Wall: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 3) (16 page)

“You knew the job,” said the leader. “Now do it!”

The other bosses stopped their tantrum for the moment and returned to the steel sights of the weapons. They were silent except for the sound their rifles emitted as they unloaded rounds in both directions.

The one who’d called the move stupid was on one knee, aiming south, when a barrage of bullets from that direction tore through his chest. His body rattled against the rock and he collapsed in a heap, falling onto the man next to him.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

Another volley peppered that boss across his midsection above his waist. He convulsed and dropped onto the dead man next to him.

The leader moved to take their position, and he steadied his weapon toward the direction of the shots that killed a third of his posse. He crouched low behind their bodies, feeling them jerk and shake as another assault sprayed their corpses. Without sight, he returned fire.

Rat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat.

“We’re down two!” he called to his men over the gunfire. “I need the focus south. One stay north. The other two join me this way.”

“I got it,” called the one who’d complained about the lack of scopes. “I’ll take the north. Watch my—”

A trio of slugs found his back. The impact thrust him forward, twisting against the boulder, and he slid to the ground. The recon posse was shrinking.

The leader shifted his position again. “I’ll take the north,” he said. He climbed over the third dead boss and pressed himself against the boulder. The leader peeked around the edge of the rock and saw an advancing team of Dwellers. There were three or four of them. They were grouped tightly together, likely to mask their numbers.

They were stuck. This was not going to end well.

***

Battle’s aim was instinctual. Even with the slim bluish light of the moon, he was able to make out enough of the silhouette attached to the muzzle flash that he was confident when he squeezed the trigger.

He couldn’t be sure he’d hit his mark, so he adjusted his aim infinitesimally to the left and squeezed again. The kick against the flat rock he used as a steadying pod was inefficient at best. The barrel moved with the recoil.

Battle believed he’d hit his mark when the muzzle flashes from that spot stopped popping. He’d hit his target. He waited for the next mark.

To his right, both the guard and the surviving operator were returning fire. With a closer vantage point, the guard might have a better shot, but he was too exposed.

Rat-tat-tat.

A grunt followed by a pubescent-sounding scream told Battle the guard was hit. His screaming alternated with heavy guttural moans. Battle resisted the urge to tell him to be quiet so as not to give up his own location.

Rat-tat-tat.

The guard was silent.

Battle was watching the guard and didn’t spot the location of the flash. He had no distinct idea of where to aim. He didn’t want to indiscriminately fire either. That would be as bad as had he called out to the guard to tell him to shut up.

He considered his options, looking at the moon slip behind a bank of clouds moving slowly across the Amarillo sky. He could move or advance. Both of those possibilities exposed him to return fire.

He could stay in place. There was no threat in any direction but from the rocks to his north. That was the best bet.

***

The portly Dweller was side by side with the woman marching south. The two of them moved cautiously, taking advantage of the cloud cover to advance more quickly than they might have otherwise, especially given they were inching forward on their bellies.

The muzzle flashes had momentarily stopped. A breeze swirled, whistling through the dry foliage clinging to the trees dotting the area near the rim.

She’d sent a pair of Dwellers southwest and two more southeast to provide cover on either side. If the friendlies attacking the Cartel from the south were still alive, something of which she could not be sure, they’d have the enemies outflanked.

The woman Dweller had taken the lead because nobody else seemed willing to do it. They’d listened to her and were taking her direction. Even the portly Dweller followed orders.

The woman, who’d come to the Dwellers as the lone Scourge survivor among her husband and four children, had never asked for much. She’d given greatly, always eager to volunteer for whatever task Juliana Paagal assigned her.

That included raising her hand to take a shift on the rim. She had nothing to lose and was willing to sacrifice herself to warn or protect those in the canyon below.

She’d taken the Dweller name Ma-an. None of the men in her squad had asked her name, however, so she’d not shared it with them.

As Ma-an and the portly Dweller drew closer to the rocks, she could sense his fear. His breathing was short and loud, and the rifle rattled in his hands.

