Canyon: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 2) (24 page)

Salomon Pico didn’t see Cyrus Skinner take aim and fire the shot that killed him. However, he heard it. And he felt it. At first he thought someone had punched him in the back. Then the searing heat told him it wasn’t a punch. He felt a tear in his abdomen. The heat from the bullet ripping through him evaporated into nothing. His legs went numb and he dropped to his knees, falling into the back of Baadal’s legs.

Pico heard a woman’s scream from the crowd. He heard Battle calling out to him. He sensed Baadal trying to help him. Pico knew it was futile.

He couldn’t feel his legs or move his arms as he lay there on the turf, his blood pooling underneath his paralyzed body and adding to the brown patina of the field.

Pico was on his stomach, his head turned to the side. He tried focusing his vision but couldn’t. He saw flashes of his life advancing like a slideshow in front of him. There was the sting of his mother’s drunken slap and her prophecy that he would amount to nothing. He relived the confusion and desperation of watching his father wave goodbye and never come back. He smelled the sweet aroma of marijuana and felt the pangs of hunger his first high invoked. Pico felt the rumble of his Camaro’s engine as he shifted into third, the squeeze of his girlfriend’s hand on his leg. He recalled his fingers spinning the lock on a safe, the satisfaction of sensing he’d hit the combination, and the anticipation of that moment before he pulled it open. He saw himself pouring a shot of Jägermeister for a patron and then downing one himself while looking over his shoulder at the boss’s office door. Pico could taste the licorice on his tongue and hear Dusty Hill and Billy Gibbons strumming in the background.

His mind snapped to the day his girlfriend died on the floor of their efficiency apartment above the club where she danced, coughing and wheezing until the fluid in her lungs was too much. He was holding her hand as the warmth dissipated, until she was cold. Pico was growing cold. The warmth of his body was draining from him.

He took his last ragged breath thinking about what he could have done differently, how he could have lived his life more honorably than he had.

The air left his lungs and didn’t return. Pico’s eyes, still wet with fresh tears of unmitigated joy, fixed. His tongue dropped from his open lips. His fingers twitched and stopped.

Salomon Pico was dead. This time it was for real.

CHAPTER 30

JANUARY 4, 2020, 6:43 AM

SCOURGE -12 YEARS, 9 MONTHS

ALEPPO, SYRIA

Battle opened his eyes to a low hum and cold toes. He was on the vinyl sofa in Nazir’s living room. The sun, peeking above the horizon, cast a pinkish-orange hue through the open eastern-facing window. The warmth of the space had given way to the chill of dawn.

Nazir was kneeling on a prayer rug, his back to the window. He was reciting the Salat al-Fajr, the first of the five daily Muslim prayers. Battle closed his eyes and listened to Nazir’s soft voice, his cadence as he recited the words. He opened them again when Nazir was quiet.

He was rolling up his rug, respectfully tending to its edges. He looked over at Battle and bowed his head.

“Good morning, Battle,” he said, a smile spreading across his stubbled cheeks. “You sleep good. You snore.”

Battle sat up and spun his feet to the floor. He looked at the bandage cleanly wrapped around his upper arm. “How is Buck?”

“Sleeping.”

“We need to leave,” said Battle.

“Too much danger.”

“I need to get him back to the checkpoint and back to base. They can airlift him to Landstuhl from there. You helped him, but he has to get to a hospital or he loses his foot.”

“Landstuhl. American Army hospital?”

“Yes.”

“No,” Nazir said. “We will wait.”

“We can’t wait, Nazir,” Battle pressed. “We cannot stay here. We thank you. We hope for peace for you and your family. We have
got
to go.”

“Too much danger.”

“Okay,” Battle said. “You tell me when there isn’t too much danger and we’ll go then.”

Nazir turned, the prayer rug tucked under his arm, and looked out the window. He took a deep breath and walked to it, staring out above the rooftops. He was looking east, toward the checkpoint on the other side of the canal.

Nazir held his shoulders back, his chest out. His feet were shoulder-width apart, planted firmly on the terrazzo floor. Without turning around, he answered Battle’s question. “You are right, Battle. There is no time when danger leaves.”

