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

  The overnight storm had passed, leaving behind clear skies and an intermittent breeze that curled through the valley. Battle shivered against the chill and stuffed his hands into his pockets. He was impressed with the garden. It was maybe a quarter acre in size and irrigated with PVC pipe and drip hoses that ran from a metal cistern at the edge of the plot. The rain from the night before was a bounty.

  Fall plantings were ready for harvest, and Lola had volunteered to help. She was working with three other Dwellers combing through the vines and stalks. Sawyer trailed behind her, looking for cucumbers she might have missed.

  There was a brightness, a sparkle even, in her eyes Battle had never seen. She seemed happy. Her limp was gone, her red hair soaked up the bright overhead sunlight. Battle’s eyes were magnetically drawn to her.

  “You should tell her what you’re thinking,” Sylvia’s voice whispered. “It would be good for you.”

  Battle closed his eyes and inhaled. “I’m not telling her anything,” he told the voice in his head. He set his jaw; his shoulders tensed.

  Sylvia wouldn’t relent. “I’ve told you,” she said, her voice filling Battle’s head. “You need someone. You’ll lose yourself otherwise.”

  “I’ve already lost myself. I killed an unarmed man for no good reason last night. I’m not praying. My faith…”

  “My faith in you is as strong as it’s ever been,” Sylvia said, and another voice joined the conversation.

  “Mine too.” It was Wesson. “Dad,” he said, “she’s got a son. He needs a man like you to help him. He doesn’t have a dad to show him things.”

  Battle shivered again. It wasn’t the breeze running through him. It was his son’s voice, as clear as if Wes were standing in front of him with his tiny arms wrapped around his legs. Battle could smell the baby shampoo in the wind.

  His lips curled into an unexpected smile as he thought about Sylvia’s insistence that Wes use baby shampoo even after he’d protested that it was for babies. She’d explained it was healthier than other chemical-laden shampoos. Both Wes and Marcus had known it was really because it was the only way she could hold on to the vestiges of their only child’s infancy.

  Battle chuckled and leaned into the cottonwood with his shoulder, his eyes focused on some nebulous distance. “You hated that shampoo,” he said. “It did smell good, though.”

  A third voice entered the internal conversation. “Battle?” It was a woman’s voice. “Battle? Are you okay?”

  Battle shook his head into reality. Lola was standing inches from him, her eyes narrowed with concern.

  He cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah,” he said, blinking Lola into focus. “I’m fine. Why?” He stood up straight and folded his arms across his chest.

  Lola took a half step toward him and switched the basket from one arm to the other. “You were doing that thing again,” she said softly. “You were in another world, talking to yourself.”

  Battle looked at his boots. They were caked with the red mud of the canyon floor. His face flushed. He flinched at Lola’s touch as she put her hand on his arm and squeezed gently.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “It doesn’t bother me, but the others were looking at you. I don’t want them looking at you.”

  Battle looked up and over Lola’s shoulder. The others had returned to their harvesting duties. Only Sawyer was staring back at him. Battle offered a weak smile at the boy and then caught Lola’s gaze.

  “I don’t care what they think,” he said. “We won’t be here long.”

  Lola stepped back and shifted the basket, leaning it against her hip. “We won’t? What is it you’re not telling me?” She looked over her shoulder at the Dwellers and back again.

  “A war is about to start,” he said under his breath. “The Dwellers are ready to fight. I’m pretty sure the Cartel is too.”

  Lola’s gaze intensified. “How do you know this?”

  “A couple of ways,” Battle said. “Paagal is hell-bent on getting rid of the Cartel. She’s got spies in every major city who are ready to strike.”

  “And the Cartel?” she pressed, her eyes searching his for the answer. “How would you know what they’re planning?”

  Battle scratched his forehead. “Charlie Pierce was one of them,” he said. “He was feeding information to them. He killed a Dweller last night. I killed him.”

  Lola’s mouth dropped open, her arms fell to her sides, and the basket dropped to the ground. The cucumbers rolled out into the dirt. “Pierce?” Tears pooled in her eyes. Her lips quivered. “We can’t escape. No matter where we go. We can’t escape.”

