Wall: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 3) (26 page)

SCOURGE +5 YEARS

PALO DURO CANYON, TEXAS

Battle turned in time to see the first of the grunts pulling himself onto the top of the hoodoo. He waited for the man’s head to emerge and pulled the trigger.

“Get the ropes!” he yelled to the other Dweller still surviving atop the rock. “They’re coming up the ropes!”

Sawyer bounded from the curve in the rock and met Battle at the edge of the hoodoo. “I’m helping.”

Battle didn’t argue. He needed the help. He cursed himself for not having thought about pulling up the ropes. It was another unsoldier-like blunder he’d committed in the last two weeks. All that preparation…

Battle lay down on his stomach, reached over the edge of the rock, and tugged on one of the ropes they’d affixed to a series of climbing anchors. Each rope was connected through a pair of carabiners that extended to a trip of metal anchors jammed into vertical cracks running along the face of the canyon wall adjacent to the top of the hoodoo.

The rope was taut as he tugged. Someone else was climbing it. Battle extended his torso farther over the edge and met the grunt’s eyes with his. Battle pulled back and grabbed his rifle. He slid back to the edge on one knee and aimed the weapon straight down, bracing himself for the recoil, and applied pressure to the trigger. The unfortunate grunt ceased being a threat.

Battle dropped his weapon and began pulling the rope upward. Hand over hand, he looped it over his shoulder. Finished, he dropped the coil to the rock and moved to the second of four ropes.

***

Sawyer scurried to the edge and laid down his rifle. He studied how Battle positioned himself and mimicked him, leaned over, and grabbed the rope. He yanked it, but it didn’t give. He looked over the side and saw the top of a man’s head about halfway up the rope. Sawyer looked back at his weapon and then over at Battle, who was using his. He saw the kick of the weapon and knew he couldn’t handle it. He’d lose his balance.

He looked over the edge again and the man was looking up at him. Sawyer’s eyes narrowed and he focused on the man’s face. It was familiar. He knew him.

Dalton!

Sawyer felt a rush of adrenaline. His heart beat against his chest. He backed away from the edge and freed his pack from his shoulders, rummaged through its contents, and pulled out a folding utility knife. He slid back to edge and grabbed the taut nylon rope with one hand while he began sawing with the other.

The rope was thick, its outer coating protective of the threaded, stretchable cords underneath the shell. Sawyer ran the smooth blade back and forth, his eyes darting between the rope and the climbing grunt, who’d hurried his pace.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Dalton slid up the rope faster and faster. “Kid,” he said, breathlessly, “I know you. You know me. Don’t do this.”

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Sawyer took his eye from the blade to look at Dalton and sliced his finger. He winced and tried to ignore the pulsing pain as he worked through the rope, blood trickling down the rope.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

He was halfway there.

Dalton grunted and shimmied closer to the top. His hands were no more than five feet away.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

The rope unwound and snapped looser. Dalton felt the give and yelled at Sawyer, “Stop it, kid. Stop it now!” His face grew dark and angry.

Sawyer started sawing at a new point in the weakened cord.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

His swipes at the rope were shorter and shorter and he worked the blade faster and faster across the fibers.

“I’m gonna reach you, kid,” Dalton growled through his clenched jaw. “I’m gonna grab your throat and yank you over the edge.” He shimmied up another foot and extended his reach.

Sawyer backed away from Dalton’s outstretched hand but kept at his job.

And then it snapped.

Dalton reached at the moment the rope gave way. His fingernails clawed the back of Sawyer’s hand as he fell, screaming for help until he hit the ground with a crack.

***

Battle reached Sawyer as the rope snapped. He watched the grunt, still holding the rope with one hand, fall backward, landing awkwardly on the ground below.

Battle pulled the boy from the edge with his free hand. “Good job,” he said. “Now help me with the next one.”

The other Dweller had coiled the third rope and was working on the fourth. Battle stood to the side, shouldered the rifle, and pulled the HK’s trigger twice, knocking loose both the grunts trying to climb the remaining rope.

As he wound the last of the cord onto the rock, the Dweller seized, grabbed his side, and toppled over, tangled in the rope.

