Canyon: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 2) (27 page)

“That was a smart idea,” said Charlie Pierce. “You probably saved us from getting sick.”

“Saw a video online about it before the Scourge,” Battle said. “I tried it out a couple of times with the oaks on my land. It worked pretty well.”

“Where was your land?”

“Near Abilene,” Battle said, taking the plastic bags from everyone to save them for later use. “You?”

“Seguin,” he said. “Near San Antonio.”

“Grass farmer, you said?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Hay, alfalfa, that sort of stuff. Kept the livestock fed.”

“We should hit the road. The clouds are gonna cover up that moon and make it pretty dark.”

“How far are we gonna walk?” Sawyer asked.

“If we walk at a good pace,” said Baadal, “we should reach the first scouts before sunset tomorrow.”

“I’m hungry.” Sawyer sounded every bit the teenager that he was. “My legs hurt.”

“We’ll find something,” said Battle.

“What?” asked Lola. “There’s nothing.”

“We’ll find something.”

They left the trees and headed north along Highway 27. Battle walked behind the group, making sure everyone stayed together. Baadal was in front, marching like a soldier. Charlie was a step behind him. Lola and Sawyer walked together. She held his hand. Both were using walking sticks. Sawyer took Baadal’s lead and picked the dead leaves off a pair of branches, keeping one for himself and giving one to his mother. Battle noticed her limp was less pronounced. She was improving. That was good.

They’d walked for close to an hour when Sylvia’s voice filled Battle’s head. “You like her.”

Battle tried to ignore it. He didn’t want to have a conversation. He was too tired.

“It’s okay,” she said. “You’ve been alone a long time.”

“I’m not interested,” he mumbled under his breath.

“Don’t lie to me, Marcus Battle,” Sylvia’s voice countered. “I know when you’re lying. I see the way you look at her. I see the way
she
looks at
you
.”

Battle looked up at the sky at the first stars twinkling between the clouds. He exhaled through his mouth, puffing his cheeks.

“Marcus,” she said, “you can’t be alone forever. You’ve left our home. You’ve moved on.”

Battle gritted his teeth. “I haven’t moved on. You’re wrong.”

Lola turned around and looked at Battle over her shoulder. “Did you say something?”

Battle waved her off. “No,” he said. “Just thinking aloud.”

Lola’s eyes lingered as she kept walking. The corner of her mouth curled into a knowing smile. It looked like pity to Battle.

“She knows,” he whispered. “She knows I talk to you.”

“All the more reason to like her,” said Sylvia. “She knows about it and doesn’t think you’re crazy.”

“I
am
crazy,” Battle whispered. “I’ve been hanging onto my sanity by an unwinding thread since you left me.”

“It’s okay with me too, Dad,” Wesson said, joining the conversation. “She has a son who needs a father.”

“He does,” Sylvia added. “You’re such a good father.”

Battle stopped walking and clenched his fists. He drew in a long, steady breath and exhaled, trying to slow his pulse. He turned south, away from the group, and bent over with his hands clasped behind his neck. He needed to clear the voices.

He squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath. The group had walked far enough he couldn’t hear their footsteps. It was quiet, save the distant, high-pitched chirp of cicadas.

He stood there motionless for a moment. The voices in his head stopped. He opened his eyes and looked south along the highway they’d already walked. Battle was about to catch up with the group when he saw something reflected in the moonlight. It was a flash more than a true reflection. He waited. There it was again. Then he heard a noise. No. It was more of a song. Somebody was singing. Somebody was following them. Battle spun around and sprinted to catch up to the group. They needed to get off of the road.

***

The last thing Grat Dalton wanted to do was sit in a saddle. His rear and his thighs were rubbed raw from the subtle slide back and forth on the leather. Orders were orders, though, even if they came thirdhand through the hefty grunt called “Porky”.

Porky told them their mission was direct from General Roof. Captain Skinner had seen to it they picked the best teams to head north. Their job was simple: ride and observe. That was it.

Emmett Dalton told his brother it was worth the saddle sores for the five days’ worth of fresh rations, a bottle each of Tito’s Vodka, and cold water in their canteens. Emmett was halfway through the Tito’s, relishing the hint of corn in every fiery swig, as he, his brother, and a third grunt named Jack Vermillion neared Abernathy. Abernathy was a nothing town even in the daylight. The Daltons had ridden past it before, both north and south along the interstate. They joked the town marker read “Now Leaving Abernathy” on both sides of the sign.