  Battle wanted to throw his arms around her. He wanted to comfort her and promise her they would escape, they would find a place beyond the reach of the Cartel and the grip of the evil that had the world in its clutches. He tried to will himself to listen to Sylvia and Wesson and give in to his evaporating need for human contact, for an emotional connection.

  Instead, he adjusted the Sig Sauer tucked into his waistband and offered her a choice. “We have options,” he said and knelt down to help gather the vegetables back into the basket.

  Lola pulled her lower lip behind her teeth and bit down as she joined him on the ground. She slid the basket toward her feet.

  He tossed a trio of cucumbers into the basket and held up his index finger. “We can leave now,” he said. “You, Sawyer, and me. We can find our way to the wall and get to the other side.”

  “Or?”

  He held up a second finger. “We stay and fight. We beat back the Cartel. Paagal helps us get to the other side.”

  They both stood. Lola wiped the corners of her eyes with her knuckle and folded her arms across her chest. She’d closed her mouth and was chewing the inside of her lip.

  “Paagal says there are scavengers out there along the wall,” Battle added. “We could probably use her help.”

  Lola took in a deep breath and pushed it out through puffed cheeks. Her entire body appeared to deflate. “We need to fight,” she said. “These people helped us. We fight; then we leave.”

  Battle imperceptibly tilted his head in surprise and then pulled his shoulders back. Her resolve was empowering. She wasn’t the same defeated woman he’d met thirteen days earlier.

  “I agree,” Battle said. “We fight. Then we find the wall.”

  “What’s on the other side of the wall?” Sawyer had snuck up on them. Battle hadn’t seen the boy approach.

  “That’s a really good question,” said Battle. “I don’t know.”

  Sawyer took the basket from his mother and held it for her. “What if it’s worse than this side of the wall?” he asked. “What if we have it better here than there?”

  Lola bristled. “I don’t know what could be worse than living under the Cartel,” she snapped, her eyes flashing with a bolt of anger before filling with sadness. “You know the things I’ve done to keep us alive.”

  Sawyer recoiled and stepped back from Lola, seemingly surprised by her reaction. “I was just saying—”

  “We know,” said Battle softly. “It’s a fair question, Sawyer. We could be jumping from the frying pan into the proverbial fire. We can’t live here.”

  Sawyer’s eyes darted between his mother and Battle. “Why not?”

  Battle didn’t have an answer for Sawyer. He couldn’t rationalize to a thirteen-year-old why they couldn’t stay in the canyon with the Dwellers. He knew instinctively this was not the place for them.

  He’d lived in environments like this before: pockets of resistance trying to overthrow powerful despots. If the insurgency failed, they’d die or live in fear of dying under conditions worse than those in which they’d previously lived. If it succeeded, the insurgents would rule a fractured state. At best, they’d restore a wire-thin order to a lawless land. At worst, the power vacuum created by the fall of the suppressive dictator would give rise to new, more violently desperate factions fighting to control the new world. It was best not to be on the southern side of th
e wall when that happened.

  Battle stepped to Sawyer and put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “We can’t,” he said. “We just can’t.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  OCTOBER 25, 2037, 1:45 PM

  SCOURGE +5 YEARS

  HOUSTON, TEXAS

  Ana rocked in the chair, rolling her toes forward and back on the cold wood-planked floor as she comforted her daughter. Ana’s blouse was unbuttoned from having breast fed, and the child gripped her open collar. The child cooed and burped into her mother’s neck.

  Ana closed her eyes as she rocked. Back and forth. Back and forth. The movement was soothing to the child. For her, it was the equivalent of anxiously pacing. Her mind was swimming with regret.

  She never should have agreed to join the Dwellers. She never should have agreed to do the things they’d asked of her. She never should have had this child.

  A wave of guilt washed over her as that last thought played itself over and again in her mind. She pulled her hand from the child’s back and caressed her head. Her black hair was so soft. It was curly and had grown across the top of her head. Ana nuzzled the baby and inhaled her aroma before placing a kiss right behind her ear.

