Wall: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 3) (10 page)

“Mommy will be right back,” she said, holding up a finger to Penny. She leaned over and groped the floor until she found the pacifier. “Here,” she said and popped it in her daughter’s mouth like a cork. Penny blinked at her but seemed okay.

With the engine still running, Ana hopped out of the Lexus and marched back toward Nancy. In the span of less than a few hours, she’d killed three, maybe four people. The reality of it didn’t set in until she stood over Nancy’s dying body.

The woman’s arms and legs looked like a broken puppet’s. She was on her back, her eyes staring blankly into the sky. Ana moved closer and squatted down by Nancy’s head. She could hear the ragged, wet air leaking from Nancy’s lungs.

A knot thickened in Ana’s throat as she surveyed her handiwork. She swallowed past it and gulped. “Why?” she whispered.

Nancy turned her head slightly and licked her bloody lower lip. Her eyes jerked toward Ana and narrowed.

“Why, Nancy?” Ana repeated louder. “I did what was asked of me.”

Nancy sneered, closed her eyes, and said nothing. Her breathing slowed.

“Tell me, Nancy,” she repeated. “You owe me an explanation.”

Nancy laughed and then coughed. She winced from what Ana imagined was ridiculous pain. There were multiple compound fractures on each limb. Ana supposed the internal injuries were worse.

“I don’t owe you anything, you whiny piece of—” Nancy coughed again and then wheezed when she tried to inhale.

A rush of anger coursed through Ana’s body. She pushed herself to her feet and then stepped on Nancy’s deformed left arm as if it were the accelerator in the Lexus. The pressure elicited a squeal that sounded like air leaking from a balloon. Nancy’s eyes bulged.

“I killed your husband too,” Ana said. She spat on Nancy’s face and turned to find the gun. She picked it up with both hands and carried it back to the Lexus without turning around to see Nancy take her final breaths.

Ana stood at the car door and looked at the weapon. It was a nasty-looking machine. The stock was a varnished wood grain, as was the pistol grip. There was a round drum attached to the rifle underneath the barrel, which Ana believed was called the “magazine.” It was angled forward toward the front of the weapon.

She pulled the weapon to her shoulder and looked through the iron sights. It was heavy in her arms. She imagined it was not an easy weapon to fire. She knew enough about guns to use them. Ana lowered the rifle, found the safety lever on the right side, pulled it up into the “safe” position, and set it on the floorboard of the rear passenger compartment.

Penny had fallen asleep again. The pacifier was still. Her chest was moving quickly up and down as she breathed.

Ana touched her leg and rubbed it with her thumb before strapping on her own seat belt. She looked at the electronic compass in the car’s display panel. She was facing northwest.

“Perfect,” she said to herself and put the car in drive. “Six hundred miles to go.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

OCTOBER 25, 2037, 7:10 PM

SCOURGE +5 YEARS

PALO DURO CANYON, TEXAS

From a distance, the glow of the bonfire was a pulse of orange light. Felipe Baadal admired it from his perch on the southern rim of the canyon. He’d run to his spot after the meeting, stopping only once to drink water on his way. Paagal, his new lover, had entrusted him with what she believed might be the frontline of their defense.

Baadal turned from the canyon and into the wind that blew northward. It was a cold, steady breeze that added an unwelcome chill to the air. He slid his pack from his shoulders and pulled out a thin knit sweater. It was full of holes and thread pulls, but it was enough to keep his mind off the dropping temperature and focus on the task at hand.

He was standing guard with a half dozen other men. They were one of the many squads that made up the southern rim platoon. They were armed. They were ready.

He unclipped the radio from his overly cinched belt and pressed the transmit button. “This is Red squad one,” he said with his mouth close to the microphone. “Please advise of your status. Over.” He let go of the button and then held the radio to his ear.

There was static and then a voice.
“Red squad two. Status normal. Over.”

“Squad three, Red,”
buzzed another voice.
“Status normal. Over.”

Seven more squads responded. All ten were good. Baadal would check with them again in a half hour. As midnight approached, he would shorten the interval. Paagal had warned him the most likely time for an attack might be in the hours before dawn. That was when she had told him he must be the most diligent.

