Canyon: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 2) (4 page)

He looked back at the GPS. There were no options. He couldn’t wait until daylight. Buck would be dead by then. It might already be too late for him, but Battle wasn’t going to give up. They had to cut across the train tracks. That was their only option.

He helped Buck to his feet, slung him over his back, and inched from the alley. If he took incoming fire, the best he could do was run. He’d crossed Ofra and run along Kinda Street, which ran east until it ended at the train yard. Battle stopped at the dead end, which, thankfully, was out of reach of the orange lights perched high above the tracks. There was a high chain-link fence separating them from the yard.

Battle set Buck and his rifle on the ground, pulled the sweat rag from around his neck, and wrapped it around a link closest to the ground near a metal post. Resting on his kneepads, he pulled a set of wire cutters from one of his vest pockets and cranked it onto the cloth-covered link. He felt a snap and removed the cloth, working the half-cut link back and forth. A few pulls and tugs and it snapped. He methodically repeated the process five more times.

“What’s with the rag?” Buck asked.

“It keeps the noise down,” Battle answered. “We don’t know where the enemy is.”

Buck laughed, his eyes wide. “They’re everywhere.”

Battle worked the fence from the ground up and folded back the links to create a gap high enough for the two of them to crawl under. Battle went first, using his elbows and knees to slip under the fence.

“Scoot over here,” he whispered to Buck. “On your stomach. I’m pulling you through.”

To Battle’s surprise, Buck complied and positioned himself at the edge of the fence opening. He reached under the chain link with his hands, stretching for Battle.

“Take this and stuff it in your mouth.”

“No way.”

“Do it. It’s an order.”

Buck took the rag and stuffed it into his mouth, gagging on it as he repositioned himself, extending both hands again.

“Not that way.” Battle sat up and braced his feet on the fence post. He leaned on his side, reached back under the fence, and grabbed Buck’s vest at the shoulders. “This is gonna hurt your leg. Bite down on that rag.”

Buck shook his head in protest as Battle was already tugging, yanking him under the fence. The injured soldier was essentially dead weight, and Battle was already exhausted from carrying him as far as he had. He found something deep inside that helped him propel Buck through the opening. Even as Buck screamed in pain, his voice muffled by the rag, Battle pulled him clear of the chain link.

Once he was through, Battle rolled onto his back. His chest was heaving, his arms and lower back thickened with exhaustion. He took deep breaths in through his nose, trying not to make too much noise.

Buck was whimpering next to him until he reached over and pulled out the rag. Buck cursed at him, at his injuries, at God. “There ain’t enough morphine in the world for what you did to me.”

“Sorry,” Battle said, looking at the clear sky above them. “Had to get you through there.”

Buck lifted his shaky hand and offered Battle a one-fingered salute. He was grunting through clenched teeth.

Battle surveyed the open valley of the tracks. Directly in front of them, there was a steep decline into the valley. There were four sets of tracks, two of which had train cars on them, and a shed on the opposite side. A sharp incline led to the opposite edge and another fence.

Beyond that, it was too dark for Battle to see much of anything. He knew there was a wall of tall buildings behind them. On the far side, there was a cluster of lights, which Battle assumed were buildings. There didn’t appear to be the concentration of threats they faced from behind and from the open tracks. Once they crossed the valley and cut their way through the fence on the opposite side, they’d only be a few hundred yards from the checkpoint and relative safety. Battle wished he’d recovered an XM25 from one of his dead compatriots. It was a tactical mistake. He’d been too consumed with helping Buck and hadn’t thought with enough clarity.

The XM25 was a smart weapon that fired up to twenty-five rounds of laser-guided grenades. If Battle had it, he could aim it into the darkness at a perceived threat and fire with ridiculous accuracy. Even if he missed a target, the grenades would explode in the air at the designated distance. Despite its relatively heavy weight, every patrol that wanted one had one of them as a backstop. Battle cursed himself and calculated what he needed to do to escape with an injured soldier, a sidearm, and an HK416. He came to a difficult conclusion.

Battle reached out and put his hand on Buck’s shoulder. “I think you’re going to have to walk from here.”

Buck coughed out a laugh. “Funny.”

