The Traveler 01-03 Home, Canyon, Wall

by Tom Abrahams

  Baadal took in a deep breath, the cold air stinging his nostrils. He clipped the radio to his belt and turned to join the others.

  “You know,” one of the men said to Baadal, “this ain’t the first war to happen in this canyon.”

  Baadal looked over at the man. He recognized him but didn’t know him well. His name was Itihaas. People called him It for short.

  He was older. His angular face bore a long scar from his left eye to the corner of his lip. It gave his eye a permanent droop, and his mouth was always pulled into a sly smile. He was missing a pinkie on his left hand and walked with an almost imperceptible limp. Baadal didn’t know what had scarred him. A lot of people had scars in the post-Scourge world. Some of the wounds were visible. Some weren’t. Looking at Itihaas, Baadal imagined his scars were deeper and wider than the ones he could see.

  “It was more than one hundred sixty years ago,” said It. “It was the United States against some Native American tribes.”

  “Which ones?” asked another man. The group was gathering around It to listen.

  “Kiowa, Comanche, and Cheyenne. I think. It was part of the Red River War. Ended the war, really.”

  “The battle here?” asked Baadal, referencing the canyon behind him with bony fingers.

  “Yep,” said It. “It was the Battle of Palo Duro Canyon.”

  Baadal shrugged the pack on his shoulders. “What happened?”

  It shifted his weight and folded his long arms across his narrow chest. He looked out into the darkness of the canyon and nodded toward it. “Palo Duro was a safe place for the natives,” he said. “They could hide there, protect their women and their young, store supplies. They were like us.”

  One of the sentries, who looked to Baadal as if he were no more than fifteen years old, interrupted. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  It rubbed the scruff on his chin. “They were hiding from the white man, who wanted them all corralled up on reservations, where they could control what the natives were doing. We’re hiding from the Cartel, who essentially does the same to us.”

  The sentry lowered his hand and his head. “Oh,” he said, apparently not liking the comparison.

  “So the natives were stockpiling their supplies for the winter in the canyon,” said It. “There were minding their own business. There was this colonel named Mackenzie who wasn’t havin’ it. He had permission to follow the natives wherever they went. So he did.”

  Baadal noticed the other men were nearly as spellbound as they’d been at the bonfire. Their eyes were wide and they leaned in as It wove his tale.

  “Mackenzie had some native scouts,” said It. “They found a fresh trail leading to Palo Duro. Mackenzie and his men got off their horses and walked down the narrow path single file. They surprised one of the native camps and destroyed it. A couple of other camps disbanded. They ran for the walls and opened fire from the rim.”

  The same young sentry interrupted again. “Did the natives win?”

  It chuckled. “No,” he said. “They didn’t. They didn’t even kill a single one of Mackenzie’s troops. Maybe fifty or sixty natives died. The rest ran. They left their supplies, their horses, everything. By nightfall they were run off. Mackenzie controlled the canyon.”

  Baadal cleared his throat. “I don’t believe that’s an effective motivator,” he said, “especially given your comparison between the natives and us.”

  “The point wasn't motivation,” said It. “I was passing along some history. That’s all.”

  Baadal nodded. He stepped back to the rim. The orange pulse was dimming. It wouldn’t be long before the fire was out. He ran his hand across the top of his smooth head and sucked in another deep breath of cold air.

  Standing on the rim, on the edge of the dark chasm below, Baadal thought about the countless nights he’d spent in the dark on behalf of the Dwellers. He’d been a lone sentry for so long, he’d almost forgotten what it was like to live amongst others. He’d missed it, even if he hadn’t realized it at the time. Those endless nights tracking the Cartel’s movements, cataloging their strengths and weaknesses, had become all consuming.

  Now he was amongst people again. He had a woman about whom he’d instantly become passionate. They were on the verge of a great victory. An unconscious smile spread across Baadal’s face as he envisioned a future filled with light.

  They were Mackenzie’s troops, he told himself, and the Cartel were the natives. It wasn’t the other way around.

