The Traveler 01-03 Home, Canyon, Wall
Page 46
Although Skinner muscled against his general, attempting to leverage his exceptional strength, Rufus Buck was surprisingly strong in his adrenaline-fueled rage. Skinner was failing, and the dizzying buzz in his head, accentuated by the blurred vision of Roof’s gritted teeth, only made it worse. Roof drove him backward, off his feet and onto the dirt.
His hat flew off when his head snapped back and slammed onto the ground with a sickening thud. Skinner bit clean into his tongue at impact and tasted the warm, coppery taste of his blood pouring into his mouth.
Roof was on top of him, straddling him as he pushed downward on Skinner’s neck. With his free hand, he palmed Skinner’s face and shoved it sideways into the gravelly dirt.
Skinner was losing consciousness. Before he blacked out, Roof released the pressure on his throat. Skinner gasped and choked on the blood draining into his throat. He rolled onto his side and coughed until his chest burned. He opened his eyes, his vision returning to focus, and saw dark red splatter on the dirt in front of him.
His tongue was thick and throbbing. He curled his knees up toward his chest and reached for his tender neck. His body couldn’t decide which pain to focus on. Everything hurt.
“You don’t know,” growled Roof with a vitriolic tone Skinner had never before heard from him, “so you don’t get to judge. Try it again, Cyrus. Try taking a tone with me. Try threatening me. I’ll end you.”
Roof delivered a forceful kick to Skinner’s lower back, and he emitted a cry that sounded like a frog dying in the jaws of a copperhead. He didn’t recognize it as his own voice, but knew the shrill cry must have come from him. The solid pulsating pain in his back told him so.
He didn’t have the strength, the breath, or the tongue to speak. He could feel the weight of his body sinking into the ground, searching for some modicum of comfort. Still, Skinner thought to himself through the fog of pain, That’s the Roof I know.
***
General Roof marched back to the stadium. He kept balling his hands into tight fists before releasing them and extending his fingers as far as they would stretch.
He pounded through the entry and back into the meeting room adjacent to where he’d bunked for the last week. His leg ached as if a storm were coming. His teeth were clenched vise tight until he spoke.
“Computer on,” he said. The trio of wide screens flickered awake. “Conference generals. Live chat.”
A series of numbers and letters moved across the center screen. It reset itself and Roof’s face appeared on the fifty-inch-wide panel. The monitors to either side clicked and hummed to life.
The screen to the left, assigned to General Harvey Logan, flashed the words “Connection Offline”. To the right, General Parrott Manuse’s wizened face pixelated into focus.
“What is it, Roof?” Manuse asked, rubbing his Play-Doh chin. He was chewing something. “I’m eating lunch,” he smacked. There was a man wearing red boots standing behind him, toward the back of the room. He was Manuse’s head of security.
“I want to make sure everyone is on board with the plan of action,” Roof said.
Manuse’s tributary-mapped face grew larger in the monitor. His already almond-shaped eyes narrowed further. “Your face is red,” he said. “You’re sweating too. What’s going on?”
“I want to wait for Harvey,” said Roof. “He’s not online yet.”
Manuse stabbed something with a fork and shoveled it between his teeth. His eyes shifted to the right as he chewed with his mouth open. “I don’t see him either. Where is he?” The man in the red boots brought him a bottled water and then returned to the back of the frame.
“I don’t know,” said Roof. “It’s a Sunday. He doesn’t usually leave the house.”
“Huh.” Manuse pulled a bottle to his lips and gulped audibly. His pronounced Adam’s apple slid up and down as he chugged until the bottle was empty. He smacked his lips again and tongued the foamy liquid from his lips.
“You might as well tell me what’s what and let General Logan figure it out later,” Manuse said. “Maybe he’s fussing with that baby of his. Or he’s fiddling with that young wife. Either way, I’m not inclined to wait.”
“Fine,” Roof huffed. “This affects him more than you. One of his captains, Charlie Pierce, is either dead or will be.”
