Home: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 1)

by Tom Abrahams

  He and his traveling companions had just trotted past the airport’s main terminal. The former Taylor County Expo Center was lit from the inside. A soft yellow glow told the trio it wasn’t empty.

  “That’s where they keep a lot of supplies,” said Pico in between slugs of water from his canteen. “It’s guarded, but we could get in, I reckon.”

  “We’ll dismount here.” Battle hopped off his horse and slipped the reins through the opening in a rusting chain-link fence that surrounded the runway. He walked over to grab the reins of Lola’s horse and help her down.

  She took Battle’s hand and dropped to the ground, tying her horse next to his. “You think this is a good idea?” she asked.

  Battle opened up his saddlebag and started grabbing mission-critical supplies. “What?”

  “Attacking their supply storage? Aren’t we only announcing our arrival?”

  “She might be right,” said Pico. “If our goal is to find her boy and get him, why do we care about the supply store? What do we gain?”

  Battle pulled a tactical slingshot from the bag, rolled it over in his hand, and stuffed it into a lightweight backpack. “We’re not just here to get her son,” he said. “We’re here to hurt them too.”

  “That’s not what you said,” Lola said, stomping her foot. “You said rescuing Sawyer was your number one priority.”

  Battle shook his head and moved closer to Lola to quiet her. “I said that was your priority and I understood it. I also told you we were leaving a mark here. We’re not some special ops team sneaking in and out unnoticed to extract a target.”

  Lola crossed her arms, held her chin up, and set her jaw. “And what if your revenge plot stops us from getting my son?”

  Battle looked in her eyes. He was expressionless. “That’s not happening.”

  Pico shrugged. “We don’t even know if the boy is here.”

  Battle and Lola turned to him and in unison said, “Shut up, Pico.”

  Pico held up his hands in surrender and went to work on his saddlebag, mumbling and cursing under his breath.

  Battle zipped up his backpack, grabbed a Browning from the saddle scabbard, checked his Sig Sauer at his hip, and started marching southwest toward the Expo Center’s main hall.

  “You two,” he said to Lola and Pico, “leave your gear here. You won’t need it.”

  Though they looked surprised, and a little wary, they scrambled to follow him. Battle hopped a waist-high fence and started jogging across the wide-open, weed-infested lot that separated the hall from the intersecting highways. He carried the shotgun in the two-handed ready position and, from habit, started a Jody call and chanted his cadence as he moved.

  “My honey heard me comin’ on my left right left,” he said to the rhythm of his footsteps. “I saw Jody running on his left right left. I chased after Jody and I ran him down. Poor ol’ boy doesn’t feel good now.”

  Battle glided along, unaware Lola was on his right as they approached the main hall. He stopped about ten feet from the northeastern wall and flinched when he spotted her so close.

  “You’re faster than I expected,” he said, crossing a concrete embankment that framed the building.

  “And you can’t sing,” she replied without a smile. “What was that?”

  Battle cleared his throat. “Nothing.”

  Pico joined them at the wall between two large windows. “Inside this building,” he huffed, out of breath, “they keep trucks, generators, some trailers. It’s mostly big stuff.”

  “All guarded?”

  “Yeah,” Pico said. “Maybe a dozen fellas. All of them have the Brownings. Some probably also got themselves six-shooters. Maybe there’s a rifle. Maybe not. Depends on who’s on duty.”

  “What’s our best entrance?” Lola asked.

  “I’m gonna suggest going in through the front,” Pico said, pointing toward the main entrance. “It’s the fastest, easiest way into the arena. That’s where they keep the big stuff.”

  “You said that,” said Battle. “The big stuff. It all works? It’s mechanically sound?”

  “I reckon.” Pico pressed his face to the window. “I can’t say for sure.”

  Battle pinched the brim of his brown cowboy hat and tilted it back on his head. “So we go in through the front.”

  “And you’re the only one who’s armed?” asked Lola.

  “For now.”

  ***

  Battle walked along the edge of the building to the set of tall, aluminum-framed glass doors at the main entrance. When they rounded the corner to the front, Battle told Pico and Lola to put their hands above their heads and walk in front of him.

