The Traveler (Book 2): Canyon Page 15

  It had quickly devolved into a crisis. Lola’s father was one of 326 people who died at a Jacksonville hospital on October 2, 2032. Another 417 died the next day. Within two weeks, the city had fallen into chaos.

  Lola had kept believing they could stay in their home. Everything would work out for the best. It always had. No darkness was too black from which to find the light.

  When a pair of thugs broke into their home, searching for food, and one of them threatened Sawyer at knifepoint, Lola had agreed it was time to leave.

  They’d headed west for Louisiana. Her husband had known of a compound there. It belonged to a doctor friend. He was what her husband called a “prepper”. Lola didn’t really know what that meant. She hadn’t cared. She knew he’d developed a rural piece of land. It had several cabins, was stocked with food and supplies, and was hidden from the outside world. The doctor had offered them refuge.

  It had taken them nearly a week to find it. Others, with less benevolent intentions, had beaten them there. The doctor and his family were dead. The food, however much of it there had been, was gone. Still, they’d hidden in one of the cabins for close to a month, until they’d run out of the supplies they’d brought with them.

  It had only gotten worse from there. Lola, however, had remained hopeful. At least outwardly, she had convinced her family they would find a safe place to call home. The chaos couldn’t last forever, she’d believed. Eventually, they’d return home and begin again. Then her husband died and the optimism began to fade. A viral realism took hold, infecting the hope to which she had so long clung.

  Now, five years later, the transformation was complete. Her son was missing, and her savior was likely dead. Lola looked over at Pico. He was rubbing his fingers on his mustache. It was his tell. He was nervous and afraid.

  “We need to cut west,” he said. “If we stay on this highway, it’ll lead us straight north, away from Lubbock.”

  “If we cut back, aren’t we in danger of getting caught?”

  “Yes. We ain’t got a choice.”

  Lola sighed. They steered the horses from the state highway and onto the dirt. Everything in front of her was gray or brown. The only life she could see was the occasional patch of green weed struggling against the cold.

  “We should head straight at the sun,” Pico said. “It’s west. We’ll eventually hit Highway 84. We’ll turn right; that’ll get us to Lubbock.”

  Lola’s horse seemed to enjoy the soft earth. It was running faster on the dirt. Lola could feel it in the rhythmic bounce of its gallop.

  She tightened her grip on the reins and closed her eyes. The wind, though cold, felt good against her face. It reminded her of the Atlantic sea breeze that chilled Jacksonville Beach in the winter. She pictured her husband, the wind tousling his hair. He had Sawyer on his shoulders, his hands wrapped around their son’s pudgy feet. For a moment, she forgot where she was.

  Pico snapped her from the daydream. “Lola!”

  She opened her eyes and saw Pico pointing behind them. She looked over her shoulder. She blinked twice, hoping what she saw was as much a dream as what she’d envisioned with her eyes closed. It wasn’t.

  There was a cloud of dust and dirt barreling toward them. At least twenty horses were racing in their direction. Atop the horses were armed men.

  “How did they find us again?”

  “I don’t think they’re the same men,” Pico said, sitting up in his saddle to push his horse faster. “They came from the north.”

  Lola kicked her heels into her horse and coaxed the animal to quicken its gait and engage a full gallop. The horse responded, pounding away at the dirt. Lola leaned forward, both of her hands working the reins, keeping pace with Pico.

  Despite their efforts, the posse was catching up. They were running side by side in a long intimidating line of horses moving at breakneck speed. An impressive cloud of dust trailed behind the posse, framing their advance against the otherwise clear sky. Lola tried not to look back at them, but the temptation was irresistible. Each time she peeked, the line was bigger, closer. They’d be on top of them in no time.

  Pico’s face was drawn with worry. He too was forward in his saddle. His horse was snorting as it ran, its majestic head bobbing forward and back with effort. Its dark mane was windswept as it worked against the cold swirl that fought against their advance.

