Wall: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 3) (28 page)

Battle repeated that assessment in his head over and over until he began to wonder how unrecognizable he would be to Sylvia were she suddenly alive and standing across from her husband. Would she know him? Would Wesson instantly identify him as his father?

He chuckled to himself, vacantly staring off toward the eastern horizon. He didn’t even know himself anymore. How would anyone else? Paagal had tried to weasel that admission from him more than once. He’d chosen not to give in to her psychological games.

Paagal was another one who was likely a different person than the one she had been prior to the Scourge. Then again, maybe not. Maybe she’d always been a manipulative power broker.

He replayed the conversation with Paagal in his mind. Something didn’t sit right. Although he couldn’t put his mental finger on it, she wasn’t entirely forthcoming.

“You’re back.” Lola popped her head through the front vent of her tent. Her red hair was wild and tangled. Her eyes were framed by the dark circles underneath them.

Battle’s pulse quickened at the sight of her. She was the prettiest she’d been. “Yeah,” he said through a smile he tried to suppress, “and we need to get moving.”

Lola pulled herself through the opening and moved next to Battle. “What do you mean?”

“Paagal’s getting us an escort to the wall right now. We’re leaving as soon as we gather our belongings.”

Lola’s eyes narrowed and she folded her arms across her chest. “That’s weird, isn’t it?” she asked. “We’ve been awake all night. We’ve been fighting. We’ve—”

Battle raised his hands in surrender and nodded. “I know, I know. I agree. It’s weird.”

“How are we getting there?”

“Car.”

“Huh,” she said. “Okay. I’ll get our stuff together.”

“How’s Sawyer?”

“In shock, I think. He doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“Give him time,” said Battle. “He’ll open up.”

“I don’t know,” Lola said. “I think he’s seen too much. It’s changed him.”

Battle stepped toward Lola and wrapped his arms around her, placing one hand on the small of her back and the other on the back of her head, and pulled her close. She melted into his body.

“We’ve all changed,” he said.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

OCTOBER 26, 2037, NOON

SCOURGE +5 YEARS

WICHITA FALLS, TEXAS

“It’s been two hours,” whined the woman in the front seat of the hearse. “We’ve been sitting in this car without the heat on for two hours.”

Taskar was rapping his fingers on the top of the steering wheel. He didn’t respond to the complaint.

Ana assumed there was nothing he could do about it. Otherwise, Taskar would have gladly sent them on their way. Instead, they were stuck in a parking lot, awaiting permission to pass through the gate. The lot was full of people waiting their turns. Apparently, Ana and her road-trip companions weren’t the only ones who feared anarchy in the coming days.

The woman shifted in her seat, tightening the squeeze on the two unfortunate teens sitting between Taskar and her. “How long is this going to take?” she asked, her breath visible puffs of air that bloomed and dissipated in the cold air.

Taskar kept thumping his fingers, tapping out something that sounded like a jazz riff. He glanced over at the woman and shrugged, leaning back on the headrest.

The woman grunted. “I’m getting some answers,” she said and opened her door. “This is ridiculous.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Taskar halfheartedly protested without taking his head from the rest or stopping his jam session. “It’s not a good idea.”

The woman cursed at Taskar, stepped from the hearse, and slammed shut the door. The two teens immediately slid over to give themselves more space.

“She shouldn’t have done that,” Taskar said. “It’s dangerous here.”

“I thought crossing the wall was secretive and publicly forbidden,” said Ana. “If that’s the case, why are there so many people openly defying the law?”

The front seat leather squeaked under Taskar’s weight as he turned to face Ana. “It’s not the law anymore,” he said. “Or it soon won’t be. Everyone who is here knows the Cartel is losing power. Plus, there’s nothing illegal about entering the no-man’s-land between the fences and the wall. It’s just that nobody does it because it’s a free-for-all.”

“There are so many people,” said Ana.

“A lot of these are Cartel,” Taskar replied. “They’re like the Nazis fleeing at the end of World War II.”

“How can you tell?”

Taskar drew his finger across his forehead. “See the tan lines on their foreheads? Those are hat lines. These are bosses and captains who are running before Paagal and her people capture them.”

