The Traveler (Book 2): Canyon Read online

  Canyon

  A Post-Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure

  The Traveler Series Book Two

  Tom Abrahams

  A PITON PRESS BOOK

  Canyon

  The Traveler Series Book Two

  © Tom Abrahams 2016. All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design by Hristo Kovatliev

  Edited by Felicia A. Sullivan

  Proofread by Pauline Nolet

  Formatted by Stef McDaid at WriteIntoPrint.com

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

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  OTHER WORKS BY TOM ABRAHAMS

  THE TRAVELER POST APOCALYPTIC/DYSTOPIAN SERIES

  HOME (Book 1)

  THE WALL (Book 3, SUMMER 2016)

  MATTI HARROLD POLITICAL CONSPIRACIES

  SEDITION

  INTENTION (OCTOBER 2016)

  JACKSON QUICK ADVENTURES

  ALLEGIANCE

  ALLEGIANCE BURNED

  HIDDEN ALLEGIANCE

  PERSEID COLLAPSE: PILGRIMAGE SERIES NOVELLAS

  CROSSING

  REFUGE

  ADVENT

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  EXCERPT FROM WALL: BOOK THREE OF THE TRAVELER SERIES

  “Those to whom evil is done do evil in return.”

  —W.H. Auden, Poet

  CHAPTER 1

  JANUARY 3, 2020, 2:31 PM

  SCOURGE -12 YEARS, 9 MONTHS

  ALEPPO, SYRIA

  The IED ruptured without warning, blasting pieces of pipe, shards of glass, ball bearings, red fur, and carpenter screws into three of the six soldiers on patrol near Abdul Wahhab Agha Hospital on the city’s western edge.

  The concussion blew Captain Marcus Battle from his feet, slapping the back of his helmet on the cratered pavement of Assultan Suliaman Alqunoony Avenue. He was dazed, a sharp ringing in his ears overpowering his thoughts.

  For an instant, as he stared into the cloudless pale blue sky, he thought he was in Killeen, lying in the grass with Sylvia. Almost as quickly as the delusion formed, it evaporated. The muted sounds of shrieks and pained screams accompanied the high-pitched tone of the ringing.

  He rolled over onto his side, facing the spot where the tattered Elmo doll had exploded. Two of his comrades were on their feet, tending to what was left of the other three. Then he saw one of them spasm. He shuddered, his head snapped backward, and he went limp in a spray of red.

  The second soldier dropped to his chest, quickly engaging his HK416 rifle, thumping random targets as he searched for the source of the gunfire and took two shots in his left leg.

  Battle, still dazed, rolled over and found his HK416 on the ground next to him. He dragged it into position, pulled himself to one knee, and started firing.

  He couldn’t hear and could barely focus, he didn’t know who was dead or alive, but he stood and started moving toward the gunfire. Bullets whizzed past his head and ricocheted off the ground around him. He took one in the side that slugged his Kevlar. It knocked him back for a second and felt like a thick punch to his gut. Battle kept moving forward, fully exposed, until he emptied the thirty-round magazine and found some protection behind the overturned charred frame of a pickup truck.

  “Battle!” the wounded soldier called during a momentary lapse in gunfire. He’d managed to find adequate protection behind a concrete road barrier, having dragged himself there with one good leg. “I’m pinned. The others are gone. Get out of here. Try to find us help.”

  Battle couldn’t hear him. The dog whistle piercing his ears hadn’t subsided. At least his vision was clearing. He exchanged magazines and looked through the holes in the truck’s frame. Behind him was a three-story building. Most of the windows were shattered or cracked, but he couldn’t tell from which spot the sniper was taking shots. Battle looked back toward his patrol partner. It was only a matter of minutes and he’d be dead. He couldn’t leave him.

  Battle, his back pressed against the underside of the truck frame, said a prayer and spun around free of the truck. He aimed up at the building and pulled the trigger, releasing a quick burst for cover. He dashed across a short field of debris to the building’s entrance and bolted through. He found himself inside a narrow concrete stairwell that stank of urine.

  Battle bounced up the first flight of stairs, and feeling the vibration of gunfire against the stair rail, he knew it was coming from a higher floor. He pressed his eyes closed against a searing headache and clenched his jaw as he climbed the second flight of steps. He stood still and felt the vibrations of the gunfire, unable to distinguish from which direction they were coming.

  He was about to move to the third floor when, through the ringing, he heard a garbled, guttural-sounding discussion between two men. They were on the second floor. No doubt.

  Battle stood to the left of the door, his back against the wall, and with his left hand pulled on the handle to swing the door wide open. He guessed he had maybe twenty-five rounds left in the magazine. He took a deep breath, spun the handle, and moved into the open doorway with his HK416 leveled at whatever waited on the other side.

  Nobody was there. It was an empty hallway. It was dark, except at the far left end. From the corner of his eyes, he saw movement in that light. An open door led to the two men unleashing the barrage onto his fellow soldier.

