The Traveler 01-03 Home, Canyon, Wall

by Tom Abrahams

  The operator was losing focus. His eyelids were flickering. Losing consciousness, he managed a slight nod.

  Battle squeezed the operator’s hand tightly. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…” He recited the rest of the Lord’s prayer. By the time he was finished, the operator’s breathing had stopped. His eyes were frozen half open, his body limp.

  Battle closed the man’s eyes and then his own. “As far as the east is from the west,” he whispered, “so far has He removed our transgressions from us.”

  For an instant, Battle felt whole. His faith, somehow, was still there. It was buried deep within him. It was becoming increasingly difficult to find, as was his humanity. In that moment he found both.

  Battle shook himself from the introspection and gently pushed the operator from his lap. He rolled over onto his stomach as if he were getting ready to do a push-up and picked up the HK.

  He adjusted the rifle so it was in line with his body, spread his legs, and pointed his toes outward. He kept his ankles as flat as he could, but his knees resisted. A foot or so from the rifle was a medium-sized rock. The rock was wide and relatively flat. He slid it over underneath the barrel of the rifle to act as a stabilizer. Although a bipod would have been better, Battle had no choice.

  He pulled the stock into his right shoulder, raised his body and then lowered it. He relaxed his frame into the ground, keeping the barrel on the rock. Battle knew his aim wouldn’t be perfect without the stabilized bipod. There’d be recoil he couldn’t mitigate.

  He settled in and checked the sights, pivoting to search the darkness. He couldn’t see anything at first. The moon only provided so much light.

  Battle looked to his right and saw his two surviving partners. The other operator was crouched behind a berm. He was kneeling and kept peeking for opportunities to fire.

  The guard was ahead of them by twenty feet or so. He was lying flat on the ground, in similar position to Battle. He had a large boulder protecting him and was unloading his rifle into the dark.

  Battle looked back through his sights. Still nothing.

  Rat-tat-tat.

  There it was. A muzzle flash. It gave Battle a target. He took in a deep breath and released it, applying pressure to the HK’s trigger.

  ***

  “I think that’s our signal.” Praacheen waved his team forward. It was only a ten-minute wait. “Move carefully. We’re stepping into a gunfight.”

  He led his team south toward the cacophony of gunfire. Ahead of them, he could see the intermittent fire and light of the assault rifles. They looked like fireflies dancing in the distance.

  They were within fifty yards when Praacheen stopped his team. They were behind the Cartel, which was turned to face whoever had engaged them from the south.

  He counted three shooters from the spacing of the flashes, but it was too dark to know the number for certain. Praacheen signaled for his team to stop and provide cover for him as he moved slyly forward.

  The closer he got, the easier it was for him to make out the outline of a large outcropping of boulders. The muzzle flashes were partially obscured by the rocks. There was no way for him to know exactly how many enemies he was facing.

  Beyond the rocks, maybe another fifty yards or so, were flashes from two or three additional weapons. The echoes of those rifles sounded different from the ones closer to him. They were likely friendlies, Praacheen surmised. If that was the case, they had the Cartel pinned in their positions. Better yet, with their attention turned south, they might not see his team approach from the north.

  Praacheen turned back to the men and woman of eastern rim squadron nine, anxious to tell them of their fortune. He took a couple of quick steps north when he felt a sharp, deliberate punch to his lower back. The impact was followed by an intense heat that radiated outward until he felt nothing.

  He lost his footing and fell forward. Praacheen caught himself with his hands before he planted his face into the dirt. His rifle flew forward and slid a few feet from him.

  Still unsure of what had socked him in the back, Praacheen tried pushing himself to his feet. He needed his weapon. His feet, his legs, and his hips wouldn’t cooperate.

  They were dead weight.

  Praacheen rolled over onto his back, propping himself up on his elbows, to look at his legs. They were there, outstretched and seemingly unscathed, but he couldn’t feel them.

