The Traveler (Book 2): Canyon

by Tom Abrahams

  “Pico,” he said without turning around, “tell me something.”

  Pico limped another step and stopped. “Yeah?”

  “How come you’re favoring the wrong leg?”

  A chill ran through Pico’s slender frame. “What?”

  “You was limping on your right leg when I seen you coming here,” Skinner said. His head was turned now so that Pico could see his sharp profile. “Now it’s your left.”

  Pico froze. He didn’t move either leg. Skinner rapped his fingertips on the handle of his revolver.

  “I shoulda known that Mad Max fella wouldn’t have found our Humvee on his own. Even if he did, he wouldn’t have figured out where I live. Ain’t that right?”

  Pico tried to speak. He couldn’t find the words. There were no words.

  “So then,” Skinner hissed, “seems we got ourselves a real problem.”

  Gravity pulled on Pico’s legs, cementing them to the asphalt. He stopped breathing. His eyes focused on Skinner’s long, nicotine-stained fingers as they trilled atop the gun.

  “Now I could let you live, Pico,” Skinner spat. “I really could. And I could pick you clean for every bit of information you got about Mad Max. That ain’t what I feel like doing.”

  An involuntary shudder racked Pico’s body. Every bit of him trembled.

  “’Cause I got a stinkin’ feeling you either don’t know much, or you wouldn’t tell me,” Skinner said. He was flexing his fingers above the revolver. In and out. In and out. “Any man who’d cheat on his own, find comfort with the enemy, then come back here as a traitor looking for something ain’t worth the time.”

  Pico found enough control of his body to speak. “I ain’t a traitor,” he said. “I ain’t done nothing wrong. I came back to tell you all about Mad Max. I can tell you everything you want to know.”

  Skinner’s eyes narrowed. He snorted and then spat a thick glob of phlegm onto the street in front of him. “That so?”

  “His name is Battle,” said Pico, the words pouring from his mouth as fast as he could form them with his lips. “He’s got the woman with him. They want the boy. They’re armed.”

  Skinner chuckled. “Battle, huh?” He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders. “Good name, I reckon. That other stuff, I coulda told you that. Ain’t no news in what you’re selling, Pico.”

  Pico waved his shivering hands in protest. “I got more,” he said. His body was beginning to tire from the shivers coursing through his body, wave after wave. “Let me live and I’ll prove it. I got more.”

  Skinner closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his chest filling with air. He slowly exhaled and his eyes opened. He looked at Pico, a smile worming its way across his stubbled face. “Boys,” he called to the grunts over his shoulder, “never mind the grub. Our friend Pico here ain’t gonna be needing nothing to eat.”

  Pico’s vision blurred. His arms tingled from his shoulders to his fingers. Fresh beads of sweat bloomed on his forehead and on the nape of his neck, streaming into the folds of his cheeks above his mustache and down his back. A flood of nausea washed over him when Skinner turned to face him. The grunts coalesced into a single mob behind their captain. Pico knew he was done. His play hadn’t worked.

  ***

  Battle was moving toward Pine and Third Streets on the western corner of the post office. He and Lola were walking south from Fourth Street, scouting the best entrance along the building’s front entrance. Along the top of the facade, the lettering read FEDER LDING ST OFFI E AND RTHOU E.

  “This was more than a post office,” Battle said, surveying the brick exterior. Most of the tall narrow glass windows were intact. Those that weren’t were covered with pressed plywood boards. “It was the federal building and courthouse too, built in the 1930s. It’s more than a hundred years old. Kinda funny.”

  “How’s that?” Lola’s limp was more pronounced as she worked hard to keep pace with Battle’s long stride.

  “This was the place scum like the Cartel would meet their makers,” he said, nodding at the wheat-colored brick. “Figuratively, I mean. They’d find justice here. Now it’s where they store their ill-gotten arsenal. Good thing they’re not smarter.”

  Lola moved a step ahead and then slowed. “How so?”

  “If they were smart,” Battle said, “they’d have consolidated everything inside that building. It’s much better fortified than the hardware store across the street. That was too soft a target.”

