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

to know.”
    Skinner’s eyes narrowed. He snorted and then spat a thick glob of phlegm onto the street in front of him. “That so?”
    “His name is Battle,” said Pico, the words pouring from his mouth as fast as he could form them with his lips. “He’s got the woman with him. They want the boy. They’re armed.”
    Skinner chuckled. “Battle, huh?” He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders. “Good name, I reckon. That other stuff, I coulda told you that. Ain’t no news in what you’re selling, Pico.”
    Pico waved his shivering hands in protest. “I got more,” he said. His body was beginning to tire from the shivers coursing through his body, wave after wave. “Let me live and I’ll prove it. I got more.”
    Skinner closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his chest filling with air. He slowly exhaled and his eyes opened. He looked at Pico, a smile worming its way across his stubbled face. “Boys,” he called to the grunts over his shoulder, “never mind the grub. Our friend Pico here ain’t gonna be needing nothing to eat.”
    Pico’s vision blurred. His arms tingled from his shoulders to his fingers. Fresh beads of sweat bloomed on his forehead and on the nape of his neck, streaming into the folds of his cheeks above his mustache and down his back. A flood of nausea washed over him when Skinner turned to face him. The grunts coalesced into a single mob behind their captain. Pico knew he was done. His play hadn’t worked.
     
    ***
     
    Battle was moving toward Pine and Third Streets on the western corner of the post office. He and Lola were walking south from Fourth Street, scouting the best entrance along the building’s front entrance. Along the top of the facade, the lettering read FEDER LDING ST OFFI E AND RTHOU E.
    “This was more than a post office,” Battle said, surveying the brick exterior. Most of the tall narrow glass windows were intact. Those that weren’t were covered with pressed plywood boards. “It was the federal building and courthouse too, built in the 1930s. It’s more than a hundred years old. Kinda funny.”
    “How’s that?” Lola’s limp was more pronounced as she worked hard to keep pace with Battle’s long stride.
    “This was the place scum like the Cartel would meet their makers,” he said, nodding at the wheat-colored brick. “Figuratively, I mean. They’d find justice here. Now it’s where they store their ill-gotten arsenal. Good thing they’re not smarter.”
    Lola moved a step ahead and then slowed. “How so?”
    “If they were smart,” Battle said, “they’d have consolidated everything inside that building. It’s much better fortified than the hardware store across the street. That was too soft a target.”
    Battle reached the corner and stepped to the building. He motioned for Lola to join him and hugged its southwestern corner to peer east toward Walnut Street. Lola tapped him on his shoulder as he inched along the southern wall step by step.
    “What are you doing?” she mouthed.
    “Pico should be here,” he whispered. “I’m just checking to see if there’s any action on this side before we go back and pry one of those loose plywood boards from the ground-floor window.”
    Lola tapped his shoulder again. “I don’t know if that’s—”
    Battle raised his hand, his arm bent ninety degrees at his elbow. His fist was tightly closed. He was at the eastern edge of the southern side of the building. He had a good look north around the corner of the building. He leaned around the brick edge and then whipped back to Lola.
    “Pico’s in trouble,” he said. “Stay still. No matter what, stay hidden right here.”
    Lola’s eyes popped wide. “What?”
    “If things go bad,” he whispered, his eyes boring into hers, “you run. Got me? You run back to my place. You run north. You run south. Just run.”
    “But—”
    Battle crouched low and leveled his rifle in front of him. He inched around the corner and pulled the scope to his