Grat wasn’t joking with Emmett this trip. He was frustrated by his own aches and his brother’s drunken serenade. Jack Vermillion wasn’t doing anything to help. He was encouraging it by humming along.

“C’mon now,” Grat said loudly enough for his brother to hear him over his own wail, “enough singing. My ears hurt.”

Vermillion unscrewed his own half-empty bottle and raised it in a toast to Grat. “Give your brother a break. He’s just having fun.”

Grat didn’t know Vermillion well, but he could tell from the man’s slur and his slack in the saddle, he was drunk. Grat would have loved to toss back some of the liquor himself. But with both companions already wasted, he couldn’t take the risk. They had a job to do.

He leaned forward to get a better handle on his reins. His horse was as undisciplined as Emmett.

He was looking down at the animal’s crest. He rested a hand on its coarse black mane. When he looked up again, he almost fell off the horse. Three men were standing in the middle of the highway. The building clouds had obscured the moon enough that he couldn’t see much more than their forms. The men looked big, and each of them looked to be holding a long gun of some kind. Grat couldn’t tell if they were rifles or shotguns. It didn’t matter much. The men had the drop on them. Grat tugged on the reins and slowed his horse to a stop.

“Stop there,” one of the men ordered. “Get off your horses and drop your weapons to the ground.”

***

Battle used the dark to his advantage. When he’d seen the approaching grunts, he’d run back to the group to get Charlie Pierce and Baadal. He borrowed the long walking sticks from Sawyer and Lola and handed one of them to Charlie. Baadal already had his own. Lola and Charlie stayed back and off to the side, ducking into a shallow culvert.

“Hold these like rifles,” Battle told them and led them south toward the approaching horsemen. “It’s so dark, they might not know the difference.”

He was right. The first of the men didn’t hesitate to raise his hands and dismount.

“I’m gonna reach to my side,” the grunt said, “and pull my revolver. I’m gonna toss it.”

“Do it slowly,” said Battle, aiming the stick at the grunt. “What’s your name?”

“Grat Dalton,” he said. “You know you’re being stupid.”

“Real stupid,” slurred one of the two grunts who hadn’t yet dismounted. “You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

“Shut up, Emmett,” said Grat. “We ain’t in a position to be makin’ threats.”

“I ain’t givin’ up my guns,” said Emmett. “Ain’t takin’ my Tito’s neither.” The drunkard laughed.

“This isn’t a joke,” said Battle, his eyes darting amongst the trio of dark figures forty feet in front of them. “Get off your horses and step off the road.”

“Seriously?” Charlie whispered into Battle’s ear. “We don’t have any
real
weapons. These are
sticks
.”

“We’ll be fine,” Battle whispered back. Charlie had reminded Battle of the jackknife in his pocket. Still holding aim on the grunts, he fished out the knife and flipped it open with his thumb. “Get off the horses now, or you’re going to need another gallon of Tito’s to dull the pain.”

Vermillion reached out and pushed Emmett in the shoulder. “I reckon we listen to the—”

Emmett pushed him back. “I ain’t listening to these fools,” he spat. He hopped off his horse, dropping the near empty bottle, which shattered on the asphalt. “Now see, that’s just infuriating.” He stomped his foot and started marching toward Battle.

Emmett shoved his way past his brother and reached to his hip to pull his revolver. He was twenty feet from them when he pulled the trigger.

Pow!

Drunk as he was, Emmett couldn’t have hit a barn from three feet. The shot was errant and missed all three men. Battle’s aim was true.

At the instant the shot was fired, he’d flung the knife, end over end, at the growing target in front of him. It hit Emmett above his heart on the left side of his chest. The blade carved into him to its hilt.

Emmett dropped his pistol and staggered backward. He looked down at the knife handle protruding from him and gripped it, wrenching it from his body. That was a bad move.

Blood coursed from the wound, draining faster than Emmett could plug the hole with his fingers. He looked back at his brother, mumbled, and fell over onto the interstate, the knife still in his hand.

Grat backed away from his dying brother and moved deliberately to the shoulder of the road. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes stayed glued to Emmett struggling and twitching on the asphalt.

