Jason Frost - Warlord 04 - Prisonland

by Jason Frost - Warlord 04

  “Been saving this baby,” Dodd said, “but I can’t remember what for. So I’ll just call you, pal. Whataya got?”

  Yellow Cap laid his cards face up on the blanket and smiled. “Two pair. Kings and fours.”

  Dodd stared. Shook his head. Looked at his cards. Scratched at his beard. Then he laid his cards down face up. “Straight through to the jack.” He chuckled, raking the pot toward him.

  “Straight!” Yellow Cap hollered. “You drew three fucking cards!”

  “Yup,” Dodd said. “Thing is, I was going for a flush.” He cackled now, stuffing the goodies into his backpack beside him.

  “Cheater!” Yellow Cap said, lifting his shotgun from his lap, thumbing the hammer back as he swung it toward Dodd.

  It all happened so fast, Eric was almost caught off-guard. He quickly shouldered his crossbow and aimed it at Yellow Cap. He couldn’t let anything happen to Dodd, not until he’d questioned him about the whereabouts of Fallows and Tim.

  But no need to worry. Dodd reacted with whiplike reflexes, drawing the heavy hunting knife from the sheath strapped to his thigh, and knocking away the shotgun barrel as he lunged toward Yellow Cap, driving the fat blade between meaty ribs, twisting the handle as if coring a stubborn apple.

  Yellow Cap’s death reflex jerked the trigger of the shotgun. It exploded, blowing a hole through the chest of one of the gamblers who’d been innocently sitting next to Dodd. Hunks of his moist flesh flew into the fire and sizzled. The dead man tumbled backward into a sloppy somersault, his legs flopping over his head into the fire. The other men sat immobile, watching.

  Dodd yanked his long knife out of Yellow Cap’s chest and let the big man’s dead body sag to the ground. He used his foot to nudge him off the blanket as if he were a rolling log. Then he walked over to the fire, hauled the shotgunned body of the other man out of the flames, stomped the fiery pants into smoke, and sat back down at the edge of the blanket. “Now,” he said, picking up the deck. “Whose deal?”

  There was a moment’s silence while the other three men gripped their weapons and stared at Dodd, deciding. The stench of burnt flesh and fresh blood hung in the humid summer air.

  Eric aimed his crossbow, waiting for someone to move.

  Then Krimm reached over Yellow Cap’s dead body, took the man’s shotgun for his own, and said, “My deal, I think.”

  Eric relaxed, puffing out a deep breath, lowering his crossbow. Close. If he’d have had to involve himself in Dodd’s fight, they would have known where he was and they would have all turned on him. Now he could again wait, silent and patient.

  He leaned against the rough bark and watched the poker game proceed. His bad tooth was aching again, as if someone were jabbing a jagged piece of glass into his gums. He pressed at the jaw again to relieve the pressure—

  Then suddenly everything was moving. The branch Eric was balanced on abruptly dipped. He reached for another branch to catch himself, but the dip became a snap and the branch fell away from under him. He clutched the crossbow in his right hand and grabbed out at something to hold onto as he fell. But the tree was deceptive. What looked like thick branches were only long twigs, ruffled with thick pine needles. Eric felt his knee smash against a branch, his face scrape against bark, his hand stabbed by a sharp twig. All the time falling helplessly toward the ground.

  And worse, as he fell, he heard Dodd’s voice hollering to the other men, “Get him, goddamn it! Get him!”

  * * *

  TWO

  “Lookee, lookee.”

  Eric heard the words as if they were echoing down a long marble corridor. Faint and hollow.

  “Lookee, lookee what the cat dragged in.”

  Eric struggled to open his eyes, but the lids were thick and heavy like rubber mud flaps on trucks. His cheek was scraped raw from brushing against bark, there was a nasty gouge in the palm of his left hand from a sharp branch. His back ached from landing in a lopsided tuck-and-roll. The rest of the damage was not from the fall, but from the fists and kicks of the men who’d captured him. His lower lip was swollen and pulpy from being punched, a front tooth wobbled when prodded by his tongue. His cheek had a painful purple knob rising just below the eye.

  And he was roped to a tree trunk so tightly, his arms were going numb. Well, he thought, at least his tooth didn’t hurt anymore.

  “Lookee, lookee, lookee,” Dodd chuckled, his black beard split with a dopey grin. “We got us some entertainment tonight, boys. Better than Johnny fucking Carson ...”