  Battle reached the corner and stepped to the building. He motioned for Lola to join him and hugged its southwestern corner to peer east toward Walnut Street. Lola tapped him on his shoulder as he inched along the southern wall step by step.

  “What are you doing?” she mouthed.

  “Pico should be here,” he whispered. “I’m just checking to see if there’s any action on this side before we go back and pry one of those loose plywood boards from the ground-floor window.”

  Lola tapped his shoulder again. “I don’t know if that’s—”

  Battle raised his hand, his arm bent ninety degrees at his elbow. His fist was tightly closed. He was at the eastern edge of the southern side of the building. He had a good look north around the corner of the building. He leaned around the brick edge and then whipped back to Lola.

  “Pico’s in trouble,” he said. “Stay still. No matter what, stay hidden right here.”

  Lola’s eyes popped wide. “What?”

  “If things go bad,” he whispered, his eyes boring into hers, “you run. Got me? You run back to my place. You run north. You run south. Just run.”

  “But—”

  Battle crouched low and leveled his rifle in front of him. He inched around the corner and pulled the scope to his eye. Pico had found himself in a gunfight with no knife. It looked to Battle like a high-noon duel at thirty paces.

  Pico’s back was to Battle, a dark sweat stripe running down his shirt. Opposite Pico was a tall man in a white hat. He had an incredibly thick, muscular neck with a broad chest to match. His right hand was hovering above a pistol on his hip, his legs less than shoulder width apart.

  A white hat. Skinner!

  Battle dropped the pack from his shoulders and lowered one knee to the ground to set himself. He drew Inspector tight against his shoulder and set his finger on the trigger, ready to apply pressure.

  Skinner was talking to Pico. Pico waved his hands in front of his face and said something Battle couldn’t hear. The throng of grunts behind the white hat moved closer.

  Battle took another glance at Skinner’s hand and then moved the scope along with Inspector’s barrel to the center of his target’s face, above the bridge of his nose.

  “As far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions from us.”

  He exhaled, let his breathing settle, and pulled the trigger. The instant Battle applied gentle pressure, the rifle’s hammer slammed against the firing pin. It struck the cartridge primer and the powder charge ignited. That explosion thrust the bullet from the muzzle. The recoil thumped the rifle deeper against Battle’s shoulder and the single round ripped through the damp early morning Texas air at a blistering twenty-nine hundred feet per second. Less than a second after Battle engaged the trigger, the twenty-two-caliber shot tore past Skinner’s head, snagging the edge of his right ear as it zipped past him and struck the neck of a grunt standing twenty feet behind him.

  It was that same grunt who’d seen Battle the millisecond before he fired. That grunt pointed at Battle and yelled a warning to Skinner, who shifted his weight and turned his head enough to escape the incoming volley.

  The grunt sank to the ground, holding his neck as he died there in the street. Skinner found his pistol and returned fire. He quickly unloaded his six shots and yelled for the grunts to take aim at the intruder. “Get him!” he yelled, the anger contorting his face into a monstrous mask. The veins in his neck bulged and he yanked the Browning from the hands of the grunt closest to him.

 
Battle held his ground, picking off grunts one at a time. He worked his way from left to right.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  It was like a shooting gallery. Grunts trying to take aim and return fire, only to find themselves contorting from the impact and searing heat of the hollow-point rounds.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  Another three grunts joined the macabre dance, clutching the sucking wounds and collapsing to the asphalt. Battle scanned right and then left again, searching for Skinner. He didn’t see him.

  Pop! Pop!

  A pair of shots whizzed past Battle, blasting the brick wall above his head. Battle found the shooter and sent a shot zipping into his chest. Battle swung back to the right. Skinner was hiding behind a pair of dead bodies. The captain was reloading.

  From the edge of his vision, beyond the boundary of the scope, he saw a figure running toward him. Battle swiveled and met the approaching grunt with his rifle. He applied pressure to the trigger, picked up his head, and recognized the man as Pico. He was huffing, his cheeks full of air as he hustled to safety.

  Battle waved him to the corner of the building. “Hurry! Get back there with Lola,” he called and then focused on the scope. He felt Pico brush by as he scurried for cover.

