Wall: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 3)

by Tom Abrahams

  Lola lifted herself from the rock and ran to Battle, burying her face in his chest.

  Battle lowered the rifle and held it with one hand while he wrapped his other arm around Lola, holding the back of her head with his hand. He closed his eyes and felt the wind blow across his face. The gunfire had all but ceased. Behind him, farther into the passage, Dwellers were cheering their miraculously decisive victory.

  Lola reached up and grabbed his face with both hands, pulling him toward her. “Thank you,” she whispered through tears. “Thank you, Marcus.”

  Battle tried to swallow the hard knot in his throat. He smiled, then gently pressed his lips to her forehead. There wasn’t time for more than that.

  He looked across the canyon and found Sawyer. The boy had retreated to the safety of the curve in the rock. He was crouched low, as Battle had instructed.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  OCTOBER 26, 2037, 9:00 AM

  SCOURGE +5 YEARS

  GAINESVILLE, TEXAS

  “I told you,” repeated the sun-wrinkled waif guarding the gate, “you can’t get through. You have to go to Wichita Falls. That’s the only way out right now.”

  Taskar was leaning out of the driver’s side window, his finger jabbing at the waif. “I paid good money to cross here,” he said, pointing to the gate.

  The gate opened to a wide no-man’s-land that separated the territory from the wall. It was neutral land nobody controlled, and it was the most dangerous part of the crossing in both directions.

  Taskar raised his voice in exasperation. “I do not have time to go to Wichita Falls.”

  Unfazed, the waif ran his finger across a deep line running the length of his forehead. “Make time,” he said. “Nobody gets through. War is hell.”

  The obnoxious woman in the front leaned across the teens between her and Taskar. “There’s nothing closer?” she asked as if she knew the waif was keeping a secret.

  “Wichita Falls is it.” The waif shrugged. “On the whole wall. West. North. East. All of the regular sneak-throughs are shut down. Somebody is trying to stop the rats from leaving the ship while it sinks.”

  Taskar cursed the waif and the gate and anyone else who could hear him. He slid the hearse into reverse, spinning the treadless tires on the asphalt. He shifted into drive without braking, and the wagon lurched into gear.

  “Buckle up,” he said, glaring at Ana in the rearview mirror. “We have another ninety miles to go.”

  Ana rolled her eyes. She had no seat belt. “Do you have enough gas?”

  Taskar nodded and accelerated, turning right to head west on Highway 82. He took out his frustration on the vehicle’s aging V6 engine.

  “What happened back there?” asked the woman in the front. “Why couldn’t we get across?”

  Taskar pushed a button on the door to close his window. “It’s the war,” he said. “One side or the other is trying to funnel crossings to one location. Normally there are a dozen good spots.”

  The woman ran her hands through her short hair and grabbed it with her fists. “So we’re screwed?”

  Taskar looked across the bench seating at the woman. “I don’t know. I’m not as familiar with Wichita Falls. I know the people on both sides of the sneak-through at Gainesville.”

  The woman slammed her hands on the dash on front of her. “You don’t know? We paid you with everything we had south of the wall and you don’t know?”

  Taskar held up his hand. “Calm yourself,” he said. “I’m being honest with you. I could be dishonest and tell you everything will be perfect. Would you rather that?”

  “Yes,” said Ana from the back of the hearse. “It’s better if you give us hope.”

  Taskar squeezed the wheel with both hands, working them against the worn leather. “Okay,” he said, “I am hopeful there is no problem. I am hopeful we will cross the sneak-through at Wichita Falls without incident.”

  “You paid to cross at Gainesville?” asked Ana.

  “Yes.”

  “Is that payment good at Wichita Falls?”

  “Probably not.”

  The woman in the front shot a look at Taskar, then Ana, and back at Taskar again. “Then what?”

