Wall: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 3) (8 page)

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.”

The 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.

“We have cut off the snake at its head,” she intoned in a guttural roar. “However, that does not mean its venom lacks poison. It does not mean the tail won’t instinctively whip and flail in defense.”

Battle was a disciple in church. He was listening to a sermon, acutely aware of his own failing faith. He’d not prayed in days. Worse was that he’d not missed the ritual. Without the graves of his wife and son to remind him of the need to ask and seek forgiveness, he was straying from that path. Battle half expected Sylvia’s voice to fill his head at that moment. She was silent, as was Wesson. He looked around and saw the deep belief in the faces of gathered Dwellers.

The congregants were restless. They were ready to give their souls and believe. They were anxious to plunge their heads beneath the waters of salvation and emerge again clean and pure.

Paagal was the path to dominion. She was the conduit to what all of them sought.

She quieted the crowd with a finger to her lips, her face glowing in the firelight. “These small victories are valuable on the eve of what comes,” she said. “But they do not, in and of themselves, guarantee victory.”

Her voice was strong and clear. Battle sensed the cult of personality, her aura blanketing her followers. On this stage, she was electric in a way he’d not sensed up close.

“What will guarantee our victory will be your sacrifice,” she said, her arms flexing, her eyes wide with enthusiasm. “What will guarantee our victory will be your cunning, your intellect, your measured patience.”

Her voice was growing in decibel and intensity. Battle felt the rush. The rhythmic cadence of her oration was intoxicating.

“We will fight them where they live,” she promised. “We will beat them where they live. We will fight them where we live. We will beat them where we live. And when we do…”

Battle leaned in, growing as anxious as anyone to hear what was next. His eyes were focusing on Paagal. Everyone’s eyes were focused on Paagal.

She played the crowd, lowering her voice to above a whisper. “And when we do…” she repeated.

“And when we do!” a man in the crowd shouted.

“And when we do!” mimicked one young woman and then another. There was a chatter building in the crowd until Paagal raised her hands to silence it.

“And when we do,” she said, throwing her fists up into the air and bellowing, “they will die where they live! They will die where we live! There is no other way.
There is no other way
.”

The hundreds, maybe thousands, gathered around the fire stood and cheered. They high-fived and fist-bumped and hugged each other. They howled.

Battle found himself joining in, unwittingly amped by the energy Paagal provided the assembled. He was ready to run through a wall.

Paagal rounded the fire, pumping her fists into the air. She was biting her lower lip and strutting like a heavyweight champion. She was in control. She paraded in a large circle, pointing to Dwellers in the crowd. For what may have been ten minutes she repeated her victory laps.

As the crowd’s energy waned, Paagal flapped her arms to quiet them. “Shhh!”

The congregation grew silent. Those still talking were coaxed by their neighbors to stop.

“I leave you with this,” she said, pointing to the sky. “You know your jobs. You know your task. Stick to your job. Complete your task. If you have questions, see your coordinator. We begin when the sun rises. Go sleep.”

On cue, the Dwellers moved back toward the tent encampment en masse, pushing past Battle. He stood on his toes to see above the flood rushing by him, bumping into him. He tried to spot Paagal. She was still at the fire, shaking hands and offering hugs as Dwellers left the meeting.

Battle swam upstream, sliding in and out of men and women walking in the opposite direction. As he maneuvered his way to the fire, he searched for Lola and Sawyer. He didn’t see either of them until the density of the crowd thinned and he neared the pulsing heat of the bonfire flames.

They were standing with Paagal. The leader had her hands on Lola’s shoulders. Lola was nodding her head. Paagal’s eyes moved to Sawyer and back as she spoke. It seemed none of them saw Battle until he was within a couple of feet. Virtually all of the Dwellers were gone. Though, for the first time, Battle noticed Paagal’s security. A quartet of large armed men with prison physiques were stationed at four equidistant points about twenty yards from Paagal. The orange reflection of the fire danced on the barrels of their rifles.

“Battle,” Lola said, “you made it.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Sawyer said you were sleeping,” she said. “I know you haven’t slept well in days.”

Battle was incredulous. “Really?”

“Well,” she stumbled, “I—I—”

Paagal raised her hand to interrupt. “I told her to leave you,” said Paagal. “I’d have filled you in on whatever you missed.”

Battle folded his arms across his chest, hiding his fists. “Why?”