Even though she wasn’t planning to deploy most of her resources until after sunrise, she told him to be prepared. They might have only minutes’ worth of warning from those standing guard beyond the rim.

Baadal also knew that many of the embedded spies who’d been living amongst the Cartel would deploy the next day. They would squeeze the advancing Cartel forces, giving them nowhere to retreat. They’d be trapped.

Paagal had told him, in confidence, he would rule at her side when they won. She would entrust him with her protection and lead the forces that would forge a new age in the territory. Despite his lack of military experience and his deep desire for peace, he’d been flattered and had agreed to stand beside her as her protector and confidant. She’d chosen him, she had said, because he had survived the Jones. That was enough.

Baadal took in a deep breath, the cold air stinging his nostrils. He clipped the radio to his belt and turned to join the others.

“You know,” one of the men said to Baadal, “this ain’t the first war to happen in this canyon.”

Baadal looked over at the man. He recognized him but didn’t know him well. His name was Itihaas. People called him It for short.

He was older. His angular face bore a long scar from his left eye to the corner of his lip. It gave his eye a permanent droop, and his mouth was always pulled into a sly smile. He was missing a pinkie on his left hand and walked with an almost imperceptible limp. Baadal didn’t know what had scarred him. A lot of people had scars in the post-Scourge world. Some of the wounds were visible. Some weren’t. Looking at Itihaas, Baadal imagined his scars were deeper and wider than the ones he could see.

“It was more than one hundred sixty years ago,” said It. “It was the United States against some Native American tribes.”

“Which ones?” asked another man. The group was gathering around It to listen.

“Kiowa, Comanche, and Cheyenne. I think. It was part of the Red River War. Ended the war, really.”

“The battle here?” asked Baadal, referencing the canyon behind him with bony fingers.

“Yep,” said It. “It was the Battle of Palo Duro Canyon.”

Baadal shrugged the pack on his shoulders. “What happened?”

It shifted his weight and folded his long arms across his narrow chest. He looked out into the darkness of the canyon and nodded toward it. “Palo Duro was a safe place for the natives,” he said. “They could hide there, protect their women and their young, store supplies. They were like us.”

One of the sentries, who looked to Baadal as if he were no more than fifteen years old, interrupted. “What do you mean?” he asked.

It rubbed the scruff on his chin. “They were hiding from the white man, who wanted them all corralled up on reservations, where they could control what the natives were doing. We’re hiding from the Cartel, who essentially does the same to us.”

The sentry lowered his hand and his head. “Oh,” he said, apparently not liking the comparison.

“So the natives were stockpiling their supplies for the winter in the canyon,” said It. “There were minding their own business. There was this colonel named Mackenzie who wasn’t havin’ it. He had permission to follow the natives wherever they went. So he did.”

Baadal noticed the other men were nearly as spellbound as they’d been at the bonfire. Their eyes were wide and they leaned in as It wove his tale.

“Mackenzie had some native scouts,” said It. “They found a fresh trail leading to Palo Duro. Mackenzie and his men got off their horses and walked down the narrow path single file. They surprised one of the native camps and destroyed it. A couple of other camps disbanded. They ran for the walls and opened fire from the rim.”

The same young sentry interrupted again. “Did the natives win?”

It chuckled. “No,” he said. “They didn’t. They didn’t even kill a single one of Mackenzie’s troops. Maybe fifty or sixty natives died. The rest ran. They left their supplies, their horses, everything. By nightfall they were run off. Mackenzie controlled the canyon.”

Baadal cleared his throat. “I don’t believe that’s an effective motivator,” he said, “especially given your comparison between the natives and us.”

“The point wasn't motivation,” said It. “I was passing along some history. That’s all.”

Baadal nodded. He stepped back to the rim. The orange pulse was dimming. It wouldn’t be long before the fire was out. He ran his hand across the top of his smooth head and sucked in another deep breath of cold air.

Standing on the rim, on the edge of the dark chasm below, Baadal thought about the countless nights he’d spent in the dark on behalf of the Dwellers. He’d been a lone sentry for so long, he’d almost forgotten what it was like to live amongst others. He’d missed it, even if he hadn’t realized it at the time. Those endless nights tracking the Cartel’s movements, cataloging their strengths and weaknesses, had become all consuming.