  Penny was the child’s name. She was beginning to socialize, to understand phrases, and babble. Ana knew it would only be a few weeks before Penny walked. She was already wobbling from table to table, chair to chair.

  She was as striking a child as her mother was a woman. Large, inviting brown eyes, light brown skin. Anyone who saw her was drawn to her as if her aura invited them closer.

  Ana was cursed with the same gift. It was why the Dwellers recruited her. They knew the task that they’d assigned was suited for her. She’d succeed, they’d told her.

  So far, she had.

  She shifted Penny from one shoulder to the other and gently rubbed her back until she sensed the baby falling asleep. Penny’s head was resting in her mother’s neck; a soft gurgle tickled her mother with each breath.

  Ana stopped rocking and tried to button her blouse with one hand without waking Penny. She’d completed one of the three when a voice in the doorway startled her.

  “You don’t have to button up on account of me,” said the tall, weathered man leaning against the frame. A smile snaked across his face and he winked.

  Ana jumped at the sound of his voice, managing not to wake the baby. She pulled her finger to her lips. “When did you get home?” she whispered.

  The man strode into the nursery as if he owned it, because he did. His boots thumped on the floor as he stepped toward Ana and Penny. He reached the rocker and stroked the baby’s head.

  “She’s sleeping,” said Ana. “It’s not often I can get her to take a lunchtime nap. She’s outgrowing them.”

  The man’s hand moved to Ana’s face and he gently touched her cheek. He towered above her, his chin at his chest as he looked down at her. He slid his hand inside her open blouse, trailing his fingers across her body. His unblinking eyes were affixed to hers.

  “Why are you home?” Ana pressed. She didn’t dare remove his hand.

  The man pulled his hand from her skin and raised his finger to his lips. He motioned to the crib before reaching for the child. He took Penny, cradled her, kissed her forehead, and then slowly lowered her into the bed. He looked back at Ana and nodded toward the door.

  Ana stood from the rocker and buttoned her blouse. She tiptoed from the room and met the man in what he liked to call “the settin’ room.” He’d already found the worn easy chair and had his feet up on the ottoman. His arms were perched on the chair’s wide arms. She moved to the loveseat opposite him.

  The decidedly masculine décor of the room, complete with a buck’s head above the encased gas fireplace, preexisted their having moved into the large townhouse. It was among the nicer remaining homes near what used to be downtown Houston. It was an area north of the central business district called Midtown.

  He’d picked the house, displacing another family, when Ana had agreed to move in with him. She didn’t have a choice, really. She was carrying his child and cohabitation was part of the plan.

  “What’s for lunch?” he asked. “You cook me up something in the microwave?”

  “The power’s out again,” she said. “When did you get home?”

  “The gas should work,” he said. “You could make some corn chowder.”

  Ana ran her fingers through her wavy black hair. “I already have some beef broth in the refrigerator,” she said. “I should probably heat that up. It’ll go bad if I don’t.”

  He frowned. “Fine.” He waved her to the kitchen.

  Ana pushed herself to her feet. “When did you get home? I’ve asked you several—”

  “When did you get home?” he called from the chair. His words followed her along the short hallway to the galley kitchen. “Answer me that one.”

  Ana chose to pretend she hadn’t heard his question and opened the refrigerator. The chill was already dissipating. “What was that?” she called. “I couldn’t hear you.”

  “When did you get home?”

  Ana turned on the gas cooktop and flicked a lighter over the burner. It burst into a blue flame and she turned down the heat. “A while ago,” she said. “Maybe eleven o’clock.”

  He appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, swinging himself into the galley. “Where’d you go?” He plucked an apple from the granite countertop and took a large bite. He chewed loudly and used the back of his sleeve to wipe the juice from his chin.

  “Downtown,” she said. Ana couldn’t lie to him. She knew he had her followed when possible. She knew the nanny, a bar wench who was probably more than a nanny to him, would tell him exactly when she left and when she returned.

  “What for?” he asked through a mouthful of Red Delicious.

