Rising: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 4)

by Tom Abrahams

  Marcus said nothing. There was nothing to say. His mind, however, started working. He’d calculated a thousand different ways this could go, a thousand different ways he could pull an ace from his sleeve.

  Cego turned around, his girth hanging over his belt, his thick hands folded under his arms. “Folks up in Abilene say you laid down the gauntlet,” he said. “Said you was calling us out by name.”

  Marcus eyed Cego, studying the lines and deep creases in his face. He remembered all of them distinctly as the one-eyed man had stood over him in the barn a month before. In his memory, he could smell the man’s fetid breath, the rank and sour stench emanating from his body.

  Cego unfolded his arms and cracked the swollen knuckles of one hand with the other. He ran his tongue along the front of his teeth. “I’ve got to give you some credit, Marcus Battle,” he said. “I thought we killed you, left you a sure goner after we had some fun with the rest of your family. But you lived. You healed up nice but kept that fire in your belly. You’re a fighter.”

  Marcus took in his surroundings. Behind Cego was an open window. It was small, but let in enough natural light to backlight his features and drown him in shadow.

  To one side of the room was a worn, oversized chair with a side table and a lamp. The lamp was plugged into one of the extension cords that fanned out like tentacles from the single orange line that ran up the stairs. Another of the cords stretched to the opposite side of the room, where there was a square table with four chairs. There was a deck of cards, some plastic chips, and some beer steins on the rickety piece of furniture. One of the table legs looked as if it were about to break off with the slightest tug.

  Cego motioned to Marcus as he spoke to the other four men on his side. “This one here then commits some more carnage in Abilene,” he said. “Those drugs don’t belong to him. They were Rasgado’s.”

  Marcus eyed the armed men. Both of them carried semiautomatic rifles that looked like late twentieth-century Kalashnikovs. Neither of them had their fingers on the triggers. They were both standing with their shoulders hunched and their feet shoulder width apart, standing guard but not ready to fire.

  Cego took a step to one side of the window, his features reappearing. “Then he meanders over to our good friends in San Angelo and steals girls from Barbas. And he kills everyone he finds. If I didn’t know any better, Marcus Battle, I’d say you were the one everyone should fear. Not us.”

  Bingo stood close to Marcus on his left. The short man had moved closer to Cego and the guards. Marcus breathed in and out slowly through his nose, his mind working over the possibilities and probabilities.

  “I could kill you right here, right now,” said Cego. “It could be quick like and nobody would ever see you again.” The one-eyed man stepped closer to Marcus. He lowered his voice, its depth resonating so low it sounded almost like the generator downstairs and outside. “That’s not what I’m going to do though. That would be too easy and it wouldn’t serve much purpose. If that’s what I wanted to do, I’d have had Ringo here kill you at the underpass.”

  “It’s Bingo, sir,” said the tattooed man.

  “Bingo?” asked Cego. “What kind of name is Bingo? Ringo was bad enough.”

  Bingo looked at his feet and mumbled, “At least it’s not Battle.”

  Cego rolled his eye. “I digress. Sorry about that, Marcus. I know you’re on pins and needles about what comes next.”

  Cego pulled on his waistband, inching his pants up on his hips. He stepped closer still to Marcus.

  “I need people to see what happens to an instigator, a troublemaker, a ne’er-do-well. Understood?” he asked rhetorically. “Frankly, I’m surprised you put yourself in this situation. I figured you were too smart to walk in here all stupid-like. But since you did, we’re gonna make a fine example out of—”

  A dog’s bark sounded from outside. It was angry and constant. Fifty was agitated.

  “Shut that dog up,” Cego said to one of his armed men.

  The guard obeyed and moved quickly to the window. He took aim. But he never fired a shot.

  As Fifty barked, and the room’s attention had turned from him for that split second, Marcus pulled his Glock and leveled it at the guard at the window. He pulled the trigger and released the chambered round, firing it into the side of the would-be dog-killer’s head. The man fell into the wall and then forward, dropping his rifle, which slid underneath the rickety table.

