Canyon: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 2) by Tom Abrahams Page A
Authors: Tom Abrahams
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looked back at Diehl. He waved but didn’t say anything, then quickly disappeared around the corner with the other two.
“That was weird,” said one of the grunts.
“You ain’t kiddin’,” said Diehl. He looked down at the dead in the street and then glanced over at the HQ. There was movement inside the shattered front door, and he raised his pistol again.
“Pony Diehl,” a voice called from inside the HQ. It was resonant and full of gravel. “That you?” Cyrus Skinner emerged from the darkness of the building, his boots crunching on broken glass. His ear was bloodied.
“Yeah.” Diehl palmed the saddle horn and swung his leg over the horse to dismount. He holstered his pistol and met Skinner where the sidewalk met the street. “Just got back from the Expo Center.”
“And?”
Diehl motioned his head toward the bodies in the street. “It looks a lot like this.”
“Yeah,” said Skinner. “Seems Mad Max is a tough one. And Pico’s working for him.”
The color sank from Diehl’s face. His jaw dropped. “I just saw him,” he said, thumbing his hand over his shoulder. “Right there. I just—”
Skinner’s face reddened. His body stiffened. “What?”
“He was there…with two other people.”
Skinner’s bloodshot eyes found the gun at Diehl’s hip. “And you didn’t kill him?”
Diehl took a step back. “No. I didn’t know—”
Skinner’s eyes lifted to Diehl’s. He spoke through clenched teeth. “You…just…let…him…walk?”
“I—”
Skinner roared, “Go get him!”
Diehl spun back to mount his horse. He wrapped the reins around his glove and kick-started his horse. The two grunts followed him at a gallop. Diehl’s heart was pounding, his hands suddenly sweaty inside his gloves.
He looked over his shoulder as he rounded the corner where he’d last seen Pico. Skinner was yelling at the HQ, and men climbed from its hull onto the street. Whatever had happened sent Skinner retreating and forced him to hide.
Diehl was more frightened by that revelation than by Skinner’s admonition or the dead bodies strewn on Walnut. In the years since the Scourge, since he’d gone from being a punk kid with a puncture-proof attitude to the day Skinner put the brown hat on his head as posse boss, Pony Diehl had never seen Skinner cower.
Cyrus Skinner was the meanest, toughest, most heartless man he’d ever known. He’d once seen a drunk grunt attack Skinner at a bar. The grunt had a knife. Skinner had been unarmed. The grunt had driven the knife into Skinner’s side and let go of it. Skinner, without so much as a whimper or a wince, had slowly, deliberately withdrawn the blade. His gaze had never left the drunk grunt’s glassy eyes as he’d turned the knife and slammed it to its hilt through the top of the man’s head.
Skinner had stitched his own stab wound himself during a round of cards, in between slugs of whisky, while the dead grunt slumped in the chair next to him. Nobody at the table, Pony Diehl included, had said anything about it. They’d played their hands and bet their chips.
This time, Diehl had seen something unfamiliar in Skinner’s eyes. It was a glint of fear, of worry. That anger he’d flashed was an attempt to cover it. Diehl was certain of it as he guided the horse to the right, cutting short the corner to ride north on Pine Street away from the federal building.
He turned his head as soon as he completed the turn, looking over his shoulder to the south. There was something in the middle of the road a block back. It took an instant, but he recognized the threat and yelled to the two grunts following him into the intersection and blindly grappled for his pistol at his hip. His muscles tensed. He jerked his reins, trying to redirect the horse as quickly as possible. His gut wrenched. His short, violent life flashed in his mind.
***
Battle was on his back in the middle of the street. He was in what was called the Fulton position. His knees were
“That was weird,” said one of the grunts.
“You ain’t kiddin’,” said Diehl. He looked down at the dead in the street and then glanced over at the HQ. There was movement inside the shattered front door, and he raised his pistol again.
“Pony Diehl,” a voice called from inside the HQ. It was resonant and full of gravel. “That you?” Cyrus Skinner emerged from the darkness of the building, his boots crunching on broken glass. His ear was bloodied.
“Yeah.” Diehl palmed the saddle horn and swung his leg over the horse to dismount. He holstered his pistol and met Skinner where the sidewalk met the street. “Just got back from the Expo Center.”
“And?”
Diehl motioned his head toward the bodies in the street. “It looks a lot like this.”
“Yeah,” said Skinner. “Seems Mad Max is a tough one. And Pico’s working for him.”
The color sank from Diehl’s face. His jaw dropped. “I just saw him,” he said, thumbing his hand over his shoulder. “Right there. I just—”
Skinner’s face reddened. His body stiffened. “What?”
“He was there…with two other people.”
Skinner’s bloodshot eyes found the gun at Diehl’s hip. “And you didn’t kill him?”
Diehl took a step back. “No. I didn’t know—”
Skinner’s eyes lifted to Diehl’s. He spoke through clenched teeth. “You…just…let…him…walk?”
“I—”
Skinner roared, “Go get him!”
Diehl spun back to mount his horse. He wrapped the reins around his glove and kick-started his horse. The two grunts followed him at a gallop. Diehl’s heart was pounding, his hands suddenly sweaty inside his gloves.
He looked over his shoulder as he rounded the corner where he’d last seen Pico. Skinner was yelling at the HQ, and men climbed from its hull onto the street. Whatever had happened sent Skinner retreating and forced him to hide.
Diehl was more frightened by that revelation than by Skinner’s admonition or the dead bodies strewn on Walnut. In the years since the Scourge, since he’d gone from being a punk kid with a puncture-proof attitude to the day Skinner put the brown hat on his head as posse boss, Pony Diehl had never seen Skinner cower.
Cyrus Skinner was the meanest, toughest, most heartless man he’d ever known. He’d once seen a drunk grunt attack Skinner at a bar. The grunt had a knife. Skinner had been unarmed. The grunt had driven the knife into Skinner’s side and let go of it. Skinner, without so much as a whimper or a wince, had slowly, deliberately withdrawn the blade. His gaze had never left the drunk grunt’s glassy eyes as he’d turned the knife and slammed it to its hilt through the top of the man’s head.
Skinner had stitched his own stab wound himself during a round of cards, in between slugs of whisky, while the dead grunt slumped in the chair next to him. Nobody at the table, Pony Diehl included, had said anything about it. They’d played their hands and bet their chips.
This time, Diehl had seen something unfamiliar in Skinner’s eyes. It was a glint of fear, of worry. That anger he’d flashed was an attempt to cover it. Diehl was certain of it as he guided the horse to the right, cutting short the corner to ride north on Pine Street away from the federal building.
He turned his head as soon as he completed the turn, looking over his shoulder to the south. There was something in the middle of the road a block back. It took an instant, but he recognized the threat and yelled to the two grunts following him into the intersection and blindly grappled for his pistol at his hip. His muscles tensed. He jerked his reins, trying to redirect the horse as quickly as possible. His gut wrenched. His short, violent life flashed in his mind.
***
Battle was on his back in the middle of the street. He was in what was called the Fulton position. His knees were
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