Canyon: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 2)

by Abrahams, Tom

  She adjusted herself in the saddle. The stirrups were too low for her feet, but she held tight to the saddle horn. Battle slid her shotgun into the billet strap. He turned to look for Pico when he heard a man shouting at them.

  “Hey!” the man said. He was standing at the edge of the barn where it met the covered area. “What are y’all doing? Get off those horses.”

  Battle spun around in time to see the man leveling a shotgun and sending a wide blast of shot in their direction. The sound of the blast echoed against the metal ceiling. That brought six more men running. They appeared from nowhere.

  The blast also spooked every one of the horses, initiating a post-apocalyptic carousel of snorting and neighing. The high-pitched chorus was deafening. It also provided confusion and a moving barrier.

  “Go!” Battle loosed Lola’s horse and it sprinted west, away from the highway, nearly bucking Lola as it galloped.

  Pico was already on his way north. He had better control of his horse and was charging hard from the fray.

  Battle crouched low amongst the horses and moved away from the barn. He almost took a shoed hoof in his head, but avoided it and ducked lower to the ground.

  The men were shouting directions at each other. None had fired another shot after that first blast. Battle figured they knew better than to risk killing their own horses for the sake of stopping thieves.

  He moved cautiously to the far northern edge of the open area, dropping to his stomach. He could see the men’s boots from underneath the pacing, anxious animals. Battle quickly set himself in the prone position and aimed.

  Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!

  His first shot missed. The second hit a grunt in the kneecap, dropping him in what Battle knew was agonizing pain. The third shot hit another man in the ankle. He dropped to the ground too. Battle finished him with the fourth shot, a bullet through the back of his head.

  The shots irritated the horses even more. Another round of shrieking neighs pierced the air. Battle winced against the sound drilling his ears but found another target and fired.

  Thump!

  A bullet sank into the soft flesh of a man’s thigh and bored into his femur. He dropped his shotgun and reached for his wounded leg.

  Battle scanned right and then left. There were more boots, more men circling him like sharks. They were closing in on him even as he fired. He could make a run for it, but he’d lose the horses as cover.

  However, if he stayed on the ground much longer, they’d figure out what he was doing and they’d have him in their sights. He applied pressure to Inspector’s trigger again.

  Thump! Thump!

  The twin shots exploded another pair of kneecaps. Battle shifted to the right.

  Thump!

  He missed, reset, and fired again.

  Thump!

  Another miss. This time, the target dropped to the floor with his shotgun in hand. Through the mess of dancing horses, the grunt found Battle’s position.

  “I see him!” he yelled, struggling to swing around his six-shooter. “He’s on the floor by the far—”

  Thump! Thump!

  Battle silenced him, but it was too late. Others were crouching low, searching underneath the horses for the armed thief. One of them, only fifteen yards away, leveled his revolver.

  Thump!

  Battle fired first. His shot hit the man on the top of his shoulder near his neck. He was done, but the net was closing.

  Pow!

  The sudden shotgun blast caught Battle’s attention, distracting him for an instant while he panned for another target. It was too far away, its crack echoing too much to be at close range.

  A man dropped to the floor, his head slapping against the concrete before a horse stepped on it.

  The net loosened. The boots were running away from him now, not toward him. He rolled over quickly and got to his feet. Looking east to the gravel lot, Pico was atop his horse. He had a Browning pulled to his eye and was training the muzzle on a grunt.

  Pow!

  The grunt stumbled forward, falling face-first onto the ground.

  Pico kicked the horse and circled back to the highway as Lola galloped into view. She too was taking aim.

  Pow!

  She hit a posse boss, knocking his hat from his head as he slunk to the ground, the blast peppering his face and neck. Lola’s blast gave Battle enough time to spring from the covered area and into the lot.

  He knew he had nineteen shots left. As he cleared the horses, he saw nine men.

  He drew Inspector to his eye and marched forward purposefully, and set about emptying the magazine into the remaining men.

  One by one, they fell, dropped, sank, collapsed, and died at the hands of the man who was once a soldier.

