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

by Tom Abrahams

  “Why not?”

  Dallas shrugged. “People are cruel, yes… But making men and women fight to the death for entertainment? That’s too much. Humans aren’t savages.”

  Marcus’s memory flashed to Lubbock, Texas, and Jones Stadium, and he wasn’t in the truck anymore. He wasn’t riding through New Orleans, he was blinking against a bright west Texas sun. It was a lifetime ago. Sixteen or seventeen years? He couldn’t remember. The clear, pale blue morning and the high wispy clouds in an otherwise empty sky he did.

  He didn’t fear death then, like he didn’t fear it now. The impending sense of doom, of pain, was something else altogether. One of twelve gladiators, the Cartel had forced him to fight for his life on the floor of a football arena.

  The tattered remnants of artificial turf cushioned his feet. Brown turf, stained with the blood of those who’d come before him. There was the ripe, pungent aroma of body odor and urine.

  He was there with Sawyer, Lola’s son, when the fight began. There was Pico too, and Baadal the Dweller. All four of them fought side by side, back to back, arm in arm.

  Pico died that day from a bullet to his back. Baadal was left at the wall after Lola kicked him unconscious, his nose and mouth soaked in his own blood. Sawyer died east of Rising Star at the foot of the treehouse.

  Marcus squeezed his eyes shut, trying to burn the image of Sawyer’s dead body in the tall, dry grass. He was back in the truck, bouncing in the bed next to Dallas as they passed what was once Xavier University and merged onto Interstate 10 due north.

  “People are savages,” Marcus said. “If you haven’t learned that by now, Dallas, you haven’t been paying attention. Or you chose to bury your head in the sand. One or the other. because there’s no way you’ve lived a life like yours and not seen the worst of humanity.”

  Marcus considered the oxymoron of it, but didn’t correct himself. He put a hand on the side of the bed and adjusted his back against the pack between his body and the exterior of the cab.

  They were picking up speed now. The warm wind whipped around them.

  “I’ve also seen the best,” said Dallas.

  “The best what?” Marcus said loudly over the wind.

  “The best of humanity,” said Dallas. “The best in people. People can do incredible things when they put their mind to it.”

  Marcus stared out the back of the truck, watching the asphalt fall away behind them into the darkness. The truck hit a pothole in the road and they bounced. Marcus almost bit his tongue.

  “I don’t have my head in the sand, Marcus,” Dallas said. “I see clearly. I choose to see the good in people though, not the bad. That’s the difference between you and me, I guess.”

  Marcus chuckled and shook his head. “Like the bandits on the train who robbed and killed? Like the coyotes who will sell you and your family down the river? Like the government taking children from their mothers and fathers? Like the Llano River Clan? Like the Dwellers? Like the Cartel?”

  The truck slowed and sped up again, knocking a red gas container onto its side. Dallas righted it, moved a length of rope to one side, kicked a toolbox into the corner of the bed, and shook his head. “I’m not saying there aren’t bad people, Marcus,” he said above the roar of the wind.

  Marcus raised his eyebrows. Dallas frowned.

  “I’m not a moron,” Dallas said. “You can’t measure good without evil.”

  “How very Zen of you,” said Marcus.

  “I don’t think that’s Zen, but it doesn’t matter. My point is there are plenty of good people too. Rudy, Norma, most everybody in Baird. Lou’s the best person I’ve ever met. And you, you—”

  Marcus shook his head. “Don’t put me in the good category. There’s nothing good about me, son.”

  “I’m sick of this notion that every stranger is bad. That everyone is out to get you. It’s not that way. Most people are good. You included, Marcus. No matter what you think.”

  The truck hit another bump. Doolittle swerved but maintained his speed. Marcus glanced into the cab. The glow of the dash illuminated Doolittle’s face in the rearview mirror. The man smiled and jutted his chin out in acknowledgment.

  Dallas was wrong. Since his days in the military, Marcus had learned most people were prone to doing bad things. That was why laws existed. That was why morality existed. They were there to tell you what was right when nobody else was looking. Texas was living, breathing proof that people couldn’t be trusted to do the right thing.

