Hero: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 7)

by Tom Abrahams

  The baby stretched her legs. Her little fingers were balled into tight fists. She held one of them to her face like she was hitting herself in exasperation.

  “When you’ve got a weaner, and you’re raising one for show,” said Warner, “you keep ’em for a few months while you’re getting them up to slaughter weight. You know that’s the goal. That’s the reason you get up every morning, feed them, clean them, water them. That’s the goal, fatten them for sale. The whole relationship, as it were, is predicated on that fact. You’re raising the pig to kill it.”

  The woman’s eyes widened with concern. She clearly knew where this story was headed. But what did it have to do with her baby?

  Warner could see it on her face, that puzzled expression trying to fit the pieces together. A rush of electricity ran through his body. He liked it, the sense of control.

  “See,” he said, “I talked to my pig. I’d sing to him, tell him stories about me and my girl. He’d listen and I swear he’d sometimes nod in agreement. Pig was smart…”

  The more of his story he told, the more of his west Texas vernacular, the twang and drawl in his voice, took hold. It was like he was back on the farm, chewing a weed, shoveling feed, brushing the pig’s back.

  “I loved that guy,” he said. “All the time, in the back of my mind, I know there’s gonna come a day when he’s gonna be bacon and carnitas. Don’t matter, though. I keep treating Old Major like family.”

  A child on the chain gang cried out and drew his attention. The mother put both of her hands on the boy’s face, cradled it, and got close to him. Warner couldn’t tell if she was comforting the kid or scolding him. Either way, as long as the boy shut up, it was all good.

  “Then comes the show,” he said. “Big one. Old Major looks great. Judges love him. He’s reserve grand champion. Gets a blue ribbon. I get some scholarship money for college. Then the buyer takes him off.”

  There were tears in the new mother’s eyes. They glistened in the firelight, pooling on her lids.

  “You know the hardest part?” Warner asked rhetorically. “The hardest part wasn’t that first cold morning in the fall, knowing that was the day they were gonna gut Old Major, trough him, use a razor to cut off his hair. It wasn’t that.”

  Warner looked at the woman but didn’t see her. He was somewhere distant again, somewhere in his past.

  “It was the empty stall where I kept him. It was still getting up in the morning at the ass-crack of dawn and going out there to feed him, forgetting he wasn’t there. I’d call his name, not thinking about it. He wasn’t there…” He snorted a chuckle. “Last time I named a pig.”

  Warner blinked back into focus. He jutted out his chin toward the baby. “That’s why I wouldn’t name the kid. ’Cause you’re gonna wake up one morning and she won’t be there. It’ll be a lot easier without a name. But that’s just me.”

  Warner rubbed his hands on his thighs and stood. His muscles protested for an instant, but he pushed past it and reached out his hands. “Hand me the baby.”

  The woman shook her head. The tears ran down her cheeks, the sides of her face.

  “I’m not stealing her. I’m holding her so you can get up.”

  The woman lifted her head and kissed the baby’s forehead. Hesitant at first, she lifted the infant from her body and held her out to Warner.

  He leaned over, the small of his back tensing with pain, and took the child in his hands. “Hey, Blessing,” he called loud enough for his partner to hear him. “Help this woman up, would you?”

  Blessing marched over to them, squatted, and helped lift the woman into a sitting position. From there he stood, grabbed both of her hands in his, and pulled her up, steadying her when she wobbled.

  Her dress was stained and filthy. It was rumpled at her knees, folded under itself.

  “See if you can’t get a woman to help her with her clothes,” said Warner. “She needs underwear, maybe a clean dress or pants. See what people got.”

  Blessing took the woman by her arm and led her over to the chain gang. Warner followed them over to the fire and handed the baby to Andrea.

  “Hold this for me,” he said. “I got my hands full with other things.”

  Andrea looked at the baby, then Warner, then the baby again. She took the child and turned her to cradle the baby in her arms. “She needs a blanket or something.”

