by Tom Abrahams
She could even detour a few miles to the east and find fresh water at Lake Ray Roberts. That made more sense to her than trying to find help at the canyon.
Ana was sure she’d find someone near the wall to help her across. She hoped she would. She prayed she would.
She refolded the map, careful not to worsen the existing rips and tears. She unzipped the front pocket of the baby pack and tucked it inside. She spun Penny around and slugged the pack onto her shoulders.
She had a new plan. A good plan. “We’re gonna be okay,” she promised her daughter. She nuzzled her mouth against the top of Penny’s head. “We’re gonna be okay.” She kissed Penny’s head and pushed her way out of the showroom, a new bounce in her step. Ana was hours closer to the freedom she sought than she thought she’d been minutes earlier.
The door rattled closed behind her and she walked to her horse. It was chewing on some weeds that had grown through a series of webbed cracks in the ruptured asphalt parking lot.
Ana untied the animal from its mooring at the utility pole, grabbed the saddle horn with one hand, and heaved herself into her seat. She popped a pacifier into her daughter’s mouth. Penny grunted at the sudden movement, but seemed unaffected by the jolt. She was a good baby. Even teething, she was a trouper.
Ana settled into the saddle and adjusted her feet in the stirrup irons. She checked the rifle tucked into the scabbard to her right. She drew a six-shooter from the saddlebag to her left, popping open the cylinder to check it. It was loaded. She closed the cylinder in time to hear a man’s voice behind her.
“Can I help you?” The voice was gruff and dripping with a deep Texas drawl. The L in help was barely detectible. “You look like you need some help.”
Ana jerked her head and looked over her shoulder, leveling the pistol at the stranger. “I don’t need any help,” she said.
The man was standing in the middle of the street. His shoulder-length hair hung over his eyes. His thick, wiry beard came to an irregular point at his chest. He raised his hands above his head, revealing his flat stomach and a handgun tucked into the front of his baggy, tightly cinched cargo pants.
He took a step forward. “Okay then,” he said. “I figured ’cause of the baby and all…”
Using one hand, Ana turned the horse to face the stranger. “Keep your hands above your head. Don’t move any closer.”
He took another step toward her. “No need to get your dander up, little lady,” he said. “I ain’t the boogeyman.”
“I said don’t step any closer.”
The stranger moved another step, his boot scraping against the asphalt. “You ain’t gonna shoot me.” He smiled, shaking the bangs from his eyes. “I ain’t done nothing to you except offer to help.”
Ana waved the barrel of the pistol at him. “If you’re trying to help me,” she said. “Stop moving. Do what I tell you to do.”
His smile spread into a cheeky grin. He lowered his hands slowly, almost imperceptibly, as he slid his boot forward on the street. He kept his eyes on hers until they shifted over her right shoulder for a split second. Ana caught the glance and turned to her right, but it was too late. The stranger’s partner was already at her side, a shotgun inches from Penny’s head.
The stranger cleared his throat. “You’re gonna need to do what I tell you from here on out. That understood?”
Ana ran through an index of options, trying to instantaneously play out the result of each move. None of them ended well. She shifted in her seat closer to the stranger. Her muscles tensed; her face reddened; her heart pulsed with such force she felt it thump in the side of her neck. The horse snorted.
“Get that gun away from my daughter’s head,” she snapped at the partner while keeping the pistol aimed at the stranger.
“We can’t do that,” said the stranger. “Least not until you do as we say. We’re gonna need that horse, your weapons, and whatever you got in those saddlebags. We done killed younger than your baby, so it ain’t a problem if you can’t work with us. Understood?”
“You hear him?” said the partner. He extended the shotgun closer to her daughter. “You gonna do what we say?”
Ana kept the pistol across her body and aimed at the stranger’s head, drawing it lower the closer he came to her left side. She pressed her right foot against the stirrup iron.
The horse snorted again and shook its head. It stepped back. Its restlessness was palpable.
