by Tom Abrahams
Battle hastily unzipped his tent and crawled inside. Although the soft bluish hue of the interior was calming, he was agitated. He pulled off his boots and tossed them into the corner. They kicked up dust when they clanked against the taut blue nylon wall and the top of the metal spike affixed to the outside of the tent.
“You’re not listening to me,” Sylvia droned. “She’s telling you how she feels. She wants to connect with you, Marcus. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Marcus tried to ignore Sylvia and instead concentrated on what Paagal had said to him before she’d turned away in anger. She’d quoted Sun Tzu for a reason. She’d chosen those passages from his work for a reason. It wasn’t arbitrary.
She wanted him to know what the plans were without appearing to have given in to his demands. She wanted to appear strong and resolute. Battle acknowledged to himself that was a smart thing to do. Baadal, and others, could only respect a strong leader who refused to negotiate.
If she’d outright told him her plans after he complained, it would get back to others that she’d caved against her better judgment. It would filter through the camps that Battle had bullied Paagal into divulging sensitive information.
She’d appear weak. He’d appear to be strong. The Dwellers could turn on her and follow him, defer to him, die for him.
Battle sat on the spongy cot that filled most of his tent and pulled his knees up to his chest. He crossed his ankles and wrapped his arms around his legs, holding them there with clasped hands. He rocked, thinking back to the conversation in Paagal’s tent that morning.
He remembered the hypnotic sound of the rain slapping the tent, the ethereal red glow that filled the space, Paagal’s calm temper. She’d as much as told him then how the war would begin on her terms.
“Ever since the truce,” she’d 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.”
She’d signaled them. The viral cells she’d implanted within the Cartel were live. They were spreading. She was doing what the Cartel least expected, attacking them on their own turf without warning.
Paagal was smart. Battle stopped rocking, let loose of his hold around his legs and fell back onto the cot. It was only moderately more comfortable than the dirt, and it had the dank smell of mildew and sweat. It would do. He’d slept in worse places.
He turned onto his side and closed his eyes, trying to envision the chaos enveloping the Cartel’s major cities. He smiled thinking about it.
Battle dozed off into a light sleep, contemplating the odds. They might have a chance to win, or at the very least degrade the Cartel enough that they could find passage beyond the wall.
***
Felipe Baadal sat across from Paagal in her tent. She was gritting her teeth, rapping her knuckles on the desk. She’d not said a word to him in the half hour since Battle had incited her, but Baadal was as curious about her plans as Battle had been.
“What’s beyond the wall?” he asked. He was taking the circuitous route to the point.
Paagal stopped thumping her knuckles. “Why?”
“I’m curious,” he said. “I’d never given it any thought. Now Battle wants to cross it. I’m wondering what he’s going to find.”
Paagal leaned on her elbows and sighed. “I don’t know what he’ll find,” she said. “It depends on where exactly he crosses. It depends on what time of day it is. It depends on so many different things.”
“You’ve crossed the wall?” asked Baadal, thinking he’d gotten the conversation started. “You’ve been to the other side, then?”
“Twice,” she said. “That was enough.”
Baadal’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“So you’ve not crossed the wall?” asked Paagal. “I’d have thought as a sentry and a scout you might have been north of it.”
Baadal lowered his eyes and shook his head.
“It’s not what Battle thinks it is,” she said, her gaze softening into the distance over Baadal’s shoulder. “It’s not…”
“Not what?”
Paagal’s mind was elsewhere. Maybe it was beyond the wall, visiting things she’d as soon have never seen. Maybe she was thinking about the war at hand. Baadal waved his hand in front of her face. She blinked and snapped back into the present, into the confines of her command tent.
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s not easy to talk about.” There was a quiver in her voice. Her eyes suddenly appeared glassy.
“I’m the one who should be sorry,” Baadal said. “I didn’t know.”
“You wouldn’t know,” she said, wiping the corner of her eye with her finger. “Not unless you’d been there.”
Baadal shrugged. “So why does anyone want passage to the other side?”
“People always want what they think they need,” she said. “Rarely do they need what they have. It’s the human condition. It’s the idea that something out there can fulfill them, can make their lives better, fill the holes within their being.”
Baadal leaned back in his chair, away from Paagal. “Isn’t that called hope?”
“How so?”
“I mean to suggest…” Baadal searched for the words. “I have not lived a life of purity. I’ve sinned. I’ve been a perpetrator and a victim. But always in the back of my mind was this idea that I could be better. I thought things would get better. I wanted to believe that I would find a happier…” He used his hands to search for the words.
“Existence?” Paagal suggested.
Baadal nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Perhaps that’s the right word. Existence. A happier existence. That’s not me being ungrateful for surviving the Scourge, having a roof over my head most nights, or food on most days. It’s me being hopeful.”
Paagal sat silently. She adjusted her elbows on the table but said nothing.
“Maybe that’s all Battle wants,” he said. “Maybe he’s hoping for something better.”
“He won’t find it on the other side of the wall,” she said.
Baadal leaned in. He pressed his hands flat against the table. “Why don’t you tell him that?”
“He has to discover it for himself,” she said.
“That’s not—”
“Nice?”
