The Traveler (Book 2): Canyon

by Tom Abrahams

  He was halfway up the slope when he heard voices behind him and to his right. The echo made it difficult to know how far away they were. There were three or four different voices, loud and urgent.

  Battle couldn’t look over his shoulder. He pushed forward, intensifying his effort to reach the top of the incline. As he neared its upper edge, his right boot caught a patch of weeds growing through the concrete. He slipped and fell forward flat onto his chest and elbows. He dropped the HK and it tumbled down the embankment into the darkness below. He had enough sense to turn his head as he dropped. His cheek and ear slapped against the embankment with a thud, and Buck’s full weight smashed him into the ground, forcing the air from his lungs.

  Battle gasped and flailed under Buck’s weight. His lungs stung and his eyes bulged against the pressure and lack of oxygen.

  Buck was groaning but otherwise useless. Battle blindly scratched at the concrete and tried shifting his weight to move Buck from atop his shoulders, neck, and head, fighting against the panic of suffocation and claustrophobia. His vision dimmed until Buck rolled off of Battle and onto his back.

  Buck coughed against the pressure release, sucking in a welcome gulp of cold air. He worked to control his breathing and regain his wits. He reached for the nine millimeter and sat up. He was in the dark on the incline, a few feet from the top.

  His face felt bruised. A sting resonated on his cheek and ear where they’d hit and then grated against the concrete. He blinked his eyes into focus.

  The voices were growing louder. The echoes were more shallow.

  Battle looked to his left, down the embankment and into the orange glow of the train yard. There were four men, all of them dressed in uniforms similar to the pair he’d killed in the wagon. They were armed with AKs and they were scanning the yard, moving north toward Battle and Buck.

  Battle knew he could see them, but they couldn’t see him. They were in the light. He was in the dark. None of them had night vision as far as he could tell. He also knew he could hit them from the distance between them; however, he risked giving away his lifesaving advantage with the first shot. The fire and light of a muzzle flash from the end of the nine millimeter in the dark would alert the patrol to Battle’s location.

  He might hit one or two of them before they returned fire with much more powerful weapons. Battle resolved to sit silently in the dark, weapon at the ready. Should he need to open fire, he would. He hoped he could sit silently in the dark, let the patrol pass or give up, and then resume his ascent. He checked his weapon and reloaded it.

  It was a good plan. It might have worked.

  It didn’t.

  CHAPTER 17

  OCTOBER 15, 2037, 10:45 AM

  SCOURGE + 5 YEARS

  ABILENE, TEXAS

  Battle knelt in the back of the Humvee, reloading Inspector. He looked over at Pico, who was standing on the running board with the driver’s side door open. “What?” he asked. “You look like you have something to confess.”

  Pico leaned his elbow on the open door and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger. “I told him.”

  “Told who what?”

  “Skinner,” he said. “I told him your name. I told him you were looking for the kid.”

  Battle dug a canteen out of a bag and spun open the top to take a swig. The water was warm and tasted like spit. He swished it around in his mouth and swallowed it.

  Pico took in a deep breath, exhaled, and started talking, as if the words were running downhill. “I told him Lola was with you too and that everyone who showed up on your land was dead. I’m really sorry about it, Battle. I don’t really know why I told him. I just did. It came out. I was—”

  Battle held up his hand to stop Pico’s tumble of explanations. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not top secret stuff.”

  Pico’s eyes widened. “You’re not mad?”

  “Not thrilled,” Battle said. “But it ain’t the end of the world. That already happened, right?”

  Pico chuckled with relief. “Yeah.”

  Battle picked up his rifle. “We need to get going.” He cupped a hand around his mouth and called out, “Lola! We gotta go.”

  “Coming,” she called from behind the church. She emerged from behind the building, adjusting her pants. “Girl’s gotta go sometimes,” she said sheepishly and hopped into the passenger seat.

  Battle closed his eyes. It was quiet. There was a subtle breeze that chilled the air as it passed. Nobody was close. They had a minute.

  “Let me ask you a question, Salomon Pico,” he said. “I want an honest answer. Give me a yes or no. Plop yourself into the seat. Start the engine. Hit the road. In that order. Got it?”

