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

  Ana sipped another spoonful. “Too much chili powder?”

  “Whew,” he said again and punched his sternum with the side of his fist. “Maybe. How much did you put in it?” Sweat bloomed on his bald head as he stood from the discomfort of his chair.

  Ana took another sip. “Not more than usual,” she said indifferently, unaware of the speed with which she’d killed the father of her child. “Do you want another beer?”

  Harvey Logan, one of three living Cartel generals, stumbled forward. His eyes widened and he gasped. He fell forward, crashing against the wooden table that separated the chair from the love seat.

  Ana shrieked and dropped her soup, splashing it into her lap. She curled her legs behind her, crawling into the back of the love seat.

  General Logan landed on his side, facing Ana. He grabbed his throat and twitched. His arms and legs spasmed. He growled something as white foam frothed from his open mouth.

  Inside Logan’s body, the poison was preventing his ability to use oxygen. His central nervous system, his heart and blood vessels, and his lungs were shutting down as if someone had flipped the switch on an electrical generator. A cell at a time, he was suffocating from the inside out.

  Ana screamed between gasps for air. Her chest heaved and she sobbed with the reality of what she’d done. Harvey Logan was a detestable, violent man. He was responsible for the misery of thousands, but he was human. His bulging eyes and bluish skin were images burned into her memory, an everlasting reminder of her betrayal.

  Ana had done a lot of reprehensible things to survive post-Scourge. Most people had. She’d never killed anyone though. Not until now.

  Her wails and her cries were not for Logan as he dove painfully headfirst into a coma and then died. They were for her own soul. She was a murderer.

  From the nursery, she heard Penny crying. The baby’s wail was piercing and angry. Ana covered her ears with the palms of her hands and squeezed. She pulled her knees to her chest and closed her eyes tight, pressing tears down her cheeks. She buried her head between her knees and rocked.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  OCTOBER 25, 2037, 2:51 PM

  SCOURGE +5 YEARS

  LUBBOCK, TEXAS

  Cyrus Skinner tapped the last cigarette from the pack and slid it between his lips. He crumpled the cellophane-wrapped cardboard in his hand and tossed it to the dirt in front of the Jones.

  “Those things are gonna kill you,” said General Roof. He was leaning against a Humvee.

  “If something’s gonna kill me,” Skinner said, “it might as well be something I love.”

  Skinner tipped his white hat back on his head and looked at the general. Roof wasn’t himself. He appeared preoccupied and unfocused.

  They were on the precipice of a defining moment for the Cartel, and Roof seemed disinterested. Skinner lit the cigarette and sucked in the bitter taste of the tobacco as the paper crackled and burned.

  He blew out the smoke from the corner of his mouth, careful not to direct it at Roof. “What’s going on with you, if I can ask?” said Skinner.

  Roof looked at Skinner sideways and combed his fingers through his beard. “You can ask.”

  Skinner sucked in his cheeks, pinched the smoke, and flicked the ashes onto the ground. He exhaled again. “So then?”

  “I know Marcus Battle.”

  “Mad Max?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I know him too,” said Skinner. “He’s an ornery cuss. True enough, he’s a badass, but he don’t know when he’s beat.”

  Roof’s eyes narrowed. He pouted and shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’ve known him for a long time. Or I knew him is more like it.”

  Skinner played that over in his head. It didn’t make sense. He dropped the cigarette to the ground and ground it into the dirt with the toe of his boot. “I don’t get it.”

  Roof adjusted his shirt collar, pulling it up on the back of his neck. “What’s not to get, Cyrus?” he asked incredulously, looking off into the distance. “I knew him. Marcus Battle. We served together in Syria. He…”

  Roof drifted off, and Skinner wondered where the general’s mind had taken him. He knew Roof had served in Syria. Everybody knew that. Everybody knew that was where he’d killed his first man, his first woman, his first child. They also knew Syria was where Roof almost died. Nobody knew how. That was all conjecture and campfire gossip on long posse rides.

  “He what?” Skinner asked, snapping Roof to the present.