  The percussion of Marcus’s single shot momentarily stunned Bingo, who was closest to Marcus. He swung the Glock outward and hit Bingo in the forehead with all of his force.

  Bingo fell to the floor and Marcus dove to his right, kicking the loose leg from the table as he slid. The table fell and Marcus took cover behind it, grabbing the semiautomatic rifle as a knife zipped through the air from the stairwell and plunged deep into the short man’s back, dropping him to the floor.

  A second blade found the other guard’s neck, and as he fell, he sprayed his weapon indiscriminately, peppering the room and the table behind which Marcus was hiding. Marcus shouldered the rifle and popped up from behind the table to take a clean shot at Cego. Instead he pulled his finger from the trigger.

  Cego had his gun aimed at Lou. She had the Remington in one hand, but hadn’t been fast enough to lift it into position. Bingo was on the floor, somehow holding the second rifle. It too was aimed at Lou. She stood motionless, her eyes dancing between the two weapons. Outside, the barking had stopped.

  “Looks like we got ourselves a standoff,” said Cego. “You shoot me and my friend here shoots your girl. You shoot him and I shoot the girl. Either way, she’s dead and you live, but you lose.”

  Marcus slid his finger to the trigger. Was he fast enough to take out both before either fired a shot? He’d done it before. He’d also failed before.

  “Then again,” said Cego, “we could let her go and you could drop your weapon. She lives and you die.”

  Marcus kept the weapon trained on Cego, his eyes drifting to Lou. Her defiant scowl told him what she wanted him to do. She wanted him to take the shot. She wanted him to finish what he’d set out to do. He tilted his head toward the weapon and pressed it tightly against his shoulder. Two quick pulls. That was all it would take. At least he’d get Cego. Maybe, with luck, he could hit Bingo before he could get off a shot. He didn’t look comfortable with the rifle in his hands. Marcus eased his finger to the trigger. He resolved in that instant he could do it. But he didn’t. He exhaled and spoke his first words since entering the room with Cego.

  “Let her go,” he said. “She’s out of the building, we count to ten, and then I drop the gun.”

  Cego nodded. “Go on, little girl. Git. I’m gonna trust, Marcus, your obvious desire to stay alive is gonna keep you from killing one of us before the other of us kills you.”

  Lou stood there, no expression on her face. She wasn’t moving. She wasn’t leaving.

  “Go,” said Marcus, his eyes still trained on Cego. “Now.”

  “Do as he says,” mocked Cego. “And leave that Remington while you’re at it.”

  Lou’s eyes pleaded with Marcus.

  “Go,” Marcus said, “Or I’ll kill you myself.”

  Lou huffed and dropped the rifle to the floor, slowly backing out of the room. Bingo and Cego took aim at Marcus. They had the upper hand now.

  Lou’s feet pounded the steps as she descended the staircase. Marcus heard the mahogany door creak open and then slam shut.

  “Ten,” said Cego, “nine, eight, seven, six—”

  Marcus kept his weapon trained on Cego. He could take a shot. Bingo probably wouldn’t hit him. And if he did, so what? So what if he died here in Del Rio? At least he’d have avenged Lola and Sawyer and poor little Penny.

  “—five, four—”

  Marcus closed his eyes and pictured his family members in his mind. All of them. One at a time, their faces flashed before him. This was it. He slowly slid his finger onto the trigger.


  “—three, two—”

  A scream and a growl pulled Marcus from his momentary Zen. He opened his eyes. Fifty was on top of Bingo. Cego had altered his aim and had it squarely on the dog.

  Marcus pulled the trigger, unleashing a volley of bullets at Cego. Some of them hit; some of them missed. As Bingo cried out in pain, his legs kicking and his arms flailing under the weight and violence of the dog, Cego staggered back and dropped to the floor.

  Marcus stood from behind the table and crossed the room. He kicked Cego’s weapon away from his body and knelt down in front of the dying man. He looked in Cego’s one good eye, which was fluttering and working to maintain its focus, and pulled the patch from the other.