  The dirt gave way to the rich soil of a plotted farm, and Lola’s horse dove straight into seven-foot stalks of ornamental corn ready for harvest. The plants were sown far enough apart for the horse to run clean between the long, tall rows of corn.

  Lola couldn’t see or hear Pico above the rustle of the stalks rushing past. If she sat tall in the saddle, she could see over the top of the tassels adorning the mature green corn silks.

  Thick leaves slapped her in the face when she tried to look behind her. It was a futile effort regardless. She was swamped in the cornfield. All she could see were the stalks. All she could hear was the brushing and snap of crops, the beat of the horse’s hoofs on the soil, and the breathing of the animal.

  Lola turned again to look behind her and saw nothing. She swung her body back to face the front and caught a flash of movement to her right.

  She glanced to her right and saw the flash again. And again. There was someone riding parallel to her. She pressed her knees against the saddle and raised up to look over the tops of the stalks. The western edge of the field still wasn’t visible.

  There was a flash to her left. Someone was on her other side.

  If the rider to the right was Pico, the one to the left most definitely was not. Worse yet, both of them could be Cartel.

  Lola made a snap decision. She slowed her horse a beat and then pulled him hard to the left. She cut south, racing her horse behind where she imagined the Cartel might be. It was a bad miscalculation.

  Her horse, blinded by the thicker density of stalks running north and south, clipped the back end of another animal. The collision sent Lola flying from the saddle. She held onto the reins too long and flipped over the front of the horse, her fall broken by the corn. The horse tumbled too, missing her as it rolled onto its side and slid to a stop.

  By the time Lola pushed herself to her feet, she was surrounded by three grunts on horseback. All of them had their Brownings and leering eyes directed at her.

  One of them slung his leg over his saddle and dismounted. “We got your little man already,” he said. “He ain’t talking. I’m fixin’ to rip that mustache off his lip.”

  So they’d caught Pico.

  Lola tried not to reveal her disappointment. She rubbed the dirt from her cheeks and tried to pull her hair from in front of her eyes. The man yanked her closer to him. His breath was fetid, as if he’d eaten the fertilizer used to grow the corn.

  “We’re looking for the big dude,” he said, the odor hot and nauseating. “They call him Mad Max. You know where we might find him?”

  Lola swallowed, trying to avoid breathing the grunt’s air as he spoke. She processed what he was saying.

  They didn’t have Battle. They believed she could help them find him. That was her only value.

  She tried to pull free of his grasp. He held tight. She gritted her teeth. “I can help you get him.”

  The man narrowed his focus and loosened his grip. “How so?”

  “He’s headed to Lubbock,” she said. “You take me there, I’ll tell you exactly where to find him.”

  He licked his teeth with his tongue and then spat a thick green wad of saliva into the soil. “Why would you do that?” he asked. “You was with him in Abilene. You was helping him there. Now you’re quick to drop him like a hot iron.”

  Lola searched his eyes, piecing together a response. “He left us,” she said. “Just up and left us.”

  “Us?”

  “Me and my friend with the mustache.”

  The grunt laughed. “Salomon Pico? He’s your friend?”

  Lola’s eyes widened with surprise.

/>   “We know who he is,” said the grunt. “He was one of us. He’s a traitor. He ain’t nobody’s friend. Now what you got going with—”

  Lola shook her arm free. “I don’t have anything going with him,” she snapped. “Now either you want our help or you don’t.”

  The grunt shrugged. “I dunno. Not sure what value you got.”

  “I tell you the value I got,” she mocked. “You don’t wear a hat. You’re a grunt. You tell your boss you had me and let me go—”

  “Oh”—he waved his finger at her—“I ain’t letting you go. I’m wondering why I shouldn’t put a bullet in your head right here and be done with it.”

  “Because I can help you find Mad Max,” she insisted. “He won’t suspect me of helping you.”

  The grunt pursed his lips and took a step back. He folded his arms across his chest and rubbed the sparse curls of hair on his chin. He nodded. “All right then,” he said. “We’ll take you to Lubbock. Once we’re there, I’ll let the bosses decide what to do with you.”