“Whoa,” said the stranger. “Hold up there, fella.” His hands were out in front of him, coaxing the horse to calm. “It’s gonna be all right. We need your momma to drop that pistol to the ground and hand my partner there your reins.”
The partner inched closer. “Drop the pistol,” he spat. “Do it.”
Ana held the stranger’s eyes with hers. “Not gonna happen.”
The stranger stopped moving. His eyes widened, the whites visible beneath the greasy bangs. “Excuse me? Did I hear you right? You know we got a gun pointed right—”
Ana’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah,” she said. “I heard you. I’m not anxious to comply.”
“Comply,” said the partner. “She’s trying to trick us with fancy words.”
Ana chuckled. “I have to know first who you work for,” she said. “Cartel or Dwellers.”
“Dwellers?” asked the stranger. “Heck naw. We’re Cartel through and thr—”
Ana pulled the trigger and put a bullet through the stranger’s left shoulder. At that same moment she lay back in the saddle, bringing baby Penny with her. It was that movement that forced her aim leftward, failing to deliver a fatal shot. It was enough, however, to drop the stranger to his knees. Ana, flat on her back, kicked her stirruped right foot upward, driving her toe through the partner’s arms and into his chin.
He lost the shotgun before he knew what had happened and stumbled backward on the verge of unconsciousness before the back of his head slammed hard into the utility pole. He slid down the pole and sank to the ground.
Ana took aim, pulled the trigger twice, and fired two shots into a tight pattern on the man’s chest before she used the reins in her left hand to pull herself upright. She found the stranger on his knees, struggling to grab for the gun in his waistband.
“Hey,” she called, drawing his attention from the gun to her face in time to deliver a lucky shot through his left eye. It jerked his head backward, his body went limp, and he collapsed to the asphalt.
Ana took a deep breath and held it. Only when she exhaled through puckered lips did she hear Penny’s wailing. The baby had lost the pacifier and no doubt was frightened by the quartet of booming shots fired not far from her face.
Ana wanted to console her child. She wanted to pull her from the pack and hold her tightly against her chest. She didn’t have time.
She had no doubt the gunshots and the siren’s wail from a baby would draw more attention. She kicked her heels into the horse and urged it into a trot. With the reins in one hand and the gun in the other, she couldn’t reload. With the baby on her chest, the rifle wasn’t an option. She had two shots left in the six-shooter. Ana coaxed the horse to speed up. She wanted out of Dallas. Nothing good would come of staying there. The wall was within reach.
She leaned forward and sang a lullaby to her inconsolable daughter. Ana felt tears forming in her eyes. Her voice warbled and cracked as she crooned.
As she found her way onto the interstate and the horse moved quickly north, she wondered if there were any good people left on either side of the wall.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
OCTOBER 26, 2037, 5:40 AM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
PALO DURO CANYON, TEXAS
Juliana Paagal turned off the satellite phone and set it next to the map atop the wooden desk inside her tent. She pumped her fist. “Yes,” she said. “Everything is as planned.”
She looked across the table at Baadal. His eyes were wide and his skin was kissed red from the tent as if he’d spent a week in the sun.
�
�So what does that mean?” he asked. “Are we winning?”
Paagal walked around the table, dragging her fingertips along the wood. She put her hands on his shoulders, squeezing gently, and pressed her lips to his. She lingered, inhaling his piquant scent of sweat and natural musk.
“Yes,” she whispered and kissed him again. Baadal moved to put his hands on her hips, but she blocked his wrists with hers and stepped back. She moved away, walking back to her spot on the opposite side of the table.
“Dallas is in flames,” she said gleefully. “Houston, as far as I know, is already under our control. San Antonio is turning. Austin is the only holdout.”
She traced her finger along the map, drawing a circle around the former Texas capital. “The slogan there, you know, was ‘Keep Austin Weird’,” she said. “It still fits.”