  CHAPTER 14

  OCTOBER 25, 2037, 8:22 PM

  SCOURGE +5 YEARS

  LUBBOCK, TEXAS

  Cyrus Skinner looked like he’d eaten a rattlesnake fangs first. His purple, swollen tongue poked out between his lips. Even with his eyes closed, he appeared to be in pain. His eyes were drawn together, his brow furrowed. He was slouched in a chair, holding his hat on his lap. His legs were crossed at the ankles and rested on the seat of a chair opposite him.

  General Roof didn’t know whether his captain was asleep or pretending to be. He didn’t care. He walked into the room inside the first floor of the Jones, intent on talking to the man he’d savagely beaten a few hours earlier.

  “How’s your mouth?” he asked from across the room. Roof found a chair and dragged it across the floor.

  Skinner’s eyes opened slowly and stopped at a slit. He looked over at Roof and shrugged.

  “Still can’t speak?”

  Skinner shrugged again and shook his head. Roof noticed one side of Skinner’s face was a nasty palette of fresh scabs and bruises.

  Roof spun the chair backwards and straddled it. He leaned on its back with his elbows. “I guess I should apologize,” he said. “I really had no cause to whip you the way I did.”

  Skinner merely sat there, leering at Roof through the razor-thin space between his eyelids.

  “Yeah,” said Roof. “Guess you can’t respond. That’s my fault. Look—”

  Skinner raised his hand, waving off Roof’s apology. He closed his eyes and put his hat on his head, lowering the brim over his brow. His tongue still protruded from between his lips. He cleared his throat and clasped his hands at his belly.

  “Whether you want to hear it or not,” said Roof, “I’m gonna tell you what’s what.”

  Skinner opened one eye and shifted in the seat. He flared his nostrils and tried adjusting the placement of his swollen tongue in his mouth.

  “You’re not going to the rim,” said Roof.

  Skinner opened his other eye, but didn’t otherwise respond.

  From behind Roof, Porky ambled into the room. “Oh,” he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you, General.”

  Roof turned around and looked at the chubby grunt. He studied the man’s cherubic face and wondered what had driven kind-looking Porky into the Cartel. “You’re fine,” he said. “What do you want?”

  Porky held up a large glass bowl. “I found some ice,” he said. “I thought Captain Skinner could use it.”

  Skinner waved him over and took the bowl. He set it on his lap and delicately fingered a jagged chunk of ice into his mouth. He squeezed his eyes closed and held his mouth open. His hands gripped the arms of the chair and his body tensed as he rolled the ice over his wounded tongue.

  Porky stood beside the chair, his face contorting in a way that mimicked Skinner’s pain. He swallowed hard and took a step back.

  Roof was observing the grunt’s sympathetic movements. “That’s thoughtful of you,” he said. “You seem like a good man…”

  “Porky, sir,” said the grunt. “Everybody calls me Porky.”

  “You seem like a good man, Porky. Why are you in the Cartel?”

  Porky tilted his head and pursed his lips. “What do you mean?”

  Roof pointed at Skinner and then himself. “You’re not like us,” he said and aimed his finger at Porky. “I can tell that. You have a kindness about you. There’s a soft heart underneath all of that.” He waved his hand over Porky’s overhanging belly.


  Porky sucked in his gut as much as he could and pulled up on his pants, using the empty belt loops. His face flushed.

  “Seriously,” said Roof. “I’m not joking. Why are you in the Cartel?”

  Porky looked at Roof as if he didn’t understand English. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

  Roof looked at Skinner and then back at Porky and chuckled. “It’s a simple question,” he said. “Why. Are. You. In. The. Cartel?”

  Porky tugged on his pants again and squeezed his eyebrows together. He pulled his shoulders up to his ears. “Because I had to, I guess.”

  Roof nodded. It was an honest answer. “Why did you have to join?”