  Lola sighed with relief. She was on her way to Lubbock. “What about Pico?” she asked.

  The grunt laughed. “He’s already on the road north. They got plans for him. He ain’t gonna die easy.”

  CHAPTER 25

  JANUARY 3, 2020, 8:00 PM

  SCOURGE -12 YEARS, 9 MONTHS

  ALEPPO, SYRIA

  The shots were coming from all directions. Battle was trapped, pinned down with Buck draped across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. He was holding Buck’s right wrist with his right hand, his back pressed up against the wall of a four-story stone and brick building. The second and third floors jutted outward, creating an overhang that wrapped around the freestanding mid-rise.

  Battle had the nine millimeter in his left hand, but he couldn’t return fire. There was no single good target.

  Someone had spotted him moving in the shadows along the edge of a narrow street that ran north and south parallel to the canal. They’d shouted first and then fired. Battle recognized the discharge as a Chinese version of the AK-47.

  The Type 56, as it was known, was common in the Iranian theatre. It was a leftover from the Iran-Iraq war fifty years earlier. He recognized it by its rapid rate of fire. The Type 56 didn’t have a hammer retarder and allowed for the higher rate.

  The Type 56 was quickly accompanied by a chorus of gunfire. Together it sounded like fireworks. Because of the buildings’ varying constructions and heights, Battle couldn’t pinpoint exactly where the multitude of threats originated.

  Buck was unconscious and his pulse was weakening. Battle could barely feel it in the sergeant’s wrist. There was no way he’d make it the two blocks south needed to cross the bridge to the other side. He couldn’t wait it out either.

  The percussion of gunfire slowed and then stopped. There were men yelling to each other in Arabic. Battle couldn’t decipher it. The echo, the speed with which they spoke, and his exhaustion made it impossible. Regardless, there was a window.

  He shrugged Buck up higher on his shoulders. Between his weight and that of his pack, his sciatic nerve was pinging with a constant pulse of sharp pain. His neck was throbbing. His ribs felt abused. His wounded left arm was tingling as if it was asleep.

  “Now or never,” he mumbled to himself and darted out into the street. He turned south along the street and at the next intersection wove toward the protection of a series of high-rise apartments. He’d advanced maybe one hundred feet without drawing any direct fire.

  From his new position he could see one of the shooters. He was shirtless and standing on the narrow balcony of his third-story apartment. The light in his apartment was on, providing a perfect silhouette of his thin frame. Somehow, he’d missed Battle darting across the street.

  He had a rifle in his hands, its muzzle resting on the wrought-iron railing at the edge of the balcony. The spinning shadow of a ceiling fan hovered behind his head like a rotating halo.

  Battle guessed the target was easily forty yards from him. With his right hand, Battle knew he could hit him from that distance. With his left hand, he wasn’t as confident.

  Add that his sciatic nerve was providing a ridiculous distraction as he planted both feet to evenly distribute his weight, and the odds of a clean hit were greatly diminished. Nonetheless, Battle extended his injured left arm and locked his elbow. He pulled his right hand, along with Buck’s, up under his elbow to brace it. He tilted his head to the left and focused through the iron sights.

  He found the shadowed target backlit against the apartment, exhaled, and fired. It was an impossible shot given the range, the angle, the weapon, and his fatigue.

  Pop! Pop!

  The silhouette swayed and fell forward, his body draped over the balcony. The rifle fell from its perch and rattled into the street below.

  Battle’s shots, however, initiated a newly orchestrated symphony of gunfire. A couple of the shots hit the building against which his body was pressed, though it didn’t seem any of the gunfire was well targeted.

  Against the echo of gunfire, Battle heard a scream and looked up to where the silhouette had stood. There was a second person there, a woman. She was tugging at the dead body, unsuccessfully trying to pull him free of the balcony.

  Her wailing grew louder, and she was waving her hands and crying out in despair before giving up and returning to the apartment. Battle could hear her anguished voice even once she’d disappeared.