  Marcus loved Texas. It was his true home. It was the place he’d chosen to raise a family. Twice. It was also the place that had taken everything from him. Twice. And for some damned, stupid reason, he was headed back.

  CHAPTER 17

  APRIL 18, 2054, 9:00 PM

  SCOURGE +21 YEARS, 7 MONTHS

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  Sally gripped the sides of the toilet with trembling hands. The porcelain was cold against her palms. She wanted to press her sweaty face against the outside of the bowl, but knew better.

  As poor as she felt, as loopy and confused as her mind was at the moment, this was a stranger’s house. Lord only knew who or what had preceded her at the throne.

  The third knock at the locked door behind her made her want to scream. If she had the energy, she would have screamed. She didn’t. Instead she spat into the bowl. A thick trail of spit stuck to her lips, and she swiped at it with the back of a hand.

  “You okay?” The question carried with it concern. The voice was sweet, sincere.

  Another series of knocks. Harder this time. “If you need help—”

  “I’m fine,” Sally groaned. “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. Just not feeling good.”

  The woman on the other side of the door was named Gladys. Or at least, Gladys was the name she was using for Sally’s benefit. Sally didn’t give her a name. She told Gladys it didn’t matter.

  “Was it the food?”

  Sally spat into the bowl again. “No, it wasn’t the food.”

  She hadn’t eaten the food. Gladys knew that. It was a bowl of broth. Simple, unlikely to upset her stomach, salty and hydrating. Good for her. But she hadn’t even had a spoonful of it.

  “You got anything for a headache?” asked Sally. “My head’s pounding.”

  She turned back to the bowl and dipped her head inside, gagging. It was another dry heave.

  Gladys tried the knob again. “I might,” she said. “Are you sure you—”

  “I’ve been through this before,” said Sally. “It’ll be a day or so. I’ll be fine.”

  Sally let go of the toilet and slumped against the wall. The bathroom was only a toilet and a sink. She tried stretching out her legs, but her feet hit the other wall before she had them fully extended. She plucked at her shirt, sticky and heavy with sweat, and used it to fan her face.

  All that did was bathe her in her own stink. Waves of garlic-tinged body odor filled her nostrils and she winced. Garlic? Why did she smell like garlic?

  Another wiggle of the doorknob. Gladys was persistent if nothing else. The ball-shaped brass knob moved but didn’t turn.

  “I’ll be out in a minute,” Sally said. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

  Gladys hesitated. The shadows of her feet moved in the gap between the floor and the bottom of the door. “Okay. But if you’re not there in a minute, I’ll be back for you.”

  It was a promise more than a warning. Gladys did seem concerned. And if Sally rationalized it, it made total sense that the woman was on her like flies on stink.

  This was her house, as far as Sally knew. Sally was a stranger who refused to offer a name, even a fake name. She refused to eat and was clearly in withdrawal. The sweats, the shakes, the nausea, the headache were all physical signs of an alcoholic coming down. Then she locked herself in a bathroom and refused to come out.

  If this were Sally’s house and Gladys was the addict, Sally admitted to herself she’d have kicke
d the woman to the curb.

  Sally put her fingers to her neck. Her pulse was racing.

  She used the wall to help herself stand and stood there for a moment, letting the wave of light-headedness wash through her. She puffed her cheeks and exhaled like she was blowing out a cake full of candles. Her vision focused on the sink, she stepped to it and turned on the water. A pitiful spitting trickle fell from the faucet and splashed into the bowl. The low pressure wasn’t unusual in the city. Sally plugged the sink and let it fill halfway. Then she dipped her clammy hands into the room-temperature water and splashed it on her face.

  With a towel she dragged from a hook next to her, she dabbed her face dry and stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes welled as she took in her unfamiliar reflection.

  In the dim light, and thank goodness the light was dim, there was a woman who only vaguely resembled the woman Sally remembered. How long had it been since she’d looked at herself in a mirror? Days? Weeks? Months?