  They were standing at the doors for less than a minute when a young, wiry grunt noticed them and came running. He stopped short of opening the locked door and eyed the threesome through thick black-rimmed glasses.

  The grunt raised his Browning, aiming it at Lola through the glass. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a boss from Fort Worth,” Battle said. “Caught these two trying to steal horses back near Cisco. Been a pain getting them here. I need some help.”

  The grunt’s eyes darted amongst the three uninvited guests. “I ain’t got notice of this. Nobody told me you was coming here.”

  Battle chuckled. “That’s because nobody knew I was coming,” he said. “I’ve been on the road with these two for two days. I’m tired. I need help.”

  “You should take them to HQ,” said the grunt, his shotgun trembling in his hands. Battle surmised he was an overnight depot guard for a reason.

  Battle’s voice deepened. “That’s another four miles, grunt. I’m exhausted. Now open the door and help me with these thieves.”

  The grunt hesitated, then opened the door cautiously and stepped aside. “C’mon inside,” he said. “I gotta check you for weapons.”

  “They don’t have any,” said Battle. “I’m the only one who’s armed.”

  “Gotcha, boss,” said the grunt, his big eyes blinking through his thick glasses. “But I got rules. I gotta do it.”

  “No problem,” he said. “You alone?” Battle stepped to the side and the grunt started the pat downs.

  “No,” he said. “I’m the only one up front. We got a bunch of guys in the arena. They’re playing cards.”

  Battle’s eyes lit up. “Poker?”

  The grunt smiled. “Texas Hold ’Em.” He was on his knees behind Lola. His shotgun was on the ground, and he held a revolver to her back as he patted the insides of her legs. “I won a couple packs of cigarettes earlier tonight.”

  “Good for you,” said Battle.

  “She’s a skinny one,” said the grunt, his hands lingering on the inside of her thighs. “I bet she’s feisty, being a ginger and all.”

  Lola looked back at Battle with a steely glare but didn’t resist the unwanted groping. It wasn’t the first time hands were places she hadn’t invited them. She closed her eyes while the grunt slid his curious fingers upward along the curves of her body.

  Battle gripped the grunt’s shoulder. “That’s enough. I told you they’re not armed.”

  The grunt studied Battle’s face. “You got a claim to her? That it?”

  Battle stuck his tongue into his cheek and laughed. “No. I don’t have a claim. But like I already told you, I’m tired. I need to get some help and some sleep.”

  The grunt walked around the other side of Lola. “All right then,” he said. “You’re good. I still gotta check the dude.”

  Battle sighed. “Hurry up.”

  The grunt performed a cursory, essentially useless backhanded sweep of Pico. “All right, follow me. We got some rooms to put them in. I’ll get you some food. Maybe you can join the game before you get some sleep.”

  Battle leveled the shotgun on Pico and shifted it to Lola. “Sounds good. Lead the way.”

  The grunt turned his back on the trio, directing them with his pistol in one hand and his Browning in the other. He walked with the confidence of an older,
more experienced man, strutting across the concourse.

  The concourse was warm. There was little, if any, air-conditioning. Battle looked up at the high ceilings as they walked. For every bulb still lit, one out of three was flickering with weakness.

  As they moved further into the building, the stronger the odor of gasoline and oil became. The odor confirmed Pico’s intelligence. There was some sort of large gas-powered equipment in the arena.

  They approached an opening into the arena, but rather than pass through it, the grunt stopped and opened a dented metal door. He spun the knob without using a key and shouldered his way inside a small room.

  “They can stay in here for now, boss,” said the grunt. “You can take a load off and then grab ’em again at sunup and take ’em to HQ.”

  Battle poked Pico in the back with the shotgun and forced him into the darkness, then Lola. From the light leaking into the room from the concourse, Battle could tell this was once a concession stand. To the right, on the concourse side of the room, was the service counter. To the left were a sink, a microwave, and an empty popcorn machine. That was as far as he could see.

  The grunt stood at the door, his foot holding it open. “Door locks from the outside,” he said. “They’re stuck here.”