Baadal looked at the map. “So the cells did their jobs in every city?”
“It looks like it. Total surprise in every case. The posse bosses, captains, even the two generals never saw it coming.”
“A lot of death.”
“Collateral damage,” Paagal reasoned. “Serious change cannot happen otherwise. There are always sacrifices made by the few that benefit the whole.”
“I suppose.”
Paagal ran her finger toward the lower right of the map and tapped it. “Houston has me a bit concerned, I’ll admit,” she said. “I haven’t heard any updates since we took care of Harvey Logan. The team there assured me they were gaining control, but…”
Baadal’s eyes danced around the room. “What about Lubbock?”
Paagal cocked her head like a bird, her eyes narrowed. “What about Lubbock?”
“That’s their distribution hub, right?” he asked rhetorically. “Isn’t that a critical part of the insurgency?”
“Not yet,” Paagal said. “We need to contain as many cities as possible, draw the support of the oppressed, and then send large, well-equipped groups heading this way.”
Paagal planted her hands on the large map atop the desk and leaned on them. The long muscles in her triceps flexed against the weight. “We’ll have the retreating Cartel troops trapped. They’ll have nowhere to go. They’ll surrender or die.”
“Then we shut down their distribution,” said Baadal. “We choke off their illicit trade with those outside the territory.”
Paagal threw her head back and cackled. “Shut it down?” Her eyes returned to Baadal’s, flashing a hint of insanity. “We’re not shutting it down, darling,” she said. “We’re taking it over.”
Baadal’s brow curled. “Wait. What?”
“Equi donati dentes non inspiciuntur.”
Baadal folded his arms across his chest and pressed his lips together.
Paagal rolled her eyes. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” she said. “Why would we eliminate such easy income?”
“Because it’s a violent, unethical trade,” he said. “You’re talking about selling and moving all kinds of drugs, providing an expensive black market for water and gasoline and food.”
“And?”
Baadal stepped to the table. “And that’s part of what kept us under the Cartel’s thumb for so long,” he argued. “We need a fair and open market like they have north of the wall. Otherwise we’re no better than the Cartel. Maybe we’re worse.”
Paagal stepped back from the table. “Huh,” she said, “I thought you were with me.”
“I am,” said Baadal. “I mean—”
“First,” she said, “fear is what kept the Cartel in power, not a lucrative black market. Second, there’s no fair and open market north of the wall. If there were, why would there be such demand for what the Cartel’s been providing? Third, I’ll take any characterization of our movement you offer as long as ours is the movement in power.”
Baadal stood silently at the table. His eyes drifted downward, avoiding contact with the woman who, minutes earlier, he was anxious to bed.
Paagal took a deep breath and exhaled. “You seem…” She searched for the right word.
Baadal kept his unfocused gaze aimed at the table between them. “Disillusioned,” he said.
She laughed. “Disillusioned,” she said. “Isn’t that the word that describes everyone and everything since the Scourge?”
He looked up at her and shook his head. “Your point?”
“Nothing is black and white,” she said. “Nobody is all good or all evil. No group or movement or insurgency is entirely benevolent or exclusively malicious. I explained this to Marcus Battle. We live in a world where we must do what we must do to survive.”
Baadal’s gaze softened. He licked his lips and let his teeth drag across them.
“Some random virus mutated and killed two-thirds of the world’s population,” she said. “The only ones who lived have some genetic immunity to it. Good people died. Bad people lived. For the last five years, our world has been a confluence of chance and will. Those who take chances and have the will to survive flourish. Those who don’t…” She shrugged.
“That sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself,” Baadal said, “like some moral rationalization.”
“Hardly,” Paagal scoffed. “You really are naïve, aren’t you?”
“I—”
“That wasn’t really a question,” she said. “This is a harsh world, Baadal. It is Darwinian. Adapt or die. I’m adapting our cause, our movement, our insurgency, to the call of the times. We cannot be weak or wholly good. To serve the good, to make lives better for those who’ve suffered under the Cartel, we must harvest from the same soiled ideology they employed. We pick from it. We take the seeds that will nourish us. We ignore the rest.”
