Rising: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 4) Read online

  Marcus kept walking, scanning both sides of the street. A woman peeked her head through an open window on the second floor of a three-story brick building. She leaned on the sill with her elbows locked and her palms flat against the wood. Marcus nodded at her. The woman didn’t respond.

  “Marcus,” Lou persisted, “you need to give me my knives.”

  Marcus ran his tongue along the back of his teeth and whistled. It was the first tune that popped into his head, one about which he’d not thought in a long time. He remembered the melody, though, as if he’d heard it on the radio only minutes before.

  “You’re ignoring me,” said Lou, shrugging the rifle strap on her shoulder. “Stop ignoring me. And stop whistling.”

  Marcus whistled more loudly, bobbing his head. He smiled at Lou with his eyes, raising his eyebrows in a dramatic, sarcastic arch.

  “What are you whistling?” she asked. “What song is that?”

  Marcus licked his lips. “Do you know where we’re headed? You know where people get together here?”

  Lou nodded and pointed her finger down the street. “A few blocks from here,” she said. “What’s the tune?”

  “It’s called ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy,’” he said and started whistling again.

  Lou huffed. “That’s stupid,” she said loudly enough for Marcus to hear her above his tootle, “and I’m not going any further until you give me the knives.”

  “You have your rifle.”

  “I don’t have any bullets,” she whined. “Plus I’m not good with a gun. I’m good with knives.”

  “It’s farther, by the way,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You said further. It’s farther. Whenever you’re describing a measurable distance, it’s farth—”

  “Give me my knives, Marcus.”

  “Let’s see what happens first,” said Marcus. “Not everybody is a bad guy. We might be able to get some good information without having to engage in violence.”

  Lou rolled her eyes. “I’m not going.”

  Marcus shrugged and started walking again. “Suit yourself,” he said over his shoulder. “I die in there, you’re never getting your knives back.”

  He resumed whistling and pushed ahead. A half mile later he heard a commotion coming from a single-story steel building with an open hangar door. There were a couple of large men standing on either side of the door. Beyond the opening, there was what looked like a bar. Next to the building was a large rumbling generator. There were several power cords running from it into the bar. It appeared to be the kind of generator would-be preppers might have in their garages ahead of hurricane season. It was enough to keep ice cold and fans running. Marcus hadn’t seen one in years. He didn’t know anybody even had fuel enough to run them anymore.

  Still whistling, Marcus opened the bolt on the Remington and approached the would-be bouncers with his left hand in the air above his head. The thicker of the two men stepped forward, a frown painted on his face.

  “I don’t recognize you,” said the man. “Who are you?”

  Marcus smiled. “Marcus Battle. I’ve been walking for hours on my way west. Just need a little something to make the traveling more tolerable.”

  The bouncer eyed Marcus up and down and grunted. “Where’d you come from?”

  “East of Rising Star,” he said. “Camped out overnight.” He unhooked the canteen with one hand and shook it to show it was empty.

  “Give me the knives you got and you can go in,” the man said.

  Marcus glanced at the handles protruding from his waist then over his shoulder. He didn’t see Lou. “To borrow?”

  “To keep,” he said. “Consider it your cover charge. And you best keep those bolts open on the rifles.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “I’m gonna need that Glock too,” said the other bouncer. “You can’t go inside with it.”

  Marcus looked through the opening into the bar. There were several men with guns on their hips or on the tables in front of them. He motioned toward them with his chin. “What about them?” he asked. “All of them have their guns.”

  “We know them,” said the first guard. “We don’t know you.”

  “You got any more in that pack?” asked the second.

  “No,” said Marcus. “You can check.”

  The guards looked at each other; then the first said, “Nah. Give us the knives and the Glock and you’re good.”

  Marcus reluctantly obliged and stepped into the bar. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. When they did, he found the bar off to the left and weaved his way amongst the handful of crowded tables.

