“What do you mean?”
Roof shrugged. “I’m letting you go,” he said. “Take the woman, her boy, and the Dweller. Leave. Don’t come back.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I couldn’t be more clear, Battle. You are free to go. You have free passage out of Lubbock in whatever direction you choose to travel. Of course, you’ll leave that crossbow here. I’m not giving you food, water, or a horse, but you’re free.”
“That’s a death sentence,” said Battle. “No supplies and no transportation. You might as well kill us here.”
“You said you weren’t a warrior,” Roof explained. “You said you were trying to survive. So go. Survive.”
Battle dropped the crossbow to the ground and reached for Lola’s hand. Instead of taking his hand, she dove into his body, wrapping her arms around him and holding him tight. She buried her face in his chest. Then she let go and ran to Sawyer. Battle turned to see them embrace and swallowed past a stubborn ache in his throat.
“What about the other dude?” Battle asked, pointing to the remaining gladiator. “Do we take him?”
“If you wish,” said Roof. “He’ll only be another mouth to feed, but it’s up to you.”
“We’ll take him,” said Battle and waved to the man to join him.
General Roof turned to the crowd, cupped his hands around his mouth, and announced his decision. “I am letting these people go!” he said. “They have earned the right to die on their own. I am banishing them from Lubbock without food, water, weapons, or transportation. None of you is to help them.”
Skinner, still on the ground, spat onto the turf. “This is wrong.”
Roof pointed a finger at him and then raised it to his lips. He looked back at Battle. “Go. Now. Before I change my mind. You can climb the stands to the first exit. It’ll lead you outside of the stadium.”
“What about Pico?” asked Battle. “Shouldn’t we bury him?”
“Leave that to me,” said Roof. “He won’t know any different regardless of what I do.”
Battle led the others over the barrier and into the stands. The crowd made it difficult for them to push their way upward to the exit. Some were hissing at them. A grunt spat in Battle’s face. Others lowered their heads so as not to look Battle in the eye. There was one woman who whispered a prayer of God’s speed. The banished five eventually cleared the crowds and found their way to a long concourse that led them down and out of the stadium.
A sentry perched atop the stadium’s Spanish Renaissance facade watched them walk across the highway north of the stadium. He signaled down to the general that they were on their way.
The crowd soon followed, filing quietly out of the stadium and back to their post-apocalyptic lives. There would be another group of gladiators to entertain them in a week’s time. They’d be back for more, though the chances were the Cartel would assure no gladiator would ever win again.
Skinner stood on the field with his general. Grunts cleared the turf of the bodies and weapons. Bosses led horses back to their stables outside the stadium.
“I don’t get you,” said Skinner. “Mercy doesn’t keep order. It only makes people think they can get away with disobeying.”
Roof put his hand on Skinner’s shoulder. “Have you ever heard of Sun Tzu?”
“Son who?”
“Sun Tzu. He wrote The Art of War.”
“I ain’t heard of it. Ain’t heard of him.”
“He was a Chinese general and philosopher. He lived in the fifth and sixth century BC. He was brilliant.”
“So?”
“So, Sun Tzu said, ‘Opportunities multiply as they are seized.’”
Skinner rolled his eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Roof reached into Skinner’s pocket and removed the box of cigarettes. “It means we have an opportunity to end the Dwellers.” He shook loose a cigarette and slid it between his lips.
Skinner pulled out his lighter and offered Roof the flame. Roof tossed the cigarettes back to the captain.
“We haven’t been able to get close to the canyon for more than two years,” said the general. “The Dwellers’ scouts and patrols have cut us off.”
Skinner lit his own cigarette and sucked in a drag. He blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth, away from the general. “We got a treaty with them folks, don’t we?”
“Semantics,” said Roof. “I want teams following Battle. Chances are they’ll die of thirst or starvation before they make it that far north. But if they don’t, if Battle is the man I know him to be, they’ll expose the Dwellers’ defenses as they approach. With a Dweller traveling with them, they’ll get through. We’ll see where they are strong and where they are weak.”
