Wall: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 3) (21 page)

He waited for another flash from the same spot, his finger resting on the SCAR 17’s two-stage trigger. He applied enough pressure to take up the slack and narrowed his focus.

The target’s muzzle lit perfectly within the frame of Roof’s sights. He finished the pull and the .308 exploded from the rifle at faster than twenty-six hundred feet per second. Roof unleashed a second round and waited.

He couldn’t see if he’d hit the target, but in the next thirty seconds he didn’t see another flash. The dissonance of the gun battle was lessening in volume. Clearly they were killing the Dwellers one at a time.

Another torrent of bullets came close to Roof but missed. He checked over his shoulder again. Dalton was hunkered down in the Humvee’s bed. He looked like Kilroy with the top of his head and his eyes poking over the edge of the side rail.

Skinner wasn’t there. Roof scanned his surroundings and checked over his other shoulder but didn’t see him.

Then, as he tried to refocus on the remaining threat, he saw a figure running toward the buildings from his left.

Roof scrambled to his feet, gripped the rifle in a two-handed “ready” position, and bolted toward Skinner. The bursts of gunfire zipped past Roof as he ran circuitously, trying to make targeting him more difficult.

Skinner stopped his advance behind a shed at the edge of the highway. He positioned his back against the rotting corrugated metal frame and waved Roof toward him.

Roof put his head down and came as close to a sprint as he could muster with his bad leg and motored his way to the shed. He parked himself on Skinner’s right.

He looked back to the Humvee and saw intermittent sparks of light from Dalton’s position. The kid wasn’t giving up. He was probably wasting a lot of precious ammunition, but he had the right spirit.

Roof nudged Skinner. “There are maybe three left,” he said. “Hard to tell.”

Skinner crouched low and peeked around the corner toward the larger buildings. Without looking back at Roof, he held up two fingers. He then pointed up with his index finger before pointing down.

Roof understood there were two Dwellers left. One was up high, atop a building maybe. The other was on the ground.

He squatted next to Skinner. “I’ll take the one up high. You get the one on the ground.”

Skinner turned around. The tip of his tongue protruded from between his lips. He nodded and stood up. Roof was about to make a suggestion when the captain darted from the safety of the shed and disappeared from the general’s view.

Roof edged closer to the corner and peered around it. He scanned the various elevations of the rooftops and saw nothing. He lowered his chin and swept the property at eye level. A series of flashes and a quick spate of gunfire caught his attention. Skinner had engaged his man.

The general lifted his eyes at the sight of some shadowed movement at the near end of the closest building. He narrowed his eyes, squinting into the gray night, and saw his man.

The Dweller was repositioning himself to take aim at Dalton. Roof lowered himself onto one knee, pulled the rifle tight to his shoulder, and took aim.

Three quick shots later and the Dweller was tumbling off the pitched roof, bouncing awkwardly. He hit the ground with a muddy splat.

Roof kept the rifle at his shoulder and moved forward cautiously, sweeping left and right, surveying the buildings for surviving threats. He stepped toward the spot where he’d seen the gunfight erupt between Skinner and the ground-level Dweller.

When he got closer, he saw two men on the ground in close proximity to one another. Neither was moving.

Roof spun at the sound of mud-sucked footsteps. “Sir.” Grat Dalton was jogging toward him. “We’ve got help. A group of men on horseback is only a few hundred yards back.”

The general looked past Dalton and saw a lone boss on horseback perched behind the Humvee. “Good,” he said. “Go see if they have extra rides for us.”

“Three?” asked Dalton. “I think Porky’s dead.”

Roof glanced over at the bodies and stepped toward them. “I don’t know yet,” Roof said. “Go ahead and ask for three, though.”

Dalton glanced at the bodies, licked his lips, nodded, and jogged back to the boss.

Roof stood over the first body. It belonged to a Dweller. Death had frozen his eyes open. His corpse was bloodied and bullet-riddled. Roof kicked the Dweller’s legs out of habit, receiving no response.

He took a dozen steps to the other body. It was Skinner. He was on his stomach. His head was turned to the side, blood leaking from his mouth.

Roof knelt down and placed his hand on Skinner’s back. He felt the faint rise and fall of his lungs. Skinner was alive.

Roof laid down his rifle and rolled Skinner onto his back, revealing the twin wounds in his gut. Skinner’s eyes were open. His hot, fetid breath came in heavy waves from his open, bleeding mouth.

