by Tom Abrahams
OCTOBER 26, 2037, 1:45 AM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
DALLAS, TEXAS
General Parrott Manuse saw the intruder before he heard him. He was in his office, sitting behind his desk. He couldn’t sleep.
He was reading a dog-eared printout of a thirty-three-year-old Army Manual titled “FM -3-07.22 Counter Insurgency Operations”.
The manual was a nice refresher for a man who hadn't waged war since the last Dweller skirmish two years earlier. He was reading about convoy operations when he caught movement in the peripheral vision above his outdated reading glasses.
The office had a single entrance that fed to a long hallway. The hallway split at a four-way intersection, which provided access to various parts of Manuse’s sprawling home. Unlike the other generals, who’d chosen comfortable but modest accommodations, Manuse squatted in a six-thousand-square-foot monster.
He put down the manual and reached for the handgun strapped under the desktop, a nine millimeter Glock. Its magazine was fully loaded. He pulled it out onto the desk and rested it there, his hand gripping it tightly.
“Hoodoo?” he said loudly, his voice echoing down the hallway. “That you?”
Hoodoo Brown was the head of the general’s private security team. There were four of them. Brown was the best. He was ruthless in his protection of the general.
“Hoodoo?” The general’s call went unanswered. Manuse searched his memory for the last time he’d heard from any of his security team. They typically checked with him every half hour during a heightened alert.
Manuse sat at the desk for a moment, Glock in his hand, watching the doorway through which he’d caught the movement. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, wondering if he’d seen anything at all. His gut, and the hairs on the back of his neck, told him something wasn’t right.
He reached over and turned off the dim desk lamp to his left. It was the only light in the room. With it off, he was in the dark. He pushed himself from the desk, crouched low, and moved around to its side, his dry, aging knee joints cracking. He squeezed into the space between the corner of the desk and a large floor-to-ceiling bookshelf.
Manuse was not a young man. He shifted his body in the space, trying to alleviate the discomfort in his lower back. He couldn’t stay hidden there for long.
The only sound in the room was the ticking of an old grandfather clock on the opposite wall. Its deliberate brass pendulum clicked back and forth, sweeping the minute hand across the sun and moon design of the old timepiece. It chimed once to mark the quarter hour and startled Manuse. He cursed the clock under his breath and adjusted his position to take the pressure off his back.
For several minutes, there was no sign of an intruder. Manuse wondered if Hoodoo had told him he’d be going somewhere. His memory was clouded in the untrustworthy fog of an old mind.
Manuse had nearly convinced himself of his own paranoia when he heard the intruder outside the office. It was a whisper or a murmur.
The general peeked around the corner in time to see two dark figures entering the room from the hallway. He steadied himself and raised the Glock.
Before he could pull the trigger, the room exploded in gunfire. The intruders sprayed the desk with the lead from their assault rifles, muzzle flashes strobing. Glass shattered. Splinters of wood shot through the air. It was a deafening attack that left Manuse cringing in his tight space. Nonetheless, he took aim from his uncomfortable spot on the floor and repeatedly pulled the trigger. One of the intruders jerked awkwardly and fell to the floor. The other turned his aim on Manuse. A volley of bullets riddled the bookshelf to his right, shredding the old volumes that populated the shelf.
Avoiding the barrage, the general slid backward and crawled on his knees to the other side of the desk. A sudden, sharp pain struck his ankle above his foot.
He bit down on his lip to stop himself from crying out in pain and leaned around the desk on its opposite side. He was met with the barrel of a rifle inches from his face.
“Drop it, old man,” said the intruder. “It’s over.”
Manuse dropped the Glock and slid it to the intruder. He dropped onto his stomach and spread his arms. “I’m injured,” he said, laying his face on the cold, wooden floor. “My leg. I think you shot my leg.”
The intruder reached over to the desk lamp and pulled its chain. Manuse could see the man’s boots in front of him. The red overlay in the boot shaft was familiar. He recognized it, but couldn’t place it.
