Wall: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 3) by Tom Abrahams Page A
Authors: Tom Abrahams
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either leave town or die. I had nowhere to go. I wanted to stay alive. So…”
Roof knew that was how the Cartel grew exponentially in a short period of time. He and the three other generals had insisted their most trusted soldiers go about proselytizing the masses. It was their own version of the Crusades.
It was brilliant, really. Heavy handed and brutal, but brilliant. Posses went from town to town, ranch to ranch, house to house, and converted the nonbelievers at gunpoint or worse.
When there was resistance, Roof made certain his lieutenants knew to make examples of those who failed to comply. It was not hyperbole when a posse boss threatened to put someone’s head on a stake or burn him alive. It led to a strong foothold in nearly every city and town within their territory.
For close to five years, ruling by fear had served the Cartel. Now, on the edge of war with those few who refused to succumb to their threats, who resisted with uncommon resolve, Roof thought better of it.
He looked at Porky—softhearted, roly-poly Porky—and saw the weakness in their numbers. How many other men about to fight for the Cartel were doing so because their only other options were exile or death? How many of them served out of fear as opposed to loyalty?
Porky, and the countless grunts like him, were conscripted soldiers. They were an entirely different proposition from the men and woman who would fight for the Dwellers because they chose to do so.
He knew from his days in Syria that a strongly held belief was more powerful than an HK. The fighters there, in their limitless number of factions, all fought for what they believed was right. They risked their lives and took those of their enemies based on the simple premise that they were doing so for a righteous cause.
It made them difficult to defeat, given that American soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines were fighting because it was their job to do so. They weren’t in country because they were seeking a moral high ground. They weren’t purging the world of infidels. They were getting paid to be there. The esoteric idea of patriotism and democracy didn’t work the same way.
Skinner grunted and drew Porky’s attention. The captain was holding the bowl of ice, shaking it loudly.
Porky reached out his hand slowly, as if he were afraid of losing it. “You’re finished with it?”
Skinner nodded and shoved the bowl into Porky’s hands. The grunt took it and lowered his head, leaving the room like a dismissed manservant. Both men watched him leave and then locked eyes.
“I need you here, Cyrus,” Roof said. “I’ve got men staying here to hold down the fort, so to speak. Lubbock is critical to our trade with the Mexicans and with the users north of the wall. We can’t leave it entirely unprotected while we march on the canyon.”
Skinner’s face was frozen with disgust. Roof started to further make his case when Skinner snapped his fingers and pointed over the general’s shoulder, waving his finger at a desk on the far side of the room.
Roof turned around and saw a large notepad on the desk. He swung his leg over the chair and maneuvered his way to the desk. The pad was irregular and discolored from water stains, and most of the pages were already covered with illegible pre-Scourge notes.
Roof picked it up and showed it to Skinner. “You want this?”
Skinner nodded.
Roof walked around to the other side of the desk and fished through the unlocked drawers, looking for a pen. He found one, uncapped it, and scribbled on the paper until ink trailed onto it from the ballpoint.
He carried both back to Skinner and handed them over, standing over Skinner while he wrote on the crinkled paper and then ripped it free of the pad.
Roof took the note, held it close to his eyes and then pulled it back to focus. Skinner’s handwriting was hard to read. It resembled the left-hand offering of a right-handed kindergartner.
“You need me at the canyon. I don’t want to
Roof knew that was how the Cartel grew exponentially in a short period of time. He and the three other generals had insisted their most trusted soldiers go about proselytizing the masses. It was their own version of the Crusades.
It was brilliant, really. Heavy handed and brutal, but brilliant. Posses went from town to town, ranch to ranch, house to house, and converted the nonbelievers at gunpoint or worse.
When there was resistance, Roof made certain his lieutenants knew to make examples of those who failed to comply. It was not hyperbole when a posse boss threatened to put someone’s head on a stake or burn him alive. It led to a strong foothold in nearly every city and town within their territory.
For close to five years, ruling by fear had served the Cartel. Now, on the edge of war with those few who refused to succumb to their threats, who resisted with uncommon resolve, Roof thought better of it.
He looked at Porky—softhearted, roly-poly Porky—and saw the weakness in their numbers. How many other men about to fight for the Cartel were doing so because their only other options were exile or death? How many of them served out of fear as opposed to loyalty?
Porky, and the countless grunts like him, were conscripted soldiers. They were an entirely different proposition from the men and woman who would fight for the Dwellers because they chose to do so.
He knew from his days in Syria that a strongly held belief was more powerful than an HK. The fighters there, in their limitless number of factions, all fought for what they believed was right. They risked their lives and took those of their enemies based on the simple premise that they were doing so for a righteous cause.
It made them difficult to defeat, given that American soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines were fighting because it was their job to do so. They weren’t in country because they were seeking a moral high ground. They weren’t purging the world of infidels. They were getting paid to be there. The esoteric idea of patriotism and democracy didn’t work the same way.
Skinner grunted and drew Porky’s attention. The captain was holding the bowl of ice, shaking it loudly.
Porky reached out his hand slowly, as if he were afraid of losing it. “You’re finished with it?”
Skinner nodded and shoved the bowl into Porky’s hands. The grunt took it and lowered his head, leaving the room like a dismissed manservant. Both men watched him leave and then locked eyes.
“I need you here, Cyrus,” Roof said. “I’ve got men staying here to hold down the fort, so to speak. Lubbock is critical to our trade with the Mexicans and with the users north of the wall. We can’t leave it entirely unprotected while we march on the canyon.”
Skinner’s face was frozen with disgust. Roof started to further make his case when Skinner snapped his fingers and pointed over the general’s shoulder, waving his finger at a desk on the far side of the room.
Roof turned around and saw a large notepad on the desk. He swung his leg over the chair and maneuvered his way to the desk. The pad was irregular and discolored from water stains, and most of the pages were already covered with illegible pre-Scourge notes.
Roof picked it up and showed it to Skinner. “You want this?”
Skinner nodded.
Roof walked around to the other side of the desk and fished through the unlocked drawers, looking for a pen. He found one, uncapped it, and scribbled on the paper until ink trailed onto it from the ballpoint.
He carried both back to Skinner and handed them over, standing over Skinner while he wrote on the crinkled paper and then ripped it free of the pad.
Roof took the note, held it close to his eyes and then pulled it back to focus. Skinner’s handwriting was hard to read. It resembled the left-hand offering of a right-handed kindergartner.
“You need me at the canyon. I don’t want to
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