Read Online Canyon: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 2) by Tom Abrahams - Free Book Online
Authors: Tom Abrahams
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three hundred yards.” Skinner shook the rifle with one hand, the business end pointed at Tom Horn. “How many rounds you got in this magazine, Tommy?”
Horn shrugged. “Thirty?”
“You ain’t fired a shot, then?”
“No.”
Skinner turned around to the men behind him and laughed. “You believe that? Two men. Maybe four men. He don’t know how many. He lost all those men and he ain’t fired a single shot at Mad Max?”
None of the men responded and Skinner turned back around. “Start running, Tommy.”
“What?”
“Start running,” Skinner repeated. “Remember I told you I was about to boil? I’m bubbling over right now. I can’t have a boss who fails to fire off a single shot and lets who knows how many of his men die or get hurt or whatever. So start running.”
Horn took a couple of steps, walking backwards, until he stumbled. He turned on his boot heel and started running. Every step or two he’d look over his shoulder, his eyes wide.
“We’re gonna test the accuracy of this here AK,” Skinner said over his shoulder, leveling the AK and raising the sight to his eye. “Three hundred, maybe four hundred yards. That’s what they say.”
Skinner found Horn’s back in the sights and pulled the trigger, holding it as the AK rattled a barrage of 7.62×39mm M67 bullets. A half dozen of them penciled through Horn’s lower back. The farther he ran, the more the butts yawed, lodging deep within Horn’s muscles, lungs, and kidneys.
The volley dropped Horn immediately and he slammed face-first into the street, some hundred yards from Skinner. He twitched, his legs and arms swimming against the asphalt with decreasingly intense spasms until he stopped.
Skinner turned and looked at his men. Without exception they lowered their eyes.
“That”—Skinner pointed back at the dead boss and the spooked horse galloping west—“is a lesson to all of you. I ain’t gonna let this Mad Max beat us. I ain’t gonna tolerate any more incompetence.”
“He’s one man!” Skinner yelled at the top of his lungs. “One man!” He tossed the AK-47 to the ground. He stepped closer to his men, drawing their attention to him, making eye contact with them as he walked amongst them. “I want him,” he said, grabbing one of the grunts by the shoulder. “I want him alive. You bring him to me alive.”
CHAPTER 11
JANUARY 3, 2020, 5:15 PM
SCOURGE -12 YEARS, 9 MONTHS
ALEPPO, SYRIA
Buck wasn’t much help. The drugs had taken hold, adding to his inability to effectively move or communicate.
Battle managed through sheer will to drag Buck’s injured body underneath the flatcar and pull him along the railroad ties until they’d reached the last of the five flatcars.
Aside from scattered pops of gunfire echoing in the distance, and the rolling, rusty whine of a train on the last set of tracks, it was quiet.
“Stay here,” he whispered to Buck and checked his HK to make sure it was loaded. “I’ll be right back.”
Buck groaned, either acknowledging or protesting.
Battle used the protection on the rolling train to emerge from underneath the flatcar and open the end door of the first freight wagon. He cranked it wide enough to squeeze inside the wagon. The slatted sides allowed the orange glow of the train yard to leak inside. Ribbons of light revealed an empty wagon.
He stepped purposefully to the opposite end of the empty car, groped for the handle, and pushed it open to move to the next wagon. It too was empty.
Battle repeated the inspection through eight identical wagons. At the ninth, he found pallets of what looked like Ukrainian military rations.
Battle couldn’t read the language and thought they were Russian. He did recognize the word Ukraine .
He pulled a utility knife from his breast pocket and ripped open the Visqueen packaging surrounding the pallet. He picked up one of the containers and moved closer to the light at the edge of the wagon.
Battle tried to recall the last time
Horn shrugged. “Thirty?”
“You ain’t fired a shot, then?”
“No.”
Skinner turned around to the men behind him and laughed. “You believe that? Two men. Maybe four men. He don’t know how many. He lost all those men and he ain’t fired a single shot at Mad Max?”
None of the men responded and Skinner turned back around. “Start running, Tommy.”
“What?”
“Start running,” Skinner repeated. “Remember I told you I was about to boil? I’m bubbling over right now. I can’t have a boss who fails to fire off a single shot and lets who knows how many of his men die or get hurt or whatever. So start running.”
Horn took a couple of steps, walking backwards, until he stumbled. He turned on his boot heel and started running. Every step or two he’d look over his shoulder, his eyes wide.
“We’re gonna test the accuracy of this here AK,” Skinner said over his shoulder, leveling the AK and raising the sight to his eye. “Three hundred, maybe four hundred yards. That’s what they say.”
Skinner found Horn’s back in the sights and pulled the trigger, holding it as the AK rattled a barrage of 7.62×39mm M67 bullets. A half dozen of them penciled through Horn’s lower back. The farther he ran, the more the butts yawed, lodging deep within Horn’s muscles, lungs, and kidneys.
The volley dropped Horn immediately and he slammed face-first into the street, some hundred yards from Skinner. He twitched, his legs and arms swimming against the asphalt with decreasingly intense spasms until he stopped.
Skinner turned and looked at his men. Without exception they lowered their eyes.
“That”—Skinner pointed back at the dead boss and the spooked horse galloping west—“is a lesson to all of you. I ain’t gonna let this Mad Max beat us. I ain’t gonna tolerate any more incompetence.”
“He’s one man!” Skinner yelled at the top of his lungs. “One man!” He tossed the AK-47 to the ground. He stepped closer to his men, drawing their attention to him, making eye contact with them as he walked amongst them. “I want him,” he said, grabbing one of the grunts by the shoulder. “I want him alive. You bring him to me alive.”
CHAPTER 11
JANUARY 3, 2020, 5:15 PM
SCOURGE -12 YEARS, 9 MONTHS
ALEPPO, SYRIA
Buck wasn’t much help. The drugs had taken hold, adding to his inability to effectively move or communicate.
Battle managed through sheer will to drag Buck’s injured body underneath the flatcar and pull him along the railroad ties until they’d reached the last of the five flatcars.
Aside from scattered pops of gunfire echoing in the distance, and the rolling, rusty whine of a train on the last set of tracks, it was quiet.
“Stay here,” he whispered to Buck and checked his HK to make sure it was loaded. “I’ll be right back.”
Buck groaned, either acknowledging or protesting.
Battle used the protection on the rolling train to emerge from underneath the flatcar and open the end door of the first freight wagon. He cranked it wide enough to squeeze inside the wagon. The slatted sides allowed the orange glow of the train yard to leak inside. Ribbons of light revealed an empty wagon.
He stepped purposefully to the opposite end of the empty car, groped for the handle, and pushed it open to move to the next wagon. It too was empty.
Battle repeated the inspection through eight identical wagons. At the ninth, he found pallets of what looked like Ukrainian military rations.
Battle couldn’t read the language and thought they were Russian. He did recognize the word Ukraine .
He pulled a utility knife from his breast pocket and ripped open the Visqueen packaging surrounding the pallet. He picked up one of the containers and moved closer to the light at the edge of the wagon.
Battle tried to recall the last time
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