Battle moved to his side and checked the wound. It wasn’t good. The Dweller had two large, leaking holes at his ribcage. The man was already coughing up blood.

Battle stood above him and tapped his trigger once. “As far as the East is from the West,” he said, “so far has He removed our transgressions from us.”

“Why did you do that?” Sawyer asked.

“He was dying,” Battle said flatly. “I put him out of his misery.” He put his hand on the boy’s back and patted it. “It was the right thing to do.”

“What now?”

“We keep fighting,” Battle said. He looked over his shoulder and to the right. Some of the grunts had gotten past the first wall of Dwellers and were pushing ahead. The canyon was bathed in the yellow glow of sunrise, and his vision was much improved in the early daylight. He scanned the battlefield below and gave the plateau opposite the hoodoo a glance before assessing the strength of the next wave at the dogleg.

He caught something odd on the plateau that didn’t register at first until he’d moved past it. He looked back. Standing atop the plateau was Lola. Directly behind her, holding a gun to her head, was a bearded, ponytailed man. It was Roof. He was staring directly at him as if he’d been patiently awaiting Battle’s acknowledgement.

Roof’s left arm was wrapped around Lola’s chest, holding her tightly against him. Lola was gripping his arm with both hands.

Battle froze for a moment then turned to Sawyer. He pointed to the dogleg, trying to keep the boy from looking back to the plateau. “I need your help.”

Sawyer’s eyes brightened with a new responsibility and he nodded with enthusiasm.

Battle pointed his finger at Sawyer’s chest. “Now listen, I’m going down there to get reinforcements up here. Once I’ve slid down the rope, you yank it back up.”

Sawyer’s excitement diminished, but he nodded his understanding. “Okay.”

“Then you get over to that niche in the rock, make yourself as small as you can, and wait for me. You’ll be safe up here. Nobody will be able to reach you.”

Sawyer looked back at the rock and then to Battle with a dour look on his face. “How will you get back up here if there’s no rope?”

Battle sighed. “We’ll figure it out,” he said. “I’ll send you a signal.”

“What kind of signal?”

“I don’t know. You’ll know it when you see it.”

Sawyer nodded, seemingly placated by the vague response. The truth was, Battle had no idea how he’d get back up the hoodoo or what kind of signal he’d send if need be.

As it was, he had to navigate the fight on the canyon floor to cross the passage and climb his way to Lola. And Roof.

***

General Roof stared across the passage at the man who’d saved his life. He’d watched him kill a handful of grunts and callously drill a bullet into the head of a dying Dweller. He was the Marcus Battle he remembered. He was the Marcus Battle who’d staved off the Cartel for a half-decade and then survived the Jones as few men had.

He’d waited patiently for Battle to find his glare, using his superior strength to hold the woman in place. He didn’t care about her. It didn’t matter to him if she lived or died. She was a means to an end. Roof needed to deal with Battle face-to-face, and she was a serendipitous find to facilitate exactly that.

Roof scanned the rim. Even in the daylight he couldn’t see the reinforcements he’d expected. Something had gone wrong. He looked to the dogleg and saw little push from incoming waves of men. Their offensive was failing.

“He’s going to kill you,” said Lola. “You’re going to die here, and the Cartel is going to die with you.”

Roof chuckled and used his arm to lift her feet off the ground. He arched his back, totally controlling her as she struggled against his arm. She dug her nails into his skin and dragged them downward.

“We’re all going to die,” he said and dropped her feet back to the rocky surface of the plateau. “It’s a matter of when.”

“Look at the passage,” Lola taunted. “You’re losing. You can’t win. You didn’t realize how strong the Dwellers’ resistance would be, did you?”

Roof looked across the canyon. Battle was lowering himself into the passage on a rope. His legs were wrapped around the nylon and he used one hand to guide himself. He held a rifle in the other and had it pressed against his hip as he descended. Roof couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw Battle fire the weapon one handed as he dropped.

“You’re losing,” Lola repeated and jammed her elbow into Roof’s solid gut.

He flinched but didn’t lose his hold. “You’re gonna have to be okay with staying here until your boyfriend arrives,” said Roof. “Then you can go. Then you watch both of us die.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

OCTOBER 26, 2037, 7:45 AM

SCOURGE +5 YEARS

PALO DURO CANYON, TEXAS

Juliana Paagal emerged from her tent into the chill of the early morning sunrise. She didn’t feel the cold. She was warm with power.

