by Tom Abrahams
Fifty lay at her side, his head resting on his paws, tail wagging slowly. His big, sad eyes danced between Lou and Marcus.
Marcus rocked her, as he’d done so many times before with his own children. It was an unconscious parental response he didn’t realize he was doing at first. When he recognized it, he stopped for a moment and then began swaying again. Lou was talking to him as if he were her father. She was telling him about the adventures she’d had, the dragons she’d slayed, and how she did everything in hopes he would be proud. She did confess to unnecessary violence but hoped he could understand.
Marcus listened, occasionally mumbling tacit approval of her life choices, all while keeping his eye on the tattooed man. The man was passed out, likely from the pain, and was lying on his side of the sidewalk, blood leaching onto the concrete from the gunshot.
There was no telling how much time had passed when Marcus pulled away from Lou. He placed his hands on either side of her face and held her gaze, forcing her to look at him. At first she smiled. Then recognition took hold and her pleasant expression evaporated. She blinked rapidly and curled her brow in confusion. Her chin trembled.
“Marcus?” she whispered. “When did you get here?”
“Just now,” he said.
“Oh.”
Marcus brushed wild strands of hair from her face and tucked them behind her ear. When he did, he found a large swelling the size of an egg on the back of her head. That was a good sign. He remembered reading somewhere head injuries were more dangerous without any swelling.
She looked past him, her eyes jittering as she searched their surroundings. “Where are we? What is this place?”
“We’re in Del Rio,” Marcus replied. “We’re here to find a man named Cego.”
“Cego,” she repeated. “Cego. The man with the red beard?”
“No, that was Barbas. We’re looking for the one with the eye patch. Remember?”
Lou pulled back from Marcus. “I don’t feel so good,” she said. “I need to lie down.”
“You can’t lie down right now. That’s not a good idea. You need to try to stand up if you can.”
Marcus tried helping her to her feet. She wobbled and then fell back against the wall. She was in no condition to go anywhere.
“All right,” said Marcus, “stay here for a second. We’re going to take a break. You’ll be able to rest.”
Lou leaned against the wall, her backside and the palms of her hands flat against it, and Marcus let go. He walked over to the tattooed man and toed him with his boot until the man opened his eyes. His face was gray.
“You need first aid,” Marcus said. “Which of these buildings is a good place for me to save your life?”
The man lifted his head and motioned toward a bright red brick building across the street. From the remnant of a sign that remained in the window, it was apparent the place had once belonged to a veterinarian.
Marcus coaxed the man to his feet, and with Lou’s arm over his shoulder, he followed the tattooed man into a dark building with no power. This was not part of the plan.
CHAPTER 16
OCTOBER 27, 2042, 9:10 PM
SCOURGE +10 YEARS
DEL RIO, TEXAS
The tattooed man was sleeping with a freshly bandaged arm. He was on the floor next to an empty Plexiglas aquarium that still had a layer of decorative green rocks coating its bottom. Lou was not asleep. Despite her protests, Marcus had kept her awake.
She was improving. Her memory was back. She knew where they were, where they’d been, and who they’d killed. She didn’t remember the sniper, getting thrown from the horse, or that the animal was dead. Marcus spared her the details of the horse’s obvious pain and that he’d used it as a shield to save his own life.
He had also given her a painkiller for her headache, though it hadn’t helped.
“How long do we have to stay here?” she asked. “I don’t like this place. I’d rather be in Abilene.”
“That’s saying something.”
“Really, though,” she pressed. “It’s dark and cold in here. When can we finish what we started? And by the way, where are my knives?”
Lou’s eyes filled with the sudden realization that her blades were missing. She groped at her waist and searched the dark room, squinting to locate the weapons.
“They’re where you left them,” Marcus said. “Likely stuck inside or lying next to the pair of men you killed. Those throws probably saved our lives.”
She leaned forward, her voice warbling as she said, “I need those knives, Marcus. My dad gave me those knives.”