  Roof’s eyes fluttered and he looked over at Skinner. “He saved my life.”

  The look on Skinner’s face must have conveyed the surprise he felt inside, because Roof took a step back and looked at the ground, as if he were ashamed of what he’d revealed.

  Skinner motioned his head toward the stadium. “That why you let him live after the Jones?”

  “Partially,” he said. “I also saw an opportunity to gain access to the canyon.”

  “And he didn’t recognize you?” asked Skinner. “Even after he saved your life and all?”

  “Guess not,” said Roof. “Maybe it’s the hair or the beard. I’ve gained weight. I’ve aged. Who knows?”

  A smirk spread across Skinner’s face. “It makes sense now,” he snarled, judgment oozing from his dry, cracked lips. “That’s why you didn’t want me to kill him. That’s why you wanted him brought to you here.” Skinner shook his head in disgust. He snorted as he inhaled through his nose then spat of thick glob of snot onto the ground. “I wonder what the other generals would think.”

  Roof’s jaw tightened and his shoulders squared. He stepped to Skinner and stuck his finger into the captain’s chest. “You best watch yourself, Cyrus.” He poked. “Don’t forget your place.”

  Skinner held his ground, forcing Roof’s finger to bend against the weight. “I ain’t forgot nothin’, General. I ain’t gonna forget neither.” His eyes dove deep into Roof’s, staring until it was uncomfortable. “You got a soft spot for Mad Max. It’s gonna get a lot of people killed.”

  In a swift move Skinner didn’t see coming, Roof snapped his wrist upward and wrapped his thick, muscular fingers around Skinner’s neck. He squeezed the surprise onto the captain’s purpled face. Skinner grappled with Roof’s wrists and forearms, unsuccessfully trying to loosen the grip.

  Although Skinner muscled against his general, attempting to leverage his exceptional strength, Rufus Buck was surprisingly strong in his adrenaline-fueled rage. Skinner was failing, and the dizzying buzz in his head, accentuated by the blurred vision of Roof’s gritted teeth, only made it worse. Roof drove him backward, off his feet and onto the dirt.

  His hat flew off when his head snapped back and slammed onto the ground with a sickening thud. Skinner bit clean into his tongue at impact and tasted the warm, coppery taste of his blood pouring into his mouth.

  Roof was on top of him, straddling him as he pushed downward on Skinner’s neck. With his free hand, he palmed Skinner’s face and shoved it sideways into the gravelly dirt.

  Skinner was losing consciousness. Before he blacked out, Roof released the pressure on his throat. Skinner gasped and choked on the blood draining into his throat. He rolled onto his side and coughed until his chest burned. He opened his eyes, his vision returning to focus, and saw dark red splatter on the dirt in front of him.

  His tongue was thick and throbbing. He curled his knees up toward his chest and reached for his tender neck. His body couldn’t decide which pain to focus on. Everything hurt.

  “You don’t know,” growled Roof with a vitriolic tone Skinner had never before heard from him, “so you don’t get to judge. Try it again, Cyrus. Try taking a tone with me. Try threatening me. I’ll end you.”

  Roof delivered a forceful kick to Skinner’s lower back, and he emitted a cry that sounded like a frog dying in the jaws of a copperhead. He didn’t recognize it as his own voice, but knew the shrill cry must have come from him. The solid pulsating pain in his back told him so.

  He didn’t h
ave the strength, the breath, or the tongue to speak. He could feel the weight of his body sinking into the ground, searching for some modicum of comfort. Still, Skinner thought to himself through the fog of pain, That’s the Roof I know.

  ***

  General Roof marched back to the stadium. He kept balling his hands into tight fists before releasing them and extending his fingers as far as they would stretch.

  He pounded through the entry and back into the meeting room adjacent to where he’d bunked for the last week. His leg ached as if a storm were coming. His teeth were clenched vise tight until he spoke.

  “Computer on,” he said. The trio of wide screens flickered awake. “Conference generals. Live chat.”

  A series of numbers and letters moved across the center screen. It reset itself and Roof’s face appeared on the fifty-inch-wide panel. The monitors to either side clicked and hummed to life.