  The barkeep dropped a glass in front of him as he approached the worn oak bar. He was an older man, gaunt, with eyes that sank deep into his narrow face. His mouth was puckered from lack of teeth and his shirt hung on him as if it were sized for a man twice as big.

  “What do you want?” he asked, his voice raspy and weak.

  Marcus leaned on the bar, conscious of the eyes drilling holes in his back. Everyone in the bar, he was sure, was watching him. “What do you have?”

  “Handcrafted spirits.”

  “I’ll take that.”

  The man poured the light brown liquid from a large mason jar, stopping when he’d emptied the equivalent of two shots into the glass. He wiped the edge of the jar with a crusty towel and then slapped the rag over his shoulder.

  “How you plan to pay?” the man croaked.

  “What do you take?” asked Marcus.

  “Food, depending on what it is; ammo, depending on what it is; pretty much anything, depending on—”

  Marcus raised his glass and winked. “What it is,” he said, finishing the barkeep’s sentence.

  The man smacked his lips at the interruption and grumbled, muttering under his breath. He set the mason jar on the counter. “What do you got?”

  “Thirty ought six? I can give you a few rounds.”

  The man scratched his weak chin. “All right,” he said. “Five rounds a shot. You got two shots there. So give me ten.”

  “Three rounds a shot,” Marcus countered. “Five for the two.”

  The man smirked. “Six for the two.”

  “Okay,” said Marcus. “Six it is.”

  He laid both rifles on the bar and slid the pack from his shoulders. He reached into the bag and pulled out a handful of rounds. He counted six and slid them to the keep.

  “Much obliged,” said the man, fingering the ammunition and dropping them into his T-shirt breast pocket.

  Marcus zipped up the pack and dropped it gently onto the floor at his feet. He picked up the glass, took a courtesy sip of the bitterly strong mash, and forced a smile at the keep. Then he spun around and leaned on the bar with his back, putting his weight on his uninjured leg.

  As he surveyed the motley crowd, he half expected to see loose women in hoop skirts and an ace-high piano player with sleeve garters on his arms. He took another hesitant sip as a crooked-nosed man walked up to him at the bar.

  “You’re new,” he said, his drawl turning one-syllable words into two. “I seen you walk in.”

  “Yep,” said Marcus. “I’m new.”

  The tip of the man’s nose moved up and down as he spoke. “You’re looking for somebody.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “To everybody but a blind man,” said the man, planting his palms on the bar next to Marcus. “Nice rifles. That a Springfield?”

  Marcus nodded. “Sniper configuration.”

  “So you ain’t lookin’ for friends, then?”

  Marcus took another sip, winced, and swallowed it.

  The man leaned closer to Marcus. “I bet I can help you find your somebody,” he said under his breath. “I know lots of somebodies.”

  “Tell me this,” Marcus said. “How many of these folks are Dwellers?”

  The man leaned back, his eyes wide with surprise. “Dwellers?” He chuckled. “Where you been, fella? Ain
’t nobody Dwellers no more. At least not here. Them people was in control for a hot minute.”

  Marcus put down his drink. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we might have been better off under the Cartel,” he said. “At least they kept order and such. When they split and the Dwellers came in, it was…it was like…hey, you know about Syria?”

  “What about it?”

  The man wagged his finger excitedly, but kept his voice low. “Before the Scourge, before the Cartel, you remember that war in Syria? The one that led to the camps that led to the disease and such?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, it’s like that now,” said the man. “After we went into Syria and left, there was, like, this chaos, right? Just like Iraq before that. And Afghanistan. You take out them dictators and the people who come in ain’t got no clue what to do. Makes things worse in a way, you know?”

  Marcus nodded slowly. He knew exactly what the man meant. The dissolution of the Cartel, however nasty and oppressive they were, had led to a power vacuum.

  “So who’s in control?” Marcus asked.

  The man chuckled. “Man, you been under a rock or something? Really, you got no clue?”

  Marcus looked at the man without blinking, purposely expressionless.