It made sense that the feckless, cowardly leaders would flee and leave the underlings to fend for themselves. Ana hadn’t seen any of the motorcycle-riding grunts she knew patrolled the border near the wall and figured they’d driven south to fight. She did, however, see endless desperation on the faces of those gathered in the lot and walking the streets nearby.

It reminded her of the television footage of the Syrian and Ukrainian refugee camps she’d seen in the months before the Scourge hit the United States. She hadn’t thought about it in years, but there it was as fresh as if she’d watched it yesterday.

She positioned herself so she could see the woman through the front windshield. Becky, the young woman sitting in the jump seat facing her, had also turned around to watch.

While there weren’t many vehicles in the lot, there were easily a couple of hundred people in various states of dress and levels of armed preparedness.

At the far end of the lot was an imposing eight-foot chain-link fence topped with rusting concertina wire and stretching hundreds of feet in both directions before connecting with buildings on either side. In the middle of the fence was a wide gate that slid open on rollers.

Every ten minutes or so a man with a rifle strapped to his shoulder would roll open the gate enough for the next person or small group of people to squeeze through. A pair of men with thick beards and cartoonishly large physiques prevented anyone else from trying to pass. All three of the men took their direction from a woman with a shaven head at the edge of the gate. She appeared to be the arbiter of who passed through and who was turned away.

In the two hours they’d sat awaiting their turn, she’d seen papers, weapons, and food exchange hands. She’d even seen bags of coins offered for passage. The woman would unclench the bags, pour the money into one hand and test its weight. The people she turned away didn’t get back their offerings.

Another woman, also with a buzz cut, was circling the lot, taking names and assigning positions. She’d told Taskar he was next an hour earlier. He clearly wasn’t. He’d known better than to press his luck and complain. Despite his warnings, the anxious woman from the front seat did not.

With her elbows locked and fists drawn tight, she marched to the gate. As she approached, one of the bearded men held up a hand to stop her. She kept moving until he drew his rifle to his shoulder. His face turned red as he barked an order at her and planted his feet firmly on the cracked asphalt.

Ana couldn’t hear what the woman was saying or what the bearded man was telling her, but she could tell the conversation wasn’t going as well as the woman would likely have wanted.

She kept pointing back at the hearse, jabbing at it with her finger while she complained. The guard glanced over at the hearse, keeping his weapon trained at the woman’s chest.

The shaven-headed woman who’d lied to Taskar cautiously approached the exchange. She slid up beside the bearded guard and joined the conversation. Her approach, while supported with firm hand gestures, appeared more muted than the guard’s.

Seemingly defeated, the woman from the front seat screamed something at the two decision makers and spat at their feet. She turned toward the hearse and started slowly back across the lot.

Behind her, the gate slid open, the warped wheels running their track as a guard pushed the chain-link barrier. The woman glanced over her shoulder and stopped walking. She gave a final look at the hearse, her tongue curled above her lip, and spun back to the gate.

Taskar grabbed the wheel and pulled himself forward in his seat toward the dash. “She’s going to run for it,” he said. “I can’t believe her. She’s going to run for it.”

She did and she was fast. Her arms chugged, her heels kicking toward her behind as she sprinted to the opening. A group of a half-dozen men and women were slowly crossing into no-man’s-land. Together they filled the space between the edge of the open gate and the fence post from which the guard pulled it. The woman from the front seat barreled her way through them, her arms swimming outward to clear her path as she bolted across the threshold.

She moved so quickly, she disappeared into the density of people on the other side of the gate before any of the guards reacted. One of them fired a pair of shots past the gate once the woman from the front seat had long since vanished. He got a tongue-lashing from a woman arbiter. She slapped her shaven head, pointing at him and then the gate.

Then the bald woman turned her attention to the hearse and began a march toward it and its remaining occupants. Taskar slammed his hands on the wheel and cursed the woman from the front seat.

“She left us,” said one befuddled teen to the other. “I don’t understand.”

The bald woman rapped her knuckle on the driver’s side window, and Taskar rolled it down. She stuck her head halfway into the car and eyeballed the seven remaining people inside the hearse.