  The screen to the left, assigned to General Harvey Logan, flashed the words “Connection Offline”. To the right, General Parrott Manuse’s wizened face pixelated into focus.

  “What is it, Roof?” Manuse asked, rubbing his Play-Doh chin. He was chewing something. “I’m eating lunch,” he smacked. There was a man wearing red boots standing behind him, toward the back of the room. He was Manuse’s head of security.

  “I want to make sure everyone is on board with the plan of action,” Roof said.

  Manuse’s tributary-mapped face grew larger in the monitor. His already almond-shaped eyes narrowed further. “Your face is red,” he said. “You’re sweating too. What’s going on?”

  “I want to wait for Harvey,” said Roof. “He’s not online yet.”

  Manuse stabbed something with a fork and shoveled it between his teeth. His eyes shifted to the right as he chewed with his mouth open. “I don’t see him either. Where is he?” The man in the red boots brought him a bottled water and then returned to the back of the frame.

  “I don’t know,” said Roof. “It’s a Sunday. He doesn’t usually leave the house.”

  “Huh.” Manuse pulled a bottle to his lips and gulped audibly. His pronounced Adam’s apple slid up and down as he chugged until the bottle was empty. He smacked his lips again and tongued the foamy liquid from his lips.

  “You might as well tell me what’s what and let General Logan figure it out later,” Manuse said. “Maybe he’s fussing with that baby of his. Or he’s fiddling with that young wife. Either way, I’m not inclined to wait.”

  “Fine,” Roof huffed. “This affects him more than you. One of his captains, Charlie Pierce, is either dead or will be.”

  Manuse licked the front of his teeth. “That the one you sent to the canyon? The spy?”

  “Yes,” said Roof. “He gave us some good intel, but he was compromised and had to take action. He’s probably found out by now.”

  “That it?”

  “No,” Roof said. “I’ve got a couple more things to discuss. First, have you sent your posses from Dallas?”

  “They leave in the morning,” Manuse replied. “They’ll be moving slow. Probably be a day before they get there. They’ll hit the north edge of the rim like we planned. Last I talked to Logan, his men we’re gonna come northwest and attack from the western side of the canyon. They’re set to leave after dark tonight.”

  Roof nodded. “Good. San Antonio’s already left. They’re moving up through Skinner’s territory and coming north through Abilene. They’ll grab the southern rim. I’ve got one advance team from Wichita Falls that may hit them tonight. They’re made up of good men, all posse bosses. They’re moving up Highway 287, approaching from the southeast. They’ll do a little reconnaissance, which will add to the real-time actionable intelligence we got from Pierce.”

  Manuse plunged a finger into his nostril and fished around as he talked. “And your men in Lubbock will make their way to the western edge from Amarillo?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll position ourselves at a good distance and then hit them in waves,” said Manuse. “That canyon is a double-edged sword.”

  “How so?”

  “They can hunker down inside its steep walls,” Manuse said. He was talking with his hands. “They can make themselves nice and cozy there, but they can’t see us coming from all angles. They don’t have enough people to surround the place. When we hit them, they’ll be surrounded. Sitting ducks.”

  “Maybe,” said Roof. “All they’ve had to do in the past was guard part of the rim. They protected the easiest descents into the canyon and let the impassability of most of it do their work for them.”

  “We’ve never used this kind of manpower,” said Manuse. “We’ve let them think they could hold their own, keep us at bay. Not anymore.”

  Roof folded his arms across his chest. He stared at the monitor without a connection and thought about what he’d done to Skinner. A wave of nausea washed over him when he considered Marcus Battle coordinating a defense of the canyon. He’d made a mistake letting Battle live. Even with the intelligence Pierce had gleaned, it wasn’t worth it.

  Battle might have slipped tactically and might have begun a solitary descent into madness, but he was a lucky man, a man who found fortune where there was none. And Skinner was right about one thing: Battle didn’t know when he was beat.

