He walked up the embankment and stood behind Buck. He turned, exhaled deeply, and bent over to grab Buck underneath his armpits. Step by step he dragged Buck up the rest of the embankment. His sciatic nerve sent an electric sting from his lower back to the back of his right leg. He flinched and his back seized, but he kept pulling and dragging, pulling and dragging.
Battle felt the end of the incline under his boot and he mustered the strength for a final heave onto the wide expanse on the eastern side of the rail yard. He let go of Buck’s arms and tried standing upright. He was stiff, and the muscles in his back protested as he stretched upright. He involuntarily laughed at the burst of pain when he managed it.
Buck was on the ground behind him, and he took the dozen steps to the fence line. Beyond the fence they were that much closer to the checkpoint, that much closer to safety.
Battle felt light-headed as he checked for the best spot to cut the chain link. He couldn’t take in a full breath. His arm was bleeding; he could feel it trailing down his forearm.
He wrapped his fingers through the fence and leaned his head against it. The night was far from over. For the first time, he questioned his stamina, his ability to finish the job.
He reached into a breast pocket, pulling at the Velcro closure, and removed a photograph. He’d printed it out on cheap photo paper before his deployment. It was creased and faded. He could’ve drawn the photograph from memory he’d looked at it so many times, but Battle liked seeing it and holding it in his hand.
It was taken on Padre Island National Seashore. Sylvia was standing on the wide, sugary sand with her back to the Gulf of Mexico. Behind her, at the shore break, were clumps of seaweed.
He remembered the dank, salty smell of the seaweed, how it had prevented Sylvia from going into the water. She hadn’t wanted to step in it, let alone get nipped by a crab hiding in the green and brown blades.
Still, she was beaming. Her smile was genuine and her white teeth glowed against her sun-kissed skin. She had her hands on her hips in false protest to having her photograph taken in a bikini. Battle loved that bikini. It hid enough to make his mind wander, anticipating the moment late in the day when he’d get to remove it.
He stuffed it back into his pocket and rubbed closed the Velcro. He looked through the diamond-shaped opening in the chain link, trying to assess the landscape.
He knew the checkpoint was about five blocks from where he stood. There were maybe five or six streets to cross before he’d have to navigate the best way to traverse a twenty-foot-wide canal, also known as the Queiq River, that snaked its way through the city. There were three bridges from which to choose.
The northernmost was a wide, popular street that would force him to move past a large mosque once he turned south toward the checkpoint. He checked his watch. It was nine hundred thirty hours local. The nighttime Isha’a prayer was anytime between sunset and sunrise, close to midnight. The mosque might not be busy for the next hour or two. He could risk it.
Or he could travel four blocks south and cross the canal. That would put him almost directly in front of the checkpoint between the park and the amusement park. It would, however, require traveling amongst a densely populated neighborhood with high-rise buildings populating every block.
The third option also required traveling through a neighborhood and put him south of the amusement park on Pennsylvania Street. If he chose that route, he’d have to backtrack a block north to the checkpoint. It was the least viable option of the three.
Neither of the remaining two were ideal. And while he didn’t like the idea of limping through a high-rise neighborhood, doing the same on a wide-open four-lane road and passing a mosque was the lesser appealing route.
He knelt down on his kneepads and reached into his vest pocket, fishing past a couple of packets of vitamins to remove the wire cutters. Without using a cloth, he cranked down onto a link until he felt the snap. He moved the cutters up one link after another, cranking and snapping, until he’d created a large enough gash in the fence for him and Buck to fit through when pulled apart.
He opened the fence like a tent flap. It was a much larger opening than the one through which they’d squeezed on the western edge of the train yard.
Battle flexed the fingers on his left hand, trying to work out the stiffness. He cupped his hands together and blew into them, warming them with his breath.
He stepped back to Buck and crouched behind his head. “This is the final push, Sergeant. A little more to go and we’ll be there.”
Battle stood and then bent at his waist. He reached down and grabbed the shoulders of Buck’s vest. He leaned back, balancing himself with Buck’s weight, and dragged the soldier to the fence.