  Pop! Pop!

  A pair of shots missed to the right, and Battle found the spot he’d last seen Skinner hidden behind that pair of fresh corpses. There was no movement. Skinner wasn’t there.

  Battle looked over the scope, searching for the barrel-chested captain. He found him retreating into the HQ with a dozen grunts. Battle quickly focused, aimed, exhaled, and pulled. He held the trigger and released a trio of shots.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  The first blistered what was left of the door frame leading into the HQ, spraying a burst of wood and plaster. The second two each found marks.

  One of them drilled squarely between the shoulder blades of a grunt trying to slip past the crowd collapsing into the building. He arched his back, dropped his shotgun, reached for an itch he couldn’t scratch, and fell awkwardly against the cockeyed door frame.

  The second hit a posse boss in the back of the head. He was a full head shorter than the grunt next to him and without much of his brain by the time he dropped to the concrete sidewalk. His brown hat flew off as he tumbled, revealing the circular, dark red hole bored into the back of his shaved scalp.

  Battle unconsciously adjusted the hat on his own head, watched the last of the Cartel disappear into the building, and hopped to his feet. He looked over his shoulder at Pico and Lola. They were crouched low, their backs pressed flat against the brick building. They were pale, their eyes filled by their enlarged pupils.

  “We should go after them,” Battle said, pointing toward the tattered HQ with Inspector. He was holding it with one hand around its handguard. The magazine rattled as he shook the weapon. “They’re in one spot. We can end this now.”

  Both of his companions shook their heads.

  “They’re not the only ones in Abilene,” said Pico. There are so many more. This is only one group of them.”

  “Skinner’s with them,” Battle said. “You said he’s the leader.”

  “He’s a leader,” said Pico. “You kill him and another one’s gonna rise up. I told you we can’t kill them all.”

  Lola pushed herself to her feet, remaining against the wall. “What about Sawyer? If you kill them, we won’t know where Sawyer is. We’ll never find him.”

  “Did you find out where the kid is?” asked Battle. “Before they tried to kill you for whatever reason.”

  “I don’t know where he is now,” Pico said. “But I know where he’s headed.”

  Lola gasped. “Really? So he’s alive?”

  “I’m guessing he’s alive,” said Pico. “Otherwise he wouldn’t be headed to the Jones.”

  “The Jones?” Lola echoed.

  “Yeah,” Pico said. “It’s in Lubbock.”

  Battle looked over his shoulder at the bodies in the street, tracing them to the HQ’s entrance. He knew the Cartel was regrouping. In a matter of minutes, Battle knew he’d lose his advantage. He turned back to Pico. “Lubbock? That’s gotta be one hundred fifty miles from here. At least. We’re talking a three-day hike.”

  “We can take the Humvee,” Lola said, “as far as the gas will take us.”

  “We should take care of Skinner and those men first,” said Battle. “We leave them here, it’ll come back to haunt us. I’m telling you.”

  “That’s suicidal,” Lola said. “They outnumber us four or five to one.”

  “I’ve got a plan.”

  Lola and Pico exchanged glances and then nodded in agreement. “Fine,” they said in unison.

  “Good,” said Battle. “Let’s get ’em. Then we go get the boy.”

  CHAPTER 13

  JANUARY 3, 2020, 5:24 PM

  SCOURGE -12 YEARS, 9 MONTHS

  ALEPPO, SYRIA

  The men were yelling at Battle in Arabic. He understood a couple of words and immediately regretted not springing for Rosetta Stone when so many of his fellow officers had.

  He tried calming them by speaking softly, using a couple of the Arabic phrases he had learned. He didn’t move and remained standing with his hands raised above his head.

  Dressed in tight-fitting paramilitary uniforms and wearing thick black beards on their faces, the men alternated jabbing their weapons toward him and screaming either instructions or obscenities. Maybe it was both.

  “Min ’anta? Madha tarida? Hal ’ant al’amrikiatu?”

  Battle recognized the word American. He started to say something in English, but stopped himself and instead offered what little Russian he knew. He couldn’t read it, but he knew a few phrases.