Skinner flicked ash onto the turf. “How do you know they’re headed for the canyon?”
“I sent the Dweller with them,” Roof said. “They have nowhere else to go. We’ll observe, keep our distance. When the time is right, we attack. We take control of the canyon.”
“Why don’t you send a mess of men to take the canyon? Why play these games? That’s what got us into this mess with Battle to start with.”
“This isn’t a game,” said Roof. “If we send a large army, even one that far outnumbers their population, we will lose if we don’t know where they are vulnerable. They’d funnel us into ambush after ambush until the remaining men are demoralized and mutinous. I know this.”
Skinner drew in another breath of smoke. “So you knew they’d survive the Jones? That was your plan all along?”
Roof laughed. “Of course not. When they somehow survived, I saw an opportunity. I seized it. You almost blew it with your fractious impulsivity.”
Skinner tossed the butt to the ground. He stomped it out on the turf and turned to leave. “I don’t know what you’re saying. I don’t care. You got a plan. I hope it works. I want to see that Battle fellow dead. Period. I want to see that woman and her boy dead. Period. If I’da been quicker, they would be.”
“I want you in charge of the surveillance,” said the general. “Keep your men back. Send three teams of three each. You pick a couple of men and you go too. Have one team follow them now. They’ll rotate with the other teams. They are not to engage. You are not to engage. Simply observe.”
Skinner nodded over his shoulder. He picked his hat up off the turf and put it on his head. He had work to do.
CHAPTER 32
JANUARY 4, 2020, 7:58 AM
SCOURGE -12 YEARS, 9 MONTHS
ALEPPO, SYRIA
Nazir drew his handgun and put a bullet in each of the two balustrade guards.
Battle pulled his weapon from beneath his sleeves and immediately took aim at the guard running along the bridge. Leaving Buck behind, he darted forward, both hands on the gun.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Two of the three shots were true, and in his peripheral vision he saw three more flashes from Nazir’s weapon. Certain he’d dropped his target to the ground, Battle stopped running and swiveled toward Nazir. He was leaning over one of the guards, picking up the AK.
“Battle, we hurry now,” he called.
Battle turned back and ran to Buck. “Get on my back,” Battle insisted. “Piggyback.”
“What? I don’t—”
“Just do it!”
Buck climbed onto Battle’s back, aggravating the electricity running down his right leg. Battle slid off his sandals, wrapped his arms under Buck’s legs, and ran barefoot toward the bridge, trying to catch up with Nazir. He could hear voices behind him.
He reached the balustrades and turned. There were a dozen armed men racing toward them. Some of them were in uniforms, some in street clothes.
“Go. Go. Go. Go!” Battle called to Nazir, hoping the repetition might elevate the urgency of his suggestion.
Nazir kept running, the AK in his hands. He jumped over the guard’s body and stopped. He was halfway across the bridge, standing above the effective middle of the canal. He edged to the
southern balustrade and leaned against it. He pulled the AK to his shoulder and aimed it straight at Battle.
Nazir’s eyes widened, his neck strained. “Move!”
Battle leaned to his left and his momentum carried him away from Nazir’s line of sight an instant before he felt the shudder of the AK unleashing its magazine in a rumbling, cracking hail of 7.62x39 ammunition rocketing past him at twenty-four hundred feet per second.
Clearly unaccustomed to the physics of the weapon, Nazir had trouble with its recoil. While his spray of bullets was effective at unloading a deadly swath at the oncoming horde, it also caused him to lose his balance. Despite leaning against the balustrade for support, he tripped backward.
In the time it took for him to regain his composure, the seemingly dead guard lying in a heap on the bridge raised his own AK and managed a quick pull of the trigger. A short burst found Nazir’s midsection, and the doctor dropped his weapon over the balustrade and into the canal below.
Battle reacted and ran toward the guard. He reached the dying man and stepped onto his neck, exerting his full weight until he heard a snap and the man’s tongue hung from his open mouth.