At her ear was the satellite phone. Call after incoming call brought with it astonishing news. With rare exception, the Cartel was folding. What she expected to be a long, brutal war might be over by lunch.

“What about the north rim?” she asked. “What’s their status?”

Her scouts had performed admirably. Throughout the night, across the territory, they’d alerted her of awaiting squads of advancing Cartel caravans.

They’d ambushed them where they were outnumbered, fought them hand to hand when they were evenly matched, and slaughtered the grunts and their bosses when Dwellers had the advantage.

Paagal thanked the caller and folded the sat phone’s antenna. She slipped it into her pocket and turned to the operator. He’d kept her company since her security team died on the rim. They were walking to the tent enclave, ready to deliver good news to the elderly, the women, and the children who’d stayed out of the fray.

“We’ve timed this perfectly,” she said to him. “Austin is beginning to acquiesce now. In a matter of hours, we will have control of everywhere behind the wall except Lubbock.”

“Everywhere, huh?”

“One glitch,” she admitted. “Something happened in Houston. Our cell successfully killed the general there. Then three of the leaders, the people who’d put the plan together, all died. We think the general’s wife flipped on us.”

“She’s one woman,” said the operator. “What does it matter?”

Paagal stopped and shoved the operator in the arm. “What does it matter?”

The operator shrugged as if the question were rhetorical.

“Battle is one man,” she said. “Look at what he did. He created enough of a ripple in the water that it distracted the Cartel from the storm that was coming. If we find her, we can’t let her live.” She resumed walking toward the tent city. “Come to think of it,” she added. “I don’t think we should let Battle live either.”

The operator stopped in his tracks as Paagal kept walking. She sensed he wasn’t next to her and turned around. “What?”

“Why would you do that? He’s helping us. You promised him safe passage beyond the wall.”

“I don’t trust him psychologically,” said Paagal. “He’s got issues.”

The operator laughed incredulously and ran his fingers through his beard. “We’ve all got issues. We’re living in a wasteland. The Scourge killed two out of every three people we knew. Cut him a break.”

Paagal marched back to the operator, her mouth pursed with frustration. “I don’t need your opinion, I need your obedience. I need everyone’s obedience as we rebuild the territory into something better. Battle doesn’t fit.”

“He’s not going to be here,” said the operator. “He wants to live north of the wall, outside of the territory. He’s no threat to you.”

Paagal huffed and spun on her heel. “Enough,” she said without turning around. “I need to speak with the invalids.”

She walked with purpose toward the tent city, reluctantly considering what the operator was suggesting. Perhaps Battle wouldn’t be a threat. Maybe he’d move across the wall and stay there. If he did, he’d be their problem. Instead of challenging the Dwellers’ new order, he’d spend his days and nights exasperating those trying to maintain a tenuous sense of calm on a much larger scale.

Paagal had watched Battle work. He was an enigma. She’d seen him ruthlessly maim and kill. She’d seen him reveal remarkable empathy for that woman Lola and the boy Sawyer. She’d overheard him talking to himself, though the conversations sounded as though he believed the voices she concluded were in his head were, in his world, real and tangible.

Before the Scourge she’d treated patients who suffered from what were typically called auditory hallucinations. They were signs of psychosis and indicative of someone who had trouble distinguishing reality from fiction.

Battle, she was convinced, was teetering on the edge of schizoaffective disorder, if he hadn’t already plunged headfirst into that surreality. He presented with so many of the symptoms beyond the hallucinations. He was moody, bordering on depression. He was a loner for years and was uncomfortable playing well with others.

She did consider the possibility that the loneliness begat the depression and the need for a connection with people, real or imagined. Maybe it wasn’t psychosis. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism.

By the time she’d reached the first of the tents, Paagal made up her mind. It didn’t matter why Battle was the way he was. She didn’t care about the cause. She cared about the effect. He was a loose cannon, psychotic or not. He would not stay on the other side of the wall. The pull of his home was too great. He’d come back. She’d need to deal with him.