  They became blurry. He squeezed his eyes shut and reopened them to regain focus. He was dizzy. His mouth was cotton thick.

  He looked into the distance, toward the rock and its muzzle flashes. A shot zipped past him, close enough for him to hear it displacing the air next to his head.

  Trying to stay conscious while maintaining his wits, he dragged himself backward on his elbows. He glanced over his shoulder. He couldn’t see his teammates yet.

  Quickly, he worked his arms to pull himself away from the threat. His left elbow dug into the jagged edge of a rock and he bent his arm in pain. At that moment a round slugged the dirt next his right leg. A third punched into his thigh at a shallow angle and bored its way up toward his hip.

  Praacheen looked at the wound but couldn’t feel it. Then he noticed the thick dark smear trailing behind him in the dirt. He was bleeding from his back.

  He kept inching backward on his elbows, sweat stinging his eyes. He wanted to call for help, but knew that would draw a perfect shot that might end him.

  He caught another flash before he felt the burn of a shot through his right arm. He fell over onto his right, his arm collapsing underneath him. Praacheen grunted and rolled to his left, his arm flapping wildly, and tried dragging himself with his one good limb.

  His fingers clawed at the dirt, digging for a grip. His mouth was so dry.

  “Praacheen,” called the woman. “Oh my—”

  “Grab him,” said one of his men. “Under his arms. Don’t worry about the wounds.”

  In the haze of shock, he couldn’t tell whose voice it was. He felt the strong pull of two people dragging him farther from the flashes, farther from the Cartel.

  He swallowed hard against the fiberglass lining his throat. A gravelly, weak voice he didn’t recognize gave his team the warning. “There are three or more men behind the rocks,” he said. He sucked in as deep a breath as he could muster. “We have a team to the south.”

  The woman knelt beside him. “I’ll stay with you,” she said. “The rest of you, go get them. Take them out. Find the team to the south.”

  Praacheen closed his eyes. A rush of comforting warmth enveloped his damaged body. Muffled against the sensation of calm, he could hear the voices of his team members. They were arguing. They were debating. Praacheen did not care. Suddenly, none of it mattered. He let the warmth take his breath from him.

  Praacheen was dead.

  ***

  “We’ve got ’em on both sides,” said the recon posse’s leader. “Hold your positions. We’ve got nowhere to go.”

  He’d instructed the men to his left to target any approaching Dwellers from the north. The men to his right were engaged with an unknown number of assailants approaching from the south. He moved between the groups.

  His most recent shot in the dark had found its target, slugging a wounded Dweller trying to inch his way toward safety.

  Without night vision, they would have been fighting blind. With a near full moon beginning to wane, they had some sight. They were in good shape, behind the rocks, from any northern approach. The southern attackers were a different matter.

  They were aggressive. They had untold numbers. So far, two positions had opened fire. They might be a distraction; they might be cover. The recon leader couldn’t be certain of anything.

  “Why don’t we have scopes?” asked one of the bosses. “Woulda been nice.”

  “We’re running light,” snapped the leader. “With a full moon, we didn’t see the need. The scopes are extra weight.”

  Thump, thump, thump.

 
; An incoming volley from the south smacked against the boulders.

  “Another stupid move,” said another boss. “If I were running this—”

  The elder growled. “You’re not. Focus on your job. Complain later.”

  “There ain’t gonna be a later if we get killed,” one of the men said. “We’re trapped here without an escape. There’s not enough light to effectively pick them off. There’s too much light to sneak away and retreat.”

  “You knew the job,” said the leader. “Now do it!”

  The other bosses stopped their tantrum for the moment and returned to the steel sights of the weapons. They were silent except for the sound their rifles emitted as they unloaded rounds in both directions.

  The one who’d called the move stupid was on one knee, aiming south, when a barrage of bullets from that direction tore through his chest. His body rattled against the rock and he collapsed in a heap, falling onto the man next to him.

  Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

  Another volley peppered that boss across his midsection above his waist. He convulsed and dropped onto the dead man next to him.

  The leader moved to take their position, and he steadied his weapon toward the direction of the shots that killed a third of his posse. He crouched low behind their bodies, feeling them jerk and shake as another assault sprayed their corpses. Without sight, he returned fire.

  Rat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat.

  “We’re down two!” he called to his men over the gunfire. “I need the focus south. One stay north. The other two join me this way.”

  “I got it,” called the one who’d complained about the lack of scopes. “I’ll take the north. Watch my—”

  A trio of slugs found his back. The impact thrust him forward, twisting against the boulder, and he slid to the ground. The recon posse was shrinking.

  The leader shifted his position again. “I’ll take the north,” he said. He climbed over the third dead boss and pressed himself against the boulder. The leader peeked around the edge of the rock and saw an advancing team of Dwellers. There were three or four of them. They were grouped tightly together, likely to mask their numbers.

  They were stuck. This was not going to end well.

  ***

  Battle’s aim was instinctual. Even with the slim bluish light of the moon, he was able to make out enough of the silhouette attached to the muzzle flash that he was confident when he squeezed the trigger.

  He couldn’t be sure he’d hit his mark, so he adjusted his aim infinitesimally to the left and squeezed again. The kick against the flat rock he used as a steadying pod was inefficient at best. The barrel moved with the recoil.

  Battle believed he’d hit his mark when the muzzle flashes from that spot stopped popping. He’d hit his target. He waited for the next mark.

  To his right, both the guard and the surviving operator were returning fire. With a closer vantage point, the guard might have a better shot, but he was too exposed.

  Rat-tat-tat.

  A grunt followed by a pubescent-sounding scream told Battle the guard was hit. His screaming alternated with heavy guttural moans. Battle resisted the urge to tell him to be quiet so as not to give up his own location.

  Rat-tat-tat.

  The guard was silent.

  Battle was watching the guard and didn’t spot the location of the flash. He had no distinct idea of where to aim. He didn’t want to indiscriminately fire either. That would be as bad as had he called out to the guard to tell him to shut up.

  He considered his options, looking at the moon slip behind a bank of clouds moving slowly across the Amarillo sky. He could move or advance. Both of those possibilities exposed him to return fire.

  He could stay in place. There was no threat in any direction but from the rocks to his north. That was the best bet.

  ***

  The portly Dweller was side by side with the woman marching south. The two of them moved cautiously, taking advantage of the cloud cover to advance more quickly than they might have otherwise, especially given they were inching forward on their bellies.

  The muzzle flashes had momentarily stopped. A breeze swirled, whistling through the dry foliage clinging to the trees dotting the area near the rim.

  She’d sent a pair of Dwellers southwest and two more southeast to provide cover on either side. If the friendlies attacking the Cartel from the south were still alive, something of which she could not be sure, they’d have the enemies outflanked.

  The woman Dweller had taken the lead because nobody else seemed willing to do it. They’d listened to her and were taking her direction. Even the portly Dweller followed orders.

  The woman, who’d come to the Dwellers as the lone Scourge survivor among her husband and four children, had never asked for much. She’d given greatly, always eager to volunteer for whatever task Juliana Paagal assigned her.

  That included raising her hand to take a shift on the rim. She had nothing to lose and was willing to sacrifice herself to warn or protect those in the canyon below.

  She’d taken the Dweller name Ma-an. None of the men in her squad had asked her name, however, so she’d not shared it with them.

  As Ma-an and the portly Dweller drew closer to the rocks, she could sense his fear. His breathing was short and loud, and the rifle rattled in his hands.

  “What is your name?” she whispered.

  He glanced at her wide-eyed. “Galaphulla.”

  “I’m Ma-an.”

  Galaphulla nodded. He inched ahead of Ma-an and stopped, pointing to their right.