  “Then I’m hopeful.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  OCTOBER 26, 2037, 10:00 AM

  SCOURGE +5 YEARS

  PALO DURO CANYON, TEXAS

  Paagal stood at the far edge of the tent city, her hands on her hips. She held her chin as would a queen. “You should leave immediately,” she said to Battle. “I’ve had all of the wall sneak-throughs closed except for Wichita Falls. It’s a five-hour journey by car.”

  Battle flexed his hands and crossed his arms. He tucked his hands under his pits. “We don’t have a car,” he said. He looked across the field of tent pitches. Dwellers were hugging each other, dancing without music.

  “We can arrange for a caravan to deliver you to the wall. You’ll be granted passage across the sneak-through. After that, on the northern side of the wall, you’re on your own.”

  Battle widened his stance, spreading his feet shoulder-width apart. “Why are you in a hurry to get rid of us?”

  A smile oozed across Paagal’s face, illuminating her brown skin. “I’m not the one in a hurry, if I recall. You wanted to be north of the wall the moment you arrived here. Am I wrong?”

  Battle shook his head. “No,” he said. “I guess not. Still, it’s strange. You’ve been the leader of the territory for a minute and your first official act is to help us north of the wall.”

  “I’m keeping my word,” Paagal said. “Don’t read anything into it.”

  Battle chuckled. “I might not have had you not just said that.”

  Paagal slinked closer to Battle. “Look, I have a lot to do. The fire is out, but there are hotspots that need my attention. Battles are ongoing in Houston and Austin. Lubbock will be smoldering for some time. I promised you safe passage north of the wall. I’m delivering it before other things become more pressing.”

  She extended her hand and Battle took it. “Thank you,” he said. “Who is going with us?”

  “Baadal will escort you,” she said. “You’ll have a driver who’s made the trip many times. Plus I’ll send a couple of sentries who’ve done reconnaissance along the wall. You’ll be fine.”

  Battle stuffed his hands into his pockets and wove his way through the maze of tents until he’d reached his own. He stood there a moment and let the wind swirl around him. It was getting colder despite the sun rising higher above the rim to the east.

  He drifted back to Syria, remembering the night that changed the course of the rest of his life. He envisioned the way Rufus Buck looked then, his electric razor haircut high and tight, his face angular and clean shaven. That vision morphed into the General Roof who’d just died: a man who wore a gray ponytail and a thick, wiry beard. He was easily forty pounds heavier than he’d been a lifetime earlier. He was unrecognizable.

  Battle repeated that assessment in his head over and over until he began to wonder how unrecognizable he would be to Sylvia were she suddenly alive and standing across from her husband. Would she know him? Would Wesson instantly identify him as his father?

  He chuckled to himself, vacantly staring off toward the eastern horizon. He didn’t even know himself anymore. How would anyone else? Paagal had tried to weasel that admission from him more than once. He’d chosen not to give in to her psychological games.

  Paagal was another one who was likely a different person than the one she had been prior to the Scourge. Then again, maybe not. Maybe she’d always been a manipulative power broker.

  He replayed the conversation with Paagal in his mind. Something didn’t sit right. Although he couldn’t put his mental finger on it, she wasn’t entirely forthcoming.

  “You’re back.” Lola popped her head through the front vent of her tent. Her red hair was wild and tangled. Her eyes were framed by the dark circles underneath them.

  Battle’s pulse quickened at
the sight of her. She was the prettiest she’d been. “Yeah,” he said through a smile he tried to suppress, “and we need to get moving.”

  Lola pulled herself through the opening and moved next to Battle. “What do you mean?”

  “Paagal’s getting us an escort to the wall right now. We’re leaving as soon as we gather our belongings.”

  Lola’s eyes narrowed and she folded her arms across her chest. “That’s weird, isn’t it?” she asked. “We’ve been awake all night. We’ve been fighting. We’ve—”

  Battle raised his hands in surrender and nodded. “I know, I know. I agree. It’s weird.”

  “How are we getting there?”

  “Car.”

  “Huh,” she said. “Okay. I’ll get our stuff together.”

  “How’s Sawyer?”

