by Tom Abrahams
The woman stepped forward and grabbed the radio from the boss. She glared at the prisoner then turned to Battle. “Go ahead,” she said. “Take him to Paagal. We’ll get back to work here.”
CHAPTER 21
OCTOBER 25, 2037, 11:40 PM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
INTERSTATE 27, NEW DEAL, TEXAS
Roof sat in the passenger’s seat of the Humvee. The low rumble of the engine, the smell of diesel, and the threadbare interior of the vehicle stimulated his memory.
He ran his fingers through his beard and stared out the window at the moonscape along Interstate 27. His mind drifted from the northbound convoy to the moments before his life changed in Syria nearly eighteen years earlier.
The patrol was routine. He and the five others were alone in an area not far from the university. They’d completed countless similar missions in Aleppo with no casualties. They were armed, they were doing their job, but Roof, known then as Sergeant First Class Rufus Buck, had the sense they weren’t as vigilant as they should have been.
Despite warnings from their superior officer, Captain Marcus Battle, they’d been talking about their upcoming leave. The men were looking forward to their R&R. Or as Roof had called it, I&I. Instead of rest and relaxation, he’d joked, it was more about intoxication and intercourse.
That sort of irreverence was a tricky proposition in the Muslim nations that jailed people for virtually any public displays of affection. Roof was schooling the younger men on ways to subvert authority and where they could find forbidden fruit when Battle chastised them for their lack of focus.
Roof was walking behind Battle with the other men. They were six or seven steps behind him. Roof silently mocked him with a lazy salute. The other men laughed. When Battle turned around, one of them poked his rifle at a moldy stuffed Elmo doll lying in their path.
The doll was filled with carpenter screws, ball bearings, and a pipe containing explosive material. Elmo exploded as the soldier stood above it.
He and the two men closest to him died instantly. Roof, Battle, and another soldier were thrown clear of the immediate blast.
No sooner they got their wits about them when the man next to Roof was gunned down. They’d stepped into an ambush. The combatants who’d detonated the doll were showering them with lead.
Roof was hit and dropped. His leg below his knee was mangled. He was trapped and unable to move.
The man he’d mocked moments earlier was his only salvation. From behind a concrete barrier, the fearless captain found the source of the gunfire and neutralized it.
He then returned and, at the risk of his own life, helped Roof to safety. It was the longest night of his life before the Scourge took hold. It was the night he learned what heroism was. He also learned he wasn’t capable of it.
When they crossed a bridge and checkpoint the following morning, they underwent a thorough debriefing. Every aspect of the previous afternoon and night was discussed repeatedly.
Battle was insistent he receive no medal for his actions. He’d told his superiors that if he’d done his job, if he’d kept his men focused, they never would have come under fire.
Roof, more jealous of his comrade’s selflessness than thankful for it, agreed that Battle had not commanded his patrol with authority. While he was grateful for the captain’s efforts to save his life, he didn’t promote the idea of any commendation. His ego wouldn’t allow it.
Both men were sent home from the tour. Roof never saw him again, except in nightmares when he relived the pain and embarrassment of relying on someone else to keep him alive.
And then karma played its hand. Battle, of all people, was the thorn in the Cartel’s side. On the eve of the war that would give them dominion of their lands, the fight that would put an end to the only organized opposition, Marcus Battle reappeared.
Roof was certain that when he confronted Battle before the Jones, the good captain would recognize him. For some reason, he hadn’t. Battle had no idea who Roof really was. The general was so shocked by it that he had to let the man live. He had to give him the same gift he’d received. So he did. He thought it would ease him of his guilt, the inadequacy that guided his life.
It didn’t.
Instead, it only reopened the festering wound, left it gaping and subject to infection. Letting Battle live was a mistake, just as Battle’s having let him live so many years ago was a mistake. Had Battle let him die, the Cartel never would have risen to power.