  Underneath the patch was a mangled, scarred mess of skin and oozing pus. The skin around the socket was red and swollen. Marcus stared at it for a moment and then grabbed Cego by the jaw. He tried to ignore the sounds of Bingo gargling and whimpering behind him as he lost his fight with Fifty. The sound of tearing flesh was too much, but Fifty was a good dog.

  “Do you know what you said to me?” he asked Cego. “Do you remember?”

  Cego, whose body was riddled with a half-dozen shots, shook his head. Tears streamed from his good eye.

  “You said, ‘It’s not turning out to be the kind of day you expected, now is it?’” said Marcus. “I remember it. And I’ll remember it tomorrow when I wake up and you don’t.”

  “Marcus!” Lou called from the landing outside the room. “Are you okay?”

  Still crouched in front of Cego, Marcus glanced back at Lou. “I’m good. You?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. She walked over and stood next to Marcus, looking down at Cego. “He’s fat. How does someone stay fat when there’s nothing to eat?”

  Marcus chuckled. “Good question,” he said and stood up. He felt light-headed. He lost his balance and stumbled backward onto the floor. He crashed into the table and rolled onto his back.

  Suddenly he felt nauseated and short of breath. His neck hurt, his side ached, there was a burning in his gut. “Lou?” he called as his vision blurred. “Lou?”

  “Marcus,” she said, her voice trembling, “you’re bleeding. You’ve been hit.”

  He felt Lou’s hands on his jacket and then a jabbing pain at his side. The adrenaline was gone, replaced by shock.

  As he slipped toward unconsciousness, he could hear Lou trying to keep him awake. And in the distance, he could hear Cego laughing at him.

  CHAPTER 17

  SEPTEMBER 29, 2042, NOON

  SCOURGE +10 YEARS

  EAST OF RISING STAR, TEXAS

  It was Lola’s last full day alive. She was standing in the doorway of the barn, looking to her right. Sawyer was teaching Penny how to use a slingshot. He wasn’t having much luck.

  She was leaning on the doorjamb. She smiled and then took a deep breath, closing her eyes to relish the moment. She scanned the gently waving knee-high grass and weeds, lost for a moment in the hypnotic undulation. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she had hope for the future.

  With every day that passed, that warm feeling of optimism grew within her. Long gone were the early post-Scourge days of running and eking out an existence. Gone too were the dark times during which she did whatever she had to do to provide for Sawyer and herself.

  She had Marcus now. She truly had him. He’d softened. He’d become a father to her son and to the child they’d essentially adopted. He’d taught Sawyer how to shoot, hunt, and gather. Soon he’d begin teaching Penny. And for the first time, she had him talking about rebuilding the main house that had burned five years earlier.

  Her heart fluttered. It was almost too good to be true.

  Sure, while there were the occasional intrusions from the highway, the violence was less frequent with each passing month. Marcus always handled whatever wandered their way. She rubbed her arms with her hands and cleared her throat.

  “Time to come in for lunch,” she said. “Bring your sister in and get washed up.”

  “What is it?” asked Sawyer. “Not venison, is it?”

  “We’d be lucky to have it, son,” she said. “But no, it’s just soup. Where’s Marcus?”

  “He’s out by the road.”

  Lola stepped from the doorway and into the grass. The kids brushed past her as they hustled into the barn they called home. The air was unseasonably warm. She pulled her hair from her neck and wrapped it into a messy bun on the top of her head.

  When she passed the treehouse, she ran her hand along the strong trunk that held the structure safely in the branches above. The wispy grass and weeds whipped at her legs as she strode closer to the road. A trio of birds circled above, riding the current past the tree line to her right. They drew her eyes toward the sky. In the distance there were thick rolling clouds. She followed them along the horizon.

  “Marcus!” Lola called. “Lunch!”

  Marcus was near the road, where Sawyer had said he’d be. He was working on the fence, twisting the damaged wire with pliers. He waved at her with one gloved hand but kept working.

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re ignoring me.”

  Marcus stretched, arching his back. “I’m just trying to finish,” he said. “I’ve got only one or two more.”

  Lola reached the fence a few feet from Marcus and leaned on it. She looked both ways along the highway and adjusted her bun.

