Wall: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 3) (13 page)

His pace quickened, and he raised his rifle, closing the twenty-yard gap between the whistling and his spot along the rim. He was within a few feet when he recognized the whistler.

Baadal stopped and lowered his weapon. “It?”

The whistling stopped and the man turned around. “Baadal? That you?”

“Yes,” Baadal said. “What’re you doing?”

Itihaas turned to fully face Baadal. He drove his hands into his pockets. His rifle was slung across his back. “Just whistling,” he said. “Can’t sleep.”

“What’re you whistling?”

“It’s an old song,” Itihaas said. “It’s called ‘New World in the Morning’. It’s by a fellow named Roger Whitaker. My father used to whistle it. I picked it up.”

“Got my attention,” said Baadal. He looked out over the rim again, straining his eyes to see anything beyond the darkness.

“I don’t know,” said It. “I thought it was appropriate. Tomorrow brings a new world, right?”

Baadal shrugged. “I suppose.” He turned back to It. “May I ask you a question?”

Itihaas nodded. “Shoot.”

Baadal traced his finger down his face. “How’d you…”

“Get the scar?”

Baadal nodded.

“It was on the other side of the wall.”

“You’ve been over the wall?”

It nodded.

“What was it like?”

“That’s a tough question to answer,” said Baadal. “How do you describe chaos disguised as order? It was deceptively dangerous. No better than here, really. On this side of the wall you can see the danger coming. Up there, on the other side, it’s too late by the time you sense it.”

Baadal took another step closer to It. “How so?”

“There’s a government,” he said. “There’s a military. There’s power, most of the time, and there’s food.”

“That’s all good,” Baadal said.

“It’s all window dressing,” It said. “It’s corrupt. It’s smoke and mirrors. There’s no such thing as an honest living there. I mean, don’t get me wrong, if you’re willing to go along to get along, it’s better up there than it is down here. But if you want to make a go of it, if you want a piece for yourself, you gotta fight bigger, nastier dogs for it. Problem is, you never see their teeth until they’re ripping into your throat. By then it’s too late.”

“Is that why you came back?”

“I didn’t come back by choice,” It said. He ran his finger along his scar. “After I was attacked, I was tossed back here. Exiled.”

“How’d you end up in the canyon?”

“Scavengers along the wall stripped me of everything. They left me for dead,” he said. “Some sentries found me, patched me up, and brought me here. That was more than a year ago. I was thankful enough that once I healed, I became a sentry.”

Baadal checked his watch. It was time for a check. “Hang on a second,” he said, raising a finger to Itihaas. “I gotta get on the radio.”

Itihaas nodded. “You do what you gotta do.”

“This is Red squad one,” said Baadal. “Please advise of your status. Over.” He let go of the key and then held the radio to his ear.

There was static and then a voice.
“Red squad two. Status normal. Over.”

“Squad three, Red,”
buzzed another voice.
“Status normal. Over.”

Six more signaled their situation was normal. The last one, southern rim squad ten, did not.

Baadal looked over at Itihaas and then pulled the radio close to his mouth. “This is southern rim squad one,” he said calmly. “Please advise of your status, squad ten. Over.”

Nothing.

“Squad ten.” Baadal’s voice carried more urgency. He shook the radio as he spoke into it. “This is Red squad one. Please advise of your status, squad ten. Over.”

Static. Then nothing.

Itihaas moved next to Baadal. The two of them glared at the radio, as if somehow looking at it might produce a response Baadal knew wasn’t coming.

“Who’s the closest squad to ten?” asked It. “I know we’re in the middle of things.”

“Eight,” said Baadal. He pressed the radio. “Squad eight,” he said, the urgency having morphed into desperation. “Please advise of your status, Red squad eight. Over.”

The response was immediate.
“Red squad eight. Status normal. Over.”

“Red squad eight,” said Baadal, “shift half position east to squad ten location. Advance with caution. Squad ten is not responding. Over.”

“You’re moving squad eight?” It asked.

“Half of them,” said Baadal. “We can’t leave a gap.” He spun a knob on the top of the radio. “Blue squad one. Please advise of your status. This is Red squad one. Over.”