  He’d forgotten tactics and made critical errors that had cost him his home. He’d struggled with the carelessness that accompanied the consuming desire for revenge.

  Battle wasn’t the man who’d graduated West Point or who’d survived tours in Syria and Iran. He wasn’t a father or a husband anymore either.

  As he laid waste to the Cartel’s existence in little, forgotten Dermott, Texas, he was a killing machine. He was Mad Max.

  Battle picked the carcasses clean of their ammunition, adding to his supply of shotgun shells. He took a particularly nice Colt revolver from one of the dead men and loaded it with forty-five-caliber bullets, adding it to his saddlebag. Inside the maintenance shed, Pico found bottles of water, which he emptied into their canteens.

  Battle mounted a horse alongside Lola and Pico. “Thanks for that,” he said. “You saved me.”

  “You saved us,” said Lola. “More than once.”

  “Still.” Battle tipped his hat. “Thanks.”

  “I ain’t never seen anyone as possessed as you, Battle,” said Pico. “I mean, the way you mowed down them men.”

  Battle looked at the bodies strewn about in the gravel lot. He counted eighteen, nineteen, twenty of them. “I don’t know,” he said. “Something clicked. Like muscle memory or something.”

  “Or something,” Lola said.

  Pico sighed and motioned toward the highway. “North?”

  “You two start heading north,” he said. “I’m going back to the Humvee. I don’t want to leave behind that XM25.” He gauged their faces and cut them off before either of them could speak. “Don’t tell me it’s a bad idea. Head north. I’ll catch up with you in less than an hour.”

  Lola and Pico reluctantly agreed and trotted north on Highway 84. Lola turned back and looked over her shoulder. She waved at Battle. He waved back and then swung his horse south.

  He needed to get back to that Humvee in a hurry, and something in the back of his mind told him he was already too late.

  ***

  The wind at his back, Battle pushed the horse southeast on Highway 84, rushing past tangled mesquite trees lining both sides of the untended, cracked asphalt. His horse snorted as it galloped, as if it somehow knew the urgency of their mission. Battle’s eyes teared from the cold. His lungs, still weak from inhaling smoke at his burning home a day earlier, tightened when he inhaled the chilled air and stopped him from taking a full, deep breath.

  Lola was right. He’d made a lot of bad decisions in the past few days. He regretted not having prepared a more thorough defense at his home. A treehouse, some punji sticks, and trip wires weren’t enough.

  He’d lost tactical advantage more times than he could count. He ran through the possible reasons in his mind, lost in the rhythm of the gallop.

  Was it complacency from having handled minor, predictable incursions over the better part of five years? Was it distraction? Did he unconsciously want to die as he had in the days after the Scourge devoured his family? Was he losing his mind?

  “You’re not losing your mind, Marcus,” answered Sylvia’s voice without a hint of irony. “You’re too strong for that.”

  “I don’t know.” He laughed to himself. “I think I’m half gone. I’m answering myse
lf. Whether or not it’s your voice is irrelevant.”

  “You need to err on the side of caution,” Sylvia warned. “Remember what it was that made you the man you are. Remember your life before the Scourge.”

  Battle couldn’t remember it. Not really. There were static flashes, like the Vitex or the smell of potting soil mixed with Sylvia’s jasmine lotion. There was the sound of his son’s giggling laughter, which he thought he could remember. Maybe he was confusing it with something or someone else. Maybe he’d manufactured the memory of it as a coping mechanism.

  True memories? They were gone.

  The sensation of happiness, the satisfaction of a good meal, the pleasure of looking forward to the next day, the contentment of loving and reassurance of being loved wholly were magnetically erased. The only way he could acknowledge they existed at all was the overwhelming sense of loss that never left him. The anxiety was constant.

  Battle shook off the voice, rode up to the Humvee, and dismounted. It was as they left it. He searched the horizon and didn’t see anyone coming. A roadrunner darted into the road and stopped a few feet away. It pecked its oversized bill and cocked its head at Battle, its distinctive crest fluttering in the breeze. Battle looked more closely and saw a small lizard in the bird’s mouth. Its body was limp and flapped as the roadrunner jerked its body.

