Canyon: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 2) (8 page)

He slipped back into the wagon and marched through it to the eighth, seventh, sixth, and fifth empty wagons. He was moving swiftly, anxious to get back to Buck and help him retrace the path to the end of the train yard.

When he opened the door to the fourth wagon and stepped inside, he wasn’t alone. He stopped short and raised his hands above his head. There were two armed men standing shoulder to shoulder in the center of the empty cargo hold. In the slivers of orange light, Battle could see their rifles were pointed straight at him.

CHAPTER 12

OCTOBER 15, 2037, 7:28 AM

SCOURGE + 5 YEARS

ABILENE, TEXAS

“We should split up,” Pico said, adjusting the pack on his back. “You and Lola go one way. I’ll go another.”

Battle shot a glance at Lola. She was on his right, walking faster to keep pace with the men, her cheeks puffed with air.

“I’m just sayin’ they don’t know I’m with you,” Pico said. “They got no idea about what happened with Queho. I could roll up on ’em and find out where they’re keeping the boy while you and Lola go do whatever it is you gotta do.”

Lola skipped ahead a couple of steps and walked backwards to face them. “I like that idea.”

Battle nodded. “It’s a good idea,” he said. “Where would you go to find out?”

“I think I go to the HQ,” Pico said. “If that’s where you think everybody is. I mean, I won’t come out and ask where the kid is. I’ll hint around.”

“You need to lose the pack, then,” Battle said. “You’re gonna have a tough time convincing them to trust you anyway, but it’ll be impossible if you have that pack loaded with my gear.”

Pico nodded and stroked his mustache with his fingers. “True enough. Where are you gonna be?”

“We’re going around the backside of the post office,” Battle said. “No need to put ourselves in harm’s way any more than necessary. We’ll do some recon there. Maybe get some additional artillery or destroy some. Depends on what we find.”

“Where do we meet up?” Lola asked, still doing her best to maintain a pace while jogging backward. “When we’re done. Where do we go? Where does Pico go?”

“Pico?” Battle asked. “This is your plan. Thoughts?”

“My house,” Pico said. “Seventh and Plum near the old Baptist Church.”

“How far is that from the post office?” asked Lola, turning around to walk forward again, a limp returning to her gait.

“Four blocks north and four blocks east.”

“Okay,” said Battle. “Let’s do it.” Battle stopped walking. “Give me your pack.”

Pico shrugged the pack off his shoulders and swung it over to Battle. “See you on the other side,” he said. “Seventh and Plum. If I ain’t there by sundown, I ain’t comin’.”

“Don’t say that,” Lola said. “We’ll see you there.”

Pico tried smiling. “I’m gonna run east a bit. I don’t want ’em seeing me coming from this direction.”

“Good idea,” Battle said, “and good luck.”

Pico waved and jogged ahead. Battle opened up the pack and pulled out some of his food, some additional ammo, a handgun, and a canteen. He pulled off his own pack and set it on the ground, unzipped it, and stuffed it full with Pico’s belongings. He rolled up Pico’s pack and added it to the mix.

Lola frowned. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t carry both bags,” Battle said. “I’m bringing what he’ll need when we meet up with him. I’ll carry it for him.”

“Oh.”

“What?” Battle cocked his head to the side. “Did you think I was writing him off?”

“I didn’t know.”

“I’m not that pessimistic, Lola.”

“I didn’t know.”

“We’ll do this,” he said softly. “We’ll find your son. We’ll get out of here alive.” Battle reached out and put his hands on her shoulders, drawing her eyes to his. “I told you I’d reunite you with Sawyer. It’ll happen.”

Lola’s eyes glazed, but she held back her tears. “I…believe you.”

There was doubt in her eyes. Battle understood it. He’d seen the same uneasy gaze from his wife, Sylvia, in the days before their son died. He’d tried to assure her the illness wouldn’t take hold and that the medicine would work. He’d taken too many precautions and forced his family into too many sacrifices for Wesson to die in the earliest days of the Scourge. Maybe it was that she’d known he was trying to convince himself. Maybe she’d known the truth before he did. Either way, she’d been right to doubt him. He’d been wrong. Their son had died. And days later Sylvia had too.

“She doesn’t believe you.” Sylvia’s voice echoed in his head. “Look at her. She knows the odds aren’t good. She’s not an idiot, Marcus. Be honest with her.”