Now he was amongst people again. He had a woman about whom he’d instantly become passionate. They were on the verge of a great victory. An unconscious smile spread across Baadal’s face as he envisioned a future filled with light.

They were Mackenzie’s troops, he told himself, and the Cartel were the natives. It wasn’t the other way around.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

OCTOBER 25, 2037, 8:22 PM

SCOURGE +5 YEARS

LUBBOCK, TEXAS

Cyrus Skinner looked like he’d eaten a rattlesnake fangs first. His purple, swollen tongue poked out between his lips. Even with his eyes closed, he appeared to be in pain. His eyes were drawn together, his brow furrowed. He was slouched in a chair, holding his hat on his lap. His legs were crossed at the ankles and rested on the seat of a chair opposite him.

General Roof didn’t know whether his captain was asleep or pretending to be. He didn’t care. He walked into the room inside the first floor of the Jones, intent on talking to the man he’d savagely beaten a few hours earlier.

“How’s your mouth?” he asked from across the room. Roof found a chair and dragged it across the floor.

Skinner’s eyes opened slowly and stopped at a slit. He looked over at Roof and shrugged.

“Still can’t speak?”

Skinner shrugged again and shook his head. Roof noticed one side of Skinner’s face was a nasty palette of fresh scabs and bruises.

Roof spun the chair backwards and straddled it. He leaned on its back with his elbows. “I guess I should apologize,” he said. “I really had no cause to whip you the way I did.”

Skinner merely sat there, leering at Roof through the razor-thin space between his eyelids.

“Yeah,” said Roof. “Guess you can’t respond. That’s my fault. Look—”

Skinner raised his hand, waving off Roof’s apology. He closed his eyes and put his hat on his head, lowering the brim over his brow. His tongue still protruded from between his lips. He cleared his throat and clasped his hands at his belly.

“Whether you want to hear it or not,” said Roof, “I’m gonna tell you what’s what.”

Skinner opened one eye and shifted in the seat. He flared his nostrils and tried adjusting the placement of his swollen tongue in his mouth.

“You’re not going to the rim,” said Roof.

Skinner opened his other eye, but didn’t otherwise respond.

From behind Roof, Porky ambled into the room. “Oh,” he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you, General.”

Roof turned around and looked at the chubby grunt. He studied the man’s cherubic face and wondered what had driven kind-looking Porky into the Cartel. “You’re fine,” he said. “What do you want?”

Porky held up a large glass bowl. “I found some ice,” he said. “I thought Captain Skinner could use it.”

Skinner waved him over and took the bowl. He set it on his lap and delicately fingered a jagged chunk of ice into his mouth. He squeezed his eyes closed and held his mouth open. His hands gripped the arms of the chair and his body tensed as he rolled the ice over his wounded tongue.

Porky stood beside the chair, his face contorting in a way that mimicked Skinner’s pain. He swallowed hard and took a step back.

Roof was observing the grunt’s sympathetic movements. “That’s thoughtful of you,” he said. “You seem like a good man…”

“Porky, sir,” said the grunt. “Everybody calls me Porky.”

“You seem like a good man, Porky. Why are you in the Cartel?”

Porky tilted his head and pursed his lips. “What do you mean?”

Roof pointed at Skinner and then himself. “You’re not like us,” he said and aimed his finger at Porky. “I can tell that. You have a kindness about you. There’s a soft heart underneath all of that.” He waved his hand over Porky’s overhanging belly.

Porky sucked in his gut as much as he could and pulled up on his pants, using the empty belt loops. His face flushed.

“Seriously,” said Roof. “I’m not joking. Why are you in the Cartel?”

Porky looked at Roof as if he didn’t understand English. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

Roof looked at Skinner and then back at Porky and chuckled. “It’s a simple question,” he said. “Why. Are. You. In. The. Cartel?”

Porky tugged on his pants again and squeezed his eyebrows together. He pulled his shoulders up to his ears. “Because I had to, I guess.”

Roof nodded. It was an honest answer. “Why did you have to join?”

“I didn’t want to die,” said Porky. “I was told if I worked for the Cartel, I’d have a job, a place to stay, food to eat. They said if I didn’t, I could either leave town or die. I had nowhere to go. I wanted to stay alive. So…”