by Tom Abrahams
He took a deep breath and shook his head clear of the anger. The wife was the least of his worries. Things were accelerating. The pieces were moving now. The war was at hand.
CHAPTER 19
OCTOBER 25, 2037, 10:45 PM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
INTERSTATE 45, SOUTH OF BUFFALO, TEXAS
Ana’s back stuck uncomfortably to the leather driver’s seat. She sat forward and tried to pluck the shirt fabric from her skin, blinking past the sting of sweat in her eyes. The car’s air-conditioning, on full blast, did little to help cool her off.
She’d spent the last half hour tending to her wound. When she shifted the Lexus into gear and spun the wheel to correct the car’s path northward on the interstate, she swore she could feel the bullet grinding against a nerve in her arm. She knew it was psychosomatic, though that didn’t lessen the discomfort and throbbing pain.
Ana wasn’t a doctor and had virtually no medical training, but she knew better than to try to remove the bullet. Not only would it have taken too much time, she might have done more damage to her already wounded upper arm. The key was stopping the bleeding.
She’d grabbed her baby bag and withdrew a couple of cloth diapers and some baby powder. She’d laid one of them open on the hood of the car. In the glove box, she’d found a fifth of whisky. From the trunk, she’d taken a large emergency kit that apparently came with the car. She placed both on the diaper and unzipped the kit.
Inside she’d found a pair of road flares, a screwdriver with multiple heads, some zip ties, a tire pressure gauge, and some electrical tape. She’d taken the tape, a flare, and the screwdriver.
With one hand, Ana had popped the top on the whisky. She taken a swig and recapped it. One swig wouldn’t affect her breast milk or her driving, but the slug might help with what she was about to do.
She’d used both hands, enduring the pain emanating across every nerve in her left arm, to crack one of the flares, lighting it. She’d held the flare in one hand and used the other to handle the screwdriver. She’d held the widest flathead attachment in the flare to heat the metal until it glowed. Then she’d tossed the flare toward the woman’s dead body, took the extra diaper, and stuffed it into her mouth, lodging the cloth between her teeth. She’d bitten down, closed her eyes, and pressed the glowing bit onto the bullet hole. She’d pressed her eyes closed against the pain and had clenched her jaw until she’d thought she might break a tooth. A radiating burn had exploded through her flesh, traveling the length of her arm and into her chest. Her scream, from the depth of her gut, had been muted by the cloth. She’d nearly gagged on the diaper but managed to control the reflex.
Ana had flipped the still searingly hot bit onto its other side and pressed again to be certain she’d burned the entirety of the wound’s circular entrance. Her chest had been heaving as she’d struggled to control her breathing.
She’d dropped the screwdriver to the asphalt and pulled the diaper from her mouth. Her mouth had filled with saliva and she’d bent over at her waist to let the drool drip to the ground. Once the burning sensation had localized around the wound, she sprinkled baby powder on top of it, hoping to aid the cauterization.
Overheated from the self-inflicted surgery and still weakened from the blood loss, she pressed the gas until the speedometer hit forty miles per hour. She found the cruise button and depressed it to set the speed and took her foot off the pedal.
Ana angled her rearview mirror so she could see her daughter in the backseat. Penny was restless. She kept popping her pacifier in and out of her mouth. She was babbling and tugging at the seat belt. In the chaos of the carjackers, the resulting gunfire, and the impromptu wound repair, Ana had forgotten to feed her.
Ana looked at the dark road ahead. It was endless. It was dangerous. She didn’t want to stop again. She knew she’d have to, though. Better now than later.
After struggling to remember how to slow the car while in cruise control, she reluctantly tapped her foot on the brake to disengage the accelerator. She pressed firmly on the brake, slowing the car more rapidly, and steered to the highway’s shoulder.
There was a cluster of trees lining the median between the north and southbound lanes. The eastern edge of the highway, adjacent to the northbound shoulder, was wide open and empty. There were no trees, no buildings, and no vehicles.
She made sure the car doors were locked and climbed over the front seats into the back of the cabin. Ana sat next to Penny, her feet resting on her collection of long guns, and unbuckled her daughter from the belt.
Ana raised her shirt, lowered her bra, and brought Penny to her chest. The child eagerly removed the pacifier and replaced it with her mother’s breast.
Ana leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Her arm was throbbing, as was her head now, and having her child pressed against her didn’t do anything to keep her body cool.
Penny hungrily sucked her nourishment. Ana wondered, without any food for herself, if she’d eventually have to partake of her own bounty. The thought of it was nauseating, but so much of what she’d done in the last few hours had been no less vomit inducing.
Ana slid her hands underneath Penny’s armpits and maneuvered her to the other breast. Penny looked up at her mother as she fed. Ana smiled at her daughter and gently tickled the child’s forehead with her fingers.
Once finished, Ana elicited a couple of good burps from her satiated daughter, changed her diaper, and was back on the road. Within a couple of miles, Penny was asleep.
Ana figured she had four or five hours of uninterrupted driving ahead of her. She could be well past Dallas by that point. The cruise was set at forty-five miles per hour, trying to make up for some of the lost time. She figured another five miles per hour wouldn’t waste much more gasoline.
