Wall: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 3) (19 page)

The Scourge had provided an exponentially more solitary existence save interactions with by-the-hour women and posse bosses he controlled. It wasn’t all that different from working in a prison culture.

His encounter with Roof had served to reinforce his desire for solitude and self-preservation. It had also deprived him of the ability to enjoy a cigarette. His swollen tongue made it nearly impossible for him to smoke. He was more ornery than usual and his hands were trembling.

“I was kidding,” Dalton said loudly over the beating rain. “Sheesh.”

Skinner faced the grunt. He tipped back his hat, the rain pouring across his face, and caught Dalton’s beady little green eyes. He held them there with his angry gaze, telling the boy to shut up and leave him alone.

Cyrus Skinner didn’t need to talk to speak. Dalton got it and lowered his head like a scolded dog, wiped rain from underneath his eyes, and pouted.

Skinner looked over his shoulder, past the driver’s door and into the storm. The cold pellets of rain peppered his face, stinging when they hit him. He opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, catching the drops.

He closed his eyes and relished the water washing over the wound. Although it hurt, it soothed the throbbing ache at the same time.

Light flashed against his closed lids and he opened his eyes in time to see a fork of lightning reach the horizon. The sky flickered with a purple afterglow before the thunder rumbled in the distance.

Skinner was struck by the beauty of something so deadly. A bolt of lightning, as hot as 53,540 degrees Fahrenheit, could fry a man where he stood. That same bolt, from miles away, was a marvel.

The Scourge was the same, he reckoned. It was a scientifically beautiful connection of nucleic acid and proteins. He’d seen a model of it on television before it killed virtually everyone he knew. It looked like a dandelion. A dandelion that could kill a man where he stood.

Another bright flicker lit the thick layer of clouds that had built on their way north. The thunder was a soft vibration.

Skinner closed his mouth and turned back to face where they’d been instead of where they were headed. Both looked good from afar, especially in the dark. He chuckled, thinking how both were far deadlier up close. A sense of dread washed away the smile. For the first time in his life, Skinner felt mortal. He feared death. He wondered if that was because it too was drawing closer. The captain tilted his hat forward, leaned his back against the Humvee’s cab, and closed his eyes. He needed rest. It might be the last he ever got.

Skinner didn’t want to die as a man in need of a nap.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

OCTOBER 26, 2037, 1:45 AM

SCOURGE +5 YEARS

DALLAS, TEXAS

General Parrott Manuse saw the intruder before he heard him. He was in his office, sitting behind his desk. He couldn’t sleep.

He was reading a dog-eared printout of a thirty-three-year-old Army Manual titled “FM -3-07.22 Counter Insurgency Operations”.

The manual was a nice refresher for a man who hadn't waged war since the last Dweller skirmish two years earlier. He was reading about convoy operations when he caught movement in the peripheral vision above his outdated reading glasses.

The office had a single entrance that fed to a long hallway. The hallway split at a four-way intersection, which provided access to various parts of Manuse’s sprawling home. Unlike the other generals, who’d chosen comfortable but modest accommodations, Manuse squatted in a six-thousand-square-foot monster.

He put down the manual and reached for the handgun strapped under the desktop, a nine millimeter Glock. Its magazine was fully loaded. He pulled it out onto the desk and rested it there, his hand gripping it tightly.

“Hoodoo?” he said loudly, his voice echoing down the hallway. “That you?”

Hoodoo Brown was the head of the general’s private security team. There were four of them. Brown was the best. He was ruthless in his protection of the general.

“Hoodoo?” The general’s call went unanswered. Manuse searched his memory for the last time he’d heard from any of his security team. They typically checked with him every half hour during a heightened alert.

Manuse sat at the desk for a moment, Glock in his hand, watching the doorway through which he’d caught the movement. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, wondering if he’d seen anything at all. His gut, and the hairs on the back of his neck, told him something wasn’t right.

He reached over and turned off the dim desk lamp to his left. It was the only light in the room. With it off, he was in the dark. He pushed himself from the desk, crouched low, and moved around to its side, his dry, aging knee joints cracking. He squeezed into the space between the corner of the desk and a large floor-to-ceiling bookshelf.