Manuse licked the front of his teeth. “That the one you sent to the canyon? The spy?”
“Yes,” said Roof. “He gave us some good intel, but he was compromised and had to take action. He’s probably found out by now.”
“That it?”
“No,” Roof said. “I’ve got a couple more things to discuss. First, have you sent your posses from Dallas?”
“They leave in the morning,” Manuse replied. “They’ll be moving slow. Probably be a day before they get there. They’ll hit the north edge of the rim like we planned. Last I talked to Logan, his men we’re gonna come northwest and attack from the western side of the canyon. They’re set to leave after dark tonight.”
Roof nodded. “Good. San Antonio’s already left. They’re moving up through Skinner’s territory and coming north through Abilene. They’ll grab the southern rim. I’ve got one advance team from Wichita Falls that may hit them tonight. They’re made up of good men, all posse bosses. They’re moving up Highway 287, approaching from the southeast. They’ll do a little reconnaissance, which will add to the real-time actionable intelligence we got from Pierce.”
Manuse plunged a finger into his nostril and fished around as he talked. “And your men in Lubbock will make their way to the western edge from Amarillo?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll position ourselves at a good distance and then hit them in waves,” said Manuse. “That canyon is a double-edged sword.”
“How so?”
“They can hunker down inside its steep walls,” Manuse said. He was talking with his hands. “They can make themselves nice and cozy there, but they can’t see us coming from all angles. They don’t have enough people to surround the place. When we hit them, they’ll be surrounded. Sitting ducks.”
“Maybe,” said Roof. “All they’ve had to do in the past was guard part of the rim. They protected the easiest descents into the canyon and let the impassability of most of it do their work for them.”
“We’ve never used this kind of manpower,” said Manuse. “We’ve let them think they could hold their own, keep us at bay. Not anymore.”
Roof folded his arms across his chest. He stared at the monitor without a connection and thought about what he’d done to Skinner. A wave of nausea washed over him when he considered Marcus Battle coordinating a defense of the canyon. He’d made a mistake letting Battle live. Even with the intelligence Pierce had gleaned, it wasn’t worth it.
Battle might have slipped tactically and might have begun a solitary descent into madness, but he was a lucky man, a man who found fortune where there was none. And Skinner was right about one thing: Battle didn’t know when he was beat.
Roof hadn’t been afraid of anything or anyone since he’d survived the IED Elmo in Aleppo. He’d resolved to be fearless and reckless and immoral. He lost himself in the blank screen, thinking about the fear swimming under the uneasy rapid racing through his gut.
Marcus Battle frightened him. There it was. The truth for a man who’d lied to himself for so long. That was why he hadn’t killed him or let Skinner do the deed. He was afraid.
Manuse tapped on his camera to get Roof’s attention. “What else is there?” he asked. “You said there were a couple of things.”
Nothing else,” he said. “Let me know if you get a hold of Harvey.”
“Yep.” Manuse ended the call. His screen went blank.
There was a knock at the door. Roof turned to find a chubby grunt filling the gap between the open door and the frame. His eyes were wide and he had blood all over his tight-fitting shirt. He tugged on his pants at the empty belt loops.
Roof shrugged impatiently. “What?”
&nbs
p; “Somebody beat up Captain Skinner pretty good,” said the grunt. “I don’t know who it was. I thought I should—”
Roof raised his hand to stop the grunt’s mouth from moving. “Who are you?”
The grunt looked down, averting his eyes. “They call me Porky.”
“I beat him up, Porky,” said Roof. “He gonna live?”
Porky’s eyes widened and then narrowed with confusion. He bobbed his head up and down. “Yes. I think so. His tongue, though.”
“What about it?” Roof walked toward the grunt as he spoke.
“It’s messed up,” said Porky. “It’s…he can’t talk.”
“Get him some ice from the mess hall,” said Roof. “He’ll be fine by the time we move out tomorrow.”
