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

  Ana dropped the candlestick to the floor. Her heart was pounding against her chest, her pulse thumping against her neck. She had trouble taking deep breaths.

  She willed herself to contain the panic threatening to overcome her. She pursed her lips and slowly drew in a breath and released it. In and out. In and out.

  Ana took a step back from Sidney, grabbing the knife and squatting down at a safe distance. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not.

  Ana focused on the stream of blood trickling from the back of his head, down his shirt, and onto the floor. Between the double shot to his groin and the violent strike to his head, she imagined he’d be incapacitated for a while even if he were alive.

  She would have liked to have asked Sidney why he would kill her. She’d done what he’d asked. She’d joined the resistance. She’d borne the child of a man she detested and then lived with him. She’d been a servant to the cause.

  She wondered if Sidney had planned on killing her from the very beginning. Was it always part of the plan?

  Ana had long expressed doubts of the strength and motive of the resistance. Sidney, Nancy Wake, and Nancy’s husband, Wendell, had repeatedly allayed her fears until they bubbled again to the surface. Of all the conspirators, she was taking the biggest risk on a daily basis, she’d told them. She was living with the enemy.

  They’d acknowledged her commitment and sacrifice. They’d promised her the effort would be worth it when the Cartel fell. Yet here she was, having escaped an assassination attempt in the hours after fulfilling her promise to them. She wondered if the exercise of moving Logan’s body was an effort to fatigue her so she might be an easier target.

  The sting in her arm was ballooning into a dull throb as the intensity of the moment waned. Ana looked at her wound. It wasn’t deep and probably wouldn’t require stitches. She’d been lucky. Still, it hurt.

  Ana decided it didn’t matter whether Sidney was dead or alive. She wasn’t staying long enough to find out. She stood and kicked him in the back. He didn’t move.

  She folded the blade into the bolster and stuck it into her pocket. She might need it again.

  Ana stepped over Sidney’s body and flung open the closet. On the top shelf was a backpack she used to carry baby supplies. She yanked a couple of shirts from hangers and stuffed them in the empty pack. She moved quickly to the bathroom and emptied the medicine cabinet into the bag. Medicine of any kind was at a premium. She could use it. She could trade it. It was good to have.

  Ana moved with purpose from her room to Penny’s. She pulled a package of reusable diapers, a couple of outfits, and some Vaseline from the shelf above the changing table. She stuffed them into the now bulging pack. She unzipped the front compartment and was able to squeeze a single bottle inside of it.

  Traveling the untamed wilderness of the Cartel’s vast territory with a baby would be tough under normal circumstances. Ana was about to do it in the midst of a burgeoning war in which both sides were her enemy. She slung the backpack over her shoulders, unfolded the collapsible stroller in the corner of the nursery, and picked up her sleeping child.

  Penny’s eyes cracked open as her mother set her into the stroller’s fabric and buckled the three-point harness holding her in place. Ana popped a pacifier in Penny’s mouth and spun the stroller on two wheels. Penny sucked on the plastic until she fell asleep again, her head bobbing from side to side with the motion of the stroller. Ana was speed-walking north toward downtown. She let go of the stroller with one hand and felt for the sharp bulge in her right pocket. The keys were there. Three blocks to go and she’d be on her way out of Houston and toward somewhere else.

  Ana was quickly reaching the conclusion, right or not, that the resistance wasn’t about freedom. It wasn’t about making life better. She believed trading one power for another wasn’t always good. She’d experienced it in her personal life: taking power away from one bad man and giving it to another. Life didn’t improve.

  Instead, she’d come to understand that any alternative ruler when it took power often became an oppressor worse than the one it dethroned. So afraid were the newly empowered of losing the control they fought so hard to win, they morphed into the very thing they fought against.

  Ana suddenly knew where she needed to go. She needed to reach the canyon and the leader called Paagal before it was too late. Paagal, she’d heard from the others, had access to the wall and a way across to the northern side. She would find Paagal, explain what she had done for the resistance, and then gain passage across the wall.