The radio crackled and beeped.
“This is Blue squad one. Status normal. Over.”

Baadal pressed the radio key. “Blue squad one, please provide assistance to Red. Red squad ten not responding. Squad eight moving now with half response. Over.”

“Copy that.”
The radio was overmodulated but intelligible.
“Shifting half position Blue squad nine to assist. Will advise. Over.”

“This isn’t good,” Baadal said. He switched his frequency again so he could communicate with Paagal. She wouldn’t be happy.

“So much for the new world starting tomorrow,” said It. “It’s happening now.”

***

The leader of General Roof’s reconnaissance posse couldn’t believe his good fortune. The team of six men, all of them smart and wily posse bosses, had moved quickly north to the edge of the canyon’s easternmost southern rim three hours ahead of schedule.

Roof had told them to expect sentries to interrupt their progress or misdirect their path. Neither had happened and they’d easily found themselves in an enviable position. They’d stationed themselves behind a clump of large rocks about seventy-five yards from the rim and what appeared to be an unprepared patrol squadron.

The squadron included a larger number of armed combatants than the quick-footed recon posse, but they were inexperienced. They didn’t carry themselves with swag. They were too relaxed.

Rather than the Browning shotgun that most of the Cartel carried as standard issue, the recon posse was armed with SCAR-17s similar to General Roof's. There were bipods connected to the barrels, twenty round magazines, and stock was designed to make it easier to secure the weighty weapon against the shooter’s shoulder.

In the years before the Scourge, Russian crime lords had provided caseloads of SCAR-17s to those engaged in the Afghani heroin trade. Those same weapons found their way to South and Central America and the nasty drug gangs that populated that early part of the twenty-first century.

Other than the Brownings, which were the most plentiful weapon post-Scourge, the SCAR-17 was the Cartel leadership’s weapon of convenience. Six seasoned malevolents armed with the semiautomatic rifle capable of quickly emptying the magazine were likely to defeat most similar-sized opposition.

The leader signaled for two of the men to take positions on either side of the rocks. Both of the men had the added benefit of AAC Cyclone silencers on their weapons. The suppressors lessened the volume of the rifles when fired, making the shots sound more like pneumatic nail gun shots than full-blown semiautomatic rifle fire.

Each man took his position, prone, and set their respective bipods in the dirt. On the leader’s signal, they took aim.

One by one, like a shooting gallery at a carnival, the men smacked their targets. Some of the targets were already on the ground. In the dark, the shooters could only see the jerk of their bodies as the .308-inch rounds drilled into the opposition two or three at a time. The others, who were standing, dropped instantly from the staccato rhythm of those brass slugs peppering the life out of them.

Within fifteen seconds, the entire Dweller patrol was done. The recon posse hadn’t broken a sweat, and they moved quickly to search their marks. They took what weapons and rations they could use and stuffed them into the light rucksacks on their backs.

The leader opened a satellite phone and awaited the signal before he dialed General Roof. The ring warbled twice before the general answered.

“What?”

“We’ve made our first contact,” said the leader. “Easy pickings. Probably a dozen of their sentries are down.”

“No resistance?” asked Roof.

“They never saw what hit ’em,” said the recon posse leader. “We’ve got maps, a radio, some weapons, light rations.”

“Good job,” said Roof. “Keep me posted. Move along the rim, disabling whatever defenses they have working the edge. The more damage you do, the easier it’ll be tomorrow.”

The leader hung up, closed the satellite phone, and slipped it into his rucksack. It was dark, but the clouds were clearing, and the moon was providing enough light for the tasks at hand.

He was turning to the group to relay their instructions to the other five bosses when the radio crackled to life. A series of squads checked in with their base. He listened to the number of sentry squads placed along the southern rim: six, seven, eight, nine…

Nobody answered at number ten. The commander called out for number ten again. No response.

“I’m guessing that’s us, boys,” said the leader. The men chuckled in agreement.

The radio squawked again.
“Red squad eight,”
said the anxious voice sending the orders.
“Shift half position east to squad ten location. Advance with caution. Squad ten is not responding. Over.”