  “Let’s just kill him and get on with the game,” Teasdale said grumpily. “I wanna win some of my stuff back.”

  There was murmured approval of that suggestion from the other two men, Krimm and Studebaker.

  “Kill him? Damn right we’re gonna kill him. But not now, not just yet.” Dodd pushed his shaggy buffalo head in front of Eric’s face. He smelled like wet, rotting leaves. “Somebody I know wants to see you, Eric m’boy. Guess who? Think hard now.”

  “The pope?” Eric said.

  Dodd laughed. “About as close to one as this miserable place has. Guess again, Eric. Here’s a clue: he’s a close friend of your son.” Eric’s face went rigid.

  “Yessir, I think ole Colonel Fallows would be willing to fork over something nice in exchange for you. What do you think, Eric? Touching father and son reunion. Fallows would pay for that, wouldn’t he?”

  “Sell me? You mean you and he aren’t buddies anymore?”

  Dodd grinned. “A slight misunderstanding. You know how strict he can be.”

  “You know this guy?” Krimm asked.

  Dodd rolled his eyes at Eric as if to say, Look at the kind of morons I’m dealing with. “Know him? Hell, we’re practically blood brothers. Mostly his family’s blood, though, eh Eric?” Dodd let out a nasty laugh. “Damn right I know him.”

  That seemed to satisfy them and they sat back down on their blanket and shuffled cards, the dead bodies of their two comrades still hunched in the dirt. “Come on, Dodd,” Krimm called. “Kill him and let’s play.”

  “Real jerks,” Dodd whispered to Eric with a conspirator’s wink. “I’ll finish cleaning them out, then we can finish our chat.”

  Dodd scratched at his beard and joined the other men on the blanket. “Deal ’em, Krimm.”

  Krimm cradled his new shotgun in his lap and shuffled the cards. Despite two missing fingers and half a thumb, he was pretty deft.

  Eric struggled quietly, but the ropes cinching him to the tree had obviously been knotted by Dodd. They had no give to them at all. Eric had learned from Big Bill Tenderwolf how to dislocate the thumb joints in order to slip a knot, but even that wouldn’t help here. Eric was lashed to the tree for good.

  He stopped fighting the ropes and used the time to rest his body, prepare for the next opportunity. If one came.

  He took deep breaths. The humid summer air was not very refreshing. The night was typical of the new California. High above, the Long Beach Halo sealed in the island like an impenetrable dome, imprisoning everyone still alive. Its poisonous gases not only kept Californians inside and the rest of the world outside, but it distorted light and darkness. The nights were dominated by an ominous darkness, a cavelike black disturbed only by an occasional flicker of dim stars and the splotch of moonlight that looked like a puddle of melting snow.

  “What else you got to bet?” Dodd said to Krimm. “That pot ain’t worth pissing in the sink for.”

  Krimm rooted through his pile of goods. “Another knife. For cleaning fish.”

  “I don’t like fish. Reminds me of my ex-wife. What else you got?”

  Krimm studied his cards. He smiled. “I got a down sleeping bag, fully lined, no tears.”

  Dodd shook his head with disgust. “I ain’t sleeping in anything you slept in.”

  “Screw you, man,” Krimm said.

  “Okay, okay. No offense. The sleeping bag’s a good bet. I can probably sell it.”

  “You’ll have to win it first,” Krimm s
aid.

  “Details, Krimm, details.” Dodd examined his cards. “Okay, I’ll call your bet with this.” He plunked Eric’s crossbow on the blanket.

  “No way, man,” Krimm protested. “That’s not yours to bet. It belongs to all of us. We all caught him.”

  “But he was after me.”

  The three men stared at Dodd, trying to balance the logic of what he’d said with the risk involved in just jumping him and killing him. They looked over at their two dead partners, then at each other. They decided to accept Dodd’s logic.

  “And I raise you,” Dodd said. He pushed in Eric’s pistol, an ancient-looking Colt that still had three bullets. Eric had traded a fancy HK 93 for this gun plus a week of hot baths, warm meals, and medical attention with a family of artichoke farmers he’d happened on a couple of weeks ago.

  Teasdale and Studebaker dropped out of the game, slapping their cards on the blanket with disgust. That left Dodd and Krimm.