Now they were back where they began. Together in war. This time, though, they were on opposite sides. They were enemies. One or both of them would have to die. Karma, Roof believed, demanded it.
A knock on the thin window behind Roof’s head shook him from his trance. It was Skinner. He was riding in the back of the Humvee with the ambitious grunt Grat Dalton.
Roof looked over his shoulder. Skinner was pointing across the highway. Roof nodded and leaned forward to look through the front windshield. There was lightning off in the distance. The forks and flashes illuminated the storm clouds gathering in the dark. They spread wide across the direction in which they were heading.
It was impossible to tell how far north the storm might be. He hoped it would dissipate or move on before they drove into its path.
Roof turned around and acknowledged Skinner. He shrugged. There wasn’t anything he could do about it.
CHAPTER 22
OCTOBER 26, 2037, 12:00 AM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
INTERSTATE 45, RICHLAND, TEXAS
The Lexus rattled to a stop. Steam poured from underneath the cratered hood. The car was overheated. There was nothing Ana could do about it. What she’d hoped would be a straight trip to the canyon without interruption was stalled for the third time.
Ana pounded her fists against the top of the steering wheel. It was midnight in the middle of nowhere. She unbuckled her belt, slung it off her waist, and huffed.
She knew from the rusting green road sign on the side of the highway that she was outside Richland, Texas. That meant nothing to her except that it wasn’t Palo Duro Canyon. Ana would have to start walking.
Penny was asleep in the backseat. Ana looked at her and pursed her lips. Waking a sleeping baby was never a good idea.
The car wasn’t running, but its headlights still worked. She flipped on the high beams to give herself more vision ahead. They didn’t do much. They did, however, reveal an exit to the right and what looked like a building in the distance.
Ana elbowed herself out of the Lexus and stood in the road. It was quiet aside from the chirp of insects and frogs. The air was still and edging on crisp.
She pulled out the stroller and popped it open. She stuffed the car emergency kit into the pouch hanging off the back of the stroller near its handles. She took the stuffed backpack from the trunk and noticed the rubber nipple poking out from between the teeth of the open zipper.
She’d forgotten she packed a bottle. It could have saved her some time had she remembered, and might have allowed her to get farther than Richland. It didn’t matter now. She was glad to have the bottle. She opened the pack’s main compartment to remind herself of what else she’d packed in the fog of a post-homicidal escape. There were some reusable cloth diapers, some clothes for Penny, and a half-empty jar of Vaseline. Ana rolled her eyes at her own lack of creativity and closed the pack to sling it on her back.
She grabbed each of the weapons she’d stored in the back of the car and laid them on the road next to each other. She could only carry one. She folded her arms and strummed her fingers on her elbow. She picked up the pair of weapons from the would-be carjackers and tossed them into the trunk of the car.
The weapon left in the road was the assault rifle she’d taken from Nancy Wake. She grasped its varnished wood stock and held it tight in her hand. It had the round drum of ammunition underneath the barrel. Ana knew it had to hold more ammunition than the smaller, lighter weapons the carjackers had unknowingly gifted her.
Having
killed two people with it, the rifle already felt familiar in her hand. She made sure the safety lever was in the “safe” position and leaned it against the side of the Lexus.
Penny was awake. Her eyes fluttered and her brow furrowed as she stretched her nine-month-old body against the backseat. Penny’s sighed with relief. She wouldn’t have to wake her and face “angry baby wrath”.
Ana reached into the car to unbelt her child. “Hi, baby,” she cooed in the sweetest voice she could muster. Babies were like dogs, Ana had discovered in her short time as a mother. Tone and pitch mattered a lot more than words.
Penny smiled and patted her mother on her nose. “Mamamama,” she babbled.
Ana hooked her hands underneath Penny’s armpits and gently pulled her from the Lexus. Free of the car, she spun around in circles. “Wheeee!” she said, giggling and looking her daughter in the eyes as she twirled. “Wheeee!”