“I’m serious. I can’t carry you and return fire. It would take me too long to get you off my back and then reposition into a defensive posture. Can’t use the fireman’s carry. Can’t do the pack strap. You’ve got to walk.”

“How the hell am I supposed to walk? I barely have the energy to keep breathing.”

“Your heart rate is slow because of the morphine and the Phenergan. You’ve lost blood. You’re
not
dying.”

“If I weren’t dying,” Buck answered, “you wouldn’t be in such a hurry to get us out of here. You’d be holed up in that alley back there, waiting for daylight.”

Buck was right, of course, though Battle wasn’t going to admit it. “Not true. The longer we stay here, the more vulnerable we are. The daylight isn’t necessarily our friend. We got blown up in daylight, remember?”

Buck sighed. “How are we going to do this?”

“Walk assist. I’ll put your arm around my shoulder and then hold it with my hand. My body will be your crutch. You shouldn’t have to put any weight on your injured leg. I’ll have my other arm around your back. I can hold my rifle. If we take fire, I can let go of you quickly and defend us.”

“I don’t know if—”

“You don’t have a choice. It’s what we’re doing. I want you to take my sidearm. That’ll give us two weapons ready to return fire.”

Buck cursed and gritted his teeth. “Fine. Let’s do this.”

CHAPTER 6

OCTOBER 15, 2037, 5:57 AM

SCOURGE + 5 YEARS

ABILENE, TEXAS

Battle stood in the back of the Humvee, his legs working to keep balance while Pico drove toward the center of town. He had his Prairie Panther rifle at his shoulder. After considering the Browning as an option, he’d thought better of it. The Inspector, as he called the twenty-two-caliber semiautomatic, was a far superior weapon at long range.

He adjusted his hat when Pico picked up speed out of a turn. The hat, Battle hoped, would give any hostiles pause. They’d think he was a posse boss until they realized he wasn’t. That was more than enough time for Battle to set, aim, and fire.

Pico was rolling dark. The Humvee’s light array was off. They were as stealthy as they could be in a large armored vehicle.

Battle scanned the road ahead of them and swiveled from side to side, sweeping the streets with his eyes and the rifle. They still had about ninety minutes until sunrise. The streets were empty. Most of the houses and buildings were dark.

The air was cold and the wind swept past Battle as the Humvee pressed forward. His ears stung; his nose ran. He ignored both.

The Humvee turned off of Fourth Street and rolled onto Walnut Street. For the first time, he recognized where they were. He remembered the wide street, the old buildings, and the green awning that hung from Bible Hardware.

It wasn’t Bible Hardware anymore, though. It was the Cartel’s Abilene headquarters.

Pico slowed to a stop in front of the awning. Battle looked across the street to a large fenced lot that surrounded the old post office. There was concertina wire wrapped around the top of the fence. He didn’t remember that. He rubbed his chin and looked back at the awning. A lone streetlight strobed above them.

“Battle.” Pico was standing outside the idling Humvee. “We’re here. What next?”

Battle looked down at Pico and handed him his rifle. He pulled a backpack from the supplies littering the vehicle’s open bed and slung it over both shoulders. He climbed from the Humvee and took the rifle back from Pico.

Battle pointed to the post office. “What’s that over there?”

Pico shrugged. “I think they keep a lot of weapons and such inside that building. It was a post office.”

“It was.” Battle took a step toward the middle of the road. “You’re saying it’s an armory now?”

“I think so,” Pico said. “I ain’t never been in there, so I can’t be sure. I heard talk about that, though.”

“Anybody in the HQ?” Battle adjusted the pack on his back and walked back to the curb in front of the old hardware store.

“Shouldn’t be,” Pico said.

Lola rounded the bed of the Humvee. “Sawyer could be in there.” Her hands were stuffed into her pants pockets, her shoulders raised to her ears. Her teeth chattered. “They could be holding my son in there, right?”

“I don’t know. Guess I need to find out.” Battle stepped to the front glass doors. He took the butt of his rifle and jammed it into the door. Glass shattered and Battle used the rifle stock to clean out the remaining shards hanging to the frame.

“That was kinda loud,” said Pico. “I thought you were trying to surprise ’em.”