“We’ll get them in the morning. Nobody’s taking them. And if I hear any noise outside, I’ll go check.”
“Go get them now,” she insisted.
Marcus motioned to the sleeping man. “I’m not leaving you alone in here with him. And you’re not doing anything yet. You need rest.”
Lou huffed and sank back against the wall behind the examination table. “Fine.”
Marcus scratched his chin. His stubble was long enough now that it itched almost constantly. He sighed and leaned against the stainless-steel table on which Lou was resting. Fifty was next to her, his head on her lap. He hadn’t left her side since she’d been injured.
“You need a few more hours to heal. You took a real blow to your head. I was worried about you. I am worried about you. I can’t leave you here alone.”
“I’ve been alone before,” she said, absently rubbing the dog’s head. “And since when are you worried about anything other than your mission?”
Marcus chuckled. “Maybe I’m not worried about you as much as I need your sick knife throwing skills to keep me alive.”
“So you need me?”
Marcus tensed. He’d never told anyone he needed them. Never. Not Sylvia. Not Lola. Not the children.
“Maybe need is a strong word,” he said. “But I would miss your wit if you weren’t around. You’re incorrigible.”
“My dad used to say that,” said Lou. “He used to call me incorrigible.”
“I would have liked your dad,” said Marcus.
Lou nodded. “He would have liked you.”
They sat there in the quiet for a couple of minutes. Marcus scratched his neck, running his fingernails against the discomfort of his unshaven beard. Lou petted Fifty and nuzzled him. He licked her ears and the side of her neck. She giggled.
“So,” she finally said, “what’s the plan now?”
Marcus glanced at the tattooed man. He was still asleep and breathing heavily. His brow was heavy with sweat and his shirt was drenched. Marcus figured the man had a fever. Infection would be a problem in the coming days. But for now, the man was fine.
“The plan hasn’t changed,” Marcus said. “We knew coming into town we’d see some resistance. We did. We survived it. Somehow, and I don’t know how, we survived it. It’s like these bad guys all get trained at the Star Wars Stormtrooper Academy. None of them can shoot straight.”
“I liked Star Wars,” said Lou. “I saw episode fifteen in the theater a couple of months before the Scourge hit.”
“I never got to see that one,” said Marcus. “Wish I had. Anyhow, the plan is to get this moron over here to take us to Cego. Or he gets another moron to take us to Cego. Either way, we end up face-to-face with the one-eyed man and we kill him before he kills us. It’s pretty simple.”
“Sounds simple,” said Lou. “Now if you could only click your heels together three times and make it happen.”
***
The sun was barely above the horizon when Marcus led his motley crew outside onto the streets of Del Rio. Black birds squawked and fought over the remains of the paint to their left as they walked south, closer to the border.
“Give me a minute,” Lou said. “I need my knives.” She walked along the sidewalk until she reached the dead bodies, swatting away flies when she got close. Fifty bounded along at her side as if they were going for a stroll in the park. The dog was eternally happy, even when
it was ripping out the throat of an attacker.
Lou picked up one of the blades from the ground. The other she had to pry from the target’s breastbone. She wiped both clean on the back of the man who’d pulled the blade from his chest before realizing his mistake.
She tucked them into her waist and marched back to the waiting men.
“How far is the holding place?” Marcus asked the tattooed man.
“Not far,” he answered, his voice weak and scratchy. His injured arm hung loose from his shoulder, his hand dangling as if it were dead weight. “Like I said yesterday, it’s only a couple of blocks.”
“You said a lot of things yesterday,” Marcus snapped.
Marcus’s limp was markedly better than it had been the night before. His side ached, and the tension in his neck and back made sudden movement uncomfortable, but he was as good as he’d been in days.
Lou seemed more focused. Her eyes were brighter and she spoke in the quick, short cadence to which Marcus had become accustomed. She wasn’t slurring her speech or drawling with a thickly Southern twang as she had after her fall. She carried the loaded Remington slung across her back.
