Canyon: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 2) by Tom Abrahams
Authors: Tom Abrahams
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picking their way around the debris. Beyond them, closer to the main hall, he could barely make out the shapes and shadows of more men.
Battle reached awkwardly into his pocket to pull out the first of the two cylindrical MK3A2 concussion grenades.
He offered his whispered prayer again. “As far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions from us.”
He was about to pull the pin when a voice in his head cautioned him against it.
“This is gratuitous,” Sylvia said. “You don’t need to do this. You could move on and find the boy.”
Battle hesitated with his finger curled inside the pin. He clenched his teeth. Now was not the time for this.
“Consider the covenant,” Sylvia said. “For the dark places of the land are full of the habitation of violence.”
“Psalm 74:20,” Battle grumbled. “I know this. I don’t need a sermon.”
Pico put his hand on Battle’s shoulder. “What?”
Battle turned to look up at Pico, his eyes darting to Lola’s. He could see she knew what was happening. The pity was evident when she glanced away, pressing her lips together and looking at her feet.
“Nothing,” Battle said. “Don’t worry about it.”
Sylvia’s voice, the voice of his conscience, wouldn’t be silenced. “You’re better than this, Marcus. There is time for killing. This is not it. Go find the boy.”
Battle looked at the grenade in his hand. He squeezed it, sighing at the hypocrisy of his existence.
“Do not envy a man of violence,” he said. “And do not choose any of his ways. Proverbs 3:31.” Battle slipped his finger from inside the pin and stood to meet Pico’s bewildered stare. “We need to go,” he said. “We need to find Sawyer.”
Pico drew his features tight, his eyes, nose, and mustache shrinking together in the center of his face. “I—you—but—”
“Don’t argue, Pico,” Lola interrupted. “Let’s go.”
Pico shook his head, but he and Lola followed Battle back out onto Walnut Street. They were crossing the street to retrieve their packs when the galloping of hooves grew loud. Fifty yards from them, on the other side of the carnage in the street, were three men on horseback. One of them was a posse boss, the other two were grunts. They were armed with Brownings, and they were coming straight for Battle, Lola, and Pico.
***
Posse Boss Pony Diehl never thought he’d live to see a day like this one: the HQ blown up, Cyrus Skinner’s house set on fire, a mess of grunts killed around a card table at the motor pool, and another crushed by an old popcorn machine.
By the time he and his men rode north up Walnut Street, he couldn’t comprehend the carnage laid out in his path. Diehl yanked on his reins and pulled his horse to a stop. The grunts followed, slowing their horses and easing alongside Diehl.
“What the hell happened here?” one of them asked.
“Damned if I know,” said Diehl. “Looks like a shoot-out.”
“Looks like we lost,” grunted the other.
Diehl’s eyes moved from the dead bodies to the three people crossing the street up ahead. He pulled his pistol and slipped his gloved finger onto the trigger. “Hey!” he called ahead to the trio. “Stop. Who are you?”
Diehl kept his horse still for the moment, but he adjusted his boots in the stirrup irons, ready to slam his heels into the horse’s sides. He narrowed his focus and identified two men and a woman. The woman was a redhead. She was vaguely familiar. One of the men was wearing a boss’s hat like his though Diehl didn’t recognize him. The other man, with a bushy, unkempt mustache, he did know. Salomon Pico.
Diehl lowered his weapon but kept his finger on the trigger. “Hey!” he repeated. “Answer me.”
None of the three responded. They picked up their pace, hurrying to the post office fence line running north and south along Walnut.
“Pico,” Diehl said. “Salomon Pico? I know you. What are you doing?”
Pico’s gait hitched and he
Battle reached awkwardly into his pocket to pull out the first of the two cylindrical MK3A2 concussion grenades.
He offered his whispered prayer again. “As far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions from us.”
He was about to pull the pin when a voice in his head cautioned him against it.
“This is gratuitous,” Sylvia said. “You don’t need to do this. You could move on and find the boy.”
Battle hesitated with his finger curled inside the pin. He clenched his teeth. Now was not the time for this.
“Consider the covenant,” Sylvia said. “For the dark places of the land are full of the habitation of violence.”
“Psalm 74:20,” Battle grumbled. “I know this. I don’t need a sermon.”
Pico put his hand on Battle’s shoulder. “What?”
Battle turned to look up at Pico, his eyes darting to Lola’s. He could see she knew what was happening. The pity was evident when she glanced away, pressing her lips together and looking at her feet.
“Nothing,” Battle said. “Don’t worry about it.”
Sylvia’s voice, the voice of his conscience, wouldn’t be silenced. “You’re better than this, Marcus. There is time for killing. This is not it. Go find the boy.”
Battle looked at the grenade in his hand. He squeezed it, sighing at the hypocrisy of his existence.
“Do not envy a man of violence,” he said. “And do not choose any of his ways. Proverbs 3:31.” Battle slipped his finger from inside the pin and stood to meet Pico’s bewildered stare. “We need to go,” he said. “We need to find Sawyer.”
Pico drew his features tight, his eyes, nose, and mustache shrinking together in the center of his face. “I—you—but—”
“Don’t argue, Pico,” Lola interrupted. “Let’s go.”
Pico shook his head, but he and Lola followed Battle back out onto Walnut Street. They were crossing the street to retrieve their packs when the galloping of hooves grew loud. Fifty yards from them, on the other side of the carnage in the street, were three men on horseback. One of them was a posse boss, the other two were grunts. They were armed with Brownings, and they were coming straight for Battle, Lola, and Pico.
***
Posse Boss Pony Diehl never thought he’d live to see a day like this one: the HQ blown up, Cyrus Skinner’s house set on fire, a mess of grunts killed around a card table at the motor pool, and another crushed by an old popcorn machine.
By the time he and his men rode north up Walnut Street, he couldn’t comprehend the carnage laid out in his path. Diehl yanked on his reins and pulled his horse to a stop. The grunts followed, slowing their horses and easing alongside Diehl.
“What the hell happened here?” one of them asked.
“Damned if I know,” said Diehl. “Looks like a shoot-out.”
“Looks like we lost,” grunted the other.
Diehl’s eyes moved from the dead bodies to the three people crossing the street up ahead. He pulled his pistol and slipped his gloved finger onto the trigger. “Hey!” he called ahead to the trio. “Stop. Who are you?”
Diehl kept his horse still for the moment, but he adjusted his boots in the stirrup irons, ready to slam his heels into the horse’s sides. He narrowed his focus and identified two men and a woman. The woman was a redhead. She was vaguely familiar. One of the men was wearing a boss’s hat like his though Diehl didn’t recognize him. The other man, with a bushy, unkempt mustache, he did know. Salomon Pico.
Diehl lowered his weapon but kept his finger on the trigger. “Hey!” he repeated. “Answer me.”
None of the three responded. They picked up their pace, hurrying to the post office fence line running north and south along Walnut.
“Pico,” Diehl said. “Salomon Pico? I know you. What are you doing?”
Pico’s gait hitched and he
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