frame. A smile snaked across his face and he winked.

  Ana jumped at the sound of his voice, managing not to wake the baby. She pulled her finger to her lips. “When did you get home?” she whispered.

  The man strode into the nursery as if he owned it, because he did. His boots thumped on the floor as he stepped toward Ana and Penny. He reached the rocker and stroked the baby’s head.

  “She’s sleeping,” said Ana. “It’s not often I can get her to take a lunchtime nap. She’s outgrowing them.”

  The man’s hand moved to Ana’s face and he gently touched her cheek. He towered above her, his chin at his chest as he looked down at her. He slid his hand inside her open blouse, trailing his fingers across her body. His unblinking eyes were affixed to hers.

  “Why are you home?” Ana pressed. She didn’t dare remove his hand.

  The man pulled his hand from her skin and raised his finger to his lips. He motioned to the crib before reaching for the child. He took Penny, cradled her, kissed her forehead, and then slowly lowered her into the bed. He looked back at Ana and nodded toward the door.

  Ana stood from the rocker and buttoned her blouse. She tiptoed from the room and met the man in what he liked to call “the settin’ room.” He’d already found the worn easy chair and had his feet up on the ottoman. His arms were perched on the chair’s wide arms. She moved to the loveseat opposite him.

  The decidedly masculine décor of the room, complete with a buck’s head above the encased gas fireplace, preexisted their having moved into the large townhouse. It was among the nicer remaining homes near what used to be downtown Houston. It was an area north of the central business district called Midtown.

  He’d picked the house, displacing another family, when Ana had agreed to move in with him. She didn’t have a choice, really. She was carrying his child and cohabitation was part of the plan.

  “What’s for lunch?” he asked. “You cook me up something in the microwave?”

  “The power’s out again,” she said. “When did you get home?”

  “The gas should work,” he said. “You could make some corn chowder.”

  Ana ran her fingers through her wavy black hair. “I already have some beef broth in the refrigerator,” she said. “I should probably heat that up. It’ll go bad if I don’t.”

  He frowned. “Fine.” He waved her to the kitchen.

  Ana pushed herself to her feet. “When did you get home? I’ve asked you several—”

  “When did you get home?” he called from the chair. His words followed her along the short hallway to the galley kitchen. “Answer me that one.”

  Ana chose to pretend she hadn’t heard his question and opened the refrigerator. The chill was already dissipating. “What was that?” she called. “I couldn’t hear you.”

  “When did you get home?”

  Ana turned on the gas cooktop and flicked a lighter over the burner. It burst into a blue flame and she turned down the heat. “A while ago,” she said. “Maybe eleven o’clock.”

  He appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, swinging himself into the galley. “Where’d you go?” He plucked an apple from the granite countertop and took a large bite. He chewed loudly and used the back of his sleeve to wipe the juice from his chin.

  “Downtown,” she said. Ana couldn’t lie to him. She knew he had her followed when possible. She knew the nanny, a bar wench who was probably more than a nanny to him, would tell him exactly when she left and when she returned.

  “What for?” he asked through a mouthful of Red Delicious.

  “I’d planned on buying more fruit,” she said, stirring the broth into the pot. “But the market was closed.”

  “It’s a Sunday,” he said and crunched another bite. “It’s always closed on Sunday.”

  “I was thinking today was Saturday,” she said. “You don’t usually work outside the house on Sunday. So when you were gone when I woke up this morning, I thought it was Saturday.”

  “Huh.” He tossed the core into the trash bin on the far side of the kitchen and spun to leave. “How long on the broth?” he called as he walked away. “I’m hungry.”

  “Just a few minutes,” she said and peeked into the hall. He’d returned to his chair in the sitting room. She could see his boots o
n the ottoman.

  Ana ladled herself a bowl of the broth and then opened the freezer. Behind a set of ice trays, she’d hidden the gift Sidney Reilly had given her at the end of their meeting.

  She uncapped the bottle, and the smell of bitter almonds immediately hit her. She pulled the bottle away from her face, holding it at arm’s length, and tapped the contents into the broth. The white crystals, which looked like sugar, dissolved into the liquid immediately.

  She stirred the broth with a wooden spoon until the plain brown soup swirled on its own. She recapped the empty bottle and replaced it in the freezer behind the empty trays.