  “Blessing will get it,” he said.

  “What do you have on him?”

  Warner raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  “Why does he do everything you say?” asked Andrea. “I wouldn’t.”

  He laughed. “You don’t.”

  “Why does he?” she persisted.

  “He just does,” said Warner. It was none of her business why the partners were the way they were. And who was she to ask?

  Andrea motioned toward the new mother with her head, holding the baby’s head against her neck. “She can’t go right now. You can’t do this. Where are you taking us?”

  Warner clenched his jaw. He tightened a fist at his side. He thought about ending her right here. But the baby inside her was worth something. He could tolerate her insolence for a while longer.

  “You wanna know?” he asked. “You really wanna know?”

  Andrea stiffened. “Yes.”

  “Okay,” said Warner. “I’ll ask you a question first.”

  She remained silent.

  “You wanna put an end to the government?” he asked. “The government that doesn’t want you having babies? The one that made you so desperate you hired a coyote?”

  Her face twitched, a betrayal of her intended stoicism.

  “I bet you do,” said Warner. “I see it on you. You want to put an end to all of this. To the government, to me, to Blessing.”

  “You’re scum. You’re a bottom-feeding piece of—”

  Warner raised his hand. “Hold up there, missy. We got mixed company present. No need for foul language.”

  Andrea grumbled and shifted the child to the other side, swaying.

  “I’m giving you an opportunity to end it all,” he said. “You’ll be part of something bigger than yourself. Help take down the government.”

  “How is that?”

  “I’m selling you to a tribe near Fort Worth,” he said. “They pay really well for childbearing women and young children whose minds are moldable.”

  The disgust on her face softened and morphed into something else. Something like fear.

  “They’re building an army,” he said. “They’re big enough, these tribes, that the government don’t mess with them. But they’re small enough they can’t initiate a fight. They can’t take control of things.”

  Andrea’s bitter defiance was wavering. “I don’t understand.” Her voice trembled.

  “You don’t have to understand. You just have to do what they tell you. Eventually your kids will be their army. Were you ever a fan of baseball?”

  “Baseball?”

  “Yeah. Pro teams had what was called a farm system. They grew their own talent. Young players would learn the system, get better, and if they were ready, they’d be the future for the big team. That’s what the tribes are doing. They’re growing their own talent.”

  “You’re selling us into slavery?” she asked. “And then our children will be trained as soldiers?”

  “The children you have, the ones you’re about to have, and the ones you’ll have down the road,” said Warner. “It’s genius, ain’t it?”

  “It’s sick.” Andrea looked sick. Even in the ambient, flickering glow of the flames, her color was sallow, almost green.

  “It’s business.” Warner clapped his hands together and raised his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “We need to hit the road.”

  CHAPTER 16

  APRIL 18, 2054, 8:30 PM

  SCOURGE +21 YEARS, 7 MONTHS

  NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

  Marcus stood at the platform and watched the train rumble past. Its breez
e cooled his face. Its power vibrated through his body. He craned his neck to one side and then the other, cracking the soreness from it.

  “You get any sleep?” Dallas asked.

  Marcus grabbed the top of his hat and pushed down on the crown, lowering it on his head. It was warmer here. The humidity thickened the air. “Some,” he said.

  “That’s better than none.”

  “True,” said Marcus. “C’mon, we gotta find a ride west.”

  Dallas shrugged his pack up onto his back and followed Marcus from the platform and into the terminal. It was busy but not crowded.

  The mustard-colored terrazzo floor was pitted and chipped from wear. Sections of blue seats were bolted to the floor in rows. An analog clock built into one of the walls was missing the numbers two and nine. The minute hand was bent at an odd angle, like someone had tried to pry it from the wall.

  Next to the clock was a schedule of trains. There were only two on the display. One was the train arriving from Birmingham and points north. The other was the train departing from Birmingham and points north. In a world where everything was backwards, where food was scarce, and the government punished pregnant women, the trains ran on time. Of course they did.

