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

by Tom Abrahams

Gladys uncrossed her ankles and then crossed them again. The faintest hint of a smile twitched on her face. “That’s not to say you had answers to all of them, it just means that you asked. You probed. You thought of everything. Sometimes the best stories were the ones with no answer to one of more of those questions. They led to follow-ups, to deep dives, to uncovering hidden truths.”

  “Where are you going with this?”

  “I want you to answer those questions,” said Gladys. “Who are you? What did you do? Where did you come from? Why are you here?”

  “When?”

  “When what?” asked Gladys.

  “You left out when,” said Sally. “Who, what, where, why, when.”

  “I’ll get there. Let’s begin with who you are.”

  Sally felt the bile rise in her throat. Her headache, which had drummed into the background, was pounding again. “That’s not easy.”

  “Why?”

  “Because after all I’ve done,” Sally said through the throb of her headache and the acidic burn in her throat, “I don’t really know the answer.”

  CHAPTER 18

  APRIL 19, 2054, 3:30 AM

  SCOURGE +21 YEARS, 7 MONTHS

  THE WALL AT THE SABINE RIVER

  The truck rumbled to a stop and jerked into park. Marcus opened his eyes and stared into the darkness. The deafening sound of cicadas and frogs chirped and croaked around them.

  The driver’s side door creaked open and slammed shut. Heavy footsteps crunched on the gravelly asphalt. Doolittle leaned against the truck. His voice was barely loud enough to hear above the din of insects and reptiles.

  “We’re here,” he said. “Maybe a few hundred yards from the wall.”

  Marcus rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “What time is it?”

  Doolittle shrugged. “After three in the morning. Close to four. We’ve been going nonstop since I picked you up. Surprisingly smooth sailing.”

  “How are you on gas?” asked Dallas. His voice had the rasp of someone still waking up.

  “Good,” said Doolittle. “Quarter of a tank still. This truck’s modified. Gets good mileage.”

  “So what now?” asked Marcus. “Why’d we stop?”

  Doolittle shifted from one foot to the other and looked west. After a heavy sigh and much visible consideration, he tucked his chin and said, “When I said I’d crossed the wall a bunch of times, I might have exaggerated a little.”

  Marcus sat up straight and exchanged glances with Dallas, then asked, “What’s a little?”

  Doolittle looked at the ground. “I haven’t crossed it a whole bunch of times.”

  “How many times have you crossed it?” asked Dallas.

  Doolittle shrugged. “I haven’t.”

  “At all?”

  Doolittle lifted his chin and shook his head.

  Dallas cursed. Marcus put a hand on Dallas’s arm to quiet him.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” said Marcus. “It ain’t like it used to be. You can cross no problem, especially going into Texas.”

  “I know that,” said Doolittle, an indignant tone creeping into his voice.

  “Then what’s the problem?” asked Dallas. “Why’d you tell us you’ve been a bunch of times?”

  “I’m not afraid of crossing the wall,” he said. “I’m afraid of what comes after it. I’ve heard all sorts of stories about tribes near the cities. They’ll kill a man for looking funny. They steal women. It’s like the dark ages or something. Medieval times.”

  None of the men spoke for a few seconds. The cacophony filled the air, echoing against itself.

  Dallas cursed again. “I still don’t get why we’re stopped here.”

  “I don’t think I can do it,” said Doolittle. “I can’t—”

  Marcus held up a hand. “I get it. You want more money.”

  Doolittle scratched the top of his head.

  A broad grin spread across Marcus’s face. “I get it. It’s a bait and switch. Happened to me in Syria. Maybe that’s where you learned it, Doolittle.”

  “Bait and switch?” asked Dallas.

  “Yeah,” said Marcus. “Maybe not the exact right terminology, but it works. Basically you get someone, a local, to help you out. You know, like a fixer.”

  “I’ve heard of fixers,” said Dallas.

  “Right,” said Marcus. “You agree on a price for what you need. It’s all good until you get to a critical place or a tight spot. Then the price goes up, big time. You’ve got no choice but to pay it. Otherwise you’re screwed.”