  “A half a gram of potassium cyanide is likely to kill him within a few days,” Sid had told her. “I gave you two grams. Give him all of it.”

  To mask the acidic taste of the poison, Ana added a healthy dose of chili powder to the broth and waited for it to reach a simmer. She washed her hands in the sink, her hands stiffening from the cold water, and she wiped them on the hand towel lying on the counter. She was careful not to inhale the steam from the broth. Sidney told her that heating the cyanide would create a dangerous gas.

  “It’s almost ready,” she called to him. “You want a beer?”

  “That would be great,” he said. “Some beer, some broth, and then some you.”

  Ana swallowed the sting of bile in her throat as she envisioned giving herself to him again. She’d been able to detach for so long. Once the baby came, the plot thickened, and the rebellion grew closer, it became more difficult to play along. She was afraid he’d begun to sense it. To ward off his suspicions, she’d had to up the ante in ways she’d never enjoyed.

  She found a serving tray in the generous pantry and set his bowl of soup, a bottle of room-temperature beer, a spoon, and a bottle opener on top of it. Ana took in a deep breath and, holding the tray at arm’s length, carried his lunch into the sitting room.

  General Harvey Logan rubbed his hands together and sat forward in the chair when he saw her. He rubbed his bald head and licked his lips.

  “Enjoy,” Ana said to her mark. She handed him the tray, which he set on the ottoman. “It’s a bit spicy,” she added. “If you want another beer, I’ll get it for you.”

  He looked at her warily. “Aren’t you gonna eat? I like it when you eat with me.”

  Ana nodded and spun on her bare heel to go back to the kitchen. “Yes,” she said. “I poured myself a bowl. I’ll go get it now.”

  “I’ll wait for you,” he said and snapped off the top of the beer bottle with the opener. He pointed the bottle at her and took a slug. “Hurry up.”

  Ana’s heart was pounding. She could feel the cold dampness under her arms and at the nape of her neck under her hair. She picked up her bowl and dropped a spoon into it. She cradled it with both trembling hands and found her place on the love seat.

  He swallowed a swig of beer and belched. “You’re shaking,” he said.

  “I’m cold.”

  “Take a sip of the broth,” he ordered. “I’m waiting on you. I gotta be a gentleman and all.” He winked and took a final pull of the beer.

  Ana pulled the spoon to her lips and sipped the warm, salty broth. She took another sip. And another. “It’s good,” she said and looked at his bowl.

  General Logan set the empty bottle on the tray in front of him and cupped the bowl with both hands. He brought it to his lips, tilted the bowl, and downed the soup. The hot liquid streamed down the sides of his face as he drank it.

  “Ahhh,” he said. He plopped the empty bowl onto the tray and smacked his lips. “Whew,” he said. “That’s got a kick, don’t it?” He shook his head like a wet dog and exhaled loudly, his lips flapping.

  Ana sipped another spoonful. “Too much chili powder?”

  “Whew,” he said again and punched his sternum with the side of his fist. “Maybe. How much did you put in it?” Sweat bloomed on his bald head as he stood from the discomfort of his chair.

  Ana took another sip. “Not more than usual,” she said indifferently, unaware of the speed with which she’d killed the father of her child. “Do you want another beer?”

  Harvey Logan, one of three living Cartel generals, stumbled forward. His eyes widened and he gasped. He fell forward, crashing against the wooden table that separated the chair from the love seat.

  Ana shrieked and dropped her soup, splashing it into her lap. She curled her legs behind her, crawling into the back of the love seat.

  General Logan landed on his side, facing Ana. He grabbed his throat and twitched. His arms and legs spasmed. He growled something as white foam frothed from his open mouth.

  Inside Logan’s body, the poison was preventing his ability to use oxygen. His central nervous system, his heart and blood vessels, and his lungs were shutting down as if someone had flipped the switch on an electrical generator. A cell at a time, he was suffocating from the inside out.

  Ana screamed between gasps for air. Her chest heaved and she sobbed with the reality of what she’d done. Harvey Logan was a detestable, violent man. He was responsible for the misery of thousands, but he was human. His bulging eyes and bluish skin were images burned into her memory, an everlasting reminder of her betrayal.

  Ana had done a lot of reprehensible things to survive post-Scourge. Most people had. She’d never killed anyone though. Not until now.