“I’m not naïve,” he said. “I’ve told you I’m not a good person. I know you’re not either at your core. It’s not about shades of morality. It’s about becoming what we’ve sought to overthrow.”
“You say potatoes,” she said, elongating the “ayyy” sound. “I say po-tah-toes.” Paagal ran her hands through her hair and sighed. “Either you’ll stand here at my side or you won’t. I don’t have time for any more therapy session, Felipe. We have a war to win.”
Felipe Baadal nodded. His eyes moved up and down her body as he assessed her soul. He spun without saying a word, grabbed his rifle, and pushed his way out into the morning. The sun would be up in less than two and a half hours. His men needed him on the rim.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
OCTOBER 26, 2037, 6:20 AM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
PALO DURO CANYON, TEXAS
General Roof fired the first shots. His SCAR 17 delivered as it was designed to and sprayed the Dwellers guarding the southeastern rim of the canyon with rimless, bottlenecked .308s, the same ammunition he’d used to hunt game before the Scourge. The Dwellers were smoking cigarettes. The orange glow at the end of the burning white column of paper was enough of a target.
One after another the deadly projectiles twisted toward their targets. Three of the Dwellers were dead before the fight began.
Roof advanced without fear. His long strides and deliberate steps toward the enemy had the look of a man who thought himself invincible.
By the time he was within thirty yards of the surviving Dwellers, his riding companions had dismounted and were targeting a secondary group approaching from the east. Roof directed half of them to stop the advancing Dwellers while he, Grat Dalton, and three other grunts took on the squad directly in front of them.
Roof looked east at the team he’d sent to protect their right flank. In the distance, where the canyon met the horizon, the sky was growing purple. Sunup was less than ninety minutes away. With the storm having passed, the moon overhead was enough to provide the vague image of movement in the dark. It didn’t fully illuminate anything.
“Got one,” Grat Dalton said from his position behind some low-profile mesquite. The tangled branches gave him enough cover in the dark. “Roof, I got one!”
Roof took a position behind a rotting stu
mp. He lay prone on the ground and rested his elbows on the soft, crumbling wood. A thick root pushed against his ribs and made the position uncomfortable. He scanned the darkness for muzzle flashes. It had proven the best way to take down the enemy.
His finger rested on the trigger as he searched for a target. Grat cheered another hit, and Roof considered turning his aim to the overzealous grunt.
To his right, the sound of gunfire amplified. From the corner of his eye he could see the evolving firefight. He refocused at the edge of the rim and spotted the outline of a Dweller. He lost the slack and pulled the trigger. The outline jerked and disappeared.
Roof knew large platoons of Cartel grunts and their leaders would attack from the west within minutes, if they hadn’t already begun their assault. If everything was as it should be, there would be simultaneous waves hitting the other parts of the rim within the hour. By sunrise, the entirety of the canyon’s circumference would be under siege. He and his men would make their way down the lone, narrow entrance to the canyon floor. The end of the Dwellers was beginning.
A bullet skimmed the jagged decay on the surface of the trunk before zipping past Roof’s head. A shower of splinters hit the side of his face, and his cheek stung as if peppered with needles. Roof winced but kept his eye on the remaining Dwellers ahead. He caught a shift of what he’d thought was a small boulder. He pivoted and leveled the rifle’s barrel at the dark mass and pulled the trigger twice. The mass flattened with the first connection and shuddered with the second.
There was no more movement along the rim directly in front of Roof. He looked over his shoulder to his left. A pair of grunts were on one knee, out in the open, firing relentlessly into the dark.
Roof would have laughed had the reality of their ineptitude not been so remarkably sad. He thought back to a series of movies he’d watched in Syria during an R&R night in camp. The film’s storyline had taken place a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.