  The men were preoccupied with reloading what looked to Battle like a Kalashnikov AK-103-4. One of them was pacing back and forth with a pair of binoculars. He was pointing wildly and yelling at the other man, who was manually loading a new clip. That explained the long pauses between volleys. Behind them was a window devoid of glass and an armoire pressed up against it they were using for cover.

  This was his chance.

  Battle took another deep breath and took off in a full sprint. As he bounded along the hallway, yelling at the top of his lungs, he tapped the trigger.

  Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!

  The spotter turned to face Battle as the bullets slapped into his chest. He dropped the binoculars and stumbled backward. Battle pressed the trigger again as he reached the open doorway.

  Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!

  The second volley found the man’s neck, throwing him against the corner of the room in a violent heap. Battle burst into the room, shifted his momentum, and slid toward the dead spotter. To his right, the shooter was still on one knee, trying to engage the magazine. He was too late. Battl
e held down the trigger.

  Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!

  The bullets tore through the shooter, rattling his body as they knocked him onto his back. Battle lowered his weapon, aiming it directly at the shooter’s head, and tapped the trigger for good measure.

  Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!

  Battle checked the rest of the room, which he figured was once a dorm room for the medical school or nearby university. There was a mattress on the floor. A desk was on its side. The bullet-riddled armoire blocked half of the open-air window. On top of it, Battle saw what looked like a crude detonator. He looked to his right. The wall was adorned with Arabic graffiti he couldn’t read and bullet holes he imagined were from return fire.

  Battle pinched the bridge of his nose and loosened his helmet’s chin strap. The ringing was subsiding. He could hear yelling from across the street, but he resisted the urge to move to the window. It could subject him to friendly fire.

  He fished around the back of his neck for his earpiece and found it, plugging it into his right ear. He pushed the button on his comms. It didn’t work. So he yelled from inside the building, hoping his voice would carry far enough.

  “This is Battle! All clear! Threat neutralized!”

  “Battle, this is Buck. I’m injured. Need assistance.”

  Buck. Rufus Buck. That was who survived. The men liked him. He was a natural leader. He was a fellow Texan, though he wasn’t one of Battle’s favorite people. He didn’t always adhere to the rules of engagement, as they were. He liked to bend them in his favor. Still, he was American, he was a soldier, and he needed help.

  “On my way.” Battle cleared the room, found his way back down the stairwell, and maneuvered through smoking debris into the street.

  He crossed the crumbling asphalt to its opposite side, for the first time seeing the full impact of the IED Elmo. Bile rose in his throat. He couldn’t distinguish arms from legs or one man from another. Only the names on the ragged, bloodied strips of the digital camouflage uniforms told him who was who.

  “You’re it?” Battle asked Sergeant First Class Buck. He was an enlisted man, an E-7 NCO who didn’t always play well with the commissioned officers who he considered fast-trackers.

  “Roger that.” Buck was still leaning against the concrete barrier. “I don’t know for how much longer, though.”

  Battle stepped to the other side of the barrier and saw the extent of the sergeant’s injuries. He had a tourniquet tied above his knee. Below his knee was a bloody mess. His foot was wonky, turned at an unnatural angle.

  “I’m gonna need your help.” The sergeant was pale, his eyes sunken. Battle knew he’d lost a lot of blood. “I’ve called for help. Nobody’s coming. Our comms are busted.”

  “I know. Can you walk?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Had to ask.” Battle scanned the debris field. “I’m guessing the medic’s kit is gone.”

  “Good guess.”

  Battle put his rifle on the ground and stepped over Buck. “I’m gonna carry you.”

  “You’re what?”

  “We’ve got no choice. I’m gonna put you on my back and carry you back to the checkpoint. Then we can get help.”

  “That’s gotta be an hour away.”

  “At least.”

  “You’re not gonna make it. I’m gonna bleed out.”

  “Give me a better option.”

  “Go get help. Come back for me.”

  “That’ll take too long,” Battle argued. “And clearly, the faction we thought was controlling this part of the city isn’t really in control. You’ll be dead before I get back.”

  Buck was pointing behind Battle with a trembling, blood-soaked finger. “What about that?”

  Battle turned around and saw a small wheelbarrow. It was on its side, its load of rice spilled onto the ground. He ran over and uprighted it, tested the wobbly, loose wheel, and rolled it back to Buck.

  “Hang on a second,” Battle said, moving toward the remains of their fellow soldiers. For all of them, he tugged the dog tags from their necks. He carefully placed one from each set in the mouth of its corresponding soldier. He stuffed the duplicates into his pockets.

  “Let’s give it a go,” Battle said, having completed the morbid but necessary task. He helped Buck into the tray, his injured leg dangling off the side.

  Buck unstrapped his helmet and tossed it to the ground. “All right.” He grimaced. “Let’s do this.”