His back seized again when he reached the opening. He hitched, then dropped onto his backside and kept moving. Battle inched his way backward through the fence while tugging Buck.
Once he’d cleared the fence himself, he used a fence post to brace his boots. That gave him the leverage for the final couple of yanks on Buck’s vest.
Though the temperature was dropping, Battle was sweating profusely. He blinked back the sting in his eyes and used the back of his wrist to wipe the perspiration from his cheeks and temples.
He struggled to his feet and looked east. Five blocks had never seemed so far in his life.
CHAPTER 22
OCTOBER 15, 2037, 1:52 PM
SCOURGE + 5 YEARS
SOUTHLAND, TEXAS
“This is supposed to be the warmest part of the day.” Grat blew on his hands. He pulled on the rope that linked him to Sawyer, tugging the boy’s attention toward him. “You cold?”
Sawyer didn’t say anything. He hadn’t said much in the last four hours of their trek to Lubbock.
Emmett chuckled. “You keep asking that, Grat,” he said. “And the boy keeps ignoring you. You should stop asking.”
Sawyer adjusted his wrists on the saddle horn and tightened his eyes at the soreness of the cuffs. “I gotta go to the bathroom,” he said, his eyes dancing back and forth between the brothers.
“We ain’t got time,” said Emmett. “You can piss yourself, for all I care.”
Sawyer scowled at Emmett and shifted his stare to Grat. “Please.”
Grat slowed his horse near an intersection with a four-lane road. Highway 84 ran along the eastern edge of Southland, Texas. A four-square-block town, Southland was home to a handful of farmers who toiled the dry land for subsistence and for the Cartel. A large hay farm on the town’s western edge was a major supplier for the Cartel’s livestock.
They also grew corn, sorghum, and peanuts. The Cartel kept pushing cotton, but pests had all but made it impossible to harvest a good crop.
Sawyer didn’t know any of this, but as they rode north, he could see thin wisps of gray smoke puffing skyward to the east. He recognized it as chimney smoke. It wasn’t black or acrid enough to be a controlled burn or a house fire.
There were people in that town. Maybe they could help him.
Grat stopped his horse and dismounted. Emmett sighed and grunted an admonition.
“You’re a fool, Grat,” said the smaller Dalton brother. “He’s playing you. And you’re eating it up.”
Grat sneered. “Shut your trap, Emmett. I gotta go too.” Grat walked over to Sawyer’s horse and grabbed the boy around his bicep to help him dismount. He led Sawyer to a clump of leafless, angry-looking oak trees that provided some privacy from the highway.
“Hurry it up, the two of you,” said Emmett, watching them disappear behind the thick trunks. “We got to get to Lubbock before dark. Those are the orders.”
Grat glared over his shoulder at his brother but didn’t say anything. He looked over at Sawyer, who’d already found a relief spot, and then unzipped his drawers. He was still holding the rope with one hand.
Sawyer heard the zip of Grat’s pants followed by the splash of his stream hitting the dry dirt. He took in a breath of courage, wound an extra length of rope around h
is wrists, and yanked as hard as he could.
The short snap of tension gave way, and Sawyer was free of Grat’s hold. Surprised by his success, he stood under the tree for a moment and turned to run. His legs were heavy and his rear was tingling with the beginnings of numbness from sitting on the saddle for so many hours, but he churned against the dirt as fast as he could.
The rope trailed like a snake behind him, dusting up the dry earth in a cloud behind Sawyer as he ran to meet the eastbound four-lane road into town. He was careful not to trip on the rope as he chugged. His bound wrists, which he held out in front of himself, were screaming from the friction of the metal cuffs. Sawyer ignored it and focused his attention on the road ahead. He did not look behind him, even as Grat called for him to stop.
“What the—” Grat stood with his fly down, wetting himself as he watched the boy run away from him. “Mother fu—”
Emmett called from the road. “What?”
Grat hesitated. “The boy,” he said. “He’s running.”
