Jason Frost - Warlord 04 - Prisonland

by Jason Frost - Warlord 04

  But Eric was pleased, because he now had Krimm right where he wanted him. Close enough to whisper, without Dodd hearing. “Cheated,” Eric gasped. “He cheated.”

  Krimm backed away a step and looked at Eric. Eric was afraid Krimm would blurt out what he’d said and Dodd would then be obliged to kill them all immediately. But Krimm just stared menacingly at Eric for a moment, then fired another hard fist into Eric’s mouth. Blood dripped down Eric’s split lip.

  “That ought to shut him up,” Krimm muttered, marching back to his friends.

  As Dodd gathered up the last of his newly won goods, Krimm poked through the deck of cards with his foot.

  “Come on, girl,” Dodd said, slipping one of the backpacks on Duchess’s narrow back. She sagged slightly under the heavy weight, but said nothing. “Maestro, a little traveling music please. Thanks for the game, gents, but me and my lady have got to be getting on. As soon as I untie my buddy Eric and fix it so he don’t run too fast anymore.” Dodd pulled out his knife.

  Studebaker and Teasdale mumbled angrily and stared at Krimm.

  “Just a second, Dodd,” Krimm said, his shotgun pointing at Dodd. “Your buddy said you were cheating us, and looking at these cards I think maybe—”

  Those were Krimm’s last words. With startling speed, Dodd threw his knife across the fire into Krimm’s broad chest. The hilt thudded hollowly against ribs. Krimm looked confused a moment, the shotgun dropping from his hands. Then he fell backward, his few remaining fingers groping in the air as if looking for something to hold onto. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Studebaker and Teasdale dove for their guns.

  Dodd grabbed the girl’s leash and pulled her after him as he ran into the dark woods. She stumbled behind him. Studebaker fired his gun blindly into the night.

  Teasdale ran after Dodd and the girl but came back puffing within a couple minutes. “Shit! They’re gone.” He went over and kicked Krimm’s lifeless body. “Shithead!”

  “We should go after them,” Studebaker said.

  “Go after ’em? Hell, Horace, you seen the way that Dodd handles himself. He knows what he’s doing out there. You and me used to fix vending machines. We can’t track them down.”

  There was a long, angry silence.

  “I can,” Eric said quietly.

  “You can what?” Teasdale asked.

  “I can track him down.”

  Teasdale and Studebaker exchanged glances.

  * * *

  THREE

  “Christ almighty,” Studebaker wheezed as he leaned up against the tree. He mopped the sweat from his forehead with his ragged sleeve. “How much further?”

  “Soon,” Eric said.

  “How soon? We’ve been jogging through these fucking woods like fruitcakes for hours. It’s almost daylight.”

  “Soon,” Eric said.

  Studebaker shook his jowly head at Teasdale. “Let’s just blow this chump away and take our loss, man. All that stuff Dodd took from us, hell, we can just take it from somebody else. The whole fucking state’s filled with pigeons waiting to be plucked.”

  “What about Duchess?” Teasdale said.

  “We can find another broad. A dozen broads.” He patted his shotgun. “Take them too.”

  Teasdale frowned. “Not like Duchess.”

  Studebaker didn’t answer, but he stared off as if in agreement.

  “She didn’t say much,” Eric said.

  “Who asked you?” Studebaker said, sliding to the ground to rest. The front of his shirt was dark with sweat where it stretched over his fat gut.

  “Just curious.”

  “You just lead us to that bastard Dodd. Rest of the time you shut the fuck up.”

  “Sure,” Eric said.

  “Never spoke,” Teasdale said dreamily, cleaning sweat from his glasses with the tail of his shirt. “Not since we took her with us. Don’t know if she was born that way or what. Just know she never spoke to us. Not one damn word.”

  “Maybe not to you, Teasdale,” Studebaker said with a leer. “But when me and her was making it, she had lots to say. Moaning and groaning. Whispering in my ear the whole time, begging me for more. I swear.”

  Teasdale gave him a weary look. “You’re the biggest liar I’ve ever seen, Horace.”

  “Fuck you too, Teasdale.”

  The two men glared at each other, pausing to catch their breath, as the darkness slowly evaporated into day. The sky was filling up with hazy orange daylight the color of iced tea.