“You killed him,” said Roof. “You got the Dweller. You hit him four or five times. That’s more than he got you.” Roof tried smiling.

Skinner blinked. He reached for the bleeding holes at his midsection and found them, pulling his hand back to his face. He looked at his bloodied fingers, and then his eyes locked onto Roof’s.

“It ain’t good,” Roof said.

Skinner turned his head to the side and spat. A spray of blood flew from his mouth. He closed his eyes and coughed. His eyes squeezed tight from what Roof imagined was ridiculous pain.

“He gonna die?” Dalton was back. There was a boss and a couple of grunts standing behind him. He motioned at Skinner lying flat on his back in the mud. “The captain? He gonna die?”

Still squatting beside the dying man, Roof looked at Dalton and nodded. He shifted his weight and placed his hand on Skinner’s chest. “What can I do? I owe you for your loyalty.”

Tears welled in Cyrus Skinner’s eyes, spilling down his muddy cheeks. He looked up toward the sky and back at Roof. He dug his fingers into the mud and then waved for Dalton Grat to come closer before his hand plopped back to the ground.

Dalton slowly approached. He stood beside Skinner until the captain motioned for him to come closer. Dalton obliged and knelt down in the mud.

Skinner raised his left hand and, using his index finger, drew a letter on Dalton’s stained white shirt. He dipped his finger in the mud and painted another letter. And another. And another.

When he was finished, Skinner pointed at the shirt. Dalton stood and tugged at the bottom of the shirt, stretching it to make the mud letters more legible.

KILL ME

Roof read the instructions and then grabbed Skinner by the jaw. He turned his face toward him so as to look him in the eyes. “You want me to kill you?”

Skinner coughed again and nodded. His complexion was gray. His breathing was irregular and shallow. He sounded as if he was panting.

Roof licked the front of his teeth and nodded. He looked over at Dalton and the others. “You all can go back to the rest of them. You have two horses?”

Dalton nodded. “Yeah.”

“Then go,” said Roof. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

The men retreated back to the posse. Roof could make out the rough shapes of the gathered men and horses waiting for him at the Humvee. He took a deep breath and exhaled.

Roof started to reach for his SCAR 17, then tried counting in his head how many 308s he’d used, but couldn’t arrive at an answer, so he scooted to Skinner’s side and lowered his head closer to the captain.

“This will only take a minute,” he said. He placed both hands over Skinner’s face, covered the captain’s nose and mouth, and pressed down. Skinner’s eyes bulged wide with surprise and fear.

“Shhhhh,” said Roof. “Shhhh. Don’t fight it.”

Skinner struggled against the pressure, grasping at Roof’s wrists. Roof responded by leaning on Skinner’s chest with his elbows. He pushed his weight into the dying man, expelling his stored air and his will.

Cyrus Skinner’s grip weakened until his hands slipped to the ground. His kicking feet slowed, twitched, and then stopped. The look of fear melted into one of resignation and acceptance. Like that, one of the most feared men in the western Cartel territory was dead.

Roof ran his fingers across Skinner’s open eyes, sliding the lids shut. “I always figured it’d be the cigarettes that killed you,” he said and used Skinner’s body to push himself to his feet.

He turned back to the men gathered at the Humvee. “Men,” he called with his hands cupped around his mouth, “come get the weapons from these Dwellers.”

A group of grunts led by Dalton marched forward. While the others spread out in search of long guns, Grat Dalton stopped at Skinner’s body. “I didn’t hear a gunshot,” he said. “How’d you do it?”

Roof wiped his hands on his thighs and reached over to grab his rifle. “I didn’t want to waste the ammunition,” he said. “We need every bullet we’ve got.” He shot Dalton a look and stared at the grunt expressionlessly for a moment before walking past him toward the Humvee. “Sometimes you need to be careful what you wish for.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

OCTOBER 26, 2037, 5:01 AM

SCOURGE +5 YEARS

PALO DURO CANYON, TEXAS

“It’s time to go,” Battle was saying before he stuck his head into Lola’s tent. “Paagal wants us at the narrow entry point.”

Lola was sitting cross-legged on the ground, eating a slice of cucumber. Sawyer was trying to squeeze his feet into his shoes.

Battle pointed at the boy but looked at Lola. “Where’s he going?”