  CHAPTER TEN

  OCTOBER 25, 2037, 6:15 PM

  SCOURGE +5 YEARS

  LUBBOCK, TEXAS

  The sun was dropping low in the sky. It would sink below the dusty horizon within forty-five minutes. General Roof wondered how many more sunsets he would see. Not a one was guaranteed. They never had been. He knew that. This one, however, he considered with more contemplation than usual. This one was as singular, he believed, as the one he’d enjoyed the night before he first shipped out to Syria some eighteen years earlier.

  There was something simple about a sunset that evoked a complex combination of emotions. Maybe it was the joy of having survived another day mixed with the uncertainty of what the next sunrise might bring. Maybe it was the fear of the dark night ahead. Maybe it was both.

  Roof didn’t try to psychoanalyze himself. He didn’t want to be that self-aware. Inward ignorance was bliss as far as he was concerned. Still, he reached into his shirt and pulled out his dog tags and rubbed them with his fingers, melancholy about the sun’s shifting light.

  Despite his mood, he relished the solitude. All of the grunts, bosses, and captains had finished their preparations for the coming departure. He stayed behind, tending to his work in the relative peace of the moment, though not before sending them off with a rousing speech.

  Roof had praised the dozens of men for the expediency of their work. He’d told them they were ready for whatever challenges lay ahead. He’d assured them they would win and find their collective way back home, wherever home might be.

  They’d cheered him. He’d tipped his hat to them and dismissed them, warning them not to be late the next morning. They’d left and gone to eat, sleep, and do whatever else rotten men do before heading off to war.

  He was sitting in the bed of a HUMVEE, checking the weapons he’d chosen to bring. The Browning, a tactically stupid choice he’d always thought, was at his feet. Although he had never wanted the Cartel to fight with shotguns, he had been overruled. They had access to ridiculous numbers of the Brownings and what seemed to be a limitless supply of ammunition.

  Given how many grunts were horrible shots, Generals Logan and Manuse had made the decision to make the Browning the standard-issue weapon.

  Roof had relented to their demands, believing for so long that the sheer size of their infantry was more than enough to make up for the impotency of a shotgun. It was a mistake.

  He knew that. He’d always known it. He was all the more certain of it as he checked the Trijicon optical sight of an FN SCAR 17 assault rifle. He pulled out and checked its twenty-round magazine and slammed it back into place. It was loaded with the heavy .308/7.62x51 military rounds. A voice from behind him interrupted his concentration.

  “General?”

  Roof swung the weapon with his shoulders as he turned to face whoever belonged to the voice. The young man stepped back, his eyes wide when Roof aimed the rifle at his head.

  He raised his arms. “General? Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  Roof kept the weapon trained. “What do you want?”

  The man swallowed hard. “My name is Grat Dalton. I’m the one you and Captain Skinner sent to follow and observe.”

  Roof peeked over the sight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “When you banished them folks from the Jones,” Grat said, “you had Captain Skinner assign us to follow them. It was me, my brother Emmett, and Jack Vermillio
n.”

  Roof held his aim for a moment more and then lowered the SCAR 17. His eyes narrowed and he waved the man toward the side of the HUMVEE.

  “I know who you are now,” said Roof. “You lost your brother near Abernathy. Right?”

  The grunt bowed his head. “Yes, sir.”

  “You lost my horses and weapons too,” said Roof. “Right?”

  “Well,” Grat said, “I guess we—”

  “You guess?”

  “I just—”

  “You just?”

  Grat shrugged.

  “What is it you want?”

  “I want to make it up to you, General,” he said. “I know you’re heading north to fight. I’m not attached to any posses. I’d like to ride with you.”

  Roof put down the SCAR 17 and hopped over the side of the HUMVEE’s bed. He stepped to Grat. “You want to make it up to me? Is that it? Or do you want revenge for your brother’s murder? Which is it?”