Manuse was not a young man. He shifted his body in the space, trying to alleviate the discomfort in his lower back. He couldn’t stay hidden there for long.

The only sound in the room was the ticking of an old grandfather clock on the opposite wall. Its deliberate brass pendulum clicked back and forth, sweeping the minute hand across the sun and moon design of the old timepiece. It chimed once to mark the quarter hour and startled Manuse. He cursed the clock under his breath and adjusted his position to take the pressure off his back.

For several minutes, there was no sign of an intruder. Manuse wondered if Hoodoo had told him he’d be going somewhere. His memory was clouded in the untrustworthy fog of an old mind.

Manuse had nearly convinced himself of his own paranoia when he heard the intruder outside the office. It was a whisper or a murmur.

The general peeked around the corner in time to see two dark figures entering the room from the hallway. He steadied himself and raised the Glock.

Before he could pull the trigger, the room exploded in gunfire. The intruders sprayed the desk with the lead from their assault rifles, muzzle flashes strobing. Glass shattered. Splinters of wood shot through the air. It was a deafening attack that left Manuse cringing in his tight space. Nonetheless, he took aim from his uncomfortable spot on the floor and repeatedly pulled the trigger. One of the intruders jerked awkwardly and fell to the floor. The other turned his aim on Manuse. A volley of bullets riddled the bookshelf to his right, shredding the old volumes that populated the shelf.

Avoiding the barrage, the general slid backward and crawled on his knees to the other side of the desk. A sudden, sharp pain struck his ankle above his foot.

He bit down on his lip to stop himself from crying out in pain and leaned around the desk on its opposite side. He was met with the barrel of a rifle inches from his face.

“Drop it, old man,” said the intruder. “It’s over.”

Manuse dropped the Glock and slid it to the intruder. He dropped onto his stomach and spread his arms. “I’m injured,” he said, laying his face on the cold, wooden floor. “My leg. I think you shot my leg.”

The intruder reached over to the desk lamp and pulled its chain. Manuse could see the man’s boots in front of him. The red overlay in the boot shaft was familiar. He recognized it, but couldn’t place it.

The intruder crouched down and tilted his head so that Manuse could look into his eyes. There was a wide smile stretched across the intruder’s face.

“Got any final words, General?” asked Hoodoo Brown. “Anything you want to say?”

Manuse felt the pressure of his own weapon against the side of his head. He pressed his eyes closed, forgetting about the burning ache in his ankle.

“Why?” he asked Hoodoo. “Why are you doing this?”

Hoodoo nodded. “I’m a Dweller,” he said. “That’s why.”

Manuse swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple dancing in his throat. He could taste his lunch. The general narrowed his eyes and spat the bile onto the black toe of Hoodoo’s boot.

“A Dweller?” said Manuse. “You fu—”

Hoodoo interrupted him with the Glock. Twice.

The guard stood up and plucked a satellite phone from his back pocket. After inputting the correct connection information, he drew the phone to his ear.

“Paagal?” he said. “Manuse is dead. The Metroplex rebellion has begun.” He listened to Paagal’s instructions and hung up, tucked the phone into his pocket, and walked over to the coconspirator who lay dead on the floor. Hoodoo bent down and picked up the man’s rifle. Carrying one in each hand, he marched from the office into the hallway.

Hoodoo had work to do. Killing the general was the first step of many. Chaos was building in the streets. Hoodoo had promised Paagal he’d contribute to it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

OCTOBER 26, 2037, 2:15 AM

SCOURGE +5 YEARS

DALLAS, TEXAS

The storm had subsided. The rain shower was intense but brief. It, and the accompanying electrical storm, drifted south. There were still flashes of light in the distance and long delayed booms of thunder. A steady, cold wind had settled in behind the storm. It was a damp wind that cut through Battle’s soaked clothing and chilled his body. He rubbed his thumbs across the tips of his wrinkled fingers. He was drenched to the bone.

He looked at the others. They too wore frowns on their faces. Their brows were furrowed, their shoulders hunched.

Canton was the worst of them. Still tied to the tree, he’d braved the storm and the operator’s relentless questioning.