Emmett was holding the reins for all three horses. He couldn’t leave them. He couldn’t give chase without risking the other two horses galloping away. “I told you!” he scolded his brother.
Grat stuffed himself back into his loose jeans and zipped up the fly, then started after Sawyer. “C’mon, boy! This is only gonna make it worse.”
Sawyer ignored him. He stumbled a couple of times on the uneven terrain, but once he met the road and veered east, he picked up speed. His long legs strode with surprising ease as he pushed himself closer to the wisps of smoke, the cold air filling his lungs with each breath. Sawyer giggled involuntarily, a nervous smile spreading across his cheeks. His eyes glistened. It was exhilarating. He turned for a quick look over his shoulder.
Sawyer couldn’t tell if the grunt was gaining on him. He’d gotten such an unexpectedly good start, there was a good fifty yards between them. Grat’s heavy leather boots thumped along the dirt, trying to avoid divots. Sawyer could see him reaching out his arms as if to reel him in as he ran.
Sawyer reached an intersection and turned north, hoping to put more distance between himself and Grat.
There was a large building straight ahead. He guessed it was an old school from the look of it. He couldn’t stop there. He’d get caught. When he reached the next street, he rounded the corner and headed east again.
“C’mon. Now!” Grat called out between thick, pained huffs. “You. Can’t. Get. Away. Give it. Up.”
Sawyer wasn’t about to listen to him and ran on. The smoke was getting closer. He could smell a hint of the burning wood. He continued north. He felt the slight ping of a cramp in his right side, but he stretched to the left and eased it as he pushed ahead.
Grat was beginning to gain on the boy. He’d reached his stride and the asphalt road was easier to navigate than the pitted, uneven dirt. “Sawyer,” he tried again. “Please, boy. This. Is. Only. Gonna be. Worse. For you.”
Grat blinked back the cold as a slight gust of wind hit him in the face and he kept chasing the boy.
Sawyer’s eyes widened. Up ahead, maybe a couple of hundred feet away, he spotted someone. At first, he couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman, but the closer he got, he could tell it was an older man. He was wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and overalls. He was pushing a wheelbarrow.
Sawyer called out to the man. “Hey!” He pushed harder against the asphalt. “Help me. Please. Help me!”
The man saw him. He had to see him. Sawyer could tell the man was looking straight at him from under the brim of his floppy, ridiculous hat. The man didn’t react. He stood there holding the wheelbarrow.
Sawyer looked over his shoulder to see how much time he had to convince the man to help him before the grunt caught up. As he did, his foot caught the front edge of a pothole and he tripped. Sawyer’s body flung forward as if he were diving into a pool’s shallow end. He pulled his arms up to protect his face as he slid along the asphalt, tearing up his forearms and knees.
Sawyer rolled over, his face squeezed tight with pain. He pursed his lips and blew quickly in and out to mitigate the burn in his arms and legs. One of his wrists felt sprained, maybe broken, from the fall.
Before he could scramble to his feet, Grat was standing over him. The grunt’s chest was heaving from a combination of exhaustion and raw ire.
Sawyer laid his head on the asphalt and closed his eyes in resignation. He was so close.
“You didn’t see this,” Grat said to the man with the wheelbarrow and floppy hat. He reached down to the chain connecting the cuffs and pulled upward.
Sawyer resisted and yanked back. A bolt of pain shot through his right wrist.
“C’mon now,” Grat growled, the softness in his eyes gone. “The game is over.” He drew his revolver from his hip and, for effect, thumbed back the hammer. “Get up.”
Sawyer reluctantly struggled to his feet. Grat wrapped his free hand around the back of Sawyer’s neck and put the barrel of the revolver into the small of the boy’s back.
Sawyer looked at the farmer. The man caught his glare and then looked away. He put his head down and resumed crossing the street. The wheelbarrow squeaked as he pushed it.
“You aren’t gonna help me?” Sawyer asked.
The man blinked, his stride hitched, but he kept moving. He adjusted his grip on the wheelbarrow and disappeared beyond the intersection.
