Wall: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 3) by Tom Abrahams

his brow furrowed. He was slouched in a chair, holding his hat on his lap. His legs were crossed at the ankles and rested on the seat of a chair opposite him.
    General Roof didn’t know whether his captain was asleep or pretending to be. He didn’t care. He walked into the room inside the first floor of the Jones, intent on talking to the man he’d savagely beaten a few hours earlier.
    “How’s your mouth?” he asked from across the room. Roof found a chair and dragged it across the floor.
    Skinner’s eyes opened slowly and stopped at a slit. He looked over at Roof and shrugged.
    “Still can’t speak?”
    Skinner shrugged again and shook his head. Roof noticed one side of Skinner’s face was a nasty palette of fresh scabs and bruises.
    Roof spun the chair backwards and straddled it. He leaned on its back with his elbows. “I guess I should apologize,” he said. “I really had no cause to whip you the way I did.”
    Skinner merely sat there, leering at Roof through the razor-thin space between his eyelids.
    “Yeah,” said Roof. “Guess you can’t respond. That’s my fault. Look—”
    Skinner raised his hand, waving off Roof’s apology. He closed his eyes and put his hat on his head, lowering the brim over his brow. His tongue still protruded from between his lips. He cleared his throat and clasped his hands at his belly.
    “Whether you want to hear it or not,” said Roof, “I’m gonna tell you what’s what.”
    Skinner opened one eye and shifted in the seat. He flared his nostrils and tried adjusting the placement of his swollen tongue in his mouth.
    “You’re not going to the rim,” said Roof.
    Skinner opened his other eye, but didn’t otherwise respond.
    From behind Roof, Porky ambled into the room. “Oh,” he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you, General.”
    Roof turned around and looked at the chubby grunt. He studied the man’s cherubic face and wondered what had driven kind-looking Porky into the Cartel. “You’re fine,” he said. “What do you want?”
    Porky held up a large glass bowl. “I found some ice,” he said. “I thought Captain Skinner could use it.”
    Skinner waved him over and took the bowl. He set it on his lap and delicately fingered a jagged chunk of ice into his mouth. He squeezed his eyes closed and held his mouth open. His hands gripped the arms of the chair and his body tensed as he rolled the ice over his wounded tongue.
    Porky stood beside the chair, his face contorting in a way that mimicked Skinner’s pain. He swallowed hard and took a step back.
    Roof was observing the grunt’s sympathetic movements. “That’s thoughtful of you,” he said. “You seem like a good man…”
    “Porky, sir,” said the grunt. “Everybody calls me Porky.”
    “You seem like a good man, Porky. Why are you in the Cartel?”
    Porky tilted his head and pursed his lips. “What do you mean?”
    Roof pointed at Skinner and then himself. “You’re not like us,” he said and aimed his finger at Porky. “I can tell that. You have a kindness about you. There’s a soft heart underneath all of that.” He waved his hand over Porky’s overhanging belly.
    Porky sucked in his gut as much as he could and pulled up on his pants, using the empty belt loops. His face flushed.
    “Seriously,” said Roof. “I’m not joking. Why are you in the Cartel?”
    Porky looked at Roof as if he didn’t understand English. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”
    Roof looked at Skinner and then back at Porky and chuckled. “It’s a simple question,” he said. “Why. Are. You. In. The. Cartel?”
    Porky tugged on his pants again and squeezed his eyebrows together. He pulled his shoulders up to his ears. “Because I had to, I guess.”
    Roof nodded. It was an honest answer. “Why did you have to join?”
    “I didn’t want to die,” said Porky. “I was told if I worked for the Cartel, I’d have a job, a place to stay, food to eat. They said if I didn’t, I could