  His eyes found the rifle on the street. He looked for signs of others shooters and didn’t see any. Battle tucked the handgun in his waistband, tightened his grip on Buck, and dashed into the street. He quickly squatted and grabbed the rifle. Rather than retrace his steps, he moved directly underneath the balcony on which he killed the silhouetted rifleman. The woman’s shrieks were overhead now.

  He leaned back against the cracked stucco wall and checked the rifle for damage. It was the Type 56 he’d heard earlier. It was fitted with the distinctive slant compensator found on the AK-47. That wasn’t standard to the Type 56. It had an under folding spike bayonet and a chrome-plated bore chamber. He guessed it weighed eight or nine pounds and was easily heavier than his HK416. It had English control markings on it. It was in the F position.

  Battle checked the magazine, which he figured was the midsize box that held thirty rounds. It was half empty.

  He’d seen the weapon demonstrated but had never fired it. He had no concept for how sensitive the automatic trigger might be. Regardless, this was better than the handgun. He suddenly felt better about their chances.

  Battle held the rifle at his side, the muzzle inches from the ground, edging his way along the side of the building, trying to keep himself in the shadows. He reached the nearest intersection and stopped at the corner. He looked to his left, swinging Buck’s body with him, and then looked to his right. He looked back to the left again and a flush of panic washed over him. His pulse quickened. His back tensed again and he shifted his weight to his left leg.

  He closed his eyes and tried to retrace his steps, but all he could think about was that he couldn’t think. He shook his head and focused. Had he passed two east-west intersections or three? Or was it four? It was three. Or four. How far south had he moved? Was he still north of the bridge? He was north of it. No. He’d gone too far. His breathing accelerated.

  In the confusion of the gunfire, despite his efforts to maintain calm, he’d become confused.

  Battle was lost.

  CHAPTER 26

  OCTOBER 15, 2037, 4:20 PM

  SCOURGE + 5 YEARS

  LUBBOCK, TEXAS

  Marcus knew it was a dream. The colors were too bright and his heart too full for it not to be a dream.

  He was with Wesson. They were at the back edge of their property, up early enough to see the sun rise and their breath puff in the morning air before the chill burned off.

  Marcus sipped hot coffee. It was black and strong. He could taste the caffeine and feel it coursing through his veins, e
nergizing him with each careful slurp.

  Sylvia had brewed the pot before they left. She’d also mixed a cup of Swiss Miss for Wesson and poured it into a matching Golden Knights thermos. Wesson insisted they have the same containers, the same hats, the same camouflage bib.

  It was their first hunt together. Wesson was talking incessantly. He was fidgeting, snapping dead branches and crunching leaves in his palms. Marcus had to remind him to keep quiet every couple of minutes.

  “Buddy,” he whispered, wrapping his arm around his son’s narrow shoulders, “we’ve got to be quiet. We don’t want to spook the deer.”

  Wesson nodded like a bobblehead and raised his gloved finger to his lips. He smiled and immediately snapped a dead branch from the sapling next to him.

  Marcus could smell the mesquite, the damp oak, and the dirt when they settled into their blind. He pulled a bolt from the quiver and loaded it into his crossbow. He did the same for Wesson, with a much smaller, lighter weapon, and handed it to him.

  “You remember what I taught you?” he asked, nuzzling beside his son to make sure Wesson was holding the bow correctly.

  The boy nodded and showed his dad the proper form.

  “Now we wait,” said Marcus, his mind knowing full well it was a dream as he sipped the coffee and inhaled the aroma of Arabica mixed with the smoky air of the central Texas woods.

  The two Battles sat there in the blind, enjoying one another’s company, the elder soaking up the sudden maturity of his son, the younger relishing the bonding time with his idol.

  The time came. A young buck appeared behind a fallen oak. It was alone. “Wesson,” Marcus whispered, “you see it?”

  Wesson nodded and drew his bow’s stock to his shoulder. He looked over at his father.

  “The limbs are taut,” Marcus said of the winged bow pieces that held the tension on the bowstrings. “The bolt is in the flight groove. Check your hand on the foregrip.”