  Grat hesitated. He curled his lips inside his mouth and bit down.

  “Answer me the right way and you can go,” said Roof. “Answer wrong, you stay here with the women and children. Be honest. I’ll know if you’re lying.”

  Grat Dalton folded his arms across his chest. He looked Roof in the eyes and nodded. “I want revenge. I want that Mad Max dead. I want to kill his woman and that boy.”

  Roof stared into Grat’s eyes after the man had stopped talking. He searched his face, judged his posture, the way he stood across from him.

  “Good answer,” said Roof. “We leave in the morning. Be here outside the Jones at sunup.”

  Grat exhaled, releasing the nervous anticipation, and thanked Roof. He offered his hand to the general.

  Roof looked down at the offer and ignored it. “Your friend Vermillion isn’t invited,” he said and grabbed the side of the HUMVEE. He hopped back into the bed and picked up another rifle. He was a minute into the task when he sensed a figure still standing watch. He waved his hand to shoo the grunt away. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Grat Dalton,” he said without looking up.

  “It’s not Grat Dalton,” said Porky. “It’s me Porky. I need to talk to you about Skinner.”

  Roof cursed and let out an aggravated sigh. “Can’t a man get any work done?” He looked up at Porky. “We got a war to fight.”

  Porky’s fingers were tugging on his empty belt loops. “Yes, sir.”

  “Why can’t Skinner come talk for himself?”

  “He can’t talk, General,” said Porky. “I told you—”

  “Right,” Roof snapped. He rolled his eyes. “His tongue. I get it. Why are you here?”

  “He wants to ride with you tomorrow,” Porky said. “He sent me to ask if it was all right.”

  Roof rolled his tongue across his front teeth. “I guess,” he said. “If he’s up to it.”

  “Thank you, General,” Porky said and scurried off toward the Jones.

  Roof looked around. There were a dozen vehicles ready to roll out. He knew down the street there were horses primed to ride. The sun was sinking and cast a pinkish hue. He blinked and squinted as he looked into the setting sun, tipping his hat lower on his forehead. He soaked in the light and then closed his eyes, letting the afterimage burn into his mind.

  This was a final day of peace. War was coming. It would be bloody. It would offer another kind of scourge to the land inside the wall.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  OCTOBER 25, 2037, 6:01 PM

  SCOURGE +5 YEARS

  PALO DURO CANYON, TEXAS

  The burning impact of the twenty-two-caliber bullet drilling through Battle’s shoulder spun him toward the direction of the shot. He peered into the distance, unable to see from where the projectile was fired. He was in an abyss, standing alone in a vast emptiness.

  A second jarring slug penetrated his chest, and Battle grabbed at the wound as if his touch could do anything to ease the instantaneous, painful throb.

  Battle reached for his waistband, searching for McDunnough. He couldn’t find it. It wasn’t there. The weapon he’d named for Nic Cage’s character in the Coen Brothers’ classic film Raising Arizona was missing.

  He’d always identified with McDunnough: a man whose good intentions led him deeper down the rabbit hole with every step. The more he watched it on his computer in the aftermath of the Scourge, one of the two dozen films in his hard drive rotation, the closer he felt to the bumbling, oddly intelligent convict.

  Battle searched his hip for the weapon. Nothing.

  Another bullet zipped through the air and stung him in the thigh, dropping him to one knee. He cried out into the darkness.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  There was a howl from the darkness. It was animalistic in tone, but was definitely human. The howl was echoed by a chorus echoing the ghostly call.

  “I’m alone,” Battle called. He narrowed his eyes, trying to adjust to the darkness. He couldn’t see anything. A fog rolled toward him from the darkness. Hidden within the mist was a volley of shots. Each of them were true, stabbing Battle from too many directions to count and forcing his body to convulse and wrench with each connection. Battle felt his life spilling from inside him, draining into the blackness.