  The bird sprinted from the road and into the dry brush, and Battle turned his attention back to the Humvee and reached in for the XM25. He set it on the ground next to the truck and rummaged around in the bed for the remaining color-coded rounds.

  There were four yellow, five red, and five orange. The yellow were the high-explosive air-bursting projectiles. The red were the armor-piercing rounds. The orange were the door busters.

  He slugged the rounds into an ammo bag and slung it over his head and shoulder. He wore it cross-body, with the ammo bag sitting at his left hip. His neck and shoulders ached already from the weight of the pack on his back. Neither was happy about the addition.

  Battle pulled McDunnough, his reliable nine millimeter, from his hip and walked around the front of the Humvee and fired a pair of shots into the engine. It couldn’t hurt. He knew the truck was no good, but didn’t want to take the chance of the Cartel making it work.

  Battle made sure Inspector was affixed to the side of the horse, held in place by a billet strap. He craned his neck and jumped back onto the horse while holding the XM25.

  Battle looked over his shoulder. At first there was nothing. That was good. He turned back to the road ahead and kicked his heels into the horse. The horse accelerated slowly and Battle turned his head one more time to look at where he’d been.

  They weren’t alone this time. It was hard to tell the exact distance, Battle guessed it was a half mile or more, but there was a black vehicle on the road. Next to it, in the southbound lane, was a large box truck. Despite the distance and the dancing haze on the horizon, Battle recognized both of them from the motor pool. The Cartel was on its way.

  Battle took as deep a breath as he could, coughed out the cold air, and urged the horse into a full gallop. He lowered his head against the oncoming wind and worked the reins. They were as good as caught.

  ***

  “That’s our Humvee, sir,” said Porky. He slowed the SUV to a stop a few feet from the stolen vehicle.

  “Stay here,” said Skinner. “I’ll be right back.” He climbed out of the SUV and stomped over to the Humvee. There were bags and various supplies strewn about the open bed. He walked around the front of the vehicle and saw a pair of holes in the engine block.

  Skinner cursed aloud and trudged back to the SUV. He slid into his seat and yanked the door shut, slamming it with every bit of force he could muster.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “There’s nothing here. They’re not far, though. I know it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Porky put the SUV into gear and accelerated. “We should be at the way station in Dermott in less than a minute, sir.”

  Skinner didn’t acknowledge the grunt. He was staring out the window at the mesquite wavering in the wind. He lowered his hat on his brow.

  He didn’t like his orders. He didn’t like competing with some garrison from Lubbock. He didn’t like the necessity of keeping Battle alive. Orders were orders, especially when General Roof was the one giving them.

  “Sir,” said Porky, his voice cracking, “we’ve got a problem up ahead.”

  “What?”

  Porky stopped the SUV in the middle of the highway, keeping the engine running. Skinner tried to catch Porky’s eyes in the rearview mirror, but the grunt wouldn’t look at him.

  He punched the headrest, jarring Porky. “What?”

  “Everybody’s dead, sir.”

  The grunt in the front passenger seat was leaning forward, his hands pressed against the dash so he could look at whatever it was that caught his attention. The one next to Skinner was craning his neck, trying to catch a glimpse too.

  Skinner huffed and shouldered the door open. He stepped out of the SUV and into the road. His head was down as he walked forward. When he looked up from under the brim of his white Stetson, it was the blood that first caught his attention. It was everywhere.

  Skinner had seen a lot of blood, had spilled much of it himself. This was something different. Someone possessed had accounted for the carnage sprayed before him.

  After the blood, it was the eyes. There were too many pairs of dead, vacant eyes fixed with fear. Skinner walked up to the closest body, that of an unshaven older grunt. He was on his back. There was gray stubble on his chin and above his lip. There were deep furrows on either side of his nose and a singular dark red hole at the center of his forehead.