The tattooed man trudged forward, leading them toward the holding room. He moved slowly, almost haltingly, as if he were trying to count each step but kept losing track of the number.
Marcus had his pack strapped onto his back and the Springfield in his hands at waist level. He held it like a protective father might threaten a would-be suitor with a shotgun and he had it aimed at the man’s back. He didn’t want to kill the man. Not yet. He needed him for the moment. But if the man made any weird moves or gestures, Marcus was determined to pull the trigger without thinking about it and send a shot directly into his spine.
The man pointed to the right a few feet in front of him. “We’re going to turn there,” he said. “That’s the street.”
Marcus, Lou, and Fifty followed him onto the street, which was more like an alley. It was narrow, bordering on claustrophobic, lined with multistory buildings that crowded the low curbs on either side.
The man stopped halfway along the street and faced left. He motioned to a wide, faded mahogany door. “That’s it.”
“What’s next?” Marcus asked.
“There’s a knock,” he said. “It’s a code so rival gangs don’t—”
Marcus motioned to the door with the Springfield. “I don’t care what it’s for. Do what you need to do to get us inside.”
A smile snaked its way across the man’s face from cheek to cheek. “You don’t know what you’re asking me to do. You’re signing your own death warrant. You got lucky yesterday.”
Marcus motioned again toward the door with the rifle.
The tattooed man shook his head and spat onto the ground at his feet. He tugged at his collar and winced when his fingers got close to his injured shoulder.
“Cego is going to kill you,” he said through his teeth. “I don’t know who you really are, but I know you ain’t friends. I could see that the second we laid eyes on you coming into town. I seen too many of you vigilante types.”
“Have you?” Marcus asked nonchalantly.
“So many I can smell it on you,” he sneered. “You got this sweet odor about you, all high and mighty, all full of gumption and swag. It always ends the same though.”
“How’s that?”
The man lowered his voice and leaned toward Marcus. His eyes narrowed and his chest puffed. “When you get face-to-face with the man, he’s not gonna take pity on you. He’s gonna straight up murder you and that girl of yours.”
Lou didn’t miss a beat. “And my little dog too?”
“Open the door,” said Marcus. “Do it now.”
“Suit yourself,” said the tattooed man. He swung his weight toward the door and stepped to it. He raised his fist and knocked on the wood in a pattern that resembled “Shave and a Haircut” but more complex. He finished the knock and stepped back from the door.
Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute.
“You do it right?” asked Marcus when nothing happened, well aware the man could have rapped some coded knock that warned the people inside, and he knew that whatever awaited them inside was likely not the coyote promised them.
“Yeah.”
“Try it again.”
The man hesitated but repeated the odd combination of knocks. This time a voice inside the room responded, “Who is it?”
“Bingo,” said the tattooed man.
Lou snickered. “Bingo? What is it with these names? Battle? Bingo? It’s like someone ran Cormac McCarthy through a cliché machine.”
Bingo sneered at her. Marcus ignored her.
The voice responded, “Who’s with you?”
“I got a man, a girl, and a dog.”
“I can see them through the peephole, Bingo,” said the voice. “Who are they?”
“They need some help across the border.”
“Can they pay?”
Bingo looked at Marcus. “Can you pay?”
“I’ve got bags of marijuana. It’s dried and uncut,” Marcus answered. “How many bags will it cost?”
“How many you got?” asked Bingo.
Marcus stared at Bingo, expressionless. He motioned toward the door.
“They can pay,” said Bingo.
From behind the door, a series of clicks and slides signaled the unlocking of a series of deadbolts and chains. When the handle turned and the door drew inward, a surprisingly short man was standing at the entrance. His face was wide and flat, his nose was broad, and his dark eyes were hidden underneath heavy lids. Patches of mangy black hair decorated his jawline and above his lip. He was unarmed.