  Eric sat quietly against the tree. His toothache was gone, but the burn on his neck still had a sting to it. He’d been leading them around in circles the whole night, taking them over the roughest, most tiring terrain he could find, always assuring them they were getting closer and closer to Dodd. But Eric knew better than to even try to catch up with a man of Dodd’s skills. Not with these two along. Even if he could get them to move fast enough, it would just be a matter of time before Dodd slipped into camp one night and slit both their throats. And with Eric unarmed and probably tied up, his fate wouldn’t be much better. Severed Achilles tendon and a one-way ticket to Fallows’s waiting hands.

  Instead, Eric had other plans. But first he had to get rid of these two. And soon. They were starting to lose any hope for catching Dodd. Eric couldn’t count much longer on Teasdale’s obsession with the girl. Sooner or later fatigue would wear even that passion away and they’d simply kill Eric and move on to rob someone else.

  “I’m hungry,” Studebaker said. Absently, he patted his grotesque pot belly.

  This was just what Eric had been waiting for them to say.

  “Yeah,” Teasdale agreed. “We need some food.”

  “Don’t you have any left in your pack?” Eric asked.

  Teasdale shook his head. “Dodd took it all.”

  “We’ll hunt some down,” Studebaker said. “This fucking woods has got to be full of rabbits and shit.”

  “Sure,” Eric said. “But you can’t use your guns.”

  Studebaker turned his shotgun on Eric. “Who’s gonna stop me?”

  “No one. Only Dodd will hear it, know where we are.”

  “Hell,” Studebaker sneered, “he might think it’s just some other hunters. He don’t know we’re coming.”

  “He knows,” Eric said.

  “Bullshit. How do you know what he’s thinking?”

  “I know.”

  Teasdale nodded nervously. “He’s right, Horace. You saw the way Dodd handled himself back in camp. The way he knocked that shotgun away from Yardley and stuck him with that knife. And what he did to Krimm. You don’t just make moves like that without some training.” He turned to Eric. “That guy is some kind of soldier, right? Both of you?”

  “Once. Long time ago.”

  “ ’Nam?”

  Eric nodded.

  Teasdale looked around suddenly, peering through his thick glasses at every shadow in the woods. He didn’t bother hiding his fear.

  “I’m not scared of him,” Studebaker said. “Just a fucking grunt like the rest of them. Most of them guys in ’Nam was either high on dope or screwing gook whores. We catch up to him, I’ll show you just how tough he is.” He tapped the barrel of his shotgun against Eric’s chest. “That goes for this jerk too.”

  “In the meantime,” Eric smiled, “we’ve got to eat.”

  “I say we hunt something down. Like we always done.”

  Teasdale shook his head. “No. Ravensmith is right. Dodd will hear the shots.”

  “You scared, Teasy?” Studebaker grinned.

  “Damn right. At least I’m smart enough to be.”

  Studebaker’s beady eyes narrowed and he took an angry step toward Teasdale.

  “We’ll eat these,” Eric said, interrupting. A confrontation between Teasdale and Studebaker wouldn’t do Eric any good right now. In the end they’d only realize they still needed each other and make up. Then they might just decide to forget Dodd and blow Eric away.

&nbs
p; “Eat what?” Studebaker said. “That tree?”

  “Close.” Eric pulled a couple bracken ferns out of the dry soil. “These.”

  “Shit. I’m not eating that.”

  Eric shook the dirt off the rootstocks, flicked a couple insects off the soft, hairy fiddleheads. He smiled at Studebaker and took a bite out of the light green leaflets, chewing and swallowing. “Gentlemen, the salad bar is open.”

  It didn’t take much more convincing. Soon both men were gnawing on the ferns, eating heartily after their all-night trek. Eric, however, ate only a small amount, knowing the effect too much could have. Waiting for it to happen to Studebaker and Teasdale.

  “They taste even better cooked,” Eric said.

  “Then cook it,” Studebaker said.

  Eric gathered kindling. “Matches?”

  “Dodd got them, too,” Teasdale said.

  “Lend me your glasses.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your glasses. So I can start the fire.”

  Teasdale reluctantly handed over his thick glasses, which Eric used to direct a sharp beam from the sun onto the dry leaves and kindling until the fire puffed into being. Then he handed the glasses back.

