by Tom Abrahams
Wesson adjusted his left hand. Battle could see the glisten of sweat on the grip.
“Whenever you’re ready,” said Marcus.
The deer was still. Its large eyes were looking straight at them. It turned its head to the left, exposing the length of its body. It was a nice, wide target.
Wesson kept both eyes open, as his father had instructed, and pulled the trigger.
Clunk! Thooop!
The bolt sailed through the air and into the deer. It hit the perfect spot, above and behind the right leg. The bolt drove through the deer’s heart and up into its right lung.
It shuddered, ran a couple of yards, and collapsed into the bed of leaves coating the ground.
Marcus watched the kill and turned to congratulate his son. Instead of the beaming smile he expected, Wesson was gasping for air. His son was coughing and convulsing.
Marcus held his son’s shoulders, trying to steady him. The coughing grew more intense. Wesson was bleeding from his nose and ears.
“This is your fault,” Sylvia said, appearing from nowhere. She was standing over Marcus’s shoulder as he struggled to calm his son. “You promised we would be safe,” she said. “You promised we would survive.”
Marcus felt cold. Sweat was beading on his forehead and spilling into his eyes. He laid his son down and unzipped the bib. “It’ll be okay, son,” he told the boy. “It’ll be okay.”
“It won’t be okay,” said Sylvia. “You can’t make it okay.”
“Am I going to die?” Wesson asked between wet hacks. “Dad? Am I—”
Marcus reminded himself it was a dream. He wanted to wake from it. He wanted the dream to end.
Wake up!
“All of your preparation,” sneered Sylvia. “All of your promises.”
Wake up!
“Dad? Am I going to die?”
Wake up! Wake up!
Battle’s eyes popped open. His body twitched. He took a deep, ragged breath. The dream was over. He’d merely traded one nightmare for another.
He was in a dark room, save the fluorescent light above him that was dim and strobing. It gave the space the feeling of a Halloween haunted house.
Battle was on a sofa. There was a large desk, a couple of chairs, a bookshelf, and some plaques on the walls. It looked like someone’s office. There weren’t any windows.
He sat forward on the sofa and rose to his feet. The room started to wobble and he sat down. His head began throbbing, and he remembered what had happened. Somebody clocked him and knocked him unconscious.
He had no concept of time or place, but he knew he couldn't stay in this room. Slowly, using the sofa’s firm arm, he pushed himself back to his feet and walked to the door. It was the only access to the room.
The handle, as he expected it would be, was locked. The door was solid metal.
Battle checked the locking mechanism, but in the dim light he couldn’t see anything. He figured they’d be coming for him soon. He needed to figure out as much about where he was as possible before they showed up.
Dizzy and light-headed, he walked slowly to the desk. He inched his way around it to the large wooden chair behind it and sat down. He swiveled in the seat and tried each of the drawers on the desk’s face. Only one opened. It was empty.
The desk was bare. There was nothing on it but the inlaid cherry pattern running its rectangular perimeter.
Battle spun in the chair and looked at the bookshelf. There were motivational titles, books about strategy, a New International Version Bible. There was nothing that gave away his location. Then he looked at the plaques on the wall.
Each of them was an award for achievement. One was from the Associated Press for 2028 Coach of the Year. Another plaque was for the 2025 Big Twelve Conference Coach of the Year. All of the plaques honored the football coach for Texas Tech University.
Battle nodded his head. He was in Lubbock, likely on the Tech campus. The Cartel brought him here because they knew he was looking for the kid. Maybe that meant the boy was still alive. He reminded himself that Skinner wasn’t allowed to kill him. Someone higher up on the Cartel food chain wanted him alive.
Battle sat down in the desk chair. His head hurt. He felt the spot where the grunt punched him and hit him with something. There was a large, tender knot behind his ear at the base of his skull.
He leaned forward on the desk with his elbows and lowered his head into his hands. He couldn’t think straight enough to process what each of the clues meant. And none of them, even if he had been able to decipher them, would tell him if Lola and Pico were still alive.