  “It’s warm today,” she said. “Maybe it means we’ll get a storm.”

  “We need the rain,” Marcus said, crossing the short distance between him and Lola, leaning in to kiss her forehead. “You’re sweaty.”

  “So are you.” She giggled. “You work too hard.”

  “Please,” said Marcus, “somebody has to work.”

  The demure smile disappeared. “You think you’re funny.”

  “I am,” said Marcus. He slid one leg over the wooden beam at the top of the waist-high fence and then climbed over with the other. “You know we could use the rain. We need a storm.”

  Marcus took off his gloves and held them with his right hand. With his left, he took Lola’s hand and laced his fingers between hers. They walked slowly back toward the barn, swinging their arms like teenagers.

  “What’s for lunch?” he asked. “I hope it’s not venison.”

  Lola laughed. She drew Marcus’s hand to her chest and playfully slapped it. “You and Sawyer both, he said the same thing.”

  “Smart boy.”

  “We haven’t had venison in three days,” she said. “I try to mix it up as best I can. Unfortunately our master gardener has been busy mending fences.”

  “So what are we having?”

  “Soup.”

  “Hot or cold.”

  “Hot.”

  “On a warm day?”

  “I didn’t think it’d be this warm today,” she said. “It’s unusual.”

  “You know what else is unusual?” Marcus asked as they reached the treehouse.

  “What?”

  “I saw some riders today,” he said, his brow furrowed. “Five or six of them. They were off in the distance. I don’t think they saw me.”

  Lola squeezed his hand. “Should we be worried?”

  “No. We haven’t had a serious threat in more than two years.”

  “We should be ready though,” Lola said, her tone serious.

  “Sure,” said Marcus. “I’ll keep watch tonight. After sunup, I’ll go tend to that garden someone has been hounding me about. Sawyer can take watch.”

  “You think that’s a good idea?”

  Marcus held her face in his hands. “He’s old enough,” Marcus said. “Plus, if somebody’s coming for us, it’ll be in the middle of the night or at dawn.”

  Lola smiled, her worried eyes relaxing. She touched his hands with hers. “Okay. I trust your judgment.”

  Marcus drew her lips to his and kissed her softly. She wrapped her arms around his back and pulled him close. Her hair came loose from the bun and dropped i
nto their faces.

  “Really?” said Sawyer. He was standing a few feet from them. “Is that necessary?”

  Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you be with Penny?”

  Sawyer nodded toward the barn. “She’s eating. I scooped a bowl full for her. I was waiting on the two of you. Didn’t want to be rude.”

  Lola patted Marcus on his chest. “Guess we’re raising him right. He’ll make a woman very happy someday.”

  She backed away from Marcus and sidled next to Sawyer. She put her hand on his head and tousled his hair. “Such a good boy.”

  Sawyer rolled his eyes. “Can we go eat, please? I’m hungry.”

  Marcus scratched his chin and moved toward the barn, leading Lola and Sawyer to lunch. “Me too.”

  Lola followed her men inside. She paused at the barn door and looked over her shoulder. There were dense, dark clouds gathering on the distant horizon. They needed rain, but not a storm.

  CHAPTER 18

  OCTOBER 28, 2042, 8:05 AM

  SCOURGE +10 YEARS

  DEL RIO, TEXAS

  A lot of things go through a man’s head when he’s dying. Somewhere between the here and the hereafter, the fear and the pain dissolve into calm and acceptance.

  Some say there’s nothing but a black void in those precious final moments. Others talk about a bright light and a welcoming warmth. Still more suggest that all the dead people who once loved, or cared, or played a positive role in someone’s life are gathered at the end of a tunnel, urging the person home. There’s no telling what would have greeted Marcus Battle.

  He never got that far. He never felt the calm or resigned himself to accepting what was coming. He fought it.

  He fought to stay alive while Lou used everything she had in the first aid kit and everything she’d learned reading books about medicine to stop the bleeding. The shot was through and through and, remarkably, hit Marcus in almost the identical spot he’d been shot before. There was damage there and a real risk for infection. For now though, the immediate threat had passed.