  Doolittle didn’t argue, didn’t dispute it. His expression tightened. He raised a pistol and leveled it at Marcus.

  Marcus moved his arm to the sidewall of the bed. It was inches from Doolittle. He rapped his fingers on the metal.

  “Slowly,” said Doolittle, angling the barrel toward Marcus’s chest.

  “What’s your new price, Private First Class Doolittle?” asked Marcus.

  “Two thousand,” he said. “Plus damages and gas.”

  Dallas cursed again. It was loud enough to silence the cicadas.

  Marcus smiled. “Two thousand? That all? You got us stuck between a rock and a hard place here, Private First Class Doolittle. Why not ask for more?”

  “Okay then,” said Doolittle, his face hardening. “I’ll take all you got.”

  “You’re robbing us now?” asked Dallas.

  Doolittle shrugged. “It’s business,” he said. “Nothing personal. You give me everything and I’ll let you live. You can walk to the wall for all I care.”

  “We’re not walking to the wall,” said Marcus. “And we’re not giving you everything we’ve got.”

  Doolittle snorted and barked a laugh. “Is that so, old man? You ain’t got—”

  In a swift move, with speed surprising even Marcus himself, he extended his arm and grabbed the back of Doolittle’s neck with his hand. He shoved Doolittle’s head down onto the metal side rail of the truck bed with such force the frame rattled and the gun fell into the bed.

  Doolittle groaned and then slumped, falling to the road. His head hit it with a sickening smack. Marcus picked up the handgun and leaned over the side, aiming it at the heap beneath him. The injured man didn’t move.

  Dallas laughed. It was a nervous laugh. “Holy mother—”

  “Watch your mouth,” said Marcus. “And help me tie him up.”

  Marcus got to his knees, stood up with help from the side rail, and hopped over it. His knees screamed at him when he hit the ground next to an unconscious Doolittle.

  Dallas followed him. The two stood in the road for a beat, and Marcus put his hands on his hips. He looked east from where they’d come, and west toward where they were headed.

  The faint odor of rot danced in the air. They were near swampland. It was mostly mud now. There wasn’t nearly the inland spread of water there’d once been. Bayous were less than streams now. Nonetheless, he could smell the vegetation.

  “How’d you do that?” asked Dallas. “It was like a blur.”

  Marcus shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. I think I got a surge of power or something because of the adrenaline. I don’t like people trying to rip me off.”

  “I guess not.”

  “That, and I’m mad at myself for not seeing it, not sensing something was off with this guy.”

  “How would you know? He seemed legit.”

  “Most scammers do,” said Marcus. “Otherwise they wouldn’t be scammers.”

  “Good point,” said Dallas. “So now what? We tie him up and leave him here?”

  “Yep. Somebody will be along to help him eventually. We’ll be long gone by then.”

  Dallas reached into the bed and pulled from it a length of rope. It was more like thick twine than rope, but it was plenty thick enough.

  The two hog-tied Doolittle and hauled him to the side of the road. He was semiconscious by the time they’d finished the job. Marcus found a rag on the passenger’s seat and shoved it into Doolittle’s m
outh.

  Marcus patted him on the side of the face. “You’ve got quite a bruise there, Private First Class Doolittle. Probably gonna leave a mark. Good thing is, it’s swelling. If it weren’t, you’d probably have some brain problems pretty soon.”

  He winked at Doolittle. The man’s eyes groggily opened and closed.

  Marcus drummed the side of the bed with his hands and motioned for Dallas to join him in the cab. He swung open the driver’s side door, which caught at the hinge and popped like it was about to break, and used it to help himself into the driver’s seat.

  The worn leather felt good against his legs and lower back. It was almost too comfortable. After spending the better part of the night in the back of the truck, Marcus was up for a nap in the cushy confines of the F-150’s cab. As old as it was, it was better than the bed.

  Marcus put his foot on the brake and hit the push-button ignition. The engine’s electronics whirred and the engine cranked. The motor coughed and purred. The headlights offered a bright cone of light in front of them.

  He shifted the automatic into gear and pushed the pedal. The truck jerked forward and he stepped on the brake.