  Lola shot Battle a look, her brow furrowed in confusion. Battle knew he hadn’t shared this part of his plan with them. That was partially because he was winging it and partially because he didn’t want tactical input from either of his companions.

  He winked at her, spun around, and left the concession stand without saying anything to either of them. They’d be safer here and he could focus on the task at hand.

  The grunt locked the door, and Battle followed him back through the opening into the arena. Dust danced in the moderately lit air that hung in the large, open bowl. He could almost taste it as they descended the aisles between stadium seats that wrapped the arena on all four sides of a dirt floor.

  One end of the floor looked like a collision repair shop. There was a box truck, a pickup, a military Humvee, and a pair of black SUVs. One of the SUVs was attached to a landscaping trailer. Whatever was in the trailer was covered with a blue plastic tarp. All of the vehicles were in various stages of disrepair.

  “Got a motor pool down there, huh?” Battle asked.

  “Yeah,” said the grunt. “They look like hell, but they all work. A couple of the guys here are mechanics. They keep ’em running for whenever the bosses feel like using something faster than a horse. They’re pretty stingy about it, though. Gas is hard to come by.”

  “Those the mechanics?” Battle nodded to the group of men sitting at a round wooden table at the end of the floor opposite the vehicles. They were engrossed in their game. Battle counted four.

  “Yep,” the grunt said. “Hey!” he called down to them. “I got us a visitor. A boss from Fort Worth.”

  The men looked up at Battle and the grunt. One of the men waved. Another toasted them with a beer bottle. A third laid his cards on the table and stood. He set his hands on the hips of his torn, ill-fitting jeans and watched Battle approach.

  The grunt led Battle to the floor and introduced him to the group. The only one who seemed remotely interested was the one on his feet. His name was Hedgepath.

  “Fort Worth?” he said, his eyes giving Battle the once-over. “You’re a long way from home.”

  “Yep,” Battle said.

  Hedgepath’s eyes narrowed. “What’s your name, boss?”

  “Marcus.”

  Hedgepath frowned. “Huh. Boss Marcus.”

  Battle kept his eyes on Hedgepath’s. The grunt was suspicious.

  “He’s got a couple of prisoners with him,” explained the wiry grunt serving as Battle’s host. “I got ’em locked up while Marcus takes a load off.”

  “What kind of prisoners?” Hedgepath asked. “And why’d you bring ’em here?”

  Battle chuckled and lowered the brim of his hat. “One, they’re thieves. Two, ’cause I’ve had them with me since Cisco. I’m tired and need a break. Three, you ask too many questions for a grunt in a garage.”

  The other grunts laughed at Battle’s assessment.

  “He’s right,” said one of them. “Sit down, Hedge. Let the boss play a hand.”

  Hedgepath blushed, his eyes darting from grunt to grunt. He pulled out his chair and dropped into it. He picked up his cards and slid a couple of chips into the center of the table. “That’s my blind. I ain’t put it in yet.”

  Battle leaned his Browning against the table, pulled his Sig Sauer from his holster, and set McDunnough onto the table. He found an empty seat and leaned in on the table with his elbows. Battle was comfortable at a poker table. He’d spent many long, sleepless nights in Aleppo and the outskirts of Tehran playing cards with his comrades. Be it Texas Hold ’Em, Spades, Hearts, or Five Card Stud, he’d played. And he was good.

  Battle begged off the next couple of hands. He assessed each grunt as they played their cards. Hedgepath was the best of them. He didn’t have any tells. He sat stone faced whether he’d drawn an empty hand or a straight. His stack of chips was the biggest among the four players.

  “What are the chips worth?” Battle asked as he watched Hedgepath slide another pile to his side of the table. “Cigs? Liquor? Women?”

  “A little bit of everything,” said Hedgepath. It was his deal again. He started shuffling the cards. Battle watched his technique, which he instantly recognized as an overhand or stripping shuffle.

  Hedgepath took a group of cards on the bottom of the deck and held them between his thumb on one side and fingers on the other. He lifted them sideways out of the deck and then placed them on the top, repeating this multiple times.