  Marcus walked across the open expanse of the terminal, moving between two rows of chairs. A pile of blankets covered the set of chairs to his right. It shifted as he passed, and Marcus noticed the person sleeping underneath the pile. Then he smelled the person underneath the pile. He held his breath and walked toward the exit at the front of the terminal.

  A sign above the doors indicated he could find private cars outside. Dallas told him it wasn’t a remnant of the past, that there really were people who’d give rides for a fee. Marcus passed a couple sitting next to each other, sharing a sandwich. Or maybe it was two pieces of bread with nothing in them. They eyed him suspiciously and he looked away.

  The lights overhead flickered and Marcus looked up in surprise. “Fluorescents. Didn’t know they still made those.”

  Dallas was moving stride for stride with him. He looked at the ceiling. “I didn’t notice that on my way north. Huh.”

  They pushed through a set of glass doors and back into the humid, oppressive air. Although the summers in Virginia could get humid, it was nothing like this. And it was only April. Lining the curb in front of the terminal were cars and trucks. Some were attended and running, others parked.

  “Welcome to New Orleans,” said a man who pronounced the name of the city the way natives said it. To Marcus, it sounded more like Nawlins than New Orleans, but he tipped his hat and smiled.

  The man was smiling until he eyed the guns on the men’s shoulders. His brow wrinkled. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You loaded for bear,” said the man. He leaned against an older model F-150 pickup truck. “You hunting something or someone?”

  His wizened eyes contrasted against his olive skin. The white in his beard and atop his head looked like a dusting of snow. He was tall and fit, his collared shirt frayed at the cuffs, though it was pressed and tucked into faded denim pants cinched too tightly at the waist. His boots were solid but worn.

  Marcus scanned the surroundings. “Neither. We’re headed to Texas.”

  The man chuckled. “So you’re doing a little bit of everything, then, I reckon.”

  Marcus took a step forward and lowered his voice, making sure to keep his hands open and in front of him. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find a ride west, would you?” he asked. “For a price.”

  The man’s eyebrows arched. “How much of a price we talking about?”

  “You tell me,” said Marcus. “If you know someone who might have an inclination to make the trip.”

  Dallas stood next to Marcus, silently watching the exchange.

  The man shrugged. “I might know someone.”

  “And that someone would be—”

  “Sheesh,” Dallas cut in. “Enough with the dance.”

  Marcus frowned at Dallas. The man grinned.

  “We don’t have time for this,” said Dallas. “Sir, can you take us to Texas in your truck? My friend here and I assume that’s why you’re parked here. That’s why you said hello. That’s why—”

  “Sure can,” said the man. He extended a hand to Dallas. “Name’s Doolittle.”

  “Like the doctor?” asked Marcus.

  “Like the general,” Doolittle clarified.

  “You serve?” asked Marcus.

  “Syria,” said Doolittle. “You?”

  “Same.”

  Doolittle offered his hand to Marcus and shook it. It was a firm shake, strong but not showy.

  “Well, I’ll be,” said Doolittle, the grin broadening on his face. It revealed a smattering of teeth, some healthy, some not. “Mind you, I wasn’t a general. Just a private first class doing my job. Working for a living.”

  “I’m Marcus. This is Dallas.”

  “Like the city?” asked Doolittle.

  “Like the television show,” said Marcus.

  Marcus and Doolittle laughed. Dallas didn’t.

  A confused look crossed his expression. “What show?”

  “Before your time,” said Marcus. “Before my time too. I think I watched reruns on Netflix or Hulu before the world went to hell.”

  “I miss me some Netflix,” said Doolittle. “And HBO.”

  “Enough reminiscing,” said Dallas. “We can do this in the truck. We gotta hit the road if we’re gonna do it.”

  “You can ride in the back,” said Doolittle. “It’ll be two hundred plus gas or a thousand plus gas and damages.”