Baadal shrugged.
“I told you, Felipe,” she said. “I’m not a good person. A leader doesn’t have to be good. She has to be strong. She has to do what’s right for her survival.”
Baadal nodded. He understood the strong pull of self-preservation at the expense of morality. He decided against asking about the plans already under way. He’d find out with the rest of them. Maybe not knowing was better.
CHAPTER 9
OCTOBER 25, 2037, 5:35 PM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
HOUSTON, TEXAS
Dead weight was a colloquialism Ana Montes had never fully understood until she helped carry one. General Harvey Logan was not a small man. Disposing of his body was not a minor task.
“A few more feet,” said Sidney Reilly, grunting as he walked backwards and grappled with Logan’s arms. “Just. A. Few. More. Feet.”
“You keep saying that,” Ana moaned. She kept losing her grip on Logan’s heels as they maneuvered their way along the narrow hallway that separated the sitting area from the bedrooms.
They bounded along the hall, banging into the walls as they moved. They reached the end of it and struggled through the doorway into the master bedroom.
Ana crossed the threshold and dropped Logan’s feet. “Hang on.” She waved at Sidney and bent over at her waist. “I need to catch my breath for a second. He’s so heavy. Remind me why we couldn’t have left him in the sitting room? We’re leaving here anyhow.”
“It might be a couple of days,” Sidney said, still holding Logan’s wrists. The general’s head was flopped backward, his Adam
’s apple exposed. “You don’t want a dead body lying on the floor.”
“Maybe,” she said, wiping the bloom of sweat from the back of her neck.
“The tub is already filled with ice, right?” he asked.
“As filled as I could get it,” she said.
“I thought you had a freezer full of ice in the garage,” he said. “He’s a general. Ice is a perk, isn’t it?”
“We have ice in a freezer, sure,” she clarified. “But it wasn’t full. It was never full.”
Sidney rolled his eyes, huffed, and dropped Logan’s wrists. He turned to go to the bathroom and the dead man’s head hit the floor with a thud. Even though he was dead, the sound was painful to Ana.
Sidney called from the bathroom. “This is enough,” he said. “This will keep the body cold enough for a day or two.” He reemerged and bent over to pick up Logan’s arms. “Let’s finish this, Ana.”
She bent at her knees, grabbed Logan’s ankles, and heaved upward. A few awkward steps and they’d navigated the rest of the distance. They rolled Logan’s nude body into the tub and onto a bed of ice.
Ana stared at the body for a moment, recalling the wretched way in which the father of her child had died. It was hard to reconcile what she’d done, despite knowing it was for the greater good.
Sidney put his arm around her shoulder, leading her out of the bathroom. “You did a good job,” he said. “This was the first step. It was the most important.”
“I don’t know,” said Ana, stopping at her bed and dropping to sit on its edge. “I’m not any better than them.”
Sidney knelt down in front of her as if he were proposing marriage. He took her hands in his. “What you did was self-defense. What we are all doing is self-defense. It will end the Cartel’s hold over us. It will bring about a new time. Things will be better than they’ve been in years.”
“I wish I could believe that,” said Ana. “I wish I knew what we were doing was right.”
Sidney squeezed her hands. “C’mon, let’s go.” He stood and pulled her from the bed and opened his arms wide, offering her a consoling hug.
She took his offer and buried her face in his chest. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around his back. She didn’t see him pull the knife from his waist, but she opened her eyes in time to see the glint of the blade reflect in a wall-hung mirror.
She jerked away from his hold as he swung the knife around toward her back. Ana deflected the swipe with her forearm and instinctively drove her knee upward with as much force as she could muster.
The shot to his groin slugged into him the moment he drove his arm downward. The blade sliced the back of Ana’s arm, and she repeated the upward movement of her knee, slamming him for a second time.
Sidney dropped the knife and grabbed himself as he crumpled to the floor, groaning. There was drool pooling on the floor beneath his mouth.
The pain of the wound numb from adrenaline, Ana scooted back onto the bed and away from Sidney. She rolled over and grabbed a large leaded-glass candlestick from the bedside table.
Sidney was struggling to find his feet. He looked up at Ana with the gaze of a drunk. His mouth was agape, his eyes clearly unable to find their focus. He mumbled something, drool leaking from the corners of his mouth.
Ana tightened her grip on the large candlestick and bounded toward Sidney. She reared back and swung the glass like a hammer onto the back of his head. The glass vibrated in her hand as it smacked his skull.
Sidney dropped flat to the floor, unconscious. A dark stain of blood spread across the back of his head.
Ana dropped the candlestick to the floor. Her heart was pounding against her chest, her pulse thumping against her neck. She had trouble taking deep breaths.
She willed herself to contain the panic threatening to overcome her. She pursed her lips and slowly drew in a breath and released it. In and out. In and out.
Ana took a step back from Sidney, grabbing the knife and squatting down at a safe distance. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not.
Ana focused on the stream of blood trickling from the back of his head, down his shirt, and onto the floor. Between the double shot to his groin and the violent strike to his head, she imagined he’d be incapacitated for a while even if he were alive.