Vermillion raised his hands and jumped from his horse. He dropped his pistol and quickly joined Grat at the edge of the highway.

Battle advanced quickly and picked up Emmett’s pistol, aiming it at Grat. He tossed the stick to the ground, pulled the knife from Emmett’s hand, and watched the horror envelop Grat’s face as the grunt realized he’d been had by a man armed only with a knife.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Grat said. He swallowed hard, his eyes drifting to his brother. He looked back at Battle, cursed him and spat in his face. Battle could see the man’s fear morphing into defiant anger.

“I know who you are,” Grat said through clenched teeth. “You’re that fella from the Jones. Skinner shoulda shot you dead instead of Pico.”

“Shoulda killed both of you,” Vermillion said. “That’s what I woulda done.”

Battle wiped the spit from his forehead. “Coulda, woulda, shoulda. Too late now.” He raised the pistol and pressed it against Grat’s forehead.

Grat squeezed his eyes shut. “Just do it. Get it over with.”

Battle stood with the weapon at Grat’s head until the grunt opened his eyes. Then he lowered it.

“C’mon, guys,” he called to Baadal and Charlie. “Get the horses.”
He walked backward to the horse Grat had been riding and took the reins with one hand. The other trained the pistol on the grunts. “Mount up.”

Each of the men heaved themselves into their saddles. Baadal and Charlie started their horses north.

“Looks like we got some food here,” said Battle. “And a full canteen of water.” He reached into the saddlebag and pulled out Grat’s unopened bottle of vodka. He tossed it to the grunt and spurred the horse north to join the others.

Grat juggled the bottle, but caught it before it hit the ground. “Wait,” he said. “You gonna leave us here?” Grat snarled. “You kill my brother for nothin’ and then leave us in the middle of nowhere? No food? No water?”

“We walked here from Lubbock,” said Battle. “No food. No water.”

Vermillion called out, “You can’t leave us here. We walk back to town, we’re as good as dead.”

“Better drink up, then, fellas,” Battle said over his shoulder. He slid the pistol onto his hip and controlled the horse with one hand.

He brought the horse to a canter until he reached Lola. He offered her a hand and pulled her onto the saddle behind him. Sawyer climbed aboard Charlie’s horse. Baadal led the way north.

“We can be there before sunrise,” he said to the others. He pulled his canteen and drew a long drink before coaxing his horse to a gallop. “We’ll probably reach a scout not long after midnight.”

Lola wrapped her arms around Battle’s waist, her hands pressed flat against his chest. He turned his head toward hers as his horse picked up speed. “You okay?”

“For now,” she said. “I’ve got Sawyer. I’ve got you. And we’re going to a place the Cartel can’t touch us.”

Battle took one of her hands and squeezed. She leaned into his back, resting her head against his neck. It was the most human contact Battle had experienced in five years. It felt alien yet comforting. It took his breath away. He allowed himself to enjoy it.

Lola was right about two things. She had Sawyer. She had him. He didn’t want to tell her that deep down he believed the Cartel’s arms were long enough to always reach them, even in the canyon.

CHAPTER 36

OCTOBER 17, 2037, 1:00 AM

SCOURGE +5 YEARS

LUBBOCK, TEXAS

General Roof stood in front of a panel of large monitors on the wall of the Lubbock HQ office. He was alone. He’d shooed away the grunts and bosses who were hanging around drinking and smoking. He poured himself a cup of coffee. It was black and like mud, but he was tired and needed the jolt of caffeine.

The power in Lubbock was better than in some of the less populated areas. It was necessary, given Lubbock’s importance to their drug trade, that the electricity be more stable. Roof was thankful for that as he pressed a remote on the desk to activate the office computer.

“Computer on,” he said. The trio of wide screens flickered to life. “Conference Generals. Live chat.”

A series of numbers and letters moved across the center screen. It went black and then turned on again. Roof’s mirror image filled the screen. The monitors to either side buzzed to life. A bald man appeared in the screen to the left, and a leathery one was visible on the right.

“We need to talk,” said Roof. “You have a minute?”

“It’s late,” said the bald general. General Harvey Logan. Roof could hear a woman in the background. She was complaining about the interruption. Logan ignored her.