Battle sat forward on the sofa, the vinyl squeaking under his shifting weight. He took as deep a breath as he had in two days and exhaled. His back felt thick with bruising, and his neck throbbed from aching, strained muscles.

“We will go,” said Nazir. He turned around, his eyes focused on Battle’s. “I will take you.”

Battle rose to his feet. “No. You shouldn’t do that. We’ll make it.”

Nazir motioned over his shoulder toward the window. “No. The bridge is too much. You need help.”

Battle walked to Nazir and stood in front of him. “Tell us what to do, how to cross the bridge. You cannot leave your daughter and your grandchildren.”

“Allah will watch over me,” Nazir said, his eyes glossy with emotion. “Allah will provide what is meant to be. I go talk with Afifah. We get you clothing.”

Thirty minutes later Battle, Buck, and Nazir left the apartment building, stepping into the crisp winter morning. The streets were mostly empty. It was a Saturday morning. The shops and cafes hadn’t yet opened. The late morning hustle was hours away.

All three men were wearing traditional kaftans and white headscarves. Battle and Nazir were armed with handguns. Buck used a snapped broomstick as a cane and leaned on Battle to limp along. He was groggy from the painkillers, and Battle was convinced Buck was only partially aware.

As they moved into the street, Nazir turned to look back at his home. Afifah was standing at the open window, her children flanking her. They waved in unison. The girl was leaning on the sill, rocking back and forth. The boy offered a toothy smile to his grandfather.

Nazir offered a final wave and blew a kiss. His daughter caught it and pulled the children away from the window, sliding it closed.

“She is not my true daughter,” said Nazir. “She is my son’s wife. I call her daughter. Her parents are also dead.”

“You take care of her?” Battle asked.

“She takes care of me,” he said. “Her family blessed us with many riches before the war. Praise be to Allah.”

They stepped onto the narrow, crumbling sidewalk on the side of the street opposite Nazir’s home. Battle helped Buck navigate the curb and they turned the corner to the spot where they’d encountered each other the night before.

“The kaftan helps from a distance,” said Nazir. “When we are close to the bridge, it will not help.”

“Roger that,” said Battle.

They walked opposite oncoming traffic, which was virtually nonexistent, and approached the final intersection before reaching the bridge. They stopped at the corner and Battle looked east to the canal. There were two uniformed, armed guards standing at the stone balustrades that marked either side of the bridge. They were wearing the same paramilitary outfits as the men Battle confronted at the railyard the night before. There was a third walking west across the bridge. All three carried AK rifles.

“You think we can talk our way past?” Battle asked.

Nazir shrugged and started across the street. “I hope. I have idea.” He clasped his hands together, the wide draped sleeves of his kaftan hiding his gun. Battle did the same and followed Nazir to the bridge. Buck used the cane and Battle’s shoulder for balance while he essentially hopped along.

They were halfway across the street when the guards saw them. The two at the balustrades immediately raised their weapons and pulled them to their shoulders, aiming the muzzles directly at Nazir, who was a couple of steps ahead of Battle and Buck.

The third guard stopped short of the western edge of the canal and leaned on the southern railing, using it for leverage and he too aimed his weapon at Nazir.

Nazir called out to the men in Arabic and kept approaching. The men replied aggressively. Battle was certain they were telling Nazir to stop. He could sense their tension, even from a distance.

Nazir appeared undeterred by the guards. He shuffled forward until he was within a few feet of them. He looked back at Battle and Buck, referencing them with his head as he spoke.

The guards listened but did not lower their weapons. One of them kept glancing over at Battle and Buck as they moved closer. Battle lowered his head and suggested Buck do the same; the less obvious their ethnicity, the better.

Battle watched his sandaled feet move step by step. He glanced up occasionally to make sure he was headed straight for the bridge. He was looking down when he heard Nazir raise his voice. He shouted something in Arabic before calling to Battle, “Run!”

CHAPTER 31

OCTOBER 16, 2037, 8:15 AM

SCOURGE + 5 YEARS

LUBBOCK, TEXAS

Battle heard the shot and saw Pico drop to his knees, falling into Baadal. The sound of it cracked through the air like thunder and silenced the crowd. He ran toward Pico, knowing all the while there was nothing he could do to help him. To his right, standing inside the barrier that separated the field from the bleachers, was Cyrus Skinner. His white hat shadowed his face, but Battle knew it was him.