  “Ain’t nobody in control,” said the man, shaking his head for effect. “You got a bunch of gangs that rule territories, manage black markets and such. It’s like a real Wild West out here. Ain’t no rules, nobody to keep nobody safe. Every man for himself. It’s a dog eat—”

  “I get it,” Marcus cut in.

  “So who’s your somebody, then?”

  Marcus surveyed the room. Nobody was paying attention to them. Each table was preoccupied with their own conversations and drinks. Marcus sighed and looked at the backs of the man’s hands on the bar. No tattoos.

  “You know anything about a gang that has dollar signs on their hands?” he asked.

  The man’s eyes twitched and he scratched his face along either side of his crooked nose. He looked over his shoulder and inched closed to Marcus. “Everybody knows about the LRC,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The Llano River Clan.”

  “That’s my somebody,” said Marcus.

  The man scratched his face again. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple sliding up and down. He gripped his fingers on the edge of the bar.

  “You know where they are,” said Marcus. “You can help.”

  The man swallowed again and nodded without looking at Marcus. “I can help,” he said softly. “But I ain’t cheap for something like that. You sure you ain’t got a different somebody?”

  Marcus picked up his glass and took another sip. He licked his lips, transferring the burn to his tongue. The mash was less bitter the more he drank. It was sweeter now, with a hint of corn. He offered what was left of the drink to the crooked-nosed man. The man took it and drained the cup into his mouth, gulping it down.

  “It’s gonna cost you more than leftover ’shine,” he said. “The LRC is a nasty bunch. They ain’t from here, but they make their way through every couple of months. They’re pillagers. And they run women.”

  “Run women?”

  “They’re traveling pimps,” he said. “They take the weak young ones with them and drop them off in different places. The older ones or the particularly feisty ones get dead pretty quick.”

  Heat welled in Marcus’s gut and spread through his body. His cheeks warmed; his muscles tensed.

  The man’s eyes softened with recognition and he frowned. “Oh, I get it.”

  Marcus took a slow, deep breath through his nostrils and exhaled. The surge of adrenaline slowed. “What will it cost?”

  “The Springfield.”

  Marcus turned around to face the bar and the pair of rifles he’d set on it. He ran his hands along the Springfield’s walnut stock. He’d already given up the Glock. Now the Springfield?

  “How about the Remington?”

  “I like the Springfield better,” said the man.

  “So do I,” said Marcus. “I’ve got plenty of ammo for both. I’ll give you more of it if you take the Remington.”

  The man reached for the rifle and Marcus grabbed his arm, glowering at him. “After you show me where to find them.”

  The man pulled back his hand, motioning almost imperceptibly over his shoulder. His eyes moved in the same direction.

  Marcus followed the hint. At the far end of the room, a grungy man in a sweat-stained Stetson was at a table with four other men, playing poker. Empty glasses littered the table. Marcus couldn’t see the others, but the man with the Stetson had the dollar sign on the back of his right hand. The five appeared oblivious to anything happening in the bar beyond their table.

  Marcus swung back to the barkeep. “I’d like to buy that table a shot each. That’s five shots. Let’s say ten rounds.”

  “Let’s say fifteen,” gargled the keep.

  “Deal,” said Marcus. “Let them know it’s from me.”

  “Sure thing. Just leave the ammo on the bar.”

  Marcus reached into his bag and fished out the fifteen rounds. He also took an extra five and, while the barkeep made his way to the table, quickly loaded them into the Springfield. He eyed the crooked-nosed man with a look that warned he should remain silent and slid the safety and the magazine cutoff into the right positions with his thumb.

  He turned back in time to see the bartender pouring a shot of moonshine into each of the five glasses on the table. The old man looked over his shoulder and hooked a thumb at Marcus, drawing ten eyes toward the bar. Marcus offered a weak salute to the table. The man with the Stetson tipped his hat and swigged the shot.

  “C’mon,” Marcus told the crooked-nosed man. “Let’s go.”

  “What?”

  Marcus picked up both rifles and started his move toward the open door. “Follow me.”

