Free Canyon: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 2) by Tom Abrahams

to his. “I told you I’d reunite you with Sawyer. It’ll happen.”
    Lola’s eyes glazed, but she held back her tears. “I…believe you.”
    There was doubt in her eyes. Battle understood it. He’d seen the same uneasy gaze from his wife, Sylvia, in the days before their son died. He’d tried to assure her the illness wouldn’t take hold and that the medicine would work. He’d taken too many precautions and forced his family into too many sacrifices for Wesson to die in the earliest days of the Scourge. Maybe it was that she’d known he was trying to convince himself. Maybe she’d known the truth before he did. Either way, she’d been right to doubt him. He’d been wrong. Their son had died. And days later Sylvia had too.
    “She doesn’t believe you.” Sylvia’s voice echoed in his head. “Look at her. She knows the odds aren’t good. She’s not an idiot, Marcus. Be honest with her.”
    “I am,” Battle said aloud.
    Lola looked at him sideways. “What?”
    Battle shook Sylvia’s voice from his head. “Nothing.”
    Lola pulled away from his hold. “Let’s go.”
     
    ***
     
    Pico turned north off of Third Street onto Walnut. It was as if he tripped an alarm. Every one of the two dozen men gathered in front of the HQ’s remnants spun to look at him. Half of them raised their weapons in a synchronized chorus of suspicion.
    Pico had walked farther west than needed so he could approach from the south and east, as if he’d limped in from Rising Star. Two blocks east of Walnut, he’d rolled around in the dirt and ripped his shirt at the collar and along one of the shoulder seams. He pulled at his cracked lips with his fingers, aggravating the hairline splits in the skin to produce thin tendrils of blood around his mouth. He favored his right leg, which was actually bruised, and held out his arms.
    “It’s me,” he croaked, “Salomon Pico.” He waved his hands as he held them high. It’s me. Don’t shoot.” He limped another half dozen steps and dropped to his knees.
    Cyrus Skinner flicked a cigarette to the street and walked towards Pico. “Put down your guns,” he said, motioning with his head toward Pico. “He’s one of ours.”
    “You got water?” Pico asked, looking up at Skinner when the captain neared. “I need some water.”
    “Bring me a canteen,” Skinner called over his shoulder. “Pico here needs some water.” Skinner squatted down onto the toes of his boots, resting his forearms on his thighs. He squinted and held Pico’s gaze.
    Pico blinked first but kept his eyes on Skinner. He knew this was a test. Skinner was trying to read him.
    “So,” Skinner said and peppered Pico with questions. “What happened? Where is everybody? Didn’t you leave with Rudabaugh? Did you ever see Queho?”
    Pico swallowed hard. He was about to speak when a grunt appeared over Skinner’s shoulder, holding out the canteen so the captain could grab it.
    “Hand it to him,” Skinner said, his eyes still trained on Pico. “I ain’t the one who’s thirsty.”
    The grunt reached across Skinner’s shoulder and stretched the canteen to Pico as if he might bite. Pico took it, flipped the cap with his thumb, and chugged the warm water.
    “Whoa,” Skinner cautioned. “You drink too fast, you’re gonna make yourself sick. We wouldn’t want that.”
    Pico slugged back another swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He handed the canteen back to the grunt. Skinner motioned with his head for the grunt to go back and join the others. He did.
    “So you were about to tell me what happened to my men?”
    Pico was matter of fact. “They’re dead.”
    “All of ’em?”
    Pico nodded. “All of ’em. I couldn’t tell you the number. They’re all dead.”
    “How do you know that, seein’ as how you got yourself back here without a scratch?”
    Pico’s eyes narrowed with indignation. “I don’t know what you’re saying, but I’m hurt. I barely made it out of