His six-shooter was aimed at where Pico had stood, a thin trail of smoke drifting upward from the muzzle. He lowered the weapon and holstered it, turning away from the man he’d killed and climbing over the barrier back into the stands.

Battle reached Pico after he took his last breath. He slid to his knees and rolled Pico over onto his back. Battle looked at his friend’s dead eyes, his tongue flapping from his open mouth, the broad stain of blood on his shirt.

“Skinner!”
he screamed,
more of a primal roar than a warning or a threat.

Battle picked up the crossbow from the ground, loaded a bolt, and began a precise march toward the crowd. Skinner had blended into the mass of people in the stands, and Battle couldn’t find him. He scanned from left to right, the bow following his gaze as he panned. The crowd shifted, ducked, and screamed as he searched for the target.

He reached the center of the field and was feet from the barrier when he saw the innumerable weapons pointing back at him. Still, he pivoted from left to right to left with his finger on the crossbow’s trigger.

“Hold up there,” came a voice from the crowd. “Put down the bow before you get hurt, Battle.”

Battle swung the bow toward the voice. On the other end of the bolt was General Roof in his distinctive black hat and white beard. “I’m not putting this down.” Seething anger dripped with each word.

Roof raised his hands to shoulder height and waved them in surrender. “Have it your way, Battle. I’m suggesting we have some folks with itchy trigger fingers. You might be best to say your piece without the bow.”

Battle’s eyes darted back and forth, trying to focus. He was looking for the white hat. He couldn’t find it.

“Let me come down there,” said General Roof, his hands still raised. “We can talk about this.” The general started moving through the crowd, people sliding on their seats and making room for him to navigate the bleachers. He reached the bottom row and carefully climbed over the barrier. His limp was pronounced as he walked to within a foot of the bolt. Battle had it aimed right at his head.

“I want Skinner,” said Battle, jabbing the bow closer to the general’s head. He looked into Roof’s eyes. There was something familiar about them. “Give me Skinner. Then you can do to me whatever you want.”

Roof chuckled. “You really aren’t in a position to demand anything right now, Battle. I understand your frustration. Believe me, I do.”

Battle looked past the general’s shoulder, looking for the white hat. He didn’t see it.

“What Skinner did was…rude,” said Roof. “He seems to have a penchant for incivility. It’s a trait that has its plusses and minuses, I’ll admit.”

“We won,” said Battle through clenched teeth. “We beat your men.”

The general nodded, unfazed by the weapon aimed between his eyes. “You did. It was impressive. Let’s be perfectly honest about this. Salomon Pico was a traitor. He was a rat. There was absolutely no circumstance under which he’d have left the Jones alive. None.”

“So you murdered him in cold blood,” Battle spat.

Roof’s eyes widened underneath an arched brow. “I’m surprised at you, Battle. You’re a soldier. You, better than most, know what war is about. This is war. You are the enemy.”

“I’m not your enemy,” said Battle. “I’m just trying to survive.”

Roof shook his head. “Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should have stayed home,” Roof said. “Instead you’re trying to exact revenge; you’re hoping to steal our property and disrupt our business.”

“Your property?”

Roof pointed over Battle’s shoulder to Sawyer. “That boy is our property. His mother is our property.” Roof snapped his fingers. “Bring the woman here!” he yelled without leaving Battle’s glare.

Battle looked to the crowd. Standing and moving down the bleachers with Skinner’s help was Lola. Battle lost his breath for an instant. The sight of her sent a wave of electricity through his body.

“Lola!” Battle called to her. “Are you okay?”

“She’s fine,” said Roof. “And I’ll let you have her.”

“What?”

“Skinner would have her strung up,” said Roof. “He’d defile her and then kill her slowly in front of her son. He’s that upset.”

Skinner climbed over the barrier and yanked Lola by the arm. He dragged her by the elbow until they were standing behind General Roof. Battle lowered the crossbow.

Lola’s cheeks were bruised, and there was a cut on her upper lip, though she appeared otherwise okay. Tears streamed down her face. Her nose bubbled with snot as she tried to contain herself. She whimpered softly. She looked even thinner somehow.