“I am,” Battle said aloud.

Lola looked at him sideways. “What?”

Battle shook Sylvia’s voice from his head. “Nothing.”

Lola pulled away from his hold. “Let’s go.”

***

Pico turned north off of Third Street onto Walnut. It was as if he tripped an alarm. Every one of the two dozen men gathered in front of the HQ’s remnants spun to look at him. Half of them raised their weapons in a synchronized chorus of suspicion.

Pico had walked farther west than needed so he could approach from the south and east, as if he’d limped in from Rising Star. Two blocks east of Walnut, he’d rolled around in the dirt and ripped his shirt at the collar and along one of the shoulder seams. He pulled at his cracked lips with his fingers, aggravating the hairline splits in the skin to produce thin tendrils of blood around his mouth. He favored his right leg, which was actually bruised, and held out his arms.

“It’s me,” he croaked, “Salomon Pico.” He waved his hands as he held them high. It’s me. Don’t shoot.” He limped another half dozen steps and dropped to his knees.

Cyrus Skinner flicked a cigarette to the street and walked towards Pico. “Put down your guns,” he said, motioning with his head toward Pico. “He’s one of ours.”

“You got water?” Pico asked, looking up at Skinner when the captain neared. “I need some water.”

“Bring me a canteen,” Skinner called over his shoulder. “Pico here needs some water.” Skinner squatted down onto the toes of his boots, resting his forearms on his thighs. He squinted and held Pico’s gaze.

Pico blinked first but kept his eyes on Skinner. He knew this was a test. Skinner was trying to read him.

“So,” Skinner said and peppered Pico with questions. “What happened? Where is everybody? Didn’t you leave with Rudabaugh? Did you ever see Queho?”

Pico swallowed hard. He was about to speak when a grunt appeared over Skinner’s shoulder, holding out the canteen so the captain could grab it.

“Hand it to him,” Skinner said, his eyes still trained on Pico. “I ain’t the one who’s thirsty.”

The grunt reached across Skinner’s shoulder and stretched the canteen to Pico as if he might bite. Pico took it, flipped the cap with his thumb, and chugged the warm water.

“Whoa,” Skinner cautioned. “You drink too fast, you’re gonna make yourself sick. We wouldn’t want that.”

Pico slugged back another swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He handed the canteen back to the grunt. Skinner motioned with his head for the grunt to go back and join the others. He did.

“So you were about to tell me what happened to my men?”

Pico was matter of fact. “They’re dead.”

“All of ’em?”

Pico nodded. “All of ’em. I couldn’t tell you the number. They’re all dead.”

“How do you know that, seein’ as how you got yourself back here without a scratch?”

Pico’s eyes narrowed with indignation. “I don’t know what you’re saying, but I’m hurt. I barely made it out of that…hell.”

“That so?”

Pico smoothed his mustache and swallowed. “Yeah, that’s so. I nearly died. Took everything in me to get back here to warn you.”

“Warn me?”

“He’s coming for us,” Pico said. “Mad Max. He’s coming. He wants the boy.”

“What boy?”

“That redheaded woman. Her boy. He’s coming to get him.”

“That so?”

Pico nodded.

Skinner leaned in, his face inches from Pico’s. “How do you know that? I mean, if you was running for your life. If you nearly died and everyone else did, how would you know what his plans are?”

“I heard him,” said Pico. “I was playing dead. He was only a few feet from me. I heard him talking to the woman. They said they was coming here.”

“They ain’t gonna find him. He’s gonna be headed to the Jones.” Skinner licked his teeth. “Tell me how everybody died.”

Pico shook his head. “I don’t know. I know there was a lot of gunfire. There were booby traps everywhere.”

“So you were with Rud, right?”

Pico nodded and wiped the sweat beaded on his forehead.

“You survived the booby traps and gunshots,” said Skinner, his voice low like an idling engine. “And then what did you do until Queho got there?”

Pico searched Skinner’s face for an answer. He ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s such a blur,” he rambled. “I hid near an oak tree for what was hours, I reckon. I lost my shotgun. I was afraid of stepping into one of the traps, so I hid. Then Queho showed up. He and his men attacked, but Mad Max was ready.”

Skinner nodded slowly. “Huh.” He stood and spun on his boot heels. “I need some help over here,” he called to the grunts. “My man Pico needs some water and some food.”