  “I didn’t want to die,” said Porky. “I was told if I worked for the Cartel, I’d have a job, a place to stay, food to eat. They said if I didn’t, I could either leave town or die. I had nowhere to go. I wanted to stay alive. So…”

  Roof knew that was how the Cartel grew exponentially in a short period of time. He and the three other generals had insisted their most trusted soldiers go about proselytizing the masses. It was their own version of the Crusades.

  It was brilliant, really. Heavy handed and brutal, but brilliant. Posses went from town to town, ranch to ranch, house to house, and converted the nonbelievers at gunpoint or worse.

  When there was resistance, Roof made certain his lieutenants knew to make examples of those who failed to comply. It was not hyperbole when a posse boss threatened to put someone’s head on a stake or burn him alive. It led to a strong foothold in nearly every city and town within their territory.

  For close to five years, ruling by fear had served the Cartel. Now, on the edge of war with those few who refused to succumb to their threats, who resisted with uncommon resolve, Roof thought better of it.

  He looked at Porky—softhearted, roly-poly Porky—and saw the weakness in their numbers. How many other men about to fight for the Cartel were doing so because their only other options were exile or death? How many of them served out of fear as opposed to loyalty?

  Porky, and the countless grunts like him, were conscripted soldiers. They were an entirely different proposition from the men and woman who would fight for the Dwellers because they chose to do so.

  He knew from his days in Syria that a strongly held belief was more powerful than an HK. The fighters there, in their limitless number of factions, all fought for what they believed was right. They risked their lives and took those of their enemies based on the simple premise that they were doing so for a righteous cause.

  It made them difficult to defeat, given that American soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines were fighting because it was their job to do so. They weren’t in country because they were seeking a moral high ground. They weren’t purging the world of infidels. They were getting paid to be there. The esoteric idea of patriotism and democracy didn’t work the same way.

  Skinner grunted and drew Porky’s attention. The captain was holding the bowl of ice, shaking it loudly.

  Porky reached out his hand slowly, as if he were afraid of losing it. “You’re finished with it?”

  Skinner nodded and shoved the bowl into Porky’s hands. The grunt took it and lowered his head, leaving the room like a dismissed manservant. Both men watched him leave and then locked eyes.

  “I need you here, Cyrus,” Roof said. “I’ve got men staying here to hold down the fort, so to speak. Lubbock is critical to our trade with the Mexicans and with the users north of the wall. We can’t leave it entirely unprotected while we march on the canyon.”

  Skinner’s face was frozen with disgust. Roof started to further make his case when Skinner snapped his fingers and pointed over the general’s shoulder, waving his finger at a desk on the far side of the room.

  Roof turned around and saw a large notepad on the desk. He swung his leg over the chair and maneuvered his way to the desk. The pad was irregular and discolored from water stains, and most of the pages were already covered with illegible pre-Scourge notes.

  Roof picked it up and showed it to Skinner. “You want this?”

  Skinner nodded.

  Roof walked around to the other side of the desk and fished through the unlocked drawers, looking for a pen. He found one, uncapped it, and scribbled on the paper until ink trailed onto it from the ballpoint.

  He carried both back to Skinner and handed them over, standing over Skinner while he wrote on the crinkled paper and then ripped it free of the pad.

  Roof took the note, held it close to his eyes and then pulled it back to focus. Skinner’s handwriting was hard to read. It resembled the left-hand offering of a right-handed kindergartner.

  “You need me at the canyon. I don’t want to stay here with the losers and women.”

  Roof looked up, still holding the note in his hand, and sighed. “You can’t put your tongue all the way in your mouth. You can’t talk. Your face is swollen like you stuck it in a hornet’s nest.”

  Skinner scribbled another message and ripped it from the pad. Roof would’ve laughed at the comedy of it if he hadn’t been to blame.

  “That’s why you can’t keep me here. I can’t be in charge. I’ll follow you to the canyon.”

  Roof considered the argument. Skinner was right. He was probably more effective as a grunt than a leader given his injuries. The captain handed him a third message.

  “I’m in the Cartel ’cause I want to be. Not ’cause I had to be.”