The intruder crouched down and tilted his head so that Manuse could look into his eyes. There was a wide smile stretched across the intruder’s face.
“Got any final words, General?” asked Hoodoo Brown. “Anything you want to say?”
Manuse felt the pressure of his own weapon against the side of his head. He pressed his eyes closed, forgetting about the burning ache in his ankle.
“Why?” he asked Hoodoo. “Why are you doing this?”
Hoodoo nodded. “I’m a Dweller,” he said. “That’s why.”
Manuse swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple dancing in his throat. He could taste his lunch. The general narrowed his eyes and spat the bile onto the black toe of Hoodoo’s boot.
“A Dweller?” said Manuse. “You fu—”
Hoodoo interrupted him with the Glock. Twice.
The guard stood up and plucked a satellite phone from his back pocket. After inputting the correct connection information, he drew the phone to his ear.
“Paagal?” he said. “Manuse is dead. The Metroplex rebellion has begun.” He listened to Paagal’s instructions and hung up, tucked the phone into his pocket, and walked over to the coconspirator who lay dead on the floor. Hoodoo bent down and picked up the man’s rifle. Carrying one in each hand, he marched from the office into the hallway.
Hoodoo had work to do. Killing the general was the first step of many. Chaos was building in the streets. Hoodoo had promised Paagal he’d contribute to it.
CHAPTER 27
OCTOBER 26, 2037, 2:15 AM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
DALLAS, TEXAS
The storm had subsided. The rain shower was intense but brief. It, and the accompanying electrical storm, drifted south. There were still flashes of light in the distance and long delayed booms of thunder. A steady, cold wind had settled in behind the storm. It was a damp wind that cut through Battle’s soaked clothing and chilled his body. He rubbed his thumbs across the tips of his wrinkled fingers. He was drenched to the bone.
He looked at the others. They too wore frowns on their faces. Their brows were furrowed, their shoulders hunched.
Canton was the worst of them. Still tied to the tree, he’d braved the storm and the operator’s relentless questioning.
As far as Battle could tell, recon posse boss Frank Canton had told them everything he knew about the Cartel’s battle plan. They’d learned Canton had been in many of the key meetings where Roof and the other generals had discussed strategy. He was an intelligence gold mine. It only took Battle and the operator a little digging to find the choice nuggets.
They knew from Paagal that Logan was dead. So was Manuse. That left Roof as the only general alive.
He’d be dead too if he hadn’t left his home for Lubbock. The Dwellers had no sway in Lubbock. As the hub of the Cartel’s illicit trade, their infiltration efforts had repeatedly failed. The grunts and bosses working there were loyal beyond reason.
The operator told Paagal they’d extracted everything they could get from Canton, but she’d wanted more. She’d insisted they had time before the attack, which Canton placed at intervals after sunrise.
He’d advised them that they’d face attacks on all fronts. There would be wave after wave of offense. Paagal listened intently, making tactical adjustments in her mind.
“What can you tell us about Roof?” asked the operator. “What was he before the Scourge?”
Canton was obviously spent. He couldn’t lift his head. His words were virtually inaudible. The o
perator had to stick his ear close to the boss’s mouth to understand what he was saying.
“He was a soldier,” said Canton.
“A soldier?” asked the operator. “As in the Army?”
Canton licked his dry lips and nodded. “Army.” He coughed. “Syria.”
Battle’s interest was piqued. “He served in Syria?” He stepped around to the front of the tree and stood next to the operator.
Canton nodded again. “Then drug dealer. Built Cartel.” His body sank against the tree and he winced against the pull of the binds on his bruised, raw wrists.
“He was a soldier and drug dealer?” asked the operator.
Canton tried lifting his head but failed. He whispered something.
“What?” asked the operator. “I can’t understand you.”
Canton’s chin dropped to his chest and his head rolled to the side. He was unconscious.
The operator looked at Battle. “Wake him up.”
Battle sighed and stepped to the boss. He took the man’s face in one hand and slapped him with the other.