  CHAPTER 2

  OCTOBER 15, 2037, 4:48 AM

  SCOURGE + 5 YEARS

  ABILENE, TEXAS

  “We’re gonna leave the bodies here?” Lola asked. “Out in the open?”

  Battle looked at his handiwork, his hands on his hips. “Yeah. We don’t have time to drag them outside and bury them.”

  There were four bodies. All of them were grunts who’d overplayed their hands. In a matter of seconds, Battle had unloaded his 9mm Sig Sauer nicknamed McDunnough. They’d never had a chance. Their low-level existence in the Cartel’s hierarchy came to a sudden, bloody end.

  He looked at the glazed, vacant stare frozen into the eyes of one of the grunts, a cheating card shark named Hedgepath, and remembered he hadn’t prayed before pulling the trigger. There hadn’t been time.

  Battle stepped over to the dead man and knelt down, pulled his cowboy hat from his head, and held it to his chest.

  “As far as the east is from the west,” he whispered to himself, “so far has He removed our transgressions from us.” He repeated the brief offering at each of the three remaining bodies.

  “Seriously?” Lola called out. “You’re praying for them?”

  Lola was on the arena floor between the card table and the motor pool.

  “I was praying for myself,” he said. “It’s too late to pray for them.” He put his hat back on his head and reached down to take the weapons the dead men wouldn’t need anymore.

  Lola looked past him at the bodies and then refocused on Battle. She folded her arms across her chest, rubbing her arms with her hands.

  “You cold?” Battle took the last of the grunts’ weapons and walked past her to toss them into the back of the Humvee.

  She shook her head. “No. Just wondering.”

  “What?” He reached the Humvee, placed the weapon inside it, and slammed the driver’s side door of the Humvee shut.

  “How did you do this?”

  “What?”

  Her eyes widened with incredulity and she opened her arms to reference the carnage on the arena floor. “This. How did you kill four men like that? How did you do everything you did at your home?”

  “I dunno.” He shrugged. “I just did.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of bad things,” she said, lowering her voice. “I’ve seen a lot of bad people. They did horrible things. They were horrible people. None of them could do what you do.”

  “I was in the Army,” he answered. “I was—”

  Salomon Pico emerged from a wide vehicle entrance at the far end of the arena, behind the motor pool. “I found the loading exit,” he said. We can get out of here pretty quick. Get our bags from the horses and do what we need to do.”

  “Good,” Battle said. “Let’s go.”

  “Why are we taking this one?” asked Pico. “Why not the box truck? We could carry more. Lola and I could hide.”

  Battle rolled his eyes. “This isn’t a democracy. We’re taking the Humvee because that’s what we’re taking.”

  Pico frowned. “I was just asking. I thought the truck was—”

  Battle waved him silent. “The Humvee is armored. The box truck isn’t. The Humvee is a four-speed automatic. The box truck is a stick. The Humvee has all-terrain, cross-country tires on it. They can go for thirty miles with a flat. The box truck doesn’t and can’t.”

  Pico raised his hands in surrender. “Okay. Okay. Fine,” he huffed. “The Humvee’s better. I get it.”

  “Lola, hop in,” said Battle.
“Pico, you guide me out. I’m driving. Once we clear the building and get to the horses, you’ll drive and I’ll ride in the back. Got it?” Battle climbed into the driver’s seat as Lola buckled herself into the front passenger seat of the desert tan vehicle.

  The Humvee, nicknamed for its High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle designation, was the Army’s workhorse in Syria. For close to fifty years, the United States military and some of its allies had deployed the HMMWV into the worst places on Earth. If he’d attempted to add them up, Battle figured he’d probably spent more hours in a Humvee than he had in any car he’d owned. They were as safe as any personnel carrier available, they were reconfigurable based on the mission, and they could move at a pretty good clip for something that weighed anywhere from six to eight thousand pounds. The official top speed was seventy miles per hour. Battle knew they could exceed that in the right conditions. He hoped he wouldn’t need those conditions.

  He reached to the left side of the dash to the rotary start switch and looked at the three-position switch, turning the key to “run”. A “wait-to-start” lamp above the switch blinked off, and Battle turned the switch to the “start” position. He released the switch lever and it popped back to the “run” position automatically. He waited for the glow plugs to activate, and the six-and-a-half-liter, eight-cylinder turbo engine rumbled to life.

  He looked at Lola. “You ready?”

  “As I’m going to be.”

  Battle shifted into drive and rolled the Humvee toward Pico, who started back toward the wide loading entrance.

  The Humvee was utilitarian and not built for comfort. Despite its wide front compartment, Battle shifted as he would in the worst coach seat in a commuter plane.

  He rode the brake, slowly trailing Pico through the loading entrance and down a slight decline to a concrete ramp. Pico raised his hands, stopping the Humvee short of a large rolling galvanized door. He reached up and tugged on a chain at the side of the door, raising the door as it coiled upward.