He closed his eyes, trying to will away the pain, when the door lock clicked, the handle spun, and the door swung open. Two men walked into the room. Even in the dim, flickering light, he recognized one of them as Cyrus Skinner. He didn’t know the other one, a tall, well-built soldier of a man. He was wearing a black hat and black boots. He carried himself with incredible confidence, despite a noticeable limp.
A gray ponytail draped across one shoulder. He had a thick white beard that clung to his cheeks but hung low from his chin. He was more than a posse boss or a captain. Battle was smart enough to know that.
“So you’re Mad Max,” the man said, “the great warrior who happens to be a major pain in my ass.”
Battle pulled his elbows from the desk. He leaned back in the chair. The man approached the desk and planted his thick fingers on it, leaning forward as he spoke.
“Mad Max, huh?” The man’s eyes narrowed and he exhaled through his nose. “I hear your real name is Battle. That so?”
Battle folded his arms across his chest. “Yeah.”
“Pleased to see you, Battle.” The man extended his right hand. “I’m General Roof. You can call me General.”
Battle looked at the general’s hand and hesitated, but he thought it better not to aggravate the situation with unwarranted defiance. He took his hand and squeezed it as he shook it.
“Nice grip,” said General Roof. “That’s a soldier’s handshake.”
Skinner chuckled. He was standing near the sofa, his hands stuffed into his pockets. General Roof turned to look over his shoulder. His hand was still gripping Battle’s.
“That’s rude,” he said to Skinner. “Apologize to the man, Captain Skinner.”
Skinner jerked with surprise. “What?”
Roof kept his eyes on Skinner and motioned to Battle with his head. “Apologize for your insolence.”
“My ins—”
“You were rude,” Roof said. “Apologize to our guest.”
Skinner looked at the floor and scratched his chin. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and dropped it between his lips.
Roof smiled. “I’ll apologize for him. That was unnecessary. He’s embarrassed that you made a fool of him. From what I understand you burned his house, blew up his HQ, and killed I don’t know how many men.”
Battle shot Skinner a look. The smirk was long gone from the captain’s face.
Roof turned to Skinner. “Don’t light that cigarette in here, Cyrus.”
Skinner grumbled and mocked Roof like a petulant child when the general turned back to Battle. He licked his lips and stuffed the cigarette back in his pocket.
“Here’s my problem, Battle,” said Roof, sitting on the edge of the desk. He scratched the scruff on his neck. “As much as I respect you, I can’t have you running roughshod over my land.”
“This isn’t your land,” said Battle.
Roof smiled again. “It is until somebody takes it from me,” he said. “The Cartel, my carefully pieced together organization, runs everything, you see. Everything. I mean, we earned it fair and square.”
“Through muscle and fear,” corrected Battle.
“Same thing. That’s beside the point. I’d prefer not to digress into the irrelevant facts. You are here on my land. You are creating problems for me. You are, therefore, not welcome.”
Battle swiveled in the chair. He glanced at Skinner, who’d m
oved to the sofa and was sulking. As nasty as Skinner was, this general was worse. His intelligence and calm demeanor were far more frightening than the obvious bullying of the captain. He was guessing Roof was former military. He had that sense about him, a familiar cadence and quiet confidence. His eyes had seen things he couldn’t forget. They were etched in his gaze.
“As much as I’d like to let you walk,” said Roof, “I can’t do that. It sends the wrong message to the troops. Plus my comrades, the other two generals with whom I run this joint, might have a problem with unilateral clemency.”
Battle leaned into the desk and shrugged his shoulders. “So?”
“So—” he chuckled “—I’m going to have to make an example of you. People need to know they cannot challenge the status quo and get away with it. Hell, even the United States government knew to fall in line and leave us alone.”
“You do what you need to do,” said Battle, looking at Skinner as he spoke to Roof. “I’ll deal.”
Roof slapped the desk. “I know you will,” he said. “We’re going to put you into the Jones. It’s our Roman Colosseum, our Thunderdome, if you will.”
“Meaning what?”