Penny giggled and cupped her hands together. Her dangling baby feet fluttered until Ana plopped her into the stroller and latched the nylon belt across her lap and between her chubby legs.
Ana placed the long gun over the stroller’s handles and wrapped one hand around the wooden pistol grip. She shrugged the pack up more comfortably onto her shoulders and started pushing the stroller. The first twenty yards or so, she stayed in the center of the road, using the headlights to guide her path. When she walked past the edge of the dimming light, she moved to the edge of the highway, closer to the exit. The closer she got to the building, the more its form took shape.
By the time she’d exited, she could make out the high, steep ridge of the roofline. Another twenty yards and she saw a large welcome sign to the right of the road. It was fronted by dirt and a W-shaped wall made of jagged limestone rocks. The signage was a dark color, maybe rust, and was decorated with bold white lettering, some of which was missing.
It read “TE AS DEP RT ENT O TRAN PORTA ION” across the top and “N VARRO C U TY SAFETY RE T A EA”. Ana stopped to make out the words. She chuckled to herself that the only word not missing any letters was safety.
She shoved the stroller past the sign, the wheels crunching along the pitted asphalt leading to the building. The rest area was larger than she’d anticipated from its moonlit silhouette.
It, like the signage, was built behind a limestone wall. A large area in front of the main building was a mixture of dirt, weeds, and tall unkempt grass. The building itself had a large covered porch and looked like a mix between ranch and shake architecture. It was constructed, best she could tell, of stone and wood siding. The siding was rotting so much in some spots it was evident in the dark. The large glass windows that framed the front of the first floor were dark. A couple of them were broken. Ana thought it had been some time since anyone had been here.
She inched her way up the path between the patches of weeds and grass and onto the porch. She rolled straight into a thick spiderweb that caught her across the forehead. Ana instinctively drew her hands to her face and head to swipe away the silky, sticky strings trailing across her eyes and mouth.
The gun fell and rattled against the concrete floor and reverberated against the walls and ceiling of the porch, making a noise loud enough to awaken anyone sleeping within a hundred yards.
It did.
CHAPTER 23
OCTOBER 26, 2037, 12:30 AM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
PALO DURO CANYON, TEXAS
The thunder snapped and rumbled an instant after a bolt of lightning targeted a lonely mesquite tree on the canyon floor. The tree caught fire, the flames crackling as they devoured the wood.
The sweet, rich smell burned in the cold air. It reminded Battle of the many fall evenings he would barbecue on the back porch with Sylvia and Wesson. He didn’t grill, even though he had one with a direct line to natural gas. He didn’t like the taste. Instead, he’d take mesquite chips and burn them over charcoal in a tin pot. Then he’d pour it into a big stainless basin, put a grate on top of it, and cover the grate with red meat.
Smell was the most powerful memory trigger. Battle inhaled deeply, enjoyed the scent for an instant, and then powered his fist into the recon posse boss’s stomach.
All of the air left the boss’s lungs. “Oooooof,” he spat and then gagged, trying to catch his breath.
“Aren’t you glad you didn’t kill this one?” asked Paagal, standing watch over the interrogation. The operator asked the questions and Battle provided the muscle. They were a quarter mile from the main camp, near a thin trail of water that ran along the floor. In the rainy season it could swell to a river. For now it was not much more than a trickling creek bed.
The boss was tied to a tree, his hands knotted around the back of the trunk, his ankles bound and immobile. He stood there against the young, dying cottonwood. His head hung with his chin against his chest. Drool trailed from his lips.
“You came to us,” said the operator. He was standing next to the boss, whispering in his left ear. “You surrendered. If you want to live, you need to give us more than your name.” He turned to Battle. “What was his name?”
Battle rubbed his right fist with his left hand. “Frank Canton.”
“Frank Canton,” whispered the operator. “Frank Canton. Huh. Well, Frank, now is your chance. You need to tell us what you know. Specifically, how many more teams are on their way here?”