Canton gasped. His head jerked back against the tree. His eyes fluttered open. “Drugs,” he spat. “He sold drugs.”
Battle moved next to the prisoner and spoke softly into his ear. “How do you know he served in Syria?”
“Rumor,” Canton said. “He wore dog tags.”
Battle pressed. “What about Syria?”
“People say he almost died in Syria. They say Elmo almost killed him.”
Battle stepped away from the boss and walked past the operator, past Paagal, consciously ignoring their stares. The wind was whipping through the canyon, the tail edge of a storm that brushed by them.
He stopped at a spot where the creek widened. He looked at the split reflection of the moon in the trickling water, trying to organize his thoughts.
It couldn’t be. Could it?
There were tens of thousands of soldiers who’d served in Syria. Maybe it was more than a hundred thousand who’d done lengthy tours. That information didn’t narrow the field.
Many of them might have turned to the high-profit world of drug trafficking or other illegal work. There had been limited opportunities for legitimate employment coming back to a weakened economy. Only men with spotless records were getting the consulting jobs Battle had landed. Roof’s employment didn’t necessarily make him exceptional.
There were countless deaths and near deaths during the Syrian War. That wouldn’t distinguish Roof either.
But Elmo, that squeaky red Muppet with the big nose. That was the clincher. That was the one thing Battle couldn’t shove aside into the evidence pile marked coincidence.
Standing on the edge of the water, Battle’s balance wavered. The rain had swollen the creek. He lost himself in its run through the canyon floor, finding its way across the inhospitable terrain.
“You should have let him die,” said Sylvia’s voice. “Then maybe you’d still be home. You’d be with us.”
Battle ran his hands through his sopping hair. He gritted his teeth. “You told me to leave,” he said to Sylvia. “You wanted me to move forward.”
“Because that’s what the circumstances demanded, Marcus,” she said. “If you’d let Rufus Buck die in Syria, there wouldn’t be a Cartel. You wouldn’t have needed to leave our home.”
Battle tried to follow that reasoning. “But if I’d let him die,” he argued, “I never would have met Nizar. I wouldn’t have understood the need to prepare for the end of the world. I—”
“None of that mattered, did it?” asked Sylvia. “Your preparations, your stockpile, your rules. None of it mattered.”
Battle crouched in front of the creek. It was deep enough that he could see the moon over his shoulder. His own filthy reflection stared back at him. “So what are you saying?” he asked. Sylvia’s image appeared in the water, displacing his own. She was as beautiful as he remembered. She was as she looked in the photograph he carried in his pocket, the photograph he’d risked his life to save from the fire that consumed their house two weeks earlier.
“I’m not saying anything, Marcus,” she told him. “I’m not here. My voice is your voice. You know that. You know I’m only telling you the things you don’t want to admit to yourself.”
Battle dipped his fingers into the cold running water. Expanding outward, the ripples distorted Sylvia’s face. By the time they’d dissipated, a different face was smiling back at him. Sylvia was gone. The visage reflected in the water was Lola’s.
Battle squeezed his eyes shut and wiggled his fingers in the water, trying to erase her. He couldn’t. She was there.
“You’re not crazy, Marcus,” she whispered, her voice blending with the rushing water. “But if you don’t forgive yourself for things you’ve done, or didn’t do, you’ll drive yourself insane with regret.”
Battle drew his cold, shivering hands to his face and quietly sobbed into them. His tears mixed with the creek water and the remnants of rain that dripped from his hair. His chest shuddered as he cried.
He wept for his mistakes, for his miscalculations, for his arrogance. He mourned the Syrian named Nizar who’d sacrificed his own life to lead him and Rufus Buck to safety, the churchgoing woman who’d infected his son and wife with the Scourge, and his inability to protect any of them. He shed tears for Sylvia and Sawyer, for Lola’s husband, and for Pico. He cried for himself, for his own lack of humanity and loss of faith.
The sudden knowledge that Rufus Buck was General Roof was a gut punch Marcus Battle greatly needed. It clarified his purpose. He would stop looking back.