  She touched her face and traced the dark circles that framed the undersides of her eyes. She lightly pushed the puffy, tender spots and then ran her fingers down the deep lines that ran along the sides of her nose and framed her mouth. Her sharp cheekbones, more angular than she remembered, threatened to push through her pale skin.

  Her lips were thin, and the dimple in her chin seemed deeper. The skin at her neck was like crepe paper. Her hair, thinner than the last time she studied it, was a mess, and there were the first hints of gray at her scalp and temples.

  She looked so much older than her age. The work, the stress, the nightmares, and the alcohol had conspired to wreak havoc on her appearance.

  Sally ran her fingers through her hair, wiggling them through the tangles, and wondered if the damage she could see in the mirror was a reflection of what she’d done to her insides too. She put the chances at eleven out of ten.

  Her chest tightened when she thought about everything she’d done, what she’d given up to help nameless strangers. It had cost her. And now, after having done all she’d done, her bosses were kicking her to the proverbial curb.

  Sick of looking at herself, she drained the sink and left the bathroom. It was a few short steps to the living room, where Gladys was awaiting her.

  The room was best described as cozy. Bathed in warm incandescent yellow light, the walls were covered in whitewashed shiplap. Large gilded frames held replicas of renaissance paintings replete with cherubic angels and mourning disciples.

  There was too much furniture for the space. At the center was a large square wooden table that looked reclaimed, something popular fifty years earlier. On one side of the table was a pair of overstuffed fabric chairs angled toward each other. On the opposite side was a sagging love seat that had seen better days, a crocheted yellow blanket draped across the back of it.

  Gladys sat in a highjack armchair positioned between the overstuffed chairs and the love seat. She was ramrod straight with her shoulders back and her hands on her knees.

  She reminded Sally of pictures she’d seen of early twentieth-century schoolmarms. Her facial expression was tight and judgmental. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun that sat atop her oblong head, there were smudges of pink at her cheeks, a hint of lipstick, and gray eyeshadow highlighted her eyes.

  Gladys motioned to the love seat. “Relax,” she said, in contrast to what she appeared to be doing. “Have a seat.”

  Sally eyed the love seat, its depressed feather cushions, and stepped to the opposite side of the table. She plopped into the chair farthest from Gladys, sinking into the plush cushion.

  On the table in front of her, a collection of tchotchkes cluttered the space. There were porcelain dogs, stacks of coasters with cork inserts, a brass lantern, and a fan of old housekeeping magazines with dates older than Sally.

  “How are you?” asked Gladys.

  “Meh,” said Sally. “Been better.”

  “You like to feel sorry for yourself, don’t you?” asked Gladys. “Throw little pity parties inside that head of yours?”

  Sally bristled. Her stomach tightened, as did her fists. She hoped the scowl on her face answered the accusations.

  “I’ve done this before,” said Gladys. “I’m not an idiot.”

  Gladys fingered her high-colored blouse, stretching the fabric at her neck, her gaze focused intently on Sally.

  Sally felt her eyes. It was like they could see through her, burning into her soul. It was more uncomfortable than clutching a stranger’s toilet.

  Sally looked away, resting her hands on the chair’s wide arms. The chenille felt cool under her palms. “Done what?”

  “This.”

  Sally rolled her eyes. Everything about the railroad was obtuse. Nobody could answer a question with a straight answer. It was part of what made the job so taxing. There were always more questions than answers. And usually an answer, or what served as one, only gave birth to more questions.

  “By this,” asked Sally, “you mean sitting in your living room with a stranger?” She shifted in the chair and pulled her bare feet up behind her. Tucking them under her rear, she leaned on the arm closer to Gladys.

  “Or by this,” she said, “do you mean you’ve gotten all high and mighty, judging aforementioned strangers sitting in said living room?”

  Gladys pursed her lips. The red she’d painted on almost disappeared. She was otherwise unfazed. “Yes, all of it. I’ve done it all. But you’re not really a stranger.”