He stomped on it for good measure and then bolted to Nazir, who was sitting upright on the bridge. His arms were limp in his lap. His gaze was distant, his chest heaving. Blood was pooling on the stone underneath him.
Battle dropped Buck onto his good leg, knelt, and looked back at the approaching enemy. They’d slowed. Some of them were dead. The others had taken defensive positions some hundred feet from the bridge.
Nazir’s bravery and foolhardy attempt at machine gunnery had given the horde pause. They were yelling instructions to one another. Their advance was measured.
Battle focused on them and then back on Nazir, whose lungs rattled with each raspy breath. Blood was leaking from the corners of his mouth. His olive skin was draining to the color of the gray stubble in his beard.
Battle couldn’t carry both men across the bridge to its safer, eastern side. But he didn’t want to leave Nazir alone either. The man had given his life to save theirs.
Battle clenched his jaw. The sight of his new friend gasping his final breaths pressed the angry adrenaline through his body. He looked up at the enemy and then back at Nazir. He glanced behind him at the eastern side of the bridge. Beyond it was the checkpoint. He could see the offset rows of concrete barriers protecting its entrance.
Battle put his hand on Nazir’s shoulder. “I’ll come back for you.”
Nazir’s eyes drifted toward Battle but couldn’t find their focus. His shoulders shuddered.
Battle motioned to Buck. “Let’s go.” He resumed the piggyback carry and ran as fast as he could, Buck bouncing up and down with each stride, until he reached the end of the bridge. He could hear the intermittent staccato of automatic gunfire. Some of it pinged against the bridge, but missed the men as they reached the barriers.
By the time Battle had entered the serpentine arrangement, he had four HKs pointed at him and MPs were yelling at him to stop.
He did. He offloaded Buck, dropped his sidearm, and raised his hands. “Captain Marcus Battle. US Army!” The words couldn’t escape quickly enough. “I’m with Sergeant First Class Buck. He’s injured and needs immediate medical attention.”
“To your knees, soldier!” one of the MPs called and approached with the HK leveled at Battle’s head.
Battle dropped to his knees. “Sergeant Buck cannot follow the command. Please get him help.”
With the MP barking commands, two others lowered their weapons and jumped the barricades. They each grabbed an arm and helped balance Buck. A third approached Battle, his weapon trained on him.
“We were hit with an IED,” said Battle. “We got trapped. A Syrian local helped us.”
“So that explains the getup?” asked the MP closest to Battle.
Battle nodded. “He’s dying on that bridge. We need to get him.”
“Not gonna happen,” said the MP in charge of the group.
Battle pointed a finger at the MP. “Now wait a minute, soldier. I—”
The MP tightened his grip on the HK. “Do not confuse your rank with my authority, Captain. There are hostiles on the other end of that bridge. I am not sending men into a firefight over a dying local.”
“Give me a weapon, then,” Battle snapped. “Take care of Buck; I’ll go get him.”
“Relax, Captain,” the MP ordered. “Not gonna happen. You’re gonna come with me. We’ll sort this out.”
Battle cursed at the MP. “Give me a rifle!” He pushed himself to his feet and started toward the MP when he felt the poke of an HK muzzle at his bruised ribs.
The MP at the other end of the rifle pressed it into his side. “Easy there, Captain.”
Battle cursed again but raised his hands as high above his head as he could hold them. His bruised side, his pinging right leg, his aching neck, his throbbing shoulders, and his wounded arm all contributed to his lack of flexibility. He looked over his shoulder at the bridge and quietly begged Nazir for forgiveness.
“We need to get inside,” said the ranking MP. “This situation is about to get unruly.”
The four MPs, Buck, and Battle wound their way past the remaining concrete barriers and beyond the raised manual gate arm. The trailing MP closed the arm. Battle stopped beside him and turned to watch the horror unfolding on the bridge.
A half dozen of the enemy, some in uniform, reached the middle of the bridge. They were calling out in Arabic, yelling in Battle’s direction.