“Sir, General, sir, I don’t know if—”
“He’ll be fine,” said Roof. “We’re gonna need every last man on this run. He better be fine. If he’s not—” Roof stepped to within six inches of the grunt and leaned in “—I’m holding you responsible.”
CHAPTER 8
OCTOBER 25, 2037, 3:43 PM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
PALO DURO CANYON, TEXAS
Felipe Baadal stood outside the entry flap of Juliana Paagal’s tent. He looked up at the sun and noticed it had dropped maybe fifteen degrees since he’d started waiting. He guessed an hour had passed. When he’d left her, she was communicating on a satellite phone with someone in Houston. She’d asked him politely to give her privacy. It was what she called a “high-level conversation”.
The cool, dry October air made the wait palatable. It was a far cry from desert patrols in mid-July. Baadal put his hands on his hips and twisted to stretch his back. He put one hand on the opposite elbow and pulled. He purred from the relief.
“Sore?” Paagal emerged from the tent and moved into the sunlight, her hand lingering on the red flap.
Baadal stopped midtwist and turned with a smile. A torrent of warmth flooded his body. His cheeks flushed. “It’s the mattress.”
“Ah,” said Paagal. “The mattress.”
Baadal’s eyes widened as he remembered his fingers trailing along her toned arms, his olive skin a faint contrast with her smooth brown complexion. His pulse quickened when he thought about what else had happened before he fell asleep on the lumpy mattress. Before he’d had to leave when Battle appeared in the middle of the night with urgent news.
“You know,” she said, stepping closer to him, “you are the first man in a long time to…” She smiled. Her eyebrows curled into an arch, finishing her sentence for her.
Baadal wanted to push her inside the tent. He knew it would have to wait. There was work to do.
“And you’re the first woman in I don’t know how long.”
She touched his chest with the flat of her hand. Her eyes told him she was as eager as he to lose herself.
The smile drained from Baadal’s face. “I have to remind you,” he said earnestly, “I’m not a good man.”
Juliana Paagal pulled her hand from his chest and raised it to Baadal’s smooth cheek. “I’m not a good woman,” she said. “But we’re both survivors. That’s a place to start. I wish I’d gotten to know you more intimately before now.”
Her eyes shifted from his and she looked over his shoulder. Baadal turned to see what had caught her attention.
“I’m interrupting again,” said Marcus Battle, Lola and Sawyer in tow. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be a buzz kill.”
Paagal dropped her hand to her side and shook her head. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not,” said Battle. “You shook your head no while you were telling me it was okay. Subconsciously, you’d rather I not have interrupted.”
Paagal smirked. “A dose of my own medicine, as it were?”
Battle shrugged. “Maybe. I think you’re going to want to hear what we’ve got to say.”
Lola sidled up to Battle. She reached for Sawyer’s hand and held it, lacing her fingers between her son’s. Paagal folded her arms across her chest.
“What is it?” asked Baadal when nobody else took the lead. He sensed Battle, Lola, and Sawyer had something important, something urgent to tell them. He could see it on their faces.
Battle, he’d learned, was aptly named. It wasn’t only because of his survival skills or tenacity. It was also because the man always wore the face of someone in pain, trouble brewing beneath the surface and ready to erupt in the right conditions.
Lola, Baadal had come to believe in the short time he’d known her, was like reading an open book written in large bold print for kindergartners. Her emotions were sprawled on her face, in the way she stood, in the tone of her voice.
Lola squeezed her son’s hand and cleared her throat. “Battle told us you’re about to go to war with the Cartel. You been planning it, he said.”
Paagal nodded. Her eyes bounced between Lola and Battle. “Yes. That’s true.”
“He said you would offer help getting past the wall if we agreed to stay and fight,” said Lola.
“Yes. That is also true.”
“You’ll be able to get us to the other side?”
“Yes.”
Lola took a step toward Paagal, bringing Sawyer with her, and offered her free hand to the leader of the Dwellers. Paagal looked down at the offer and took Lola’s hand. She shook it firmly.