  Pico shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Now, I don’t want an explanation,” Battle emphasized. “Yes or no. Right?”

  Pico nodded and swallowed hard. His eyes danced from the ground to Battle’s eyes to the sky and back to the ground. He rapped his fingers on the door frame.

  “Before you saved my life and killed Queho at my house,” Battle asked, “had you ever killed a man?”

  Pico flinched at the question. He scratched his neck and smoothed his mustache.

  “Was Queho the first man you killed?”

  Pico looked at the ground and nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Battle said. “Let’s go.”

  Pico raised his head and looked at Battle. His eyes welled with tears. He nodded again and got into the Humvee. A minute later the engine rumbled and they were on their way. Battle had instructed Pico to take I-20 west to Highway 84. It wasn’t necessarily the safest route, but it was the fastest. Plus, safety was a relative term. They were as likely to run into a collection of bloodthirsty Cartel grunts on a two-lane road as they were on the interstate.

  Battle was sitting in the Humvee’s open bed, his back pressed against the rear of the cab. He had his knees propped up and his rifle in his lap. The Humvee picked up speed, and Battle fought the urge to fall asleep against the hum and vibration of the tires against the asphalt.

  He considered Salomon Pico’s admission. It wasn’t a surprise to him. He’d watched Pico’s reaction to Queho’s death. He’d fired three shots into his trail boss: one in the knee, one in the thigh, and one into his stomach.

  Queho, the clubfooted thug, had dropped with a shriek. He’d fallen over, squealing through the pain. Pico had shuddered at what he’d done, alternately stroking his mustache and rubbing the back of his neck. Then he’d given up the rifle and crouched down to squat in front of the dying man. He was almost like a child, naively curious about the consequences of his actions.

  But it was his reaction to killing the grunt with the popcorn machine that convinced Battle his new friend Pico wasn’t among the hardened marauders filling out the Cartel’s ranks.

  Pico’s face had been ashen, his eyes glossy with remorse. Battle imagined the former grunt could justify killing Queho. The boss had tried to kill him hours earlier. Crushing a man to death and watching his head pop like a grape was altogether different. There wasn’t much reconciling that, even if it wasn’t intentional.

  The revelation told Battle a couple of things about his companion. He knew he could count on him to react when necessary. The mustachioed grunt had a survival instinct. That was good. He also concluded Pico had some semblance of compassion. He’d quickly discovered that was hard to find in this new world, this Texas he didn’t recognize. That wasn’t as good. It might cause him to hesitate or twitch in a tight spot.

  Lola was a survivor too. Unlike Pico, who reacted out of fear, she was all emotion and grit.

  Battle didn’t blame her. Her kid was missing and in the hands of people who’d made her life a living hell. She had every right to pout or question or demand action. Battle was almost, though not quite, at the point where he appreciated her devil’s advocacy and her sharp, unwavering focus when it came to finding Sawyer.

  He braced himself as the Humvee swung to the left and accelerate
d along the feeder road before merging onto the interstate. The wind whipped past either side of the cab, chilling the air.

  Battle reached for a worn olive-colored fleece hoodie from the floor of the bed and slid his arms into the sleeves. He hadn’t noticed it before, and it was a little snug, but he was glad to have it. His muscles were already tight, his lungs angry at the cold air. A little warmth was welcome.

  He pulled the hood over his head, stretching it atop the Stetson as best he could, and watched the infinite trail of the highway behind the Humvee. The occasional oak or desert willow dotted the flat brown landscape on either side of the wide asphalt strip. A clump of Vitex caught Battle’s attention. He recognized them despite the lack of distinctive purple flowers. His wife, Sylvia, had loved Vitex. They were drought tolerant and offered the same beauty, she’d told him, as a Crepe Myrtle, though they grew faster and appeared less ornamental to Sylvia.

  Battle shook free of the daydream, reminding himself of the need to be vigilant. They could run into trouble at any moment. Still, his attention drifted.