“What is your name?” she whispered.

He glanced at her wide-eyed. “Galaphulla.”

“I’m Ma-an.”

Galaphulla nodded. He inched ahead of Ma-an and stopped, pointing to their right.

One of the Dwellers sent to the southwest was standing. He had his rifle pulled tight to his shoulder. His large silhouette was intimidating in the moonlight escaping the patch of clouds.

Ma-an readied her rifle. She motioned for Galaphulla to do the same. The standing Dweller took a pair of shots at the rocks directly ahead of them.

***

The shots came from the left, unexpectedly. They shattered the relative silence of the moment and took the life of the boss crouched next to the recon leader. The leader was jolted and spun to face the new threat.

He was looking west now and saw a gunman standing in the moonlight. His rifle was aimed straight at the leader. There was no time to take proper aim in defense. The leader closed his eyes, resigned to his fate, when a loud percussive echo exploded behind him.

Rat-tat-tat.

The only other surviving boss had sighted the standing gunman and opened fire. His quick trigger downed the standing gunman.

Rat-tat-tat.

Another quick trio of shots found another Dweller crouched in the same spot. Two down in a matter of seconds.

The recon leader spun to thank the boss for saving his life in time to see a muzzle flash from the corner of his eye. It was from the southwest.

Thump, thump, thump. Thump, thump, thump.

The boss’s head snapped backward and he dropped. His eyes were fixed to the leader as the shots drilled through his brain. The leader blinked away the spray of blood that splattered across his face and neck. He was alone. The last survivor.

The leader, as mean a cuss as anyone could find, was like most sad men when faced with the prospect of pending death. He raised his hands and begged for his life.

He tossed his rifle to the ground. “I surrender!” he said as loud as his shaky voice would carry. “I surrender.”

His head swiveled, searching the dark for approaching Dwellers. His body tense, he raised his hands higher above his head, anticipating a rifle shot to the gut at any second.

“I surrender,” he repeated, his words falling flat in the air. “I’m the last one. I give up. Don’t shoot.”

***

Battle jumped to his feet and pressed the HK’s stock into his shoulder, advancing slowly. He’d heard the man announce his surrender. He caught the operator’s eyes, and the two of them moved in tandem toward the rocks.

From behind the rocks, a woman’s voice said, “Move toward me. Slowly. Hands above your head.”

Battle pressed forward, and the man began to move. He was wearing a dark cowboy hat. Battle guessed the man was a posse boss. His hands raised high, he shuffled away from the rock and to the west.

“We’re right behind him,” a man’s voice announced from the east. A pair of Dwellers, rifles at the ready, emerged from the darkness, following the boss.

One of them noticed Battle and the operator. “Who are you?” He switched his aim, pointing his rifle directly at the operator.

“We’re Dwellers,” said Battle. “Paagal sent us to help. She told us one of the squads was hit.”

“Just two of you?”

“No,” said the operator. “We lost two others.”

Battle motioned his rifle toward the recon boss. “Let’s all row in the same direction. Keep our weapons aimed at the boss here. Move slowly. We can figure it out on the other side of the rocks.”

The Dweller nodded. “We’ve got two more coming with us,” he called out to the woman. “We’re all armed.”

“Got it,” said the woman. “Move slowly.”

The five men, including the posse boss, rounded the rocks. The woman and a short, chubby Dweller awaited them.

The woman had her eyes and weapon trained on the boss. “Is he it? Is he the only one left?”

“It looks like it,” said Battle.

The woman looked Battle up and down. “And who are you?”

“My name is Battle,” he said. “I’m…helping out.”

“I know you,” said the portly Dweller. “I saw you at the bonfire. You’re not a Dweller.”

“No. I’m also not the issue right now.” Battle nodded at the posse boss. “He is.”

“Agreed,” the woman said. “We need to get him to Paagal and find out what he knows.”

“We can take him,” said the operator.

“Good,” said the woman. “We’ll take care of this and radio the other squads.”