She held the wheel with her right arm and cruised along in the dark, resting her left arm against the driver’s side door. The throbbing from the cauterized wound was constant and strong enough to make her mind stray from whatever thoughts she conjured to try to distract her from it.
Ana narrowed her eyes against the wind and flicked on the high beams, watching the lane markers zip past her. Her hair whipped around her face as the car powered forward. She was trying to recreate her trip through space.
A loud ping interrupted the game. Ana looked at the dashboard. An icon that looked like a thermometer dipped in water was lit, as was the check-engine light. Ana looked at the temperature gauge. She didn’t know much about cars, but she knew the Lexus was on the verge of overheating.
She thought back to the coyote and the damage it had done to the front of the car. She remembered the smoke billowing from underneath the hood. There was no way the car would make it to Amarillo, let alone Dallas.
Suddenly, the pain in Ana’s arm numbed. It was gone, replaced with an overwhelming sense of fear. Her body tensed. Her heart thumped harder and faster against her chest.
Ana knew that any moment the car would die. She and Penny would be stranded.
CHAPTER 20
OCTOBER 25, 2037, 10:52 PM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
PALO DURO CANYON, TEXAS
Paagal forced her way into Battle’s tent without warning or permission. “I need your help,” she said. “I need it now.”
If her intrusion wasn’t enough of a signal, the exasperation in her voice told Battle something was wrong. He popped up and was sliding on his boots before Paagal could tell him why she needed his help.
“One of our squads on the southern rim is unaccounted for,” she said. “We have other squads moving in to determine what happened. I need you up there.”
Battle rubbed his eyes, trying to adjust to the dark. “On the rim?”
“Yes,” said Paagal. She backed out of the tent and Battle followed. “Baadal has dispatched parts of two other squads. They’re on the move. Still, I don’t like the sound of it. I want an additional team to respond. If this is the beginning of something, we need to quash it quickly.”
&n
bsp; Battle slid a pack over one shoulder and scratched his head. “I’ll need a weapon. My nine millimeter isn’t going to be enough.” He checked the bag for extra rounds for the handgun.
Paagal waved forward one of her guards. He brought with him an HK416. It was the same rifle Battle had used in Syria. The guard handed it to Battle by the front hand guard and told him it was loaded.
“The buttstock telescopes,” said the guard. “It has a thirty-round magazine.”
Battle was already extending the buttstock. “Got it.” He pulled the weapon to his shoulder and aimed it at the ground to check the sights. “Thanks.” The weapon felt good in his hands. It was familiar and immediately became an extension of his body.
“I’m going with you,” said the guard, tossing Battle three extra magazines. “I know the shortest route to the southeastern rim.”
“We’re going too.” A pair of masculine Dwellers, whose appearances reminded Battle of off-the-books operators in Syria, stepped forward. Both were armed with broad chests, thick wiry beards, and the similar M4 pattern rifles as Battle.
“We have sentries posted along all of the typical inbound routes,” said Paagal. “None reported seeing anything unusual. If the Cartel is employing some sort of team that slipped by our scouts undetected, we need to respond in kind. That’s why I want you up there.”
“You don’t know anything has happened,” Battle said. “It could be a bad radio.”
“It could be,” Paagal said. “It could also be the beginning of the war.”
Battle tucked his nine millimeter into the waistband of his pants and dropped the extra STANAG magazine into his bag. He looked at Lola’s tent, thinking about the brief moment they’d shared before going their separate ways. He sighed and then stepped to the guard. “Let’s go.”
“Thank you, Battle,” said Paagal. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he said and followed the three others through the maze of tents toward the southern rim.
***
The recon posse couldn’t have been in a better position than behind the cluster of large rocks at the southeastern corner of the rim. It couldn’t have been worse for the first squadron of Dwellers tasked with responding to that spot.
The squad approached from the west. They traveled due east, hugging the rim as they moved deliberately forward.
The two recon posse bosses couldn’t see the Dwellers until they got close enough for the moonlight to project their shadows or outlines of their bodies and weapons. When they did, their suppressed rifles unleashed a torrent of deadly projectiles, riddling every last one of the men. None of them knew what had hit them, and their bodies dropped no more than fifteen yards from the dead squad whose status they’d come to investigate. Not a one returned fire.
The team moving south along the eastern rim was more fortunate, initially. There were four men and a woman working their way toward the position at which they believed they’d find southern rim squad ten.
The older man leading them was named Praacheen. He stepped deliberately, as if avoiding land mines, and urged the others to proceed as cautiously as he. They ignored his warning until the first echoes of semiautomatic gunfire caught the group’s collective attention.
“That’s suppressed,” said Praacheen. He stopped moving and closed his eyes to listen. “You can tell by the hollow, metallic click. I’d suppose there are two shooters.”
“How do you know that?” whispered one of the followers. “It sounds like one gun to me.”
Praacheen shook his head. “No,” he said. “It’s two or more. I’m sure of it. We’re not far from them.”
The lone woman leaned toward the leader. “Should we radio the other approaching squad?”