  “I’d planned on buying more fruit,” she said, stirring the broth into the pot. “But the market was closed.”

  “It’s a Sunday,” he said and crunched another bite. “It’s always closed on Sunday.”

  “I was thinking today was Saturday,” she said. “You don’t usually work outside the house on Sunday. So when you were gone when I woke up this morning, I thought it was Saturday.”

  “Huh.” He tossed the core into the trash bin on the far side of the kitchen and spun to leave. “How long on the broth?” he called as he walked away. “I’m hungry.”

  “Just a few minutes,” she said and peeked into the hall. He’d returned to his chair in the sitting room. She could see his boots on the ottoman.

  Ana ladled herself a bowl of the broth and then opened the freezer. Behind a set of ice trays, she’d hidden the gift Sidney Reilly had given her at the end of their meeting.

  She uncapped the bottle, and the smell of bitter almonds immediately hit her. She pulled the bottle away from her face, holding it at arm’s length, and tapped the contents into the broth. The white crystals, which looked like sugar, dissolved into the liquid immediately.

  She stirred the broth with a wooden spoon until the plain brown soup swirled on its own. She recapped the empty bottle and replaced it in the freezer behind the empty trays.

  “A half a gram of potassium cyanide is likely to kill him within a few days,” Sid had told her. “I gave you two grams. Give him all of it.”

  To mask the acidic taste of the poison, Ana added a healthy dose of chili powder to the broth and waited for it to reach a simmer. She washed her hands in the sink, her hands stiffening from the cold water, and she wiped them on the hand towel lying on the counter. She was careful not to inhale the steam from the broth. Sidney told her that heating the cyanide would create a dangerous gas.

  “It’s almost ready,” she called to him. “You want a beer?”

  “That would be great,” he said. “Some beer, some broth, and then some you.”

  Ana swallowed the sting of bile in her throat as she envisioned giving herself to him again. She’d been able to detach for so long. Once the baby came, the plot thicke
ned, and the rebellion grew closer, it became more difficult to play along. She was afraid he’d begun to sense it. To ward off his suspicions, she’d had to up the ante in ways she’d never enjoyed.

  She found a serving tray in the generous pantry and set his bowl of soup, a bottle of room-temperature beer, a spoon, and a bottle opener on top of it. Ana took in a deep breath and, holding the tray at arm’s length, carried his lunch into the sitting room.

  General Harvey Logan rubbed his hands together and sat forward in the chair when he saw her. He rubbed his bald head and licked his lips.

  “Enjoy,” Ana said to her mark. She handed him the tray, which he set on the ottoman. “It’s a bit spicy,” she added. “If you want another beer, I’ll get it for you.”

  He looked at her warily. “Aren’t you gonna eat? I like it when you eat with me.”

  Ana nodded and spun on her bare heel to go back to the kitchen. “Yes,” she said. “I poured myself a bowl. I’ll go get it now.”

  “I’ll wait for you,” he said and snapped off the top of the beer bottle with the opener. He pointed the bottle at her and took a slug. “Hurry up.”

  Ana’s heart was pounding. She could feel the cold dampness under her arms and at the nape of her neck under her hair. She picked up her bowl and dropped a spoon into it. She cradled it with both trembling hands and found her place on the love seat.

  He swallowed a swig of beer and belched. “You’re shaking,” he said.

  “I’m cold.”

  “Take a sip of the broth,” he ordered. “I’m waiting on you. I gotta be a gentleman and all.” He winked and took a final pull of the beer.

  Ana pulled the spoon to her lips and sipped the warm, salty broth. She took another sip. And another. “It’s good,” she said and looked at his bowl.

  General Logan set the empty bottle on the tray in front of him and cupped the bowl with both hands. He brought it to his lips, tilted the bowl, and downed the soup. The hot liquid streamed down the sides of his face as he drank it.

  “Ahhh,” he said. He plopped the empty bowl onto the tray and smacked his lips. “Whew,” he said. “That’s got a kick, don’t it?” He shook his head like a wet dog and exhaled loudly, his lips flapping.