“I’d keep the radio talk to a minimum,” said Battle. “We don’t know yet if this is the only team, and this guy has one of your radios.”

The woman stepped forward and grabbed the radio from the boss. She glared at the prisoner then turned to Battle. “Go ahead,” she said. “Take him to Paagal. We’ll get back to work here.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

OCTOBER 25, 2037, 11:40 PM

SCOURGE +5 YEARS

INTERSTATE 27, NEW DEAL, TEXAS

Roof sat in the passenger’s seat of the Humvee. The low rumble of the engine, the smell of diesel, and the threadbare interior of the vehicle stimulated his memory.

He ran his fingers through his beard and stared out the window at the moonscape along Interstate 27. His mind drifted from the northbound convoy to the moments before his life changed in Syria nearly eighteen years earlier.

The patrol was routine. He and the five others were alone in an area not far from the university. They’d completed countless similar missions in Aleppo with no casualties. They were armed, they were doing their job, but Roof, known then as Sergeant First Class Rufus Buck, had the sense they weren’t as vigilant as they should have been.

Despite warnings from their superior officer, Captain Marcus Battle, they’d been talking about their upcoming leave. The men were looking forward to their R&R. Or as Roof had called it, I&I. Instead of rest and relaxation, he’d joked, it was more about intoxication and intercourse.

That sort of irreverence was a tricky proposition in the Muslim nations that jailed people for virtually any public displays of affection. Roof was schooling the younger men on ways to subvert authority and where they could find forbidden fruit when Battle chastised them for their lack of focus.

Roof was walking behind Battle with the other men. They were six or seven steps behind him. Roof silently mocked him with a lazy salute. The other men laughed. When Battle turned around, one of them poked his rifle at a moldy stuffed Elmo doll lying in their path.

The doll was filled with carpenter screws, ball bearings, and a pipe containing explosive material. Elmo exploded as the soldier stood above it.

He and the two men closest to him died instantly. Roof, Battle, and another soldier were thrown clear of the immediate blast.

No sooner they got their wits about them when the man next to Roof was gunned down. They’d stepped into an ambush. The combatants who’d detonated the doll were showering them with lead.

Roof was hit and dropped. His leg below his knee was mangled. He was trapped and unable to move.

The man he’d mocked moments earlier was his only salvation. From behind a concrete barrier, the fearless captain found the source of the gunfire and neutralized it.

He then returned and, at the risk of his own life, helped Roof to safety. It was the longest night of his life before the Scourge took hold. It was the night he learned what heroism was. He also learned he wasn’t capable of it.

When they crossed a bridge and checkpoint the following morning, they underwent a thorough debriefing. Every aspect of the previous afternoon and night was discussed repeatedly.

Battle was insistent he receive no medal for his actions. He’d told his superiors that if he’d done his job, if he’d kept his men focused, they never would have come under fire.

Roof, more jealous of his comrade’s selflessness than thankful for it, agreed that Battle had not commanded his patrol with authority. While he was grateful for the captain’s efforts to save his life, he didn’t promote the idea of any commendation. His ego wouldn’t allow it.

Both men were sent home from the tour. Roof never saw him again, except in nightmares when he relived the pain and embarrassment of relying on someone else to keep him alive.

And then karma played its hand. Battle, of all people, was the thorn in the Cartel’s side. On the eve of the war that would give them dominion of their lands, the fight that would put an end to the only organized opposition, Marcus Battle reappeared.

Roof was certain that when he confronted Battle before the Jones, the good captain would recognize him. For some reason, he hadn’t. Battle had no idea who Roof really was. The general was so shocked by it that he had to let the man live. He had to give him the same gift he’d received. So he did. He thought it would ease him of his guilt, the inadequacy that guided his life.

It didn’t.

Instead, it only reopened the festering wound, left it gaping and subject to infection. Letting Battle live was a mistake, just as Battle’s having let him live so many years ago was a mistake. Had Battle let him die, the Cartel never would have risen to power.