  Sally raised one eyebrow, her expression doubtful. “Is that so?”

  The schoolmarm nodded. She crossed her legs at her ankles and folded her hands in the lap of her full-length chambray skirt. “You think you’re the first conductor the railroad has run over, left for dead on the tracks? You think the daily grind of trying to salvage lives against incredible odds hasn’t done this to countless people before you?”

  Sally hadn’t thought about it. Why would she? She had enough to worry about, enough problems of her own that thinking about the trials of others wasn’t even a blip. Still, she didn’t like Gladys pegging her like this.

  “Nice metaphor,” Sally said. “You use that before? Or am I the first?”

  Gladys sniffed. “You’re not special; you’re an addict. That makes you common.”

  “Thanks,” Sally said, starting to stand. “I think I’ve heard enough. Where’s the bedroom?”

  Gladys held up a hand then motioned for Sally to stay. Her expression softened. “I’m sorry, let me clarify that. What you did was special. You risked yourself to help others, people you didn’t know. That’s commendable. And truly, it’s remarkable in this hell our world has become.”

  Sally folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t need your praise any more than I need your criticism. Both are worthless.”

  “I’m sure they are,” said Gladys. “My point is that what you’ve done has made you who you are. Good and bad. My job is to help filter the bad out of your system.”

  Sally’s brow furrowed, her mind racing.

  “My job isn’t only to give you a place to stay until you go out on your last mission for the railroad,” said Gladys. “It’s also to get you sober and functional.”

  “You’re a shrink?”

  Gladys smiled. It was the first hint of emotion she’d shown Sally since they’d met. The woman wasn’t stone after all. “Not a shrink per se. More like a facilitator.”

  Sally smirked. “Facilitator of what?”

  “Mostly sobriety.”

  “What else?”

  Gladys waved her hand, sweeping it across the room. “You name it. I’m here to make sure that you leave here better than I found you. Your work is difficult. It takes its toll. It has on you. It has on others. It will on more.”

  Sally understood. This was a halfway house. It was a holding cell. It was purgatory.

  “So how do you make me better?” she asked. She flexed her sweaty hands and balled them into fists.

  “First,” said Gladys, “you don
’t drink. If you did drugs, you don’t do them either.”

  “I didn’t do drugs,” said Sally.

  “Okay. Then this should be easier than it might otherwise have been.”

  “What else?”

  “You talk to me,” she said. “You tell me about what you’ve done. Who you’ve helped. Who you’ve hurt. Why you are the way you are.”

  Sally flexed her hands again and wiped her palms on the chair’s arms. A rivulet of sweat traced her spine and joined the moisture at the small of her back. The nausea in her stomach swelled and subsided. It was like a wave pool in her gut, an undulating rise and fall of sickness.

  Gladys held Sally’s gaze, staring her down like a master might a dog. Sally stared back until a buzz in her head made her uncomfortable, and she flitted a glance at her lap, the floor, the wall opposite her. Gladys was boring a hole into her.

  “What if I don’t want to talk?” asked Sally.

  “You don’t have a choice,” said Gladys. “You either do what’s required and complete the final task that sets you free of the railroad, or you don’t, and your journey ends abruptly.”

  Sally frowned and whipped her head toward Gladys. “What does that mean?”

  Gladys blinked. A slow, thoughtful blink. Her expression flattened. “I think you know what that means. Don’t make me spell it out for you. Do what’s asked of you and your life will be better than you could have imagined.”

  Sally swallowed hard. “Okay. What do you want to know? What do you want me to say?”

  Gladys brushed out the wrinkles in her skirt. “My father was a journalist. Before the Scourge, of course. Aside from every conversation with him being an interview of sorts, he was consistent in one thing.”

  Sally bit. “What was that?”

  “He always wanted to know the who, what, where, why, and when,” she said. “They were the cornerstone of good reporting, he told us. If you could include all of those questions, you had a great story. Without one or more, you didn’t.”