“No. There’s a fair to middling chance the Cartel has our radios,” Praacheen said. “If they’ve taken out two teams, we’re better off not revealing our position.”
As if on cue, the radio crackled against Praacheen’s hip.
“Red squad eight. Blue squad nine,” said Baadal, his voice digitized and overmodulated. “Please advise status. Over.”
The woman looked at Praacheen and then at the radio on his hip. She bit her lower lip.
Praacheen raised his finger to his lips. “Wait,” he whispered.
There was no response to Baadal’s query. The radio was silent until the southern rim leader called again. “Red squad eight. Blue squad nine. Please advise status. Over.”
“They’re going to think we’re dead,” whispered the woman. “They might endanger more squads if they think we’re dead.”
Praacheen pinched the volume dial on the top of the radio, spun it to the left, and turned it off. “He also let the Cartel know we’re on the way.”
“What do we do?” asked one of the squad, a portly middle-aged man with a mangy beard. “We’re walking into a trap. Now that they know we’re coming, they’ll blow us up like target practice. Especially with those assault rifles they’re using.”
“We wait here,” said Praacheen. “I’d say fifteen minutes. Then we advance to the corner. It’s only two hundred yards from here.”
“Why?” asked the portly Dweller.
Praacheen nodded at the woman. “She’s right,” he said. “They’ll send another team, if they haven’t already. Two teams are better than one.”
The portly Dweller scratched his chin. “Aren’t you going to want the radio on? That way we know who’s coming. Damn sure the Cartel’s going to be listening.”
“My guess is,” said Praacheen, “whoever they’re sending won’t be exposed on the radio. They have to know they’ve already done enough damage by talking.”
“I hope you’re right,” said the portly Dweller.
“Fifteen minutes,” said Praacheen, “and we’ll know.”
***
The hip pack bounced against Battle’s side as he jogged quickly upward. He was following the guard and the two operators toward the southern end of the canyon.
The moon, which had escaped the earlier cloud cover of the night, provided the only illumination for the men.
Battle was winded, still recovering from the smoke damage to his lungs he’d suffered weeks earlier. He moved forward as fast as he could, his boots crunching against the dirt and his legs burning from the ascent. It was as if he were back “in country”, performing an extraction or manning a patrol.
As the men gained altitude toward the rim, it grew warmer, lacking the breezy chill of the canyon’s floor. When they reached the rim, the guard held up his hand in a fist to stop the foursome.
“We’re taking the long way around,” he said. “If they’re attacking the southeastern corner, we need to come at them from behind. They’ll be less likely to expect an attack from the west or the north.”
The guard waved the team forward and they marched quickly. They accelerated and were at a full run as they passed one of the cabins perched on the rim’s jagged edge. Before the Scourge, it had served as a rental house for canyon park visitors.
Battle imagined the view from the cabin would’ve been spectacular. The vision evaporated as quickly as it formed, and the four of them pushed ahead. He found the going much easier on level ground. Still, his thighs were thick with fatigue from the upward hike.
Starting their turn west some two hundred yards south of the rim, in the distance Battle heard the rat-tat-tat of semiautomatic gunfire. The men exchanged glances but said nothing to each other when another volley of snaps punctured the quiet air surrounding the southern edge of the canyon.
To Battle it sounded like a typical night in the midst of a war. His mind drifted as he ran. He recalled the night he spent wondering how close that gunfire would come to his position. He thought about Syria and being trapped with an injured man whose life depended on him. His eyes drifted to the horizon, expecting to see the flash and glow of tracer fire.
Rat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat.
It was obvious to Battle someone was engaging the Dwellers stationed to prote
ct the edge of the canyon walls. He slowed, following the lead of the guard and the two operators.
“We should head north from here,” said the guard. “Follow my lead.”
The foursome stepped as quietly as possible, covering the distance between their position and the rim with caution. Battle adjusted his grip on the HK and shifted it to a low carry position that would allow him to quickly shoulder the weapon and fire.
The moonlight helped with the detail’s vision, but also exposed them should the Cartel team get the drop on them as they approached. Battle didn’t like it.
Rat-tat-tat.
The quick burst came from closer than Battle would have thought. He was looking for its source on the near horizon when a second burst dropped one of the operators.
Rat-tat-tat.
Battle dove to the ground. He grabbed the injured operator’s ankle, crawled a few feet to his left while dragging the man, and found relative protection with his back against a tree trunk. The operator was alive, but the blood from his wound was profuse. The moonlight reflected in its sheen as it leaked from a wound at the man’s neck underneath his beard.
Rat-tat-tat.
Battle laid down his weapon and pulled the man’s upper body into his lap. The operator’s eyes were wide and dancing with fear. His breathing was ragged and his body shuddered. Battle placed a hand on the operator’s cold, sweaty forehead.
“I’m here,” Battle said softly, trying to keep the man’s attention focused on his voice. “I’m with you.” He found the operator’s hand and held it with his. “Squeeze my hand,” he said.
The man was trying to talk. He was stuck on the first word and couldn’t get it out. His grip was weak.
Rat-tat-tat.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The guard was returning fire.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
“Do you pray?” he asked the man, surprised the question had popped into his head, let alone come out of his mouth.