  Skinner kicked his side with his boot and cursed the man for dying. He cursed him for failing. He kicked the body again. And again. Each time he pulled his boot back a little farther and drove his toe forward with incrementally more force.

  Skinner looked up and started counting the bodies. He quit when he got to thirteen. It was too difficult to tell where one body ended and another began. There was too much blood.

  He turned around to see Porky standing behind him. A couple of other grunts from the box truck were also there, their faces ashen and drawn. Even Porky looked thinner somehow.

  “This is fresh,” Skinner said. “Ain’t no smell yet. We’re close. We can catch ’em.”

  “They probably took some horses,” Porky offered. He pointed at the open area adjacent to the barn. “Two or three spaces are empty.”

  “Maybe so,” said Skinner. “We’ll get ’em before that garrison from Lubbock. They can’t be that far ahead. Take some of the weapons, toss ’em into the back of the box truck, and let’s go.”

  Skinner looked up at the sky. There were three blackbirds circling high above. They were riding the currents, their wings fixed as they glided. One of them flapped its wings, dove toward the ground, and swooped back up to join the others. Skinner followed the bird toward the sun. It was after noon. The sun was past its peak and starting to wane.

  “C’mon!” he yelled to the grunts. “Get movin’.”

  CHAPTER 21

  JANUARY 3, 2020, 7:19 PM

  SCOURGE -12 YEARS, 9 MONTHS

  ALEPPO, SYRIA

  Battle had the high ground. He was in the dark. He could see the opposition and they couldn’t see him. Advantage: Battle.

  Then Buck coughed. It was a loud, hacking cough. He gasped for air as if it were his final breath. Then he moaned.

  Immediately, like jackals, the four Syrians snapped their attention in Battle’s direction. They still couldn’t see him, but now they knew he was there.

  Battle could see them peering into the darkness. They raised their weapons. All four were aiming directly at him.

  Battle saw no downside to a muzzle flash now. He applied pressure to the nine millimeter’s sensitive trigger.

  Pop! Pop!

  Two quick shots downed two of the men, instantly dropping them onto the track
s.

  The other two were running up the embankment toward him. Now they had a fix on his position.

  One of them opened fire.

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  Battle reacted by flinging his body onto Buck’s to protect his helpless comrade. He turned his back and ducked his head, hoping a true round would find his Kevlar and nothing else. None of the three shots hit them. One ricocheted off the concrete near Battle’s head.

  Pop! Pop!

  Battle felt a thick punch to his ribs. He bit down on his cheek to suppress a cry and drew blood. The warm, metallic taste filled his mouth, and he rolled away from Buck, unable to catch his breath. He could see the approaching target.

  Pop!

  The shot tore through Battle’s uniform, grazed his left arm, and exploded into the concrete. A shot of searing heat radiated across his bicep. From his back, he leveled the sidearm and pulled the trigger, aiming it directly at the advancing threat.

  Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

  He reflexively pulled the trigger again and again until he saw the Syrian collapse. The second one was still climbing the embankment.

  Pop! Pop!

  Both shots missed Battle’s head to his left. Pieces of concrete sprayed against the side of his face as he found his focus through the metal sights and fired.

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  The trio of rounds hit in a tight pattern at the spot where the man’s decorations would have been pinned, had he had any. He jerked backward to his left, let out an unearthly wail, and managed one more errant shot with his handgun, toppling over and rolling down the embankment.

  Struggling to breathe, Battle dropped his head to the ground and stared up at the sky, trying to gain control of the adrenaline coursing through his body.

  His back felt as if somebody had slugged him with an aluminum bat. The burn in his left arm had morphed to a sharp sting and throbbing ache. Buck was next to him, alternately whimpering and coughing.

  “You okay?” Battle asked once he’d caught his breath.

  Buck mumbled.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Battle said and sat up. He tucked the nine millimeter into his utility belt and pushed himself to his feet. He couldn’t see how badly his arm was wounded. He stuck his fingers inside his wet, torn sleeve and drew them close to his face. They were dark with blood. He flexed his bicep. It was painful, but he could do it.