  “In shock, I think. He doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  “Give him time,” said Battle. “He’ll open up.”

  “I don’t know,” Lola said. “I think he’s seen too much. It’s changed him.”

  Battle stepped toward Lola and wrapped his arms around her, placing one hand on the small of her back and the other on the back of her head, and pulled her close. She melted into his body.

  “We’ve all changed,” he said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  OCTOBER 26, 2037, NOON

  SCOURGE +5 YEARS

  WICHITA FALLS, TEXAS

  “It’s been two hours,” whined the woman in the front seat of the hearse. “We’ve been sitting in this car without the heat on for two hours.”

  Taskar was rapping his fingers on the top of the steering wheel. He didn’t respond to the complaint.

  Ana assumed there was nothing he could do about it. Otherwise, Taskar would have gladly sent them on their way. Instead, they were stuck in a parking lot, awaiting permission to pass through the gate. The lot was full of people waiting their turns. Apparently, Ana and her road-trip companions weren’t the only ones who feared anarchy in the coming days.

  The woman shifted in her seat, tightening the squeeze on the two unfortunate teens sitting between Taskar and her. “How long is this going to take?” she asked, her breath visible puffs of air that bloomed and dissipated in the cold air.

  Taskar kept thumping his fingers, tapping out something that sounded like a jazz riff. He glanced over at the woman and shrugged, leaning back on the headrest.

  The woman grunted. “I’m getting some answers,” she said and opened her door. “This is ridiculous.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Taskar halfheartedly protested without taking his head from the rest or stopping his jam session. “It’s not a good idea.”

  The woman cursed at Taskar, stepped from the hearse, and slammed shut the door. The two teens immediately slid over to give themselves more space.

  “She shouldn’t have done that,” Taskar said. “It’s dangerous here.”

  “I thought crossing the wall was secretive and publicly forbidden,” said Ana. “If that’s the case, why are there so many people openly defying the law?”

  The front seat leather squeaked under Taskar’s weight as he turned to face Ana. “It’s not the law anymore,” he said. “Or it soon won’t be. Everyone who is here knows the Cartel is losing power. Plus, there’s nothing illegal about entering the no-man’s-land between the fences and the wall. It’s just that nobody does it because it’s a free-for-all.”

  “There are so many people,” said Ana.

  “A lot of these are Cartel,” Taskar replied. “They’re like the Nazis fleeing at the end of World War II.”

  “How can you tell?”

  Taskar drew his finger across his forehead. “See the tan lines on their foreheads? Those are hat lines. These are bosses and captains who are running before Paagal and her people capture them.”

  It made sense that the feckless, cowardly leaders would flee and leave the underlings to fend for themselves. Ana hadn’t seen any of the motorcycle-riding grunts she knew patrolled the border near the wall and figured they’d driven south to fight. She did, however, see endless desperation on the faces of those gathered in the lot and walking the streets nearby.

  It reminded her of the television footage of the Syrian and Ukrainian refugee camps she’d seen in the months before the Scourge hit the United States. She hadn’t thought about it in years, but there it was as fresh as if she’d watched it yesterday.

  She positioned herself so she could see the woman through the front windshield. Becky, the young woman sitting in the jump seat facing her, had also turned around to watch.

  While there weren’t many vehicles in the lot, there were easily a couple of hundred people in various states of dress and levels of armed preparedness.

  At the far end of the lot was an imposing eight-foot chain-link fence topped with rusting concertina wire and stretching hundreds of feet in both directions before connecting with buildings on either side. In the middle of the fence was a wide gate that slid open on rollers.

  Every ten minutes or so a man with a rifle strapped to his shoulder would roll open the gate enough for the next person or small group of people to squeeze through. A pair of men with thick beards and cartoonishly large physiques prevented anyone else from trying to pass. All three of the men took their direction from a woman with a shaven head at the edge of the gate. She appeared to be the arbiter of who passed through and who was turned away.