She pointed toward the gate as it closed. “That,” she said, “is going to cost you. You go to the back of the line. People are getting restless as it is. I can already sense a riot brewing. We’re trying to control access, slow the exodus. We can’t have anyone cutting in line.”

“But she left us,” said the confused teen. “She’s our older sister. She took care of us.”

“She doesn’t anymore,” said the bald woman flatly. “It’s going to be another hour now.”

“What’s going to happen to her?” asked the teen, nodding toward the fence.

The bald woman scratched the stubble peppering her scalp. “In no-man’s-land?” she asked, one eyebrow raised higher than the other. “Nothing good. She’s a woman. She’s alone. She’s never making it across the wall. Now wait here. I’ll be back in an hour. Or two. Or three. You’re not the priority.”

Taskar rolled up the window. “What she’s saying is that we didn’t give her enough of a payment. These folks from the Cartel have compensated her well. That’s why they’re the priority.”

Ana leaned back against the tailgate, extending her legs into the flatbed next to the jump seats. She drew a bottle from her bag and eyeballed a tablespoon of formula, mixing it with the remaining water in one of her two canteens. She shook the contents.

Penny needed to eat. They’d be waiting a while. Ana figured she might as well do it while she had the time. No-man’s-land wouldn’t be the place to stop and feed her baby should the child suddenly get hungry.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

OCTOBER 26, 2037, 3:30 PM

SCOURGE +5 YEARS

WICHITA FALLS, TEXAS

“We’re almost there,” said Baadal. “Everyone should wake up now.”

Battle hadn’t slept the entirety of the long ride. His suspicious mind wouldn’t let him. He’d kept one eye on the driver and the other on the passing scenery as their caravan sped southeast.

Paagal had provided a pair of Cartel SUVs Dweller scouts had confiscated west of the rim. They were full of gasoline, had spare canisters strapped to their roofs, and even had working heaters.

Baadal was in the front passenger’s seat. Battle sat behind him. Lola sat behind the driver. She was asleep, her head leaning against the window and bobbing with the movement of the SUV. Sawyer was passed out on Battle’s shoulder.

Highway 287 took them from the canyon through Memphis, Childress, and Vernon. All three of the towns were virtually abandoned. The road had cut through the center of the first two towns, revealing dilapidated buildings, tumbleweeds of trash, and traffic signals that didn’t work.

In Vernon, they’d skirted the northern edge of town, but Battle had gotten the same sense from what little he saw. It was another ghost town in the vast territory of what was once Texas.

Battle wasn’t born in Texas, but he’d gotten there as fast as he could. He loved its topography, its lack of state income tax, and its residents’ rightful sense of provincialism.

He’d bemoaned what had happened. Regardless of what the Dwellers now did with their power, Texas would never be Texas again. People would forget the Alamo and the Battle of Goliad. He recited the Texas pledge in his head as they motored closer to Wichita Falls, trying to keep its words stuffed somewhere in his memory.

“Honor the Texas flag; I pledge allegiance to thee, Texas, one state under God, one and indivisible.”

Battle had no allegiance to anything anymore. There was no country for which to fight, no state in which to take pride. All he had now were Lola and Sawyer.

He looked over at them. Neither awoke from Baadal’s urging. He nudged Sawyer and the boy’s eyes slowly blinked open. He reached across and gently squeezed Lola’s leg. She put her hand on his, lacing her fingers between his, keeping her eyes closed.

“You should wake up,” Baadal repeated. “We’re getting close. Our driver is going to tell us what to expect.”

The driver was a gruff man who’d not spoken the entirety of the long drive. He adjusted the rearview mirror and cleared his throat. His voice was deep and raspy, almost painful sounding. “This isn’t going to be fun,” he said. “This is the only open crossing point along the entirety of the wall. Expect to see fleeing Cartel. Expect to see dangerous loners and desperate families. And that’s before you get into no-man’s-land.”

Sawyer rubbed his eyes. “What’s no-man’s-land?”

“It’s the stretch of uncontrolled land between the Cartel’s gates and the wall. It makes it harder to get access to the wall. That’s how the Cartel wanted it. Now we’re using it to stop too many people from leaving at once.”