  Krimm tapped the stump of his finger against his whiskered cheek and frowned. His crooked teeth flashed a dull yellow in the bright campfire. “I don’t have nothing else to bet.”

  “Your shotgun,” Dodd suggested.

  “Forget it, man. I just got it. I’m not going back to no bow and arrow shit.”

  Dodd shrugged. “Then you lose.”

  “Wait a second,” Krimm said. He showed the cards to both his companions. Each nodded with appreciation. “Come on, lend me something.”

  “Can’t do it, Krimm,” Teasdale said. “We’re cleaned out. Dodd’s got everything.”

  It was true. Despite Dodd’s cheating, Krimm had been able to hold his own during the games, even managing to win a little. Now everything he had was riding on this one hand.

  “Duchess,” Krimm said.

  “No way!” Teasdale and Studebaker chorused.

  Krimm pleaded. “Come on. I got the bastard beat. Look!” He showed him his cards again. “If I win this hand I not only get everything back you guys lost, but all Dodd’s stuff. I’ll split it with you.”

  The two men exchanged uncertain looks, stared at Krimm’s cards.

  “I dunno,” Teasdale said, fingering the Band-aid that held his glasses together. “The Duchess, man. Shit. If you lose ...”

  “I can’t lose,” Krimm said.

  Teasdale and Studebaker hesitated, staring greedily at the stack of goods on the blanket. Before the great quake, any one of them could have picked all this junk up in one afternoon at Sears. Now it was precious treasure.

  “Go on,” Krimm encouraged. “Get Duchess.”

  Finally, Studebaker stood up, hitched his sagging jeans up over his hefty gut, and headed toward the large tent about 25 yards away, near the river.

  Eric watched them. He didn’t know what or who the Duchess was, but he knew once the card game was over, so was his life. Dodd would either kill him then, or take him to Fallows, perhaps to buy his way back into favor. If he took him to Fallows, he’d follow Fallows’s teachings first and permanently cripple Eric, severing an Achilles tendon or something to keep Eric from running off.

  Eric grimaced. If he was going to avoid either fate, he had to do something. Quickly.

  Dodd’s back was turned toward Eric as he studied his cards, waiting for Studebaker to return. Eric used that opportunity to signal Krimm by shaking his head, silently warning him not to bet. But Krimm’s stupidity was startling. He stared at Eric with a confused expression and said aloud, “What’s he shaking his head at?”

  Dodd turned around.

  Dodd’s eyes were gray and squinty, his mouth pressed tight with anger. His nostrils flared as he clawed through his beard at whatever insects were nesting there. He stared coldly at Eric. “I’m disappointed in you, Eric. Sticking your face in where it don’t belong.” Dodd stood up, leaned over the campfire, and picked up a club-sized stick of wood that was burning on one end. He walked toward Eric. “I’d have thought the colonel’s little lesson back in ’Nam would have taught you the value of silence.”

  Eric took deep relaxing breaths, preparing for what he knew was coming.

  Dodd stood directly in front of Eric now, almost nose to nose. He held the glowing wood like a torch. “Still got that scar, huh? Didn’t you learn nothing from that?”

  Eric didn’t answer. The scar Dodd was staring at was a gnarled white tendril of skin, thin and pale as a plant root, that climbed up Eric’s neck, clung along the jawline, then ended in a sunburst splotch on his cheek. It was not unattractive, and in some strange way, almost accented his angular good looks. But the memory of how he got it was ugly, still made his stomach churn with unfulfilled vengeance.

  Dodd glared into Eric’s face. When he spoke, his voice was low so the others couldn’t hear him. “Keep your mouth shut, Ravensmith. These bums wouldn’t help you even if they could.” Dodd’s eyes widened as he brought the torch closer, the pupils seeming to have a blaze of their own, fueled by his own cruel passion. He grinned at Eric as he pressed the flaming end of the wood against Eric’s neck.

  Eric cried out. The flames instantly charred his flesh, white blisters swelling on the skin. Charcoal from the fiery wood covered the burn with a gray smear.

  “Jesus!” Krimm gasped with surprise.

  “Spare the rod and spoil the child,” Dodd said, backing away from Eric, still smiling. “Now you’ve got something other than our little poker game to occupy your mind. Or maybe you need another scar. Something symmetrical to balance out your face.” He pulled out his knife and began heating it over the flaming wood.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Studebaker said, returning from the tent with Krimm’s wager.