  Studebaker huffed. “Big deal. I used to do that as a kid, with my dad’s magnifying glasses from his stamp collection.”

  “Then why didn’t you think of it?” Teasdale asked.

  ” ’Cause we’ve always had matches.”

  Eric roasted the rootstalks, peeling back the inner starchy part for them to eat.

  “Eat up,” Eric encouraged, “we’ve got a long march ahead of us.”

  Studebaker and Teasdale complied, devouring many of the plants, patting their swelling stomachs.

  “What’s it like north?” Eric asked. North is where Dodd’s real trail led.

  “Not much,” Teasdale shrugged, stuffing more cooked ferns into his mouth.

  “Any major encampments?”

  “We seen a few. Ft. Dixie near Palo Alto. Seen it, but didn’t go in. One in Silicon Valley. Bunch of computer whiz kids. Nothing much there.”

  “Asgard,” Studebaker said, munching his ferns.

  “Yeah, Asgard,” Teasdale nodded. “Hell of a place. Tough place, we hear. Haven’t been there yet.”

  Eric served them each more ferns. “Asgard, huh? What else do you hear?”

  “It’s on the bayside in San Francisco. Run by a bunch of cons who escaped from San Quentin. Real trash.”

  “Shit,” Studebaker laughed. “That ‘trash’ runs the whole fucking harbor. I’d like to be in with them, man. That Thor must be doing something right.”

  “Thor?” Eric asked.

  Teasdale answered. “That’s what he calls himself. He’s the leader of the prisoners. We’ve heard some weird stories about the place. Real strange shit.”

  When they were full, Eric led them back through the woods on yet another series of circles designed to exhaust them. Within a couple hours both men were not only dragging, they were looking a little pale. The ferns were taking effect.

  “Let’s stop a minute,” Studebaker said, his hair matted with sweat across his forehead. His jowls sagged like pouches under his chin and neck. He pressed a hand against his bulging stomach. “I’m not feeling so hot.”

  “Me too,” Teasdale said, sitting on a large rock.

  “It’s that shit we ate this morning, those fucking plants.”

  They looked at Eric. “I feel fine.”

  “I’m gonna be sick,” Studebaker said.

  “Puke sick?” Teasdale asked.

  “No. Just sick.” Studebaker staggered off deeper into the woods, fumbling at his belt and pants as he ran. “You keep an eye on him ’til I get back.”

  “Hurry up,” Teasdale shouted, obviously just as anxious to run off into the woods.

  Eric leaned up against a tree while Teasdale aimed a Smith & Wesson .38 at him. Teasdale grimaced, took a deep breath, fighting to control his bowel muscles. But there wasn’t much he could do. Not being used to the ferns, and eating as much as they did, was like going down to Mexico for the first time and drinking a couple gallons of local water. They would have diarrhea for at least a couple of days, probably longer.

  “Hurry up, goddamn it!” Teasdale hollered after Studebaker.

  Finally, Studebaker wandered back, his eyes heavy-lidded, his hand still clutching his stomach. “Jesus, I think I have to go again.”

  “You had your turn,” Teasdale said, already tugging at his belt as he hopped off the rock.

  And just for a second the two of them stood side by side, Teasdale’s .38 lowered as he pulled at his pants’ snap, Studebaker’s shotgun dangling limply from his hand.

  That’s when Eric uncoiled into action, springing at them with a double body block that knocked both men to the ground. Eric landed on top of them, Studebaker’s bloated body absorbing most of the shock. There’d been a time when Eric would have been able to knock one of them unconscious on the way to the ground, but this was not then. Now he settled for just unbalancing them, scrambling for one of the guns before they recovered.

  Teasdale was first to roll free, still holding his .38. Eric groped for the shotgun, yanking it free from the still dazed Studebaker. Teasdale came out of his roll with the .38 lifted toward Eric’s face, but Eric jammed the shotgun against Teasdale’s stomach and pulled the trigger. Teasdale’s middle flew backward, bits of buckshot, flesh and chipped spinal bone scattering through the trees, ruffling leaves like a flock of suddenly frightened birds. Teasdale’s mushy body flopped in the dirt five feet away, folded neatly over in the middle like a dish rag.