Battle flexed his hands, took a deep breath, and stepped back.
The boss licked the spit from his lips, breathing through his mouth. He sounded like a child gulping a glass of juice. He lifted his head to speak.
“They sent us for recon,” he said. Each word sounded as if he’d carefully selected its use. “That’s it. They want to know your positions and numbers.”
“What else?” snapped the operator. “Give me more.”
“We were the first team,” said the boss. “I don’t know how many more are coming.”
The operator scratched his beard before running his hands through his hair. He leaned against the tree, standing behind the boss. “Good. What else?”
“I don’t have anything else.”
“Nothing?”
Drool flapped from Frank Canton’s lips as he shook his head. “Nothing.” His voice dripped with resignation.
“I don’t believe you.” The operator backed away from the boss. His eyes found Battle’s.
Battle pursed his lips and looked over to Paagal. She nodded. Battle walked over to the tree and the man attached to it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of pliers. They were rusted at the joint and difficult to separate. Battle made a show of it. He held the instrument in one hand and then walked around the man to the back of the tree, watching Canton follow him with wide eyes.
Before he reached for Canton’s hand, the prisoner began struggling against the ties. He squeezed his hands into tight fists, hiding his fingers in his palms.
Battle stood there, behind the tree and out of the man’s sight. He did nothing. He knew the thought of torture, the anticipation of pain, was greater than the pain itself.
“Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait.” The boss suddenly found a burst of energy deep within the part of his brain that triggered fear. “Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.”
Battle grabbed at the man’s flailing hands and secured one of them. He pulled the man’s thumb, the easiest of the digits to separate, and pulled it free of the fist.
The boss’s voice rocketed a pitch higher. “Please. Please, please. Stop. Stop. Stop.”
Battle drew the open jaws of the pliers to the man’s thumb and touched the lower teeth to the spot where the edge of his nail met the skin.
The man cried out and whimpered. “Noooo!” he said through tears. “I’ll tell you what I know.”
“It better be good, Frank,” said the operator. He folded his arms across his chest. “Talk.”
Battle held onto the man’s thumb. He removed the pliers.
A strong gust of wind howled through the canyon. It brought with
it a drop in the temperature.
The boss shivered. He was on the verge of hyperventilating. His chest was heaving as he spoke. “I reported directly to General Roof.”
The operator held up a satellite phone he’d retrieved from the boss. He shook it in front of the boss’s face. “With this?’
Lightning flashed in the distance. Another crash of thunder rolled against the canyon walls. It was followed by an angry fork of light and a louder crack that ripped across the sky. The ground rumbled from the percussion.
The boss nodded. “I told him our position. I told him we’d taken out some guards. I told—”
The operator popped the boss on the forehead with the satellite phone. “Frank, what did he tell you? That’s what I want to know.”
The boss’s eyes searched for the words. He swallowed and coughed on the phlegm in his throat. His eyes were glassy, and tears streaked through the dirt on his cheeks.
Battle squeezed Canton’s thumb, and the boss tensed against his touch. His body straightened and he started wailing in protest.
“Fray-yank,” said the operator, “c’mon now. We don’t have time to baby you. We know there’s an army heading this way. We need details. What did the general tell you?”
Frank Canton whimpered. “You’ll kill me once I tell you,” he said. “You’ll kill me if I don’t.”
The operator laughed. “That’s where you’re wrong, Frank,” he said. “You tell us what we want to know and you have a chance at living.”
Canton’s body relaxed against the tree. He sniffed and cleared his throat.
The operator lowered his voice and spoke slowly. “But if you don’t tell us what we want to know, we’re going to make you wish you were dead. And then we’re going to send you back to your general. What do you think he’ll do?”
A toothy grin snaked its way across the operator’s face. A strobe of light flickered above them. The thunder crashed. He stared at Canton without blinking until the boss hung his head. Battle flexed the boss’s thumb and quickly pressed the open pliers against the nail.