The leader turned to his left and pointed into the darkness. “We’re gonna get company,” said the leader. “It’s gonna be coming from the west. We need to look for it.”

The radio chirped. The voice ordered another squad to move.

“We’re gonna get it from the north too,” one of the men added. “What do you want us to do?”

“We head back to those rocks,” said the leader. “They’re far enough back with a little elevation. We’ll have three positioned facing west and three perched on the other side facing north. We’ll hit both of them as they get near.”

The men retreated to the rocks. They each set up their attack position and waited for the approaching Dwellers.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

OCTOBER 25, 2037, 10:40 PM

SCOURGE +5 YEARS

LUBBOCK, TEXAS

General Roof set down the sat phone. “That was a recon posse,” he said to Skinner. The captain was struggling to stay awake. His head kept bobbing up and down as he worked to keep his eyes open. Roof had told him repeatedly he could go to sleep. He’d promised not to leave him behind in the morning. Skinner apparently hadn’t believed it.

“They’re at the southern rim already,” he added. “They’re gathering some good intel and they’ve already taken out some Dwellers. It’s off to a good start.”

Skinner scribbled on the notepad still on his lap. He ripped free a piece of paper and handed it to Roof.

Roof read it aloud. “What is a recon posse?”

Skinner shrugged and held out his hands expectantly.

“This recon posse is out of Wichita Falls,” said Roof. “It’s six bosses. All of them are meant to observe and report. That’s all. If they have to kill in the process, so be it.”

Skinner nodded. He dropped the pad and pen onto his lap.

“Get some sleep,” Roof said. “I’ll be down the hall.”

The general left the captain in his bed and moved into the long hallway that ran the interior of the Jones. He rubbed his eyes. He needed sleep.

He thought about the recon posse’s efficiency and wondered to himself how different the last couple of weeks might have been had he made one available to Skinner. Maybe the posse, with its speed and ruthlessness, would have captured and killed the woman and her boy before she ever found Battle’s ranch.

Battle would be holed up in his private world, fending off the occasional incursion. He wouldn’t have done so much damage to the Cartel. Roof wouldn’t have found himself in the difficult position of having to keep Battle alive out of a debt of gratitude.

Still, Battle’s involvement and survival had ultimately given them the opportunity to infiltrate the Dwellers inside the canyon. That was a benefit.

Skinner, though, had gotten to Roof. He’d found the festering wound and picked at the sore. That was why Roof had attacked Skinner so mercilessly. It was a mistake. Roof acknowledged that to himself.

He hoped he was wrong about Battle coming back to haunt him. He hoped Skinner was wrong. He reached the door to his room and shouldered his way into the cool darkness of it, an uneasy feeling swirling in his gut.

Despite an early victory and an overwhelming force heading toward the canyon, something told him the worst was yet to come. He fell into his bed and closed his eyes.

No sooner had he begun to drift into that comfortable space between consciousness and sleep when through his lids he could see the bluish-white flicker of the monitors on the wall.

“Roof?” It was Parrott Manuse. “Roof? You there?”

Roof pushed himself to his elbows and called across the room. “Yeah. I’m here.” He rolled out of his bed and walked over to the screens, flipping the light switch on the way.

Parrott’s face was white, his eyes bloodshot. “Have you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Harvey Logan is dead.”

Roof looked into Manuse’s eyes. They were swollen. “What?”

“He’s dead,” said Manuse. “Somebody killed him. He’s dead in the bathtub of his house. His woman and kid are missing.”

“Did she do it?”

“I dunno,” said Manuse. He hadn’t blinked since he’d started talking. His eyes were watering. “When he didn’t answer your call, I tried him again later. He never answered. Given what we got going on tomorrow, I thought it was hinky. About a half hour ago I sent a team by his house.”

Roof rubbed his face with his hands. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“They found a man dead in the bedroom,” Manuse explained. “It looked like there was a struggle or fight. They went into the bathroom and found Logan’s body on ice in the bathtub.”

“Dwellers?”

“Probably,” said Manuse, blinking for the first time. “It gets worse.”

Roof wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but he bit. “What?”

“We have a dead posse boss too. Run over by a stolen car. His wife is dead as well.”