  Unlike the riffle or the Hindu shuffles, which almost always produced a random order of the cards, the overhand shuffle was a cheater’s best friend. It was easier to control card placement on the top and bottom of the deck.

  Battle paid close attention to Hedgepath’s fingers as he moved them. The kid was stacking the deck.

  “I’ll play,” Battle said. “What’ll it take for me to get in?”

  “That gun,” Hedgepath said. “It’ll get you a hundred chips.”

  Battle looked at McDunnough and then back to Hedgepath. “Fair enough.”

  One of the other grunts reached into a bag and pulled out a stack of ten chips. “These are ten each. It’s minimum.”

  Battle looked at the dozens of chips in front of Hedgepath and nodded at them. “You’re doing well tonight, then.”

  “He always does well.” One of the others laughed. “I dunno why we even try.”

  Hedgepath licked his index finger and started the deal. He slid a pair of cards facedown to each player. “All right,” he said. “You got your hole. Bet or fold.”

  They worked their way around the table. All but one of the grunts checked. He folded.

  Battle peeked at his cards. He had a queen and a ten, both of them spades. He checked; Hedgepath checked.

  Hedgepath dealt the flop to the center of the table. The three cards lying face up were a nine of spades, a king of hearts, and a six of diamonds.

  “I’m out,” said one of the remaining grunts. The other checked with a chip.

  Battle looked over at Hedgepath and then back at the flop. He tossed a chip into the pot. “Check.”

  Hedgepath dropped a pair of chips into the pot. “Raise it ten.” The other grunt matched it, as did Battle.

  “Here’s the turn,” said Hedgepath. He dealt another card face up to the center of the table. It was a ten of hearts. “A pair of tens.”

  Battle looked at his cards again. The grunt folded. “Guess it’s just you and me,” he said to Hedgepath.

  “Whatcha gonna do, Boss Marcus?” Hedgepath sneered. He rapped his fingers on the table, tapping out a rhythm. “Whatcha gonna do?”

  Battle slid two chips into the pile. Hedgepath matched him.

  “Here’s the river,” said Hedgepath. “Let it
flow, Boss Marcus.” He flipped the final card into the center of the table. It was a jack of clubs.

  Battle checked his cards again. He looked at the pot. He looked at Hedgepath. “I’m all in.” He slid his remaining chips into the center.

  “Oooh.” Hedgepath sat forward in his chair. “A player. Nice.” The kid had a ridiculous amount of confidence for a grunt, especially since Battle was selling himself as a boss.

  That was his tell.

  Battle concluded that somehow Hedgepath knew Boss Marcus wasn’t who he claimed to be. It was that conclusion that forced Battle’s hand. Despite holding a king high straight, he figured the cheater’s hand was better. His only option was to go all in and lose McDunnough to the pot. That would give him a chance to get it back into his hand.

  Battle looked over his shoulder. The wiry grunt was leaning against a railing that separated the arena floor from the stadium seating. He was chewing on his fingernails and not really paying attention to the game.

  “I’ll match you,” said Hedgepath, sliding more chips across the table. “Should we do this?”

  Battle quickly checked the other grunts. They were preoccupied with the game. None of them was on alert; none of them suspected anything. One of them yawned, revealing his lack of teeth. “Sure,” Battle said, his eyes returning to the cheater. “You first.”

  Hedgepath narrowed his eyes and looked at the cards, the handgun, and the other grunts. He shrugged. “Cool,” he said and flipped his cards. He revealed a pair of jacks.

  “Full house,” said Battle. “You got me.” Battle flipped his cards. “I had a straight.”

  A smile wormed its way across Hedgepath’s stubbled cheeks. He reached for the pot and drew the chips to his side of the table. “I’m gonna need that Glock,” he said. His right hand moved to his hip, disappearing under the table.

  Battle tensed in his seat, his quick twitch muscles ready to fire. He slid one foot back and planted it in the dirt floor. “Sure thing,” he said. “But it’s not a Glock. It’s a Sig Sauer. See?”

  Before any of the grunts could react, Battle pulled McDunnough into his hand and, with it still lying on its side on the table, pulled the trigger twice.