  Roof nodded. “Fine, you’re a frontline grunt. Hope you’re happy.”

  Roof was happy. He needed as many Skinners as he could get. Skinner had a cause.

  He wanted to fight. It wasn’t about survival for him. It was about living.

  CHAPTER 15

  OCTOBER 25, 2037, 9:07 PM

  SCOURGE +5 YEARS

  PALO DURO CANYON, TEXAS

  Paagal took a long, slow drink from a tall metal thermos. She moaned softly as she drank, tilting the bottom of the thermos higher and higher until she’d emptied its contents.

  “Coffee is such a treat,” she said. “Are you certain I can’t offer you any?”

  Lola shook her head. Battle sighed.

  “I suppose I’m boring you,” said Paagal, one eyebrow arched higher than the other.

  “You haven’t told us anything,” Battle said. “We’ve been here for I don’t know how long, and I have no more sense of your tactical plan than I did when you were preaching to the choir.”

  Paagal eased into the chair across from her guests. They were sitting at the rough wooden table in her tent. She reached down and pulled a large map from beside her. It was rolled into a tube and she unwound it, placing it on the table.

  Paagal spun the map around so the Texas Panhandle was on her side. There was a thick black line that circumnavigated the old state boundaries. Paagal ran her finger along the markings.

  “This is the wall,” she said. “That should give you a decent idea of the territory. We are in this location.” She dragged her finger to the canyon, which was encircled in red.

  Battle noticed there were numbers written by the names of most of the larger cities. Some of the numbers were crossed out and new numbers written beside them. He tapped the number 729 near Austin and 1050 at San Antonio.

  “What are these?” he asked.

  Paagal looked up from the map with a smile. “Those are the numbers of Dwellers we have in those locations.”

  Lola pointed to the number 2512 above Houston. “So you have twenty-five hundred people in Houston who are sympathetic to your cause?”

  “Twenty-five hundred and twelve,” said Paagal. “And they’re not sympathizers, Lola. They’re revolutionaries.”

  Lola’s eyes darted from marking to marking on the map. “How?”

  “We didn’t start with these numbers,” said Paagal. “We began two years ago with maybe five or ten in each city. Each of those people recruited those who they thought might fit our way of thinking. They in turn recruited more people. It organically grew e
xponentially from there.”

  Battle waved his hand over the map. “And all of these revolutionaries are doing what right now?”

  “For starters,” she said, “they’ve attacked the leadership in each location.”

  “You said that at the bonfire,” said Lola.

  “Yes,” Paagal said. “I did. But I didn’t say what comes next.”

  Lola leaned in. “Which is…?”

  “Half of the revolution takes place in the cities,” she said. “The element of surprise is a powerful force. Once we’ve degraded the Cartel enough that neutral actors see we can win, they’ll join our side.”

  “What about the other half?” asked Battle.

  “They advance,” said Paagal. She held her hands in front of her face and interlocked her fingers. “They squeeze the Cartel. If we hold them at bay long enough here at the canyon, we win. They’ll have nowhere to go. Retreat becomes an impossibility.”

  “Not impossible.”

  Paagal leaned back, her eyes widened and brow arched. “Oh?”

  Battle ran his fingers along the map, indicating stress points for the Dwellers. He showed Paagal areas from which the Cartel could make them vulnerable. He traced escape routes for both the Dwellers and the Cartel.

  Battle had lost so much of what he’d learned at West Point and on the battlefields of Afghanistan and Syria. The space in his memory reserved for military gamesmanship was fragmented. He’d made so many stupid mistakes since the Scourge, it was as if he’d never been a soldier. His survival to this point was as ridiculous as it was miraculous. It was the stuff of dime-store novels.

  As he worked the map bathed in the red glow of Paagal’s tent, those disparate memories flooded back. It was as if he’d awoken from a long sleep and was lucid for the first time in a long time.

  “Let’s assume they’ll be attacking from all points.” Battle ran his finger along the map, tracing the multitude of routes available to the advancing troops. “They’ll have men moving from these roads here and here.”