  Her wails and her cries were not for Logan as he dove painfully headfirst into a coma and then died. They were for her own soul. She was a murderer.

  From the nursery, she heard Penny crying. The baby’s wail was piercing and angry. Ana covered her ears with the palms of her hands and squeezed. She pulled her knees to her chest and closed her eyes tight, pressing tears down her cheeks. She buried her head between her knees and rocked.

  CHAPTER 7

  OCTOBER 25, 2037, 2:51 PM

  SCOURGE +5 YEARS

  LUBBOCK, TEXAS

  Cyrus Skinner tapped the last cigarette from the pack and slid it between his lips. He crumpled the cellophane-wrapped cardboard in his hand and tossed it to the dirt in front of the Jones.

  “Those things are gonna kill you,” said General Roof. He was leaning against a Humvee.

  “If something’s gonna kill me,” Skinner said, “it might as well be something I love.”

  Skinner tipped his white hat back on his head and looked at the general. Roof wasn’t himself. He appeared preoccupied and unfocused.

  They were on the precipice of a defining moment for the Cartel, and Roof seemed disinterested. Skinner lit the cigarette and sucked in the bitter taste of the tobacco as the paper crackled and burned.

  He blew out the smoke from the corner of his mouth, careful not to direct it at Roof. “What’s going on with you, if I can ask?” said Skinner.

  Roof looked at Skinner sideways and combed his fingers through his beard. “You can ask.”

  Skinner sucked in his cheeks, pinched the smoke, and flicked the ashes onto the ground. He exhaled again. “So then?”

  “I know Marcus Battle.”

  “Mad Max?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I know him too,” said Skinner. “He’s an ornery cuss. True enough, he’s a badass, but he don’t know when he’s beat.”

  Roof’s eyes narrowed. He pouted and shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’ve known him for a long time. Or I knew him is more like it.”

  Skinner played that over in his head. It didn’t make sense. He dropped the cigarette to the ground and ground it into the dirt with the toe of his boot. “I don’t get it.”

  Roof adjusted his shirt collar, pulling it up on the back of his neck. “What’s not to get, Cyrus?” he asked incredulously, looking off into the distance. “I knew him. Marcus Battle. We served together in Syria. He…”

  Roof drifted off, and Skinner wondered where the general’s mind had taken him. He knew Roof had served in Syria. Everybody knew that. Everybody knew that was where he’d killed his first man, his first woman, his first child. They also knew Syr
ia was where Roof almost died. Nobody knew how. That was all conjecture and campfire gossip on long posse rides.

  “He what?” Skinner asked, snapping Roof to the present.

  Roof’s eyes fluttered and he looked over at Skinner. “He saved my life.”

  The look on Skinner’s face must have conveyed the surprise he felt inside, because Roof took a step back and looked at the ground, as if he were ashamed of what he’d revealed.

  Skinner motioned his head toward the stadium. “That why you let him live after the Jones?”

  “Partially,” he said. “I also saw an opportunity to gain access to the canyon.”

  “And he didn’t recognize you?” asked Skinner. “Even after he saved your life and all?”

  “Guess not,” said Roof. “Maybe it’s the hair or the beard. I’ve gained weight. I’ve aged. Who knows?”

  A smirk spread across Skinner’s face. “It makes sense now,” he snarled, judgment oozing from his dry, cracked lips. “That’s why you didn’t want me to kill him. That’s why you wanted him brought to you here.” Skinner shook his head in disgust. He snorted as he inhaled through his nose then spat of thick glob of snot onto the ground. “I wonder what the other generals would think.”

  Roof’s jaw tightened and his shoulders squared. He stepped to Skinner and stuck his finger into the captain’s chest. “You best watch yourself, Cyrus.” He poked. “Don’t forget your place.”

  Skinner held his ground, forcing Roof’s finger to bend against the weight. “I ain’t forgot nothin’, General. I ain’t gonna forget neither.” His eyes dove deep into Roof’s, staring until it was uncomfortable. “You got a soft spot for Mad Max. It’s gonna get a lot of people killed.”

  In a swift move Skinner didn’t see coming, Roof snapped his wrist upward and wrapped his thick, muscular fingers around Skinner’s neck. He squeezed the surprise onto the captain’s purpled face. Skinner grappled with Roof’s wrists and forearms, unsuccessfully trying to loosen the grip.