  “Я русский.” He told them he was Russian.

  “Alrrusiat?” one of the men said and lowered his gun. The other man looked at him, the barrel of his AK-15 dipping low enough that Battle felt comfortable taking an enormous risk.

  In one swift move, he lowered his right hand into his breast pocket and drew out the utility knife. Before the men could react, Battle slung the knife at the second man. The blade tumbled end over end until it sliced across the man’s wrist. The target dropped the weapon, giving Battle time to draw his HK and fire a single shot into the man’s chest.

  As his fellow soldier was dying, the first man was slow to react. Instead of immediately retaliating with gunfire, he watched his friend collapse to the floor, giving Battle the split second he needed to fire a second shot. But the weapon clicked and didn’t fire. It was jammed. Battle lunged forward and tackle the surviving soldier. Battle hit him with his shoulder, driving the soldier backward as he executed the tackle with perfect form.

  The collision forced the AK from the soldier’s hands, and he dropped it harmlessly to the wooden floor of the train car. Battle gained leverage and straddled the soldier, wrapping his large, thick-knuckled fingers around the soldier’s bearded neck.

  Battle held his breath and squeezed, feeling the man’s larynx flex against his grip. The man’s eyes widened, the whites glowing in the dimly lit wagon.

  The soldier kicked his heels in a tantrum against the floor and pulled at Battle’s wrists, trying to loosen the suffocating hold. The veins in his forehead and temples pressed against his skin, filling with the blood that couldn’t circulate. His tongue rested on his lower lip as his mouth opened and his nostrils flared. The dying soldier’s hold on Battle’s wrists weakened. His kicks stopped. His body shuddered then fell limp. His bulging eyes, frozen with the fear of his final violent moments on Earth, were fixed open.

  Battle squeezed once more for good measure and fell to the side. He lay on his back, his chest heaving and his eyes stinging with sweat. He inhaled slowly through his nose to catch his breath.

  His pulse slowed and a smile snaked across his face. Battle chuckled and mumbled to himself, “I brought a knife to a gunfight.”

  He rolled over and searched the soldi
er’s pockets, finding nothing of value. He was, however, wearing a tactical belt that held a Makarov PM semiautomatic and an extra eight-round magazine.

  The Makarov was Soviet made and for years was the service pistol for the Syrian Army. Since the start of the Syrian civil war, the rise of ISIS, and the decades of a splintered nation controlled by any number of paramilitary groups, the Makarov had fallen into the hands of any temporary Russian ally, so Battle couldn’t know to which of the various factions the pair of dead Syrians belonged. They were probably Syrian Islamic Front. Maybe. It didn’t matter. He stuffed the spare magazine into a thigh pocket and checked the Makarov. It was loaded and ready to go.

  Carrying the 9mm in his right hand, he walked lightly through the final three cargo wagons and slid underneath the coupling that adjoined the last wagon to the flatcar.

  Battle crawled on his stomach the short distance to Buck, who was still lying on his back. He rolled onto his side and looked at Buck’s face. His eyes were closed and he was drooling, the spittle bubbling with air with every shallow breath. At least he was alive.

  “Buck.” Battle shook his shoulder. “You awake?”

  Buck’s eyes fluttered open and then narrowed to slits. He grunted and licked his lips.

  “I need you to eat something,” Battle said, shaking Buck’s eyes open again. “I’ve got some biscuits, a couple of vitamins. Can you eat?”

  Buck nodded, licking his lips again.

  “Let’s get you fed,” Battle said. “We’ve still got a long way to go. I think I’ve found an easier way to the checkpoint.”

  “Easy?”

  Battle tore open a pack of crumbled biscuits with his teeth. “Not easy,” he said. “Easier.”

  CHAPTER 14

  OCTOBER 15, 2037, 8:56 AM

  SCOURGE + 5 YEARS

  SNYDER, TEXAS

  Sawyer’s eyes popped open at the sound of the clanging on his cell bars. He’d finally managed some semblance of sleep. It was nothing solid, but he’d welcomed the dreamless rest nonetheless.