  One of the Dwellers sent to the southwest was standing. He had his rifle pulled tight to his shoulder. His large silhouette was intimidating in the moonlight escaping the patch of clouds.

  Ma-an readied her rifle. She motioned for Galaphulla to do the same. The standing Dweller took a pair of shots at the rocks directly ahead of them.

  ***

  The shots came from the left, unexpectedly. They shattered the relative silence of the moment and took the life of the boss crouched next to the recon leader. The leader was jolted and spun to face the new threat.

  He was looking west now and saw a gunman standing in the moonlight. His rifle was aimed straight at the leader. There was no time to take proper aim in defense. The leader closed his eyes, resigned to his fate, when a loud percussive echo exploded behind him.

  Rat-tat-tat.

  The only other surviving boss had sighted the standing gunman and opened fire. His quick trigger downed the standing gunman.

  Rat-tat-tat.

  Another quick trio of shots found another Dweller crouched in the same spot. Two down in a matter of seconds.

  The recon leader spun to thank the boss for saving his life in time to see a muzzle flash from the corner of his eye. It was from the southwest.

  Thump, thump, thump. Thump, thump, thump.

  The boss’s head snapped backward and he dropped. His eyes were fixed to the leader as the shots drilled through his brain. The leader blinked away the spray of blood that splattered across his face and neck. He was alone. The last survivor.

  The leader, as mean a cuss as anyone could find, was like most sad men when faced with the prospect of pending death. He raised his hands and begged for his life.

  He tossed his rifle to the ground. “I surrender!” he said as loud as his shaky voice would carry. “I surrender.”

  His head swiveled, searching the dark for approaching Dwellers. His body tense, he raised his hands higher above his head, anticipating a rifle shot to the gut at any second.

  “I surrender,” he repeated, his words falling flat in the air. “I’m the last one. I give up. Don’t shoot.”

  ***

  Battle jumped to his feet and pressed the HK’s stock into his shoulder, advancing slowly. He’d heard the man announce his surrender. He caught the operator’s eyes, and the two of them moved in tandem toward the rocks.

  From behind the rocks, a woman’s voice said, “Move toward me. Slowly.
Hands above your head.”

  Battle pressed forward, and the man began to move. He was wearing a dark cowboy hat. Battle guessed the man was a posse boss. His hands raised high, he shuffled away from the rock and to the west.

  “We’re right behind him,” a man’s voice announced from the east. A pair of Dwellers, rifles at the ready, emerged from the darkness, following the boss.

  One of them noticed Battle and the operator. “Who are you?” He switched his aim, pointing his rifle directly at the operator.

  “We’re Dwellers,” said Battle. “Paagal sent us to help. She told us one of the squads was hit.”

  “Just two of you?”

  “No,” said the operator. “We lost two others.”

  Battle motioned his rifle toward the recon boss. “Let’s all row in the same direction. Keep our weapons aimed at the boss here. Move slowly. We can figure it out on the other side of the rocks.”

  The Dweller nodded. “We’ve got two more coming with us,” he called out to the woman. “We’re all armed.”

  “Got it,” said the woman. “Move slowly.”

  The five men, including the posse boss, rounded the rocks. The woman and a short, chubby Dweller awaited them.

  The woman had her eyes and weapon trained on the boss. “Is he it? Is he the only one left?”

  “It looks like it,” said Battle.

  The woman looked Battle up and down. “And who are you?”

  “My name is Battle,” he said. “I’m…helping out.”

  “I know you,” said the portly Dweller. “I saw you at the bonfire. You’re not a Dweller.”

  “No. I’m also not the issue right now.” Battle nodded at the posse boss. “He is.”

  “Agreed,” the woman said. “We need to get him to Paagal and find out what he knows.”

  “We can take him,” said the operator.

  “Good,” said the woman. “We’ll take care of this and radio the other squads.”

  “I’d keep the radio talk to a minimum,” said Battle. “We don’t know yet if this is the only team, and this guy has one of your radios.”