Roof stood from the desk. “Meaning we toss you into the stadium with a couple of other haters. Then you die at the hands of some of our better grunts.”
“What purpose does that serve?”
“Well,” Roof said, “it’s a very public way to die. It’s fun entertainment for the folks who like us, and it’s a darn clear warning for those who don’t.”
“Fits.”
“Fits?”
“Yeah,” said Battle. “It fits. You’re afraid of losing control. You don’t have as strong a hold on your land as you’d like me to believe. Otherwise, there’d be no need to warn anyone. They’d already know.”
General Roof nodded. He took a good long look at Battle and then turned to leave. He limped toward the door. “Skinner here will see you get the prep you need,” he said without turning around. “We’ll move you to the locker room for the night. You’ll fight at first light tomorrow.”
Roof walked out into what Battle assumed was a hallway. He stopped and stuck his head back into the room. “You’re exactly who I thought you were, Battle. You didn’t disappoint.”
CHAPTER 27
OCTOBER 15, 2037, 5:00 PM
SCOURGE + 5 YEARS
LUBBOCK, TEXAS
The locker room was dank and ripe with the overwhelming smell of mildew. At least there was a light and slow spinning ceiling fan at one end of the long open space.
Battle found a wooden stool, dragged it into the light, and sat on it. He leaned it back onto two of its legs and rested his back against the painted cinder-block wall.
He crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes. While he wasn’t anxious to fall asleep, given what he’d encountered the last time he dreamt, there wasn’t anything else to do other than imagine what he would face in the morning.
Battle never considered himself a warrior or a gladiator. He was simply a smart guy who knew how to take orders and survive. He considered the odds against him and was okay with them.
If his lot was to die on the artificial turf of a football stadium, so be it. He was ready to join his wife and son in heaven. But there was a nagging thought that picked at the peace to which he’d arrived: he’d promised Lola he’d rescue her son.
If he died tomorrow, he’d have failed her. It would be yet another promise he couldn’t keep. At least he’d tried. There was that.
Battle had drifted to that odd place between consciousness and sleep when he heard the door to the locker room slam open.
From his spot in the corner of the room, he could only see shadows in the doorway. There were a pair of grunts on either side of a smaller man. They shoved the man inside. He stumbled and fell onto his knees. The grunts laughed at him and pulled the door shut.
The man slowly walked into the light. His head was down, but as soon as Battle saw him, he recognized him. The mustache was unmistakable.
Battle pushed his back from the wall and dropped the stool onto all four legs. “Salomon Pico?”
Pico looked up. One eye was swollen shut, the puffy flesh around it black and deep purple. His nose looked broken. There was a long gash along the top of it, and dried blood caked the edges of his nostrils.
Battle stood from the stool, measured his balance, and then moved to Pico’s side. “What did they do?”
“They caught me outside of Post,” Pico said. “Right after you disappeared. A whole bunch of them. They knew me. They took it out on me.”
“Where’s Lola?”
Pico looked up, his open eye searching Battle’s. “I dunno,” he said. “We got separated. She disappeared into a cornfield. I dunno what happened. I gotta guess it ain’t good.”
Pico’s revelation socked Battle in the gut. He didn’t want to think about what might have happened to her. “So you’re joining me in the Jones?” he asked, trying to redirect the conversation to the least distasteful of all the nasty possibilities.
“Yeah,” Pico said. “They told me I’m getting a traitor’s death—public and painful.”
Battle snickered. “Surprised they’re not hanging you in the town square, then. Seems to be their style.”
Pico frowned. “Not funny.”
“I’m just saying we could survive this,” Battle explained. “Then what?”
“I don’t—”
The door swung open again and the armed grunts tossed in a third gladiator. This one was tall and wiry. His face looked younger than the cynicism in his eyes. His mop of red hair hung over his ears. It was the hair that gave him away.
“Sawyer?” Battle asked as the door slammed shut.
The boy’s eyes tightened. He scowled warily at Battle and then at Pico. He kept his distance, standing where the guards left him.