His eyes bounced from one person to the next and settled on Fifty. He waved a thick sausage of a finger at the mutt. “No dogs in here.”
Lou put her hand on Fifty’s head. “He comes with me.”
“No, he doesn’t,” the short man said.
Lou looked at Marcus pleadingly. “If he doesn’t go, I’m not going.”
The short man chuckled and answered for Marcus. “Then I guess you’re staying out here. I don’t like dogs.”
“You can stay with the dog,” said Marcus. “Bingo, how long will we be waiting in there?”
Fifty yawned.
“Not long at all, I suspect,” said Bingo, exchanging glances with the short man.
“Nope,” said the short man, “not long. You gotta leave that rifle here and empty that piece you got on your hip.”
Marcus looked past the short man and through the opening behind him into the holding room. It was too dark for him to see much past the entrance. There was a dim yellow light, the odor of fried animal fat, and the faint hum of a generator. Something was off.
“You’ll get ’em back once we reach a deal and you’re on your way south,” said the short man. “No dogs and no guns in the room.”
Marcus looked over his shoulder, up one end of the alleyway and down the other. There was nobody in sight. There was nothing but the distant hum of the generator coming from somewhere inside the holding room.
The whole town of Del Rio seemed like a setup, as if it were a front for something. “What do we do in there while we wait for the coyote?” he asked. “Why can’t we wait out here?”
The short man shrugged. “We do business in there. You pay up; we finalize the arrangements. We don’t do that out here.”
“Fine,” said Marcus. “Let’s do some business.”
“Marcus…” Lou’s eyes were narrowed with confusion, even fear maybe. She sensed what Marcus did.
He winked at her. “I’ll be good. See you in a minute.”
Marcus handed Lou the rifle and dropped the mag from the Glock. She stuffed it in her pocket.
The short man stepped to the side and guided Marcus into the room. He and Bingo followed him inside and shut the door behind him. Marcus’s eyes adjusted to the light. He waited for the men to pass him.
“You lead,” he said.
The room was mostly empty. There were a couple of tables with chairs, a folding cot in the corner. Frayed extension cords snaked across the wood floor. The short man led them past the room and through another doorway into a smaller room as if he were following the path of the cords.
The smaller room had a hole in the wall, likely a spot that once held an air conditioner, through which the extension cords ran. The rumble from the generator was loudest here and Marcus crinkled his nose at the exhaust as they marched past it and into a narrow hallway that led to a set of stairs.
The short man grabbed the metal pipe of a handrail and started climbing upward, the steps creaking under his weight. Bingo was right behind him. Marcus put his hand on the Glock at his hip, making sure the holster was unsnapped.
“How many rooms are in this holding room?” Marcus asked. There was a single chain of orange extension cords looped around the handle to the left.
“We’re almost there,” said the short man, his words echoing down the stairwell and disappearing into the rumble of the generator behind them. “The coyote is already here. He must have slipped in through the back.”
They reached the landing on the second floor and the short man turned right. Marcus joined them and stepped across the cord that curled its way to an open space on the second floor above the large mahogany door through which they’d originally entered.
There were three men standing there. The one in the middle had his back turned to Marcus. The other two were armed, stopping Marcus cold under the stained wood transom that separated the landing from the open room. It was five against one.
Bingo smiled at Marcus. “I’ll be taking that bag of yours,” he said and pulled the pack from Marcus’s shoulders. He set it on the floor and knelt down to unzip it. The short man helped him rifle through it until they freed the bags of marijuana.
“You gonna take that gun?” asked one of the armed men.
“It’s empty,” said Bingo. “There’s nothing in it.”
Marcus wrapped his hand around the grip. “I’m not giving you my gun.”
The large man with his back to the room held up a hand and waved off the armed guards. “I hear you’ve been looking for me,” he said with a deep voice that Marcus immediately recognized.