“With us.”

Battle shook his head and stepped fully inside the tent. “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t think that’s—”

“He’s going,” said Lola.

“We’re going to be at the entry to the canyon,” Battle said. “He’s a kid. It’s going to be way too dangerous.”

Sawyer stood and wiggled his foot into the shoe. “I can handle it,” he said.

“He can handle it,” said Lola, pushing herself to her feet. “He’s grown up surrounded by danger. Besides, I’m not leaving him here.”

Battle shrugged. “I was just—”

“You were trying to tell me what to do with my son,” she said. “I’m not letting him leave my side. I lost him once. That’s not happening again.”

Battle raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay,” he relented. “He’s coming with us.”

Lola stepped to Battle and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said, patting his chest and sliding past him out of the tent.

“Ew,” said Sawyer. The boy rolled his eyes before they hardened into a glare. “I’m not a kid, Mr. Battle. Not anymore.”

Battle smirked and followed the boy from the tent into the predawn morning. They had three hours until sunrise. According to recon posse boss Frank Canton, the Cartel’s onslaught would begin at some point in the next one hundred and eighty minutes.

The tent city on the canyon’s floor was abuzz with activity. Men and women prepared themselves for the defense of the homes. Most of them were armed with long guns. Some carried crossbows and wore bolt-filled quivers across their backs. Others had knives or swords.

Battle surveyed the surreality of the scene playing out before him. It was as if he were caught in a medieval film. He half expected a knight in black armor to ride past him en route to a jousting tournament.

Battle told Lola and Sawyer to wait for a moment and ducked into his tent. He emerged with two rifles, both of them roughly identical to the HK he’d taken with him to the rim. The Dwellers to whom they’d previously belonged were dead.

He held one in each hand and extended his arms to the mother and son duo. “Take these,” he said, his warm breath visible in the cold morning air. “You’ll need them.”

A smile spread across Sawyer’s face. He took the weapon by its fore stock with a strong grip and tested its weight in his hand.

Lola took her weapon with less gusto. “Thanks,” she said. “Got a name for this one?”

Battle pursed his lips to one side of his mouth. “Aldo.”

Lola shifted the weapon to her other hand. “Aldo?”

“Main character in an old Quentin Tarantino flick.”

“Who?” asked Sawyer.

Battle motioned for them to start walking. “He was a movie director,” he said. “All of his movies were comically violent.”

“Not sure I like the name, then,” said Lola, sniffing at the cold.

Battle shook his head, thinking about the film in which actor Brad Pitt played the fictional World War II Army lieutenant. “Aldo was a bad dude,” said Battle, “and I mean bad in a good way. He was one of the heroes.”

Sawyer squeezed his way between his mom and Battle as they moved. “I wanna see it,” he said. “I’ve never seen a movie. I’ve seen a couple of old television shows, but never a movie.”

“When we make it to the other side of the wall,” said Battle, “we’ll find a copy. I’m sure it exists somewhere. Somebody will be able to find us a download.”

Sawyer skipped ahead and walked backward, carefully maneuvering his way along an aisle of tents. “What should I name my rifle?”

Battle looked at Lola, who gave him a warning shot with her eyes. He sighed. “Let me think on that.”

“Something good,” said Sawyer, his mind distracted for the moment from the brutal reality of what lay in front of them. “Make it something good.”

Battle led Lola and Sawyer through the maze of Dwellers. They reached the far edge of the encampment, clearing their way past the last of the tents. All three of them were outfitted with light packs that contained extra ammunition, folding knives, rations, and rudimentary first aid supplies. They also carried canteens.

They walked quietly amongst the flow of other well-armed Dwellers on their respective paths to war. Sawyer uncapped his canteen and pulled a long swig, losing some of the precious liquid from the corners of his mouth.

Battle pressed his finger against the wet spot spreading across the collar of Sawyer’s shirt. “You’re going to want to save that. Sip it. Don’t guzzle. Just enough to wet your whistle. It’s going to be a long day.”

“Or days,” added a Dweller slogging in the same direction. “Who knows how long we’ll have to fight to keep them at bay?”

He was middle-aged, like Battle, but he was thinner and taller. His eyes were sunken with disappointment. His mouth appeared stuck in a permanent frown. The rifle he carried against his shoulder was as big around as the arm holding it.