  “You were always alone…” called a hollow voice. It echoed, repeating the last word again and again. “Alone. Alone. Alone.”

  ***

  Battle jolted awake and sat straight up, panicked by the dream and by not remembering where he was. It was dark. He had no concept of how late it was. He was drenched in sweat, which at first he worried was blood. He pressed his hands against his shoulders, his chest, and his legs until he was certain there were no leaking wounds.

  He blinked back the sleep in his eyes until they adjusted. He was in his tent. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. His heart slowed.

  Battle slid off the end of the cot and pulled on his boots. He climbed out of his tent and scrambled to his feet. He scanned the rows, looking for signs of life along the seemingly endless lines of pitches. He saw none.

  “Lola,” he called and stepped toward her tent.

  No answer.

  “Lola,” he said, “I’m coming in.” He unzipped the flap and poked his head through the opening. The space was empty save two cots and a pile of clothes in the corner.

  Battle withdrew his head and scanned the tent city again. It was devoid of activity. The moon provided some visibility but not much as he peered as far as he could see. He planted his hands on his hips.

  Where was everybody?

  He was still groggy, his mind cluttered with the remnants of the violent dream. He started one way and then turned back toward the center of the encampment. Row after row, nobody was there. Then, in the distance, he could hear the low rumble of a conversation. Occasionally there was a roar of applause or a collective howl.

  He walked toward the sound, and as he drew closer to it, he could see the amber glow of a fire flickering against the face of those gathered around it. A woman’s voice was louder than the others.

  “…of being the Cartel’s minions…”

  Battle picked up his pace, marching toward the gathering, his boots crunching the dirt floor of the canyon. He looked above and saw a thick cloud move across the moon. The ambient light disappeared with the moon, but he was close enough to the gathering for the fire to guide him.

  “…guiding the course of our own destiny…”

  He approached slowly, and the size of the group around the fire was larger than he’d thought. It appeared as though every Dweller was present.

  “…securing a future better than our past…”

  Standing close to the fire, speaking slowly and with purpose, was Juliana Paagal. She stopped when she saw Battle stop at the edge of the assembly. She looked at him and smiled. He could feel the eyes of the entire gathering staring at him.

  “For someone so interested in our plans,” she said, “you are remarkably late to learn what they are.”

  T
he meeting.

  He’d overslept, and in his haste to square his surroundings, he’d completely forgotten about it. The sting of the bullets from his dream still tingled on spots across his body as if they lacked circulation.

  “My apologies,” he said and found an empty spot at the outer edge of the circle. He scanned the crowd for Lola and Sawyer but saw neither of them.

  Baadal was seated nearest Paagal. He offered Battle an uncomfortable smile. Battle nodded.

  “So—” Paagal sighed and turned her attention elsewhere “—as I was saying, we have already eliminated major threats in several of the larger cities. Our operatives have freed us of one general, six captains, and two dozen bosses. This leaves the Cartel grunts without critical guidance as they begin their assault on us.”

  There was a smattering of applause that grew into an ovation and then an uproarious cheer. Battle watched the joyous reaction of those around him. At first, he sat quietly observing the masses. They were a mixture of men and women, young and old. There were some children. There were some elderly.

  “Our numbers are greater than they know,” Paagal said. “We have been lying dormant. Now is the time.”

  The Dwellers were white, black, Hispanic, and Asian. They were representative of the oppressed, Battle thought. What they lacked in strength and cunning, they made up for with grit and will. They were fighting for a way of life, protecting their freedom and their future. And they were transfixed by the leader as she circled the fire, delivering what was part strategic briefing and part religious revival.

  “This is our moment,” she exalted. “This is our moment.” Her words echoed off the canyon walls. The assembly howled their agreement. The more Paagal spoke, the more interested Battle became in what she said and how she delivered it.

  He listened to her as if her words, her message, weren’t directly meant for him. He spun himself into a fly on the wall, careful to observe the Dwellers without any judgment on his face. They were enraptured.