Skinner turned back and offered his hand to Pico. Pico reached up and took it with both of his and heaved himself to his feet. Skinner nodded toward his men, motioning for Pico to follow him.

“Thanks.” Pico followed Skinner, favoring his left leg as he limped to the group.

Skinner walked ahead, his feet kicking up dust as he moved, then halfway to the men he stopped. He cocked his head to the side and put his right hand on the revolver at his hip.

“Pico,” he said without turning around, “tell me something.”

Pico limped another step and stopped. “Yeah?”

“How come you’re favoring the wrong leg?”

A chill ran through Pico’s slender frame. “What?”

“You was limping on your right leg when I seen you coming here,” Skinner said. His head was turned now so that Pico could see his sharp profile. “Now it’s your left.”

Pico froze. He didn’t move either leg. Skinner rapped his fingertips on the handle of his revolver.

“I shoulda known that Mad Max fella wouldn’t have found our Humvee on his own. Even if he did, he wouldn’t have figured out where I live. Ain’t that right?”

Pico tried to speak. He couldn’t find the words. There
were
no words.

“So then,” Skinner hissed, “seems we got ourselves a real problem.”

Gravity pulled on Pico’s legs, cementing them to the asphalt. He stopped breathing. His eyes focused on Skinner’s long, nicotine-stained fingers as they trilled atop the gun.

“Now I could let you live, Pico,” Skinner spat. “I really could. And I could pick you clean for every bit of information you got about Mad Max. That ain’t what I feel like doing.”

An involuntary shudder racked Pico’s body. Every bit of him trembled.

“’Cause I got a stinkin’ feeling you either don’t know much, or you wouldn’t tell me,” Skinner said. He was flexing his fingers above the revolver. In and out. In and out. “Any man who’d cheat on his own, find comfort with the enemy, then come back here as a traitor looking for something ain’t worth the time.”

Pico found enough control of his body to speak. “I ain’t a traitor,” he said. “I ain’t done nothing wrong. I came back to tell you all about Mad Max. I can tell you everything you want to know.”

Skinner’s eyes narrowed. He snorted and then spat a thick glob of phlegm onto the street in front of him. “That so?”

“His name is Battle,” said Pico, the words pouring from his mouth as fast as he could form them with his lips. “He’s got the woman with him. They want the boy. They’re armed.”

Skinner chuckled. “Battle, huh?” He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders. “Good name, I reckon. That other stuff, I coulda told you that. Ain’t no news in what you’re selling, Pico.”

Pico waved his shivering hands in protest. “I got more,” he said. His body was beginning to tire from the shivers coursing through his body, wave after wave. “Let me live and I’ll prove it. I got more.”

Skinner closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his chest filling with air. He slowly exhaled and his eyes opened. He looked at Pico, a smile worming its way across his stubbled face. “Boys,” he called to the grunts over his shoulder, “never mind the grub. Our friend Pico here ain’t gonna be needing nothing to eat.”

Pico’s vision blurred. His arms tingled from his shoulders to his fingers. Fresh beads of sweat bloomed on his forehead and on the nape of his neck, streaming into the folds of his cheeks above his mustache and down his back. A flood of nausea washed over him when Skinner turned to face him. The grunts coalesced into a single mob behind their captain. Pico knew he was done. His play hadn’t worked.

***

Battle was moving toward Pine and Third Streets on the western corner of the post office. He and Lola were walking south from Fourth Street, scouting the best entrance along the building’s front entrance. Along the top of the facade, the lettering read FEDER LDING ST OFFI E AND RTHOU E.

“This was more than a post office,” Battle said, surveying the brick exterior. Most of the tall narrow glass windows were intact. Those that weren’t were covered with pressed plywood boards. “It was the federal building and courthouse too, built in the 1930s. It’s more than a hundred years old. Kinda funny.”

“How’s that?” Lola’s limp was more pronounced as she worked hard to keep pace with Battle’s long stride.

“This was the place scum like the Cartel would meet their makers,” he said, nodding at the wheat-colored brick. “Figuratively, I mean. They’d find justice here. Now it’s where they store their ill-gotten arsenal. Good thing they’re not smarter.”

Lola moved a step ahead and then slowed. “How so?”

“If they were smart,” Battle said, “they’d have consolidated everything inside that building. It’s much better fortified than the hardware store across the street. That was too soft a target.”