  A girl. Maybe seventeen. It was hard to tell under the dirt and bruises.

  “What’s he doing?” Studebaker asked, pointing at Dodd and Eric. Krimm and Teasdale shrugged, unable to explain Dodd’s behavior, but obviously a little frightened by it. “Well, Dodd,” Studebaker said, puffing from the slight exertion of the walk, “will this cover your bet?”

  He had a thick metal choke collar around her neck fastened to a chain leash which he used to drag her after him. When she lagged behind, he gave an annoyed tug on the leash and the collar tightened around her throat, pinching off the air, jerking her forward until she stumbled to her scabby knees. She wore only a pair of dirty red gym shorts, New Balance running shoes, and a white T-shirt with 1984 OLYMPICS: GO FOR THE GOLD! printed on it.

  “C’mon, Duchess,” Studebaker shouted, his fat belly shaking. “Get your skinny rump up.”

  Dodd turned away from Eric, gazing lecherously at the girl. Forgetting about Eric, he tossed the flaming wood back onto the campfire and walked over to inspect her, his mouth half-open with that dopey grin.

  “Duchess, huh?” he leered.

  “Yeah,” Krimm said. “Bitch is snooty. But we been teaching her some humility.” He grinned. “The old-fashioned way.”

  The three men laughed.

  “Where’d you get her?” Dodd asked.

  Krimm shrugged. “Took her. We found her and her folks camping a few months ago. Killed the father, sold the mother for some batteries to these real dummies.” He laughed. “Hell, those boys could’ve gotten a lot more for them batteries than one old broad.”

  All three of them laughed again. Dodd laughed with them this time, but his eyes were clear and bright. Eric could see that he was thinking, scheming.

  Eric studied the girl. Her blond hair had been sloppily hacked with a knife until it was as short as a gymnast’s. Her body was tall and lanky, the thin legs coltish. She stared zombie-like at the ground.

  Dodd looked at her as if he wanted to devour her.

  “This is our bet,” Krimm said proudly. “Duchess against everything you’ve got.”

  “Done,” Dodd said without hesitation.

  The men sat on the blanket. Dodd picked up his hand, looked at the cards again. Krimm, grinning hugely, showed his hand again to his friends. Duchess stood next to the three men until Krimm, annoyed at hav
ing her looking down at him, grabbed her leash and gave it a yank. She dropped to her knees without a sound.

  “Whatta ya got?” Dodd asked Krimm.

  Krimm’s grin widened. “Full house. Fours full of eights.”

  Dodd studied his cards again, rearranged them in his hand.

  “Well?” Krimm barked. “They ain’t gonna change by shuffling them around in your hand.”

  “Guess not,” Dodd admitted and spread his cards on the blanket. “Four deuces.”

  The three men stared open-mouthed at Dodd’s hand.

  “Not possible,” Krimm gasped. “Not fucking possible.”

  “Goddamn luck!” Teasdale spat.

  Eric watched Dodd quickly gather his goods, stuffing them in his backpack. He was obviously in a hurry to get out before the others had a chance to let their anger translate into action. Eric had to do something fast.

  “Not luck,” Eric said, “just that Krimm’s the worst poker player I’ve ever seen. I’ve seen drunken sorority girls play better.”

  Krimm looked up at Eric and growled.

  Studebaker and Teasdale, anxious to blame someone for the loss of everything, especially the young girl, nodded. “He never was any good,” Teasdale said.

  Dodd said nothing. He used the distraction to cram the rest of his goods into a second backpack.

  Krimm stood up and started toward Eric.

  “Hell,” Eric continued. “This little girl could’ve outplayed you.”

  Krimm was running now, his meaty fist cocked back behind his head, his heavy feet shaking the ground as he stampeded toward Eric. You could insult just about anything about a man—anything except his ability to play poker. Eric braced himself, finding it hard to believe that this was the reaction he’d wanted from Krimm.

  Krimm’s fist hurtled at Eric’s face like an avalanche of knuckles. Eric averted his head just enough to take only a glancing blow just above the ear. The recoil to his head kept his ear buzzing as Krimm thumped another fist deep into Eric’s stomach. The wind rushed out of his lungs and the gamey taste of the rabbit he’d eaten earlier washed through his mouth.