  The interstate was lined with billboards. Most of them were tattered, the product or place they advertised barely decipherable. Battle found himself trying to piece together the gist of each placard as they zoomed by. The ones he could see best were on the opposite side of the interstate, facing the eastbound traffic.

  He smiled at a black and yellow billboard featuring half the face of a cartoon beaver. The board promised clean bathrooms only two hundred and eighteen miles away in Terrell, Texas. That was the closest Buc-ee’s.

  Buc-ee’s was a Texas landmark. Part truck stop, part cafe, part gift store, Buc-ee’s made road trips fun. Sylvia had always insisted on stopping at one whenever they passed a location. She’d refused to use the restroom anywhere else. She also loved their fudge and their famous Beaver Nuggets, which their son, Wesson, insisted tasted exactly like Corn Pops cereal.

  Battle hadn’t thought about Buc-ee’s in a long time. There were so many things from the pre-Scourge world he’d forgotten. Then he’d remember them and wish he hadn’t.

  The smile slid from his face and he tugged the hoodie over his ears. He picked up his rifle and released its magazine. He needed to fill it. Something told him they wouldn’t make it to Lubbock without using it.

  CHAPTER 18

  OCTOBER 15, 2037, 11:30 AM

  SCOURGE + 5 YEARS

  I-20 BETWEEN DERMOTT AND JUSTICEBURG, TEXAS

  Grat Dalton was saddle sore. He hadn’t ridden a long distance in weeks. His thighs were chafing. His tailbone felt bruised. They’d been running the horses at a two-beat trot, moving along at about ten miles per hour. Grat didn’t think he could handle a gallop.

  Emmett Dalton pulled his horse alongside Grat’s. “You okay?” he asked above the clop of the metal shoes on the asphalt. “You got a sour look on your face.”

  “Just sore.”

  “We’re making good time, I reckon,” Emmett said. “We hit Dermott a lot earlier than I figured we would. Justiceburg is the next town up ahead.”

  Grat yanked on the rope that connected him to the boy. “Keep your eyes open,” he spat.

  Sawyer opened his eyes and looked over at Grat. Grat saw a look on the boy’s face he didn’t like. He was like a chained dog straining at his collar, ready to pounce if he had the chance.

  “How old you say you are?” Grat asked the boy.

  Sawyer’s body was bouncing along with his horse’s gait. His bleeding wrists were cuffed together; his hands gripped the saddle horn. “Thirteen.”

  “You look older,” Emmett said. “He looks older, right, Grat?”

  “He does.”

  Emmett laughed. “He don’t look happy neither.”

  “No. He don’t.”

  “He ain’t gonna be feeling any better when we hit Lubbock,” Emmett said. “That’s for sure.”

  Grat chuckled an acknowledgement and shifted his weight in his saddle. He grimaced and shifted again.

  “You wanna take a break?” asked Emmett. “We could take a few. Stop on the side of the road. Stretch out.”

  “We did that in Dermott,” he said. “The fellas there told us we had a long ride ahead. They said they made the trip plenty. Told us we’d need to keep good time. Weren’t you listening?”

  Emmett scowled. “I was listening. I heard them boys. They was grunts like you and me. I don’t need to take ideas from other grunts. That’s not the natural order of things.”

  “No,” Grat said. “But our orders ain’t from them grunts in Dermott. They come from the top. You know that.”

  “Captain Skinner told us the generals was gonna be there in Lubbock. At least one of them. Maybe more.”

  Grat arched his back and adjusted his feet in the stirrup irons. “He said Roof was gonna be there. He wanted to see the boy. This come from him.”

  “So?”

  “So that means we don’t take another break,” said Grat. “We do our jobs and get the kid to Lubbock. Then we find ourselves a couple women, some pills, a cheap place to sleep. It’s all good then.”

  A toothy grin spread across Emmett’s face. “At least a couple women.” He laughed, fidgeting with anticipation in his saddle. “At least a couple.”

  “And the pills,” said Grat. “They got good ones in Lubbock. Lots to choose from.”

  “Lots of women to choose from,” said Emmett. He licked his upper lip and then flicked his tongue like a lizard. “Ooh wee.”