Battle looked back at Pico and shrugged. He stepped across the threshold and disappeared into the darkness.

He flipped on the night-vision scope mounted onto his rifle and pulled it to his eye, carefully working his way around the main space of the building. He bumped into a table on one side of the room and then crossed the room to a bar. On the far side of the room past the bar, he found a locked door. He stepped back and punched through it with his foot, blowing past the lock. The door shot open and bounced off the wall behind it, almost hitting Battle as he slid into the hallway behind the door. There was another door to the left and a side exit at the end of the hall. He stepped to the door and tried the handle. It was unlocked. He opened the door and stepped into an office. He checked closets, a bathroom, a storage locker. The place was empty.

Battle started to leave when he thought better of it. This was a private office in the HQ. There had to be some actionable intelligence lying around. He quickly crossed the room to the desk. He leaned the rifle against it and sat down, his pack hitting the back of the chair. There was a stack of papers on the desk and a tablet computer in one of the drawers.

Battle stood, slipped off his pack, and set it on the desk. He unzipped it, pulled out four grenades, and replaced them with the papers and tablet computer.

Battle closed the pack, slid it on to his shoulders along with his rifle, and took two grenades with each hand. When he reached the doorway of the office, he turned around, pulled a grenade pin with his teeth, and tossed it toward the desk. That gave him five seconds.

He marched up the hall to the second doorway, pulled a second pin, and rolled another grenade down the hall. Battle hustled into the main room, yanked out the pin on the third grenade, and tossed it as the first grenade exploded in the office.

Battle was using MK3A2 concussion grenades. Unlike fragmentation grenades, the MK3 was designed for blasting and demolition. The overpressurization it produced was far greater and was effective inside buildings or bunkers. The resulting blast wave produced external shrapnel from ripping apart anything within its effective radius.

The eight ounces of TNT exploded, destroying the office and shaking Battle’s balance. He nearly tripped as he bolted to the entrance. The second grenade detonated, blasting debris into the main room as Battle leapt through the glassless front door.

He spun, pulled the pin, and the noiseless fuse activated. He heaved the final grenade through the door. “Run!” he yelled to Lola and Pico, not aware they’d already crossed the street to the post office fencing after the first explosion.

Battle was halfway across the street when the final two grenades blasted shrapnel through the HQ. He looked over his shoulder, the backpack bouncing against his body as he ran to join the others. The Humvee rattled against the explosion.

Lola gripped Battle’s arm. “Sawyer wasn’t in there?”

Battle coughed and cleared the phlegm from his throat. “I wouldn’t have blown up the place if he had been.”

“So that was a big wake-up call,” Pico said. “I guess you wanted to invite them out to play?”

“No. We’re not sticking around.” Battle started back across the street and waved for Pico and Lola to join him. Thick gray smoke plumed from inside the HQ and through its aged flat roof. Battle slid off his pack, tossed it into the Humvee’s bed, and climbed in. He took the Inspector by the forestock and checked it for damage.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Pico, you’re driving.”

“Where?”

“Who’s the big boss?”

“The captain?”

“Whatever. Captain. Boss. Who is it?”

“His name is Cyrus Skinner,” Pico said, pulling open the driver’s side door. “I don’t think—”

“You know where he lives?”

“Yes. But—”

“Drive.”

***

Cyrus Skinner heard the series of explosions and felt them vibrate the water glass in his hand. He dropped the glass and ran out to his front stoop. In the distance, a couple of blocks away, thin wisps of gray smoke spiraled into the air against the faint glow of a flickering streetlight.

Skinner tensed and he stomped his foot on a wooden plank of the stoop. “Son of a b—”

“Captain Skinner,” called a posse boss named Tom Horn. He lived in the house next door and was standing on his stoop. He was dressed in cargo pants, a faded Pink Floyd T-shirt, and his brown boss hat. One hand was wrapped around a coffee mug. “You think that’s the HQ?”

“It’s the HQ,” Skinner sneered. “Get your posse together now and meet me over there pronto. You see any others on your way, you tell ’em the same.”

Horn slipped back into his house. Skinner punched a wooden column that ran from the stoop’s wooden floor to the low-hanging ceiling. He punched it a second time and cursed Mad Max.