  “Put on your seatbelt, Dallas. It’s been a while since I was behind the wheel.”

  Dallas pulled the belt across his chest, clicking it into place.

  Marcus adjusted his own belt and eased his foot off the brake. The truck idled forward, and he slowly applied pressure to the gas pedal. The truck accelerated slowly, picking up speed, and Marcus aimed the truck along the center of the highway.

  In the distance, beyond the horizon, a halo of hazy light rose above where Marcus knew the wall to be. His pulse quickened and a buzz of electricity ran up his spine. This was a place he was convinced he’d never go again.

  As many good memories as Texas held for the man once known as Mad Max, there were bad ones that cast a pall over everything. Marcus checked the speedometer. He was cruising at thirty miles an hour. It wasn’t fast, but it was fast enough. The truck rumbled against the uneven, neglected road and it vibrated through his body. He tightened his hands on the wheel and rubbed his thumbs against the leather wrap. Marcus thought about Doolittle and how their encounter could have gone a lot differently. He clenched his jaw against swelling anger.

  “What were you saying about people being inherently good?” Marcus asked. “Benevolence and all that?”

  Dallas sighed. “This doesn’t change anything. One bad apple doesn’t spoil the bunch.”

  Marcus chuckled derisively. “That’s exactly what one bad apple does.”

  Dallas shrank in his seat and crossed his arms, tucking his hands under his armpits.

  Marcus could tell the man-child was sulking. They drove another minute before Dallas sat up straight and stared at Marcus. The leather squeaked underneath the shift of his weight. “You always have to be right, don’t you?” he fumed.

  “I don’t have to be,” said Marcus. “Past experience tells me I’m not. I think your anger says more about you than it does about me.”

  Dallas snorted. “You’re the doomsdayer who thinks the world is out to get you, and I’m the one with the problem. You’re the self-pitying martyr who hid from the world, abandoned the people who loved you, who fought beside you, and I’m the one with the problem. You’re the—”

  Marcus slammed on the brakes. Hard. The tires screeched against the road. Dallas’s momentum snapped him forward. The belt locked, holding him in his seat, and he threw out his hands to brace himself against the dash. Smoke from burning rubber lifted from the asphalt and surrounded the truck.

  Marcus glared at Dallas, hoping it conveyed a rare combination of building rage and swelling disappointment. In the same moment he wanted to drop his head and sob, he wanted to throat punch the punk in his passenger’s seat. Even if the kid had a point, Marcus didn’t want to hear it. Not now. Not ever.

  He gripped the steering wheel and swung toward Dallas. His fist balled, Dallas recoiled, backing into the corner of his seat where it met the passenger’s door. Marcus didn’t hit him. He aimed a rigid finger at him and jabbed it close to Dallas’s face. It was close enough that every stab at the air made Dallas flinch.

  “Enough,” Marcus said through his teeth. “I know you blame me for hurting Lou. And you love her, so I hurt you. Get in line. My life is a trail of people I’ve disappointed, failed, abandoned.”

  Dallas’s eyes were wide, his mouth open, slack with fear.

  “But I don’t need this crap,” Marcus seethed. “Not from you. We’re either on the same team or we’re not.”

  Dallas had his hands at his chest. Fingers wrapped around the seatbelt, he gripped it like a security blanket.

  “As for you”—Marcus jabbed a finger again—“either cut it out or get out.”

  Dallas’s brow furrowed. “What?”

  “Either stop with the arguing or get out. I’m not doing this with you. I’ve got a thick skin. I can take a lot. But I cannot handle the bickering with you when we’ve got a thousand things more important than allowing you your passive aggression.”

  Dallas started to speak. He didn’t.

  “So what is it?” Marcus said. “In or out?”

  Dallas’s eyes flitted across the cabin, landing everywhere but Marcus. Then he looked at him and nodded. “In.”

  “All right then,” Marcus said. “Let’s go cross the wall.”

  He patted Dallas on the thigh, and the kid jumped in his seat. Marcus laughed. This time it was genuine. He put the truck into gear and eased onto the gas pedal. The truck’s engine responded and it accelerated.