  “What?” asked Dallas. “I don’t—”

  Marcus held up a hand to silence Dallas. “Two hundred gets us to the wall?” he asked. “A thousand gets us to wherever we’re going?”

  Doolittle winked and shook a finger at Marcus. “See? I knew a military man would catch on quick. What’s it gonna be, fellas?”

  “You can get us past the wall in a truck?” asked Marcus.

  “That’s where the damages come in,” said Doolittle. “We might have to pay fines, you know?”

  “Deal,” said Marcus.

  “Deal,” said Doolittle. “Hop on in. Let me get you some water. I got a couple of canteens in the front seat. You’ll get dehydrated down here without even knowing it. It’s the humidity.”

  Doolittle moved to the passenger’s door and stopped. He snapped his fingers and spun around. “I forgot. One little thing that’s not so little.”

  “What’s that?” asked Marcus.

  “I need half up front.”

  “How about two hundred up front,” Marcus countered. “Three hundred when we cross the wall, the rest on delivery?”

  Doolittle bobbed his head, using the fingers on one hand to count on the other. Then his grin reappeared. “I can do that, but it’ll be eleven hundred, plus gas, plus damages.”

  Marcus reached into a pocket on his pack. He pulled out a handful of bills, peeled four of them from the stack, and handed them to Doolittle.

  Doolittle stuffed it into his pocket. “Let me get you that water.”

  Marcus walked around to the back of the truck, opened the tailgate, and removed his pack, tossing it into the bed. One at a time, he set the weapons in the bed next to his pack and slid them away from the tailgate.

  Then he turned around and, with his palms flat on the bed, lifted himself into a seated position at the edge of the tailgate. His legs hung over the side and his boots hung in the air.

  Dallas raised an eyebrow and smirked.

  “What?” asked Marcus. “I’m not twenty anymore. I told you I ain’t what I was. But you insisted.”

  “I did,” said Dallas. “My bad.”

  He unloaded his gear next to Marcus and climbed in beside him. Doolittle appeared at the tailgate with two canteens and offered them to his new passengers. They thanked him and he shut the tailgate. The slam echoed across the front of the terminal.

  “How often you do this?�
�� asked Marcus.

  Doolittle leaned on the tailgate, his hands resting on it. “Do what?”

  “Give strangers rides for cash.”

  “All the time. It’s how I make a living.”

  He slapped the tailgate and started around the driver’s side. In a minute, they were on their way, maneuvering north on Earhart Boulevard, directly beneath the Pontchartrain Expressway. It wasn’t much of an expressway anymore, but the crumbling infrastructure still mostly stood in place.

  There were tents lining the southern side of Earhart as they rode northwest. Metal trash cans doubled as firepits and lit the scene. Different colored pitches housed men and women huddled on the gravel and dirt. Children kicked a deflated ball around in a circle. Teenagers played cards or dominos or some weird combination of the two Marcus hadn’t seen before.

  It was easy to forget how many people lived like this now. Not everyone was lucky enough to find land, work it for food. Not everyone was self-sufficient. Not everyone wanted to be.

  As was the case long before the Scourge, there were people who didn’t want to help themselves. They were content to let others do it for them. They survived instead of living, stumbling from one day to the next without purpose.

  Marcus looked off to his left as they sped up, not wanting to dwell on the tent city. A block away, a large rounded structure loomed against the dark sky beyond. The Superdome. It was still there. Somehow it hadn’t collapsed.

  “I heard there’s death matches in there,” said Dallas, like he was reading Marcus’s mind. “It’s chaos.”

  Marcus kept his eyes on the dome until it faded into the night as Earhart jogged west and underneath a spaghetti bowl of intersecting freeways above.

  “Where’d you hear that?” he asked Dallas.

  “People talk. Some guys on the train headed north had just come from there. They’d watched it, said it was brutal. Sounds unreal to me. I know the Romans did stuff like that. Lou told me she read about it in books. But in real life? I don’t buy it.”