Battle took a step forward; his voice softened. “You’re Sawyer, right? Your mother is Lola?”
The boy tensed. His hands balled into fists. His feet spread to shoulder width. “Who are you?”
“I’m Marcus Battle,” he said. “You’re Sawyer, right?”
The boy nodded almost imperceptibly. “Yeah. I’m Sawyer. You knew my mom?”
Battle took another careful step toward the boy, trying not to spook him. “A bit. She ended up on my land after the Cartel caught you. She’s been looking for you. We’ve been looking for you.”
Sawyer motioned to Pico. “Who’re you?”
“I’m Salomon Pico,” he said. “I was trying to help too.”
“You look like Cartel.”
“I was,” Pico admitted. “Not anymore.”
The boy took a half step back toward the door. His glassy eyes moved between Battle and Pico. “How did she die?” He lifted his head, apparently bracing himself for the answer.
“I don’t know that she’s dead.”
The boy’s eyes widened; his brow lifted. “She’s alive?”
“I don’t know that either.”
The hope on Sawyer’s face collapsed into confusion. He shook his head and tried speaking with his hands. Nothing came out. Tears forming in the corners of his eyes streamed along his cheeks.
“She was alive this afternoon,” said Pico. “I was with her. We got separated. I don’t know where she is now.”
“So she could be alive?”
“Yes,” said Pico. “She could be.”
Sawyer stepped forward and swept his bangs from his forehead. “We need to find her,” he said. “If she’s still alive, we have to find her.”
Battle stepped closer still and held his hands in front of him, assuring the boy he meant no harm. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Sawyer,” he said, measuring his words carefully, “but we’re not in a position to go looking for your mom right now. We’re prisoners here. We’re about to be thrown to the lions.”
Sawyer’s eyes fidgeted. He flexed his fingers and pushed aside his hair again. “We can’t
just sit here, though. There’s gotta be a way…”
Battle indulged him. “A way to what?”
“A way to find out if she’s alive,” Sawyer explained. “If she is, we can figure out a way to save her. You found me, didn’t you?”
Battle chortled. “True, but this isn’t exactly ideal.”
Pico interjected. “You’re not making sense, kid. You’re just—”
Sawyer’s eyes lit with fire. He clenched his jaw. His face grew red. He started toward Pico, and Battle stepped in front of him. He gently put his hands on the boy’s shoulders, noticing how tall the young man was. He was big for thirteen.
“We can try,” Battle said softly. “We will try to find out if she’s alive. If she is, we’ll try to figure out a way to save her. We’ll do exactly what you suggested. Okay? We also need to focus on ourselves. We have to devise a plan of action when they throw us onto the field.”
Sawyer’s glare cooled and his eyes moved from Pico back to Battle. He looked up at Battle and nodded. He rubbed his right shoulder and squinted.
“You hurt?” Battle asked.
“A little. I’ll be all right,” he said. “I fell on it.”
Battle led Sawyer over to a stool and offered him a seat. “Chill,” he said. “It’s going to be a long night.”
***
The door flung open again with a bang. The familiar grunts were manhandling an unfamiliar man. They shoved him in the back and he fell, catching himself with the flats of his palms. He grunted and then collapsed. He was filthy.
Even in the low light, Battle knew the man hadn’t bathed or cleaned himself in days. He could smell it. It was an offensive odor he’d encountered countless times in Syria and Iran and Afghanistan. Both the people in-country and his own men had succumbed to the foul stench after extended engagements.
The man pushed himself to his feet, his head down, and brushed the dirt from his clothing. He was dressed differently than others Battle had seen. He wasn’t wearing the ill-fitting pants of a grunt or the overalls the townsfolk wore. He was wearing loose-fitting cotton pants, like sweatpants but thinner. His shirt was reminiscent of a Mexican guayabera. It was distinctive because of the two vertical rows of closely sewn pleats that ran the length of both sides of the shirt. There were tea-colored stains encircling his armpits. Battle hadn’t seen anyone wearing clothing like that during his brief trek across central Texas.