He would miss his wife and son for the entirety of his life. If he ever returned to his home, he would visit their graves. But he resolved at the edge of the rising creek to put the man he had been behind him.
If he was going to live in this new world and survive, he had to get out of his own head. He had to trust again. He’d have to find joy where it existed, and forge happiness where it did not. He had to love again.
And above all else, he had to kill the man responsible for the Cartel.
CHAPTER 28
OCTOBER 26, 2037, 3:55 AM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
DALLAS, TEXAS
Ana tore at the jerky with her teeth. It was dry and leathery, but she was hungry. It was her fourth piece, the last in the saddlebag aboard her horse. There were a couple of canteens, a blanket roll, and a Smith & Wesson .357 double action revolver with a cinched pouch full of ammunition.
She’d ridden up the interstate more than sixty miles, somehow maneuvering the well-trained paint at a steady trot. She’d almost fallen off a couple of times, managing to keep her balance.
Penny was on her chest The rhythmic bounce of the horse had put the baby back to sleep. After all her misfortune in the last day, Penny’s exhaustion was a blessing.
The child was stuffed into the backpack Ana had used to carry baby supplies. Ana had stuffed the Vaseline and extra diapers into the saddlebag. She’d used a folding jackknife she’d found on another horse and sawed two leg holes into the bottom of the pack.
She drew the straps tight and wore the pack against her chest, the baby sitting inside and facing forward, her legs dangling from the holes.
Ana saw Dallas from miles away. There was power in the city. She could see the lights flickering on and off. She wondered whether it was a mirage or whether the electricity was as spotty as it had been in Houston.
The horse kept a steady pace, its shoes clopping on the highway toward the city. Ana wondered if she was better off avoiding the city, but it was the fastest route to where she needed to be. On horseback, she figured she’d need to ride another fifteen hours. If she stayed on the highway, she and Penny would be fine.
On her approach, the city gleamed to the left. It wasn’t as impressive as Houston’s skyline, even in their varying degrees of disrepair. Ana rubbed the top of Penny’s bouncing head with her hand, feeling the fine soft strands of hair. She kept her eyes forwa
rd and used her tongue to suck the remnant pieces of jerky from her teeth.
The highway was elevated twenty feet above the ground below. Above her was what was left of a highway directional sign. It was bent and sheared at the bottom.
Ana cranked the flashlight and aimed it at the reflective green face of the sign. She’d been using the light to make sure she was headed in the right direction.
The sign read BRYAN STREET. That didn’t mean anything to Ana. She wasn’t from Dallas and hadn’t ever spent any time there, except when Logan had taken her to look at motorcycles.
There were Cartel outfits who used high-efficiency cycles to deliver messages and other things of importance. They were like a Pony Express, Logan had explained.
The Dwellers had always told her the motorcycle gangs were ruthless criminals. They were delivery boys and girls, but also high-RPM killers who could maneuver the wilderness of north and far west Texas faster than horses and more nimbly than Humvees or trucks. They typically hung close to the wall and traveled in packs.
Ana bounced in the saddle with the horse’s trot. She wasn’t a good enough rider to employ a full gallop. If she could find a motorcycle, though, she might be able to make it to Palo Duro before it was too late. It was a long shot. She had little recollection of where they’d been.
Ana kicked her heels into the horse’s sides and it picked up its pace after snorting its disagreement. She read the overhead signs as they bounced along underneath them. Nothing looked familiar.
She took a deep breath and took the next exit ramp down into the city. Maybe from the surface streets, she would recognize where they’d seen the motorcycles.
No sooner she’d made the descent into the city than she regretted it. Gunfire popped in the near distance. Men and women screamed, children were crying. The sounds echoed and bounced off the high buildings that lined the streets.
Ana smelled smoke and burning rubber. She pulled her shirt up over her nose and draped a cloth diaper over her sleeping baby’s head. Her eyes stung from the acrid smoke. She tugged on the reins to slow the horse and rubbed its neck.