“He knows better,” spat the grunt. “He ain’t as stupid as you. I told you I hated kids. But I saw something in you.” Grat pushed Sawyer by the neck. He didn’t bother with the rope, which dragged on the ground as they walked. “I was wrong. My brother was right. You ain’t getting any more good treatment.”
Sawyer chuckled. “That’s funny.”
Grat squeezed his neck as they turned west back toward the highway. “Ain’t nothing funny.”
“Yeah, it is.” Sawyer looked up at Grat. His eyes were somehow older than a teenager’s. He walked, even in defeat, with the proud gait of an adult. There was no childish bounce or joy. “You said you saw something? Maybe you saw yourself in me? That’s what’s funny. I had the guts to run. I didn’t accept whatever it is you have planned for me. I don’t take orders from generals.”
Grat let go of Sawyer’s neck and then shoved the back of his head hard enough to push the boy to the ground. Sawyer fell forward onto his side and landed awkwardly on his right shoulder. Grat straddled him and squatted. He stuck the revolver in the boy’s face, pushing aside his nose with the long, cold barrel.
“You don’t talk no more, understand?” Spittle sprayed from his mouth. There were white balls of dried saliva in the corners, which stretched like snot as he berated the boy. “You don’t know nothing. You’re a punk kid with a dead whore mama. You shut up. Speak again, and I’ll let Emmett cut out your tongue.”
Sawyer whimpered and nodded his comprehension of the warning. He was again a frightened little boy, beaten and confused. Tears flooded his eyes.
“Get up.”
Sawyer obeyed and walked quietly back to the horses. He’d failed. There was no point in fighting again. Lubbock and the horror of the Jones awaited him. He vacantly mounted the horse, with Grat’s rough assistance, and reflexively took the horn.
“We got time to make up,” announced Emmett. “We need to run. Your boy here cost us time.”
“He ain’t my boy,” said Grat. “He’s an orphan punk about to meet his maker.”
Emmett reached out and punched Grat in the shoulder. “That’s my brother,” he said. “Welcome back.”
CHAPTER 23
OCTOBER 15, 2037, 2:15 PM
SCOURGE + 5 YEARS
POST, TEXAS
Highway 84 ran northwest and southeast, cutting diagonally across the region from Sweetwater to Muleshoe. In what was left of Post, Texas, it ran straight north and south through the center of the dirt-gray town.
Battle had caught up with Lola and Pico south of Post. It’d taken him longer than he’d anticipated. T
he headwind slowed his horse and made it tougher to make up ground.
When he’d galloped alongside them, Lola had offered a warm smile of relief. Her eyes found Battle’s and lingered a moment past what was comfortable. Battle felt his face flush. He was, to his own surprise, happy to see her. Her thin angular face, full lips, and fiery red hair were a welcoming familiar sight against the dust and death of a post-apocalyptic life.
He was glad to see Pico. The wrinkled consternation of his brow and the mustache too thick for his face forced the hint of a smile from the stoic warrior.
The silent pleasure of the reunion was short lived. Battle killed it.
“We’ve got company,” he said. “Skinner, I’m guessing, is leading a posse. They’ve got vehicles. If their box truck hadn’t broken down about twenty miles back, they’d have already caught me.”
The joy in Lola’s eyes evaporated. Pico’s mustache curled downward.
“What are our options?” asked Lola, tightening her grip on the reins.
“We need to ride these horses as hard as they’ll go,” said Battle. “Hopefully we outrun them to Lubbock.”
“That’s a good forty miles,” said Pico. “They’ll catch us.”
Battle raised his voice above the clop of the horses’ shoes. “Are there any alternative routes we can take? Anything that might help us avoid them?”
Pico shook his head and sat forward in his saddle. “I don’t think so,” he said. “We could take Highway 380, but it meets up again with 84.”
The three galloped in silence for another minute. Each of them looked over their shoulder, anticipating Skinner and his posse rolling up behind them.
“How far back are they?” Lola asked.
Canyon: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 2) Page 13