  The man followed and Marcus made a point to avoid eye contact on his way to the exit. They were a few steps from it when the Stetson-wearing gang member called out, “Hey, stranger. Stop right there.”

  Marcus had his back to the man. He worked to suppress a smile before he turned.

  The man stood from his chair and picked up his handgun from the table. He started toward Marcus and his accomplice, his eyes narrow and focused.

  “Thanks for the drink,” he said. “What’s your game?”

  Marcus’s eyebrows arched with faux innocence. “Game?”

  Stetson sauntered across the room and stood a few feet from Marcus. The other men stood from their seats and joined him in the middle of the room. All of them were armed. None of them appeared thankful for the free drinks.

  Those sitting at the tables between the gang members and Marcus slid from their seats and either moved toward the bar or scurried out the door. Although Marcus had a rifle in each hand, he wasn’t in a position to fire either of them. For a moment he wondered if he’d overplayed his hand.

  “A man who buys a stranger a drink is playing a game,” said Stetson. “I don’t like games. Do you like games, fellas?”

  The men behind Stetson all shook their heads, snarling their agreement with Stetson. Marcus almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. It was straight out of a bad spaghetti western. All that was missing was the town clock striking twelve and Allessandroni strumming his guitar.

  “I’m not interested in games either,” said Marcus. “I noticed the tattoo on your hand. Figured I’d pay tribute.”

  The man glanced at the black dollar sign on the back of his right hand, aiming his handgun at Marcus. “What about my ink interests you?”

  “You’re part of LRC, right?”

  Stetson’s eyes narrowed and he tilted his head to one side. “Who’s asking? I don’t think I got your name.”

  “Marcus Battle.”

  “Battle?” Stetson laughed. “That’s a stupid name.”

  The men behind him laughed and smirked in agreement.

  “So is Barbas
.”

  Stetson leveled his handgun at Marcus. The other men drew their weapons. The crooked-nosed man raised his hands above his head. He tried to back out of the room, but Marcus grabbed his arm.

  “What did you say?” asked Stetson. “I know I didn’t hear you right.”

  Marcus spoke slowly and clearly. “So. Is. Barbas.”

  A grin snaked its way across Stetson’s face. “You a dissatisfied customer, Marcus Battle? Or did you find out your woman is more satisfied with what Barbas has to offer?”

  Marcus bit down on the inside of his cheek. He studied the sneering grins of the other four men backing up Stetson and the weapons they had trained on him.

  “I’ve got no horse in this race,” said the crooked-nosed man. “I don’t know this fella. Marcus Battle. I don’t—”

  Marcus spoke from the corner of his mouth. “You might want to keep quiet.”

  “I’m not keeping quiet while they kill us. I’m serious. I don’t know you. I just met you. I—”

  A single shot silenced the crooked-nosed man and dropped him to the floor. He was dead before his head slapped against the concrete and bounced.

  Stetson shrugged and slid his weapon back to Marcus. “Nobody’s loyal these days,” he said. “And he was giving me a headache.”

  Marcus stood still, blood pooling around his boots. His expression was unchanged. “Where is Barbas?”

  Stetson looked over one shoulder and then the other. “Not here. I think you have some—”

  “Get down!” came a high-pitched voice from behind Marcus. Marcus ducked, set the Remington on the floor in the pool of blood, and flipped the loaded Springfield to his shoulder. He leveled the rifle at the crowd of gang members.

  Stetson’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open, the last word trailing into a gurgle as he grasped at his neck with both hands. His gun fell from his hand and rattled onto the floor. The hilt of a throwing knife protruded from his throat. Marcus sighted on the man next to Stetson and pulled the trigger.

  Another knife whizzed over Marcus’s head and found the center mass of the man to the left of the dying Stetson, who dizzily staggered into the table in front of him.

  The remaining two gang members returned fire unsuccessfully. Marcus worked the bolt and slapped a pair of shots into one of them, driving him back and dropping him.