“We’ll fight,” said Lola resolutely. “Whatever we need to do to put an end to them, we’ll do.”
Paagal let go of Lola’s hand and nodded. “Good,” she said. “We’ll meet tonight to discuss what we do here in the canyon. The plan itself is already under way.”
Battle’s eyes went hard and his shoulders squared. “What do you mean already under way?”
Baadal had deduced the high-level conversation that forced him from the confines of the tent was specifically about whatever effort Paagal had initiated. He looked at her as she pressed her lips together, seemingly weighing the pros and cons of divulging too much information to relative outsiders.
“C’mon,” Battle pushed. “We agreed to fight for you, to give our lives for your cause. You can tell us what’s happening.”
Paagal crossed her arms and snickered condescendingly. “Let’s not confuse our mutually beneficial arrangement with benevolence on either of our parts.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” asked Lola.
Paagal opened her mouth to speak but paused. She took a deep breath and let it out. “It means,” she said, “this is a quid pro quo. I said as much when we spoke early this morning. You do for us and we do for you. You’re not helping us out of the kindness of your hearts, Lola. And we’re not taking you to the wall because we’re offering a free taxi service.”
Battle looked at Lola and then back at Paagal. He pointed his finger at her as he spoke in a measured but forceful tone. “Nobody said anything about benevolence or a free ride other than you. My point was that you need to trust us with information if we’re going to fight for your cause. Regardless of the motivation behind our help, you owe us that much.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” said Paagal. “You came here as a guest. You can leave whenever you want.” She pointed back at Battle, her finger wagging amongst Lola, Sawyer, and him.
Paagal stepped closer to Battle, her arms straight at her sides. Her hands were squeezed into fists. Any hint of a smile had melted from the fiery gaze she shot at Battle. “The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy so that he cannot fathom our real intent,” she seethed. “Whoever is first in the field and awaits the coming of the enemy will be fresh for the fight.”
“So you can quote Sun Tzu,” said Battle, his eyes searching hers as he spoke. “That doesn’t make you a general.”
“Neither does being a soldier,” she spat, her muscular arms flexing with the intensity of her words. “Nor does being a man on the brink of insanity. You speak of trust? Trust me when I tell you we are already winning the war. You either join us tonight to learn what comes next or you don’t.”
“What the hell happened?” asked Lola.
“She let me know who is in control,” he said, “and it’s not us.”
***
Battle motioned for Lola and Sawyer to follow him back toward their tents. Theirs were about one hundred yards from Paagal’s command center, tucked amidst a dozen rows of similar four-person tents. Lola had offered to share with Battle, telling him they were only three. A four-person tent, she’d suggested, would be enough. Battle had declined, using the excuse that tents actually only comfortably accommodated half the number of those advertised. He’d told her she should be happy to have her own space.
They reached their row, their tents adjacent to each other, and Battle suggested they get some rest. Once the fighting started, it could be days before anybody got any real sleep.
Sawyer ducked inside and left Lola and Battle standing in the alley between the tents. It was quiet other than the flapping of the nylon pitches against the swirling breeze and the rustle of thirsty, dying leaves on the nearby outcrop of soapberry trees.
“You might have crossed a line with her,” Lola said softly.
Battle cocked his head. “How so?”
“The trust thing,” she said. “Everyone is entitled to skepticism without judgment, Marcus.”
Battle laughed. “Maybe some,” he said. “Not all.”
Lola looked at the dirt. “Masochism isn’t attractive,” she said and took a step closer to Battle. She stood on her tiptoes, pulled him forward by his shoulders, and kissed his cheek. She blushed. “I’m taking that nap you suggested,” she said and ducked into her tent without waiting for her dumbstruck mark to react.
Battle stood motionless for a moment. It had happened so quickly and he’d acquiesced without pulling away. What did that mean?
“It means you’re human.” Sylvia’s voice was back. “It means you haven’t entirely lost who you are.”