  Grat felt a tug on the rope and he looked over at Sawyer.

  The boy’s eyebrows were knitted, his mouth turned down. He suddenly looked his age. “Who’s General Roof?”

  Emmett cackled. “Boy wants to know who Roof is.”

  “He’s one of the generals,” offered Grat. “One of the men who helped put the Cartel together. He’s a legend.”

  Emmett nodded. “A legend.”

  “What do the generals do?” asked Sawyer. “I know you grunts do all of the hard work, and the posse bosses are in charge of you. And I know there are captains, right?”

  Grat turned away from the boy. He was riding between Sawyer and his brother. Emmett shrugged, apparently unsure of how Grat should answer the question. He drew a full canteen of water from his saddlebag and took a sip of the cool liquid. Cold water was a luxury he didn’t often enjoy. He took a longer swig and sucked it between the gaps in his rotting teeth, swirling it around in his mouth with his tongue.

  Sawyer tugged on the rope again. “What do they do?”

  Grat tugged back on the rope, almost jerking Sawyer from the saddle as they trotted north. The boy regained his balance and set his feet back into the stirrup irons.

  “They run things,” said Grat. “Everything the Cartel does. All over the territory. They’re at the top of the pyramid. That’s all you need to know.”

  “Who are they?” Sawyer asked. “How’d they get to the top of the pyramid?”

  “First off,” said Grat. “They built the pyramid. Second off, they’re the generals. That’s who they are.”

  The kid was persistent. “I mean who were they? You know, before the Scourge.”

  Grat laughed from his belly. “Who knows, boy?” he said. “Ain’t none of us what we was before the Scourge.”

  “Yeah,” echoed Emmett. “That’s a stupid question. None of us is who we was.”

  They rode for another few minutes in silence, accompanied by the quick tap of the horses’ shoes as they pushed forward. Grat watched Sawyer as they rode. He was intrigued with the kid.

  Despite his untenable situation—handcuffed, strapped to a horse, on his way to certain death—he was inquisitive. He was defiant. He was tough. An occasional wind swirled past them, ruffling the collars of the brothers’ matching fourth-hand barn jackets. The elbows and cuffs were threadbare.

  They were far warmer than Sawyer, whose teeth chattered reflexively with each northerly gust. The wind, when it picked up, came straight at them, dropping the ambient temperature a good
twenty degrees. It was cold enough without that wind. The sun was almost straight overhead on what had become a clear day. The sky was ice blue.

  Grat noticed the boy shivering. “You cold?”

  Sawyer flexed against the metal cuffs on his wrists. He hunched his shoulders forward and drew his arms close to his side. His chin was tucked to his chest. He glanced over at Grat but didn’t reply.

  Grat forgot about his discomfort in the saddle. He didn’t like kids. He never had, even when he was one. They’d picked on him and made him feel small. “Grat the Gnat” they’d called him. He was tall and skinny with narrow shoulders and a bird chest like the boy riding alongside him.

  His brother had tried, with a shocking level of futility, to help him when he could. Emmett was small and a half-wit. He wasn’t much help with defending Grat physically or verbally. Sometimes he’d made things worse.

  Eventually, as they got older and Grat got stronger, the teasing stopped. Grat turned the tables and became the aggressor. His brother tagged along. When Grat hooked up with a biker gang in Montgomery County, Texas, a year before the Scourge, Emmett was allowed to join too.

  They fit in. They had friends. They were respected, for the most part, for their proclivities and their willingness to do whatever needed to be done.

  “You remind me of me,” said Grat. “You’re a tough young’un. I respect that. Don’t mean I like you. Means I see where you’re coming from.”

  Emmett cackled. “You serious, Grat? You’re joking, right? That’s a joke.”

  Grat watched the boy’s non-reaction to his admission. Sawyer didn’t blink. He turned away and buried his head, trying to avoid the buffeting wind as much as he could.

  “I ain’t jokin’,” Grat said, his eyes still on the boy. Then he turned to Emmett. “What he’s probably been through, what he’s gonna have to go through at the Jones? I’d be pissin’ in my drawers if I was him.”