She would have liked to have asked Sidney why he would kill her. She’d done what he’d asked. She’d joined the resistance. She’d borne the child of a man she detested and then lived with him. She’d been a servant to the cause.
She wondered if Sidney had planned on killing her from the very beginning. Was it always part of the plan?
Ana had long expressed doubts of the strength and motive of the resistance. Sidney, Nancy Wake, and Nancy’s husband, Wendell, had repeatedly allayed her fears until they bubbled again to the surface. Of all the conspirators, she was taking the biggest risk on a daily basis, she’d told them. She was living with the enemy.
They’d acknowledged her commitment and sacrifice. They’d promised her the effort would be worth it when the Cartel fell. Yet here she was, having escaped an assassination attempt in the hours after fulfilling her promise to them. She wondered if the exercise of moving Logan’s body was an effort to fatigue her so she might be an easier target.
The sting in her arm was ballooning into a dull throb as the intensity of the moment waned. Ana looked at her wound. It wasn’t deep and probably wouldn’t require stitches. She’d been lucky. Still, it hurt.
Ana decided it didn’t matter whether Sidney was dead or alive. She wasn’t staying long enough to find out. She stood and kicked him in the back. He didn’t move.
She folded the blade into the bolster and stuck it into her pocket. She might need it again.
Ana stepped over Sidney’s body and flung open the closet. On the top shelf was a backpack she used to carry baby supplies. She yanked a couple of shirts from hangers and stuffed them in the empty pack. She moved quickly to the bathroom and emptied the medicine cabinet into the bag. Medicine of any kind was at a premium. She could use it. She could trade it. It was good to have.
Ana moved with purpose from her room to Penny’s. She pulled a package of reusable diapers, a couple of outfits, and some Vaseline from the shelf above the changing table. She stuffed them into the now bulging pack. She unzipped the front compartment and was able to squeeze a single bottle inside of it.
Traveling the untamed wilderness of the Cartel’s vast territory with a baby would be tough under normal circumstances. Ana was about to do it in the midst of a burgeoning war in which both sides were her enemy. She slung the backpack over her shoulders, unfolded the collapsible stroller in the corner of the nursery, and picked up her sleeping child.
Penny’s eyes cracked open as her mother set her into the stroller’s fabric and buckled the three-point harness holding her in place. Ana popped a pacifier in Penny’s mouth and spun the stroller on two wheels. Penny sucked on the plastic until she fell asleep again, her head bobbing from side to side with the motion of the stroller. Ana was speed-walking north toward downtown. She let go of the stroller with one hand and felt for the sharp bulge in her right pocket. The keys were there. Three blocks to go and she’d be on her way out of Houston and toward somewhere else.
Ana was quickly reaching the conclusion, right or not, that the resistance wasn’t about freedom. It wasn’t about making life better. She believed trading one power for another wasn’t always good. She’d experienced it in her personal life: taking power away from one bad man and giving it to another. Life didn’t improve.
Instead, she’d come to understand that any alternative ruler when it took power often became an oppressor worse than the one it dethroned. So afraid were the newly empowered of losing the control they fought so hard to win, they morphed into the very thing they fought against.
Ana suddenly knew where she needed to go. She needed to reach the canyon and the leader called Paagal before it was too late. Paagal, she’d heard from the others, had access to
the wall and a way across to the northern side. She would find Paagal, explain what she had done for the resistance, and then gain passage across the wall.
CHAPTER 10
OCTOBER 25, 2037, 6:15 PM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
LUBBOCK, TEXAS
The sun was dropping low in the sky. It would sink below the dusty horizon within forty-five minutes. General Roof wondered how many more sunsets he would see. Not a one was guaranteed. They never had been. He knew that. This one, however, he considered with more contemplation than usual. This one was as singular, he believed, as the one he’d enjoyed the night before he first shipped out to Syria some eighteen years earlier.
There was something simple about a sunset that evoked a complex combination of emotions. Maybe it was the joy of having survived another day mixed with the uncertainty of what the next sunrise might bring. Maybe it was the fear of the dark night ahead. Maybe it was both.
Roof didn’t try to psychoanalyze himself. He didn’t want to be that self-aware. Inward ignorance was bliss as far as he was concerned. Still, he reached into his shirt and pulled out his dog tags and rubbed them with his fingers, melancholy about the sun’s shifting light.
Despite his mood, he relished the solitude. All of the grunts, bosses, and captains had finished their preparations for the coming departure. He stayed behind, tending to his work in the relative peace of the moment, though not before sending them off with a rousing speech.
Roof had praised the dozens of men for the expediency of their work. He’d told them they were ready for whatever challenges lay ahead. He’d assured them they would win and find their collective way back home, wherever home might be.
They’d cheered him. He’d tipped his hat to them and dismissed them, warning them not to be late the next morning. They’d left and gone to eat, sleep, and do whatever else rotten men do before heading off to war.
He was sitting in the bed of a HUMVEE, checking the weapons he’d chosen to bring. The Browning, a tactically stupid choice he’d always thought, was at his feet. Although he had never wanted the Cartel to fight with shotguns, he had been overruled. They had access to ridiculous numbers of the Brownings and what seemed to be a limitless supply of ammunition.