Two of the men picked up Nazir’s body, holding him up by his armpits. They turned him to face the checkpoint. From the distance between them, Battle couldn’t tell if Nazir was still alive or if Allah had mercifully hastened his death.
It appeared not to matter to the men holding up his body. They dragged him forward, the tops of his sandaled feet scraping along the ground. A third man came up from behind them and gripped the top of Nazir’s head, yanking it backward. He then wielded a large reflective blade and sliced it across Nazir’s neck, a fountain of blood spraying outward.
Battle closed his eyes to the sound of the men cheering their baseness. He opened them again to see Nazir’s head held high by the swordsman’s hand.
The man shook the head, screamed something at Battle, and then heaved it into the canal. The two men holding the headless body dropped it on the bridge and kicked it. Another man spat on it. A fourth and a fifth did the same.
Battle’s fists clenched and he gnashed his teeth. His pain evaporated. It was replaced with a seething he’d never felt. It was the desire for revenge, the guilt-fueled need to exact torture on the men who needlessly killed a selfless doctor, father, and grandfather.
As the MPs led Battle back to the confines of a small military installation inside what used to be Maysaloun Park, he tried to rationalize what he’d witnessed. He came to the conclusion, as much because of its truth as its ability to help Battle cope, that Nazir died because he’d left his home.
The doctor’s world had ceased to exist as he knew it. War, famine, and disease had decayed Aleppo. All he had left was his family. He chose to expose that family to risk and danger by allowing them to venture outside. Had they never left home, they’d have never encountered two injured American soldiers they felt compelled to help.
Their selflessness in the face of a post-apocalyptic landscape had ruined them. Nazir was dead. Afifiah would never know what became of the man she called father. Her children would wonder about him the entirety of their lives, however long they may be.
Battle resolved he would prepare for the end of days. He would make a home worth defending, one from which he would never have to stray. That was the way to survive.
It was the only way.
CHAPTER 33
OCTOBER 16, 2037, 4:30 PM
SCOURGE +5 YEARS
ABERNATHY, TEXAS
Baadal leading the group, they walked silently north on Interstate 27.
&
nbsp; “The canyon is about a hundred miles from here,” he explained. “The first scout is maybe seventy or eighty miles. We need to find water or we won’t make it. We’ve been walking for six hours.”
“We need to keep moving or we won’t make it,” said Battle. “They’re not letting us get away as easy as the general made it sound.”
“I’m dehydrated too,” said the gladiator. His name was Charlie Pierce. He told them he was a grass farmer who’d refused to increase his crop supply to the Cartel. They’d punished him, killing his wife and taking his farm. He was sent to the Jones to die.
“I hear you,” said Battle. He licked his dry lips. The cracks told him he needed water. All of them did. “We’ll figure it out.”
Lola and Sawyer dragged behind. They were talking to each other in hushed voices, and Battle didn’t want to interrupt. As long as they kept pace, they were fine.
Ahead on the right, there was a mobile home. Even from a distance, Battle could see it was a wreck. It was the first house they’d passed outside of Lubbock.
“I’m gonna run ahead,” Battle said. “Meet me outside that house.”
Battle jogged ahead, his head throbbing. He pushed his way into the trailer, kicking in the thin, hollow-core door.
He was immediately hit with the odor of urine and feces. A pair of rats scurried past him, diving into holes at the baseboards. He covered his mouth and nose with the crook of his arm, his eyes burning from the acidity in the air. He shuffled his way through what he imagined was the living area and found the kitchenette. With one hand he flung open cabinet doors above and below the laminate countertops that ran the length of the galley.
From the cabinets he pulled three large plastic cups, an open box of sandwich bags, and some pipe cleaners. He stuffed the findings into a plastic grocery bag he found on the floor. He looked for utensils but didn’t find any.
Battle opened the refrigerator but instantly closed it when he found a nest of rodents chirping back at him, their eyes reflecting what little light had seeped into the box. He didn’t bother with the freezer.
Canyon: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 2) Page 20