  In the two hours they’d sat awaiting their turn, she’d seen papers, weapons, and food exchange hands. She’d even seen bags of coins offered for passage. The woman would unclench the bags, pour the money into one hand and test its weight. The people she turned away didn’t get back their offerings.

  Another woman, also with a buzz cut, was circling the lot, taking names and assigning positions. She’d told Taskar he was next an hour earlier. He clearly wasn’t. He’d known better than to press his luck and complain. Despite his warnings, the anxious woman from the front seat did not.

  With her elbows locked and fists drawn tight, she marched to the gate. As she approached, one of the bearded men held up a hand to stop her. She kept moving until he drew his rifle to his shoulder. His face turned red as he barked an order at her and planted his feet firmly on the cracked asphalt.

  Ana couldn’t hear what the woman was saying or what the bearded man was telling her, but she could tell the conversation wasn’t going as well as the woman would likely have wanted.

  She kept pointing back at the hearse, jabbing at it with her finger while she complained. The guard glanced over at the hearse, keeping his weapon trained at the woman’s chest.

  The shaven-headed woman who’d lied to Taskar cautiously approached the exchange. She slid up beside the bearded guard and joined the conversation. Her approach, while supported with firm hand gestures, appeared more muted than the guard’s.

  Seemingly defeated, the woman from the front seat screamed something at the two decision makers and spat at their feet. She turned toward the hearse and started slowly back across the lot.

  Behind her, the gate slid open, the warped wheels running their track as a guard pushed the chain-link barrier. The woman glanced over her shoulder and stopped walking. She gave a final look at the hearse, her tongue curled above her lip, and spun back to the gate.

  Taskar grabbed the wheel and pulled himself forward in his seat toward the dash. “She’s going to run for it,” he said. “I can’t believe her. She’s going to run for it.”

  She did and she was fast. Her arms chugged, her heels kicking toward her behind as she sprinted to the opening. A group of a half-dozen men and women were slowly crossing into no-man’s-land. Together they filled the space between the edge of the open gate and the fence post from which the guard pulled it. The woman from the front seat barreled her way through them, her arms swimming outward to clear her path as she bolted across the threshold.

  She moved so quickly, she disappeared into the density of people on the other side of the gate before any of the g
uards reacted. One of them fired a pair of shots past the gate once the woman from the front seat had long since vanished. He got a tongue-lashing from a woman arbiter. She slapped her shaven head, pointing at him and then the gate.

  Then the bald woman turned her attention to the hearse and began a march toward it and its remaining occupants. Taskar slammed his hands on the wheel and cursed the woman from the front seat.

  “She left us,” said one befuddled teen to the other. “I don’t understand.”

  The bald woman rapped her knuckle on the driver’s side window, and Taskar rolled it down. She stuck her head halfway into the car and eyeballed the seven remaining people inside the hearse.

  She pointed toward the gate as it closed. “That,” she said, “is going to cost you. You go to the back of the line. People are getting restless as it is. I can already sense a riot brewing. We’re trying to control access, slow the exodus. We can’t have anyone cutting in line.”

  “But she left us,” said the confused teen. “She’s our older sister. She took care of us.”

  “She doesn’t anymore,” said the bald woman flatly. “It’s going to be another hour now.”

  “What’s going to happen to her?” asked the teen, nodding toward the fence.

  The bald woman scratched the stubble peppering her scalp. “In no-man’s-land?” she asked, one eyebrow raised higher than the other. “Nothing good. She’s a woman. She’s alone. She’s never making it across the wall. Now wait here. I’ll be back in an hour. Or two. Or three. You’re not the priority.”

  Taskar rolled up the window. “What she’s saying is that we didn’t give her enough of a payment. These folks from the Cartel have compensated her well. That’s why they’re the priority.”

  Ana leaned back against the tailgate, extending her legs into the flatbed next to the jump seats. She drew a bottle from her bag and eyeballed a tablespoon of formula, mixing it with the remaining water in one of her two canteens. She shook the contents.