  “You thought I was gonna hit you?” asked Marcus, the angry tension in his voice having evaporated as quickly as it appeared. “Dude, I’m an old man.”

  Dallas adjusted himself in the seat. He faced forward and plucked at the seatbelt, loosening it before it snapped back against his chest. “Yeah,” Dallas replied, his voice shaky, “but you’re an old Marcus Battle, which isn’t old.”

  They drove in silence until they reached the wall. The top of it rose above the horizon, as if lifting within the Earth. Even in the dark, with pale spotlights highlighting its stone facade, it looked to Marcus as it had the last time he’d crossed it more than a decade earlier.

  Unlike his previous crossings, however, he was driving. And he was on a main thoroughfare that led straight through a protected opening. It wasn’t a clear path though. There were large wooden structures flanking the road. More akin to shacks or sheds than full-fledged buildings, they looked like guardhouses. Armed men stood outside the one to the left.

  Atop the wall there were a pair of snipers. One had his back turned to Marcus, appearing to scan the interior of the perimeter. The other had binoculars aimed at the truck. The guard dropped the binoculars to his chest and lifted a radio.

  Marcus heard it squelch in the handheld transceiver of a man in front of him.

  He took his foot off the accelerator. A pair of uniformed guards stood in the road between the truck and wall. The one with the radio said something and the other one leveled his rifle at Marcus. Then he flicked his hand, palm down, across his neck.

  Marcus put the truck into park and killed the engine. The sound of cicadas and frogs bloomed in the air, adding a soundtrack to the building tension. Marcus kept his hands on the wheel, visible, as he had when he was a teenager and a state trooper pulled him over for speeding.

  Marcus kept his eyes on the men as they approached. The one with the radio moved toward his side of the truck. The one with the rifle raised to his shoulder marched toward Dallas.

  “Put your hands on the dash,” Marcus said to Dallas.

  “What?”

  Marcus kept his eyes on the radio man. “Just do it, slowly.”

  Dallas slowly reached out and extended his arms. Keeping his fingers spread, he put his hands on the dash.

  Both of the guards reached the truck at the same time. The one next to Marcus tapped the glass with the radio.

&
nbsp; “Roll it down,” he said. “Easy.”

  Marcus smiled. “Sure thing.”

  He found the control for the window and pushed it. It didn’t work. He tried it again. Nothing happened.

  “Truck has to be on,” he said. “Can I start it?”

  The radio man took a step back. He put the radio on his hip and lifted his sidearm. It was a nine millimeter. Taurus. Marcus hadn’t seen one of those in ages.

  “Careful,” said the guard. “Don’t put it in gear.”

  Marcus pushed the start button and the engine idled. He tapped the button and the window lowered; then he tapped the button for the passenger’s side. It slid into the door. Marcus shut off the engine. The song of the cicadas was almost as deafening as it had been a couple of miles back.

  The radio man stepped back to the window. He was young looking. His face was ruddy, his beard haphazard and blotchy. But his eyes still twinkled with the optimism of someone who hadn’t lived long enough to lose it. They focused on Marcus, shot a look at Dallas, and moved back.

  “Where are you headed?” asked the guard.

  “Baird,” Marcus answered.

  “Why?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does,” said the guard. “Why are you headed to Baird?”

  Marcus aimed a thumb at Dallas. “His wife is there. I’m an old family friend. She asked me to visit, he came and got me, and we’re headed back.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Reunion,” said Marcus. “I used to live near Rising Star, then settled in Baird. Moved north a while back. Live in Virginia now. I’m getting old. Wanted to spend some time together before it’s too late for me.”

  “Where in Virginia?”

  “Chatham.”

  Marcus knew the questions and answers were irrelevant to the guard. What mattered was the way Marcus spoke. It was his tone, his demeanor, the movement of his eyebrows, the twitch of his face.

  When he’d been in the military, they’d learned techniques like this. It was the same sort of thing customs agents used to employ at the airport. They’d ask the same simple questions of everyone who came through.

  Where are you headed? Business or pleasure? How long are you staying?