  Roof hadn’t been afraid of anything or anyone since he’d survived the IED Elmo in Aleppo. He’d resolved to be fearless and reckless and immoral. He lost himself in the blank screen, thinking about the fear swimming under the uneasy rapid racing through his gut.

  Marcus Battle frightened him. There it was. The truth for a man who’d lied to himself for so long. That was why he hadn’t killed him or let Skinner do the deed. He was afraid.

  Manuse tapped on his camera to get Roof’s attention. “What else is there?” he asked. “You said there were a couple of things.”

  Nothing else,” he said. “Let me know if you get a hold of Harvey.”

  “Yep.” Manuse ended the call. His screen went blank.

  There was a knock at the door. Roof turned to find a chubby grunt filling the gap between the open door and the frame. His eyes were wide and he had blood all over his tight-fitting shirt. He tugged on his pants at the empty belt loops.

  Roof shrugged impatiently. “What?”

  “Somebody beat up Captain Skinner pretty good,” said the grunt. “I don’t know who it was. I thought I should—”

  Roof raised his hand to stop the grunt’s mouth from moving. “Who are you?”

  The grunt looked down, averting his eyes. “They call me Porky.”

  “I beat him up, Porky,” said Roof. “He gonna live?”

  Porky’s eyes widened and then narrowed with confusion. He bobbed his head up and down. “Yes. I think so. His tongue, though.”

  “What about it?” Roof walked toward the grunt as he spoke.

  “It’s messed up,” said Porky. “It’s…he can’t talk.”

  “Get him some ice from the mess hall,” said Roof. “He’ll be fine by the time we move out tomorrow.”

  “Sir, General, sir, I don’t know if—”

  “He’ll be fine,” said Roof. “We’re gonna need every last man on this run. He better be fine. If he’s not—” Roof stepped to within six inches of the grunt and leaned in “—I’m holding you responsible.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  OCTOBER 25, 2037, 3:43 PM

  SCOURGE +5 YEARS

  PALO DURO CANYON, TEXAS

  Felipe Baadal stood outside the entry flap of Juliana Paagal’s tent. He looked up at the sun and noticed it had dropped maybe fifteen degrees since he’d started waiting. He guessed an hour had passed. When he’d left her, she was communicating on a satellite phone with someone in Houston. She’d asked him politely to give her privacy. It was what she called a “high-level conversation”.

  The cool, dry October air made the wait palatable. It was a far cry from desert patrols in mid-July. Baadal put his hands on his hips and twisted to stretch his back. He pu
t one hand on the opposite elbow and pulled. He purred from the relief.

  “Sore?” Paagal emerged from the tent and moved into the sunlight, her hand lingering on the red flap.

  Baadal stopped midtwist and turned with a smile. A torrent of warmth flooded his body. His cheeks flushed. “It’s the mattress.”

  “Ah,” said Paagal. “The mattress.”

  Baadal’s eyes widened as he remembered his fingers trailing along her toned arms, his olive skin a faint contrast with her smooth brown complexion. His pulse quickened when he thought about what else had happened before he fell asleep on the lumpy mattress. Before he’d had to leave when Battle appeared in the middle of the night with urgent news.

  “You know,” she said, stepping closer to him, “you are the first man in a long time to…” She smiled. Her eyebrows curled into an arch, finishing her sentence for her.

  Baadal wanted to push her inside the tent. He knew it would have to wait. There was work to do.

  “And you’re the first woman in I don’t know how long.”

  She touched his chest with the flat of her hand. Her eyes told him she was as eager as he to lose herself.

  The smile drained from Baadal’s face. “I have to remind you,” he said earnestly, “I’m not a good man.”

  Juliana Paagal pulled her hand from his chest and raised it to Baadal’s smooth cheek. “I’m not a good woman,” she said. “But we’re both survivors. That’s a place to start. I wish I’d gotten to know you more intimately before now.”

  Her eyes shifted from his and she looked over his shoulder. Baadal turned to see what had caught her attention.

  “I’m interrupting again,” said Marcus Battle, Lola and Sawyer in tow. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be a buzz kill.”

  Paagal dropped her hand to her side and shook her head. “It’s fine.”