  The recoil from the shotgun rocked Eric backward into the thick powerful hands of Studebaker. The large man wrapped his fingers around the shotgun and jerked it tightly against Eric’s throat. Eric felt the hot metal denting his windpipe as Studebaker pinned Eric’s head between the gun and his own massive stomach.

  Eric was surprised by the enormous strength of the man. Try as he might, he still couldn’t budge the barrel crushing his throat. He’d have to work on the hands.

  Eric grabbed Studebaker’s little finger with both hands and pried it easily from around the gunstock. His eyes were watery as he rasped for what little air that scraped past the barrel. Concentrating, he bent that little finger back further and further until he heard the sickening crack like dry twigs snapping. Studebaker yowled from pain. The finger was broken.

  But still the gun pressed tighter against his throat. Breaking the finger didn’t seem to affect Studebaker’s strength.

  Eric grabbed the next finger with both hands.

  This one was more difficult to pry loose, but finally he did, bending it back until it too snapped and Studebaker cried out. Yet still the man held firm, doubling his efforts to strangle Eric.

  Eric snorted for air, but none came. He felt a wooziness in his head, a lightness that seemed strangely relaxing. His eyes closed for a moment and he wondered if maybe a short nap wouldn’t help him regain strength. Just float lazily on the pool he pictured in his mind.

  He bit his lip, chomping down hard enough to send a jolt of cold adrenaline through his stomach. Quickly he grabbed Studebaker’s middle finger from the same damaged hand and yanked it backward. The bone popped right out of the socket. Studebaker’s sudden yell shook the forest. Now Eric was able to grab the shotgun, twist it out of Studebaker’s hands. He somersaulted free, gulping air as he rolled. When he came up, he saw Studebaker lunging for Teasdale’s .38.

  Eric pumped a new shell into the chamber and pulled the trigger. The buckshot hit Studebaker like a meteor shower, pinning him to the ground halfway through his dive. His fat bloody hand twitched, clawing at pine needles and dirt before relaxing into death.

  Quickly Eric searched and stripped the bodies of whatever he could use. The shotgun and pistols were serviceable, but not much good for long range. He found an old Boy Scout knife in Teasdale’s pocket, the blade broken at the tip. He unhooked the green army canteen f
rom Studebaker’s belt and fastened it to his own. Shoelaces and belts could also come in handy. Whatever was left, the animals and scavengers were welcome to.

  Within an hour he had picked up Dodd’s trail again, moving swiftly through the woods until he came to a highway. Dodd had stuck to his training, leaving several false trails that a lesser tracker might have spent days trying to pick up. But Eric had had Big Bill Tenderwolf as an instructor, the Hopi MBA whose love for cold beer, chubby women, and the Los Angeles Lakers was overshadowed only by his great wilderness knowledge and his affection for young Eric.

  By dusk, Eric was back on Dodd’s trail. This one was much easier to follow thanks to Dodd’s overconfidence in his false trails.

  It took the rest of the night for Eric to finally catch up to Dodd and the girl. It was still hauntingly dark as he crept toward the camp, his shotgun leveled at the two still figures.

  * * *

  FOUR

  There was no campfire. Just two dark lumps nestled in the shadows of the long grass on the other side of a stream. One in a new sleeping bag, the other in a makeshift bedroll. Dodd would naturally be in the sleeping bag.

  Eric approached the stream slowly, his toe nudging aside sticks or leaves before he allowed his weight to follow. Each step was a battle, the tiny scrap of land captured through great physical and mental exertion. There wasn’t the slightest sound as he stole his way through the 4 AM darkness.

  The stream was difficult. Eric stepped in without a splash, wading through the hip-deep water while holding the shotgun chest high. The water was cool and swift as it swept around him, tugging at his clothes. Eric didn’t mind. They needed washing anyway.

  On the other side of the stream, Eric flopped down onto his belly and crawled up the bank through the long wavy grass. The dark figures were only ten yards away. Eric stood in a low crouch and crept closer, the shotgun shouldered, his thumb tensed on the hammer.

  The urge to fire point blank into the sleeping bag was hard to resist. Images of his slain daughter, tortured wife, the dead friends and mutilated innocents, his missing son, all pulsed through his mind like blinding strobe lights. He missed his family, his old life, more than he had imagined possible. Before them he had been nothing, a trained soldier with an infamous past. They had given his life—what? Flavor. Color. Purpose. He missed that too.