As far as Battle could tell, recon posse boss Frank Canton had told them everything he knew about the Cartel’s battle plan. They’d learned Canton had been in many of the key meetings where Roof and the other generals had discussed strategy. He was an intelligence gold mine. It only took Battle and the operator a little digging to find the choice nuggets.

They knew from Paagal that Logan was dead. So was Manuse. That left Roof as the only general alive.

He’d be dead too if he hadn’t left his home for Lubbock. The Dwellers had no sway in Lubbock. As the hub of the Cartel’s illicit trade, their infiltration efforts had repeatedly failed. The grunts and bosses working there were loyal beyond reason.

The operator told Paagal they’d extracted everything they could get from Canton, but she’d wanted more. She’d insisted they had time before the attack, which Canton placed at intervals after sunrise.

He’d advised them that they’d face attacks on all fronts. There would be wave after wave of offense. Paagal listened intently, making tactical adjustments in her mind.

“What can you tell us about Roof?” asked the operator. “What was he before the Scourge?”

Canton was obviously spent. He couldn’t lift his head. His words were virtually inaudible. The operator had to stick his ear close to the boss’s mouth to understand what he was saying.

“He was a soldier,” said Canton.

“A soldier?” asked the operator. “As in the Army?”

Canton licked his dry lips and nodded. “Army.” He coughed. “Syria.”

Battle’s interest was piqued. “He served in Syria?” He stepped around to the front of the tree and stood next to the operator.

Canton nodded again. “Then drug dealer. Built Cartel.” His body sank against the tree and he winced against the pull of the binds on his bruised, raw wrists.

“He was a soldier and drug dealer?” asked the operator.

Canton tried lifting his head but failed. He whispered something.

“What?” asked the operator. “I can’t understand you.”

Canton’s chin dropped to his chest and his head rolled to the side. He was unconscious.

The operator looked at Battle. “Wake him up.”

Battle sighed and stepped to the boss. He took the man’s face in one hand and slapped him with the other.

Canton gasped. His head jerked back against the tree. His eyes fluttered open. “Drugs,” he spat. “He sold drugs.”

Battle moved next to the prisoner and spoke softly into his ear. “How do you know he served in Syria?”

“Rumor,” Canton said. “He wore dog tags.”

Battle pressed. “What about Syria?”

“People say he almost died in Syria. They say Elmo almost killed him.”

Battle stepped away from the boss and walked past the operator, past Paagal, consciously ignoring their stares. The wind was whipping through the canyon, the tail edge of a storm that brushed by them.

He stopped at a spot where the creek widened. He looked at the split reflection of the moon in the trickling water, trying to organize his thoughts.

It couldn’t be. Could it?

There were tens of thousands of soldiers who’d served in Syria. Maybe it was more than a hundred thousand who’d done lengthy tours. That information didn’t narrow the field.

Many of them might have turned to the high-profit world of drug trafficking or other illegal work. There had been limited opportunities for legitimate employment coming back to a weakened economy. Only men with spotless records were getting the consulting jobs Battle had landed. Roof’s employment didn’t necessarily make him exceptional.

There were countless deaths and near deaths during the Syrian War. That wouldn’t distinguish Roof either.

But Elmo, that squeaky red Muppet with the big nose. That was the clincher. That was the one thing Battle couldn’t shove aside into the evidence pile marked coincidence.

Standing on the edge of the water, Battle’s balance wavered. The rain had swollen the creek. He lost himself in its run through the canyon floor, finding its way across the inhospitable terrain.

“You should have let him die,” said Sylvia’s voice. “Then maybe you’d still be home. You’d be with us.”

Battle ran his hands through his sopping hair. He gritted his teeth. “You told me to leave,” he said to Sylvia. “You wanted me to move forward.”

“Because that’s what the circumstances demanded, Marcus,” she said. “If you’d let Rufus Buck die in Syria, there wouldn’t be a Cartel. You wouldn’t have needed to leave our home.”

Battle tried to follow that reasoning. “But if I’d let him die,” he argued, “I never would have met Nizar. I wouldn’t have understood the need to prepare for the end of the world. I—”

“None of that mattered, did it?” asked Sylvia. “Your preparations, your stockpile, your rules. None of it mattered.”