Eric’s body shivered from the dampness and the cold fog. He rowed harder, trying to generate some warmth. But his face remained wet and salty, and he could no longer tell if it was from the sea water, the sweat, or tears.
* * *
Book Three
THE LAND OF MADNESS
The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness.
Joseph Conrad
* * *
FOURTEEN
“Look at this, would ya. Shit, I guess prayers are answered.”
Eric stood up. Hanks shoved him back to the ground. Eric stayed there, looking up into the barrel of Hanks’s Winchester.
“Fucker killed Grub,” Hanks said to the three Asgard guards who’d captured Eric. “Snapped the poor bastard’s neck like he was some kinda dumb chicken or something.”
One of the guards laughed. “Grub was as dumb as a chicken.”
Hanks gave the guard a furious look, then slowly grinned. “Come to think of it, he was. Me and Grub done five years together at Q and I’ve seen hard-boiled eggs with more brains.”
The four of them laughed, but Hanks’s eyes were still boring into Eric’s.
“Get him up,” Hanks said and two of the guards yanked Eric roughly to his feet. Hanks jabbed the Winchester against Eric’s sternum. “Bad mistake coming back here, putz. We been waiting for you, hoping you’d return. Left a little description of you at all the posts.” He poked the gun against Eric’s cheek and traced the white scar with the metal barrel. “Hard to miss this little beauty mark.” He stopped, his face rigid with anger. For a moment, Eric thought he was going to pull the trigger. He looked like he wanted to. But something was stopping him. “Let’s go, asshole. Thor wants to see you.” He chuckled as he shoved Eric ahead of him. “When he’s done with you, you’ll wish I’d just pulled the fucking trigger.”
Eric marched through the early morning settlement of Asgard, his clothing damp and stiff from the long row across the bay. Leaks from the bullet holes in the hull had forced him to constantly stop and bail water out of the boat. His shoulders and arms were still thick and knotted from the exercises, and the drying salt water that had soaked his pants made his skin itch.
They’d been waiting for him. Not him exactly, but anyone spotted in a boat coming toward shore. The three guards who’d held him for Hanks had been sailing the shoreline in a Vancouver 25. When they saw Eric’s rowboat, they swooped down on him with rifles and tugged him ashore.
Eric didn’t mind. He could have taken a longer route around, found some way to sneak into Asgard. But he was in a hurry. Dodd would know Eric would be coming back and probably wouldn’t stick around for their happy reunion.
“Move it, asshole,” Hanks said, stabbing Eric’s spine with the Winchester.
The jolt sent a dull pain up Eric’s back. He controlled his anger. Sure, it would be easy to take the gun away from Hanks and kill him, but that wouldn’t get him any closer to Dodd. Best to wait and see. Find out what the infamous Thor wanted.
Eric tried not to think about D.B., but found himself absently humming songs she’d sung for him during their travels. When he pictured her face, it was always laughing, the too-dark sunglasses lowered on her nose, the stupid choke collar clinking as she walked. He fought off the guilt as best he could—after all, she knew the risks of stealing a boat—but still he felt that awful gnawing in his stomach, hot lead swirling through his intestines.
Except for a few men wandering here and there, the streets of Asgard were deserted to the early morning fog. A few fire pits were going and men gathered around trying to burn off the brisk chill. Water was being boiled over one fire and the five men huddling around it with chipped mugs were passing a single tea bag around.
“Hi ho, hi ho,” Hanks grinned as they climbed the steps to the courtyard of Ghiradelli Square.
“Is there where Thor lives?” Eric asked.
“This is where Thor decides whether you live.”
“Warlord, huh?”
“I’ve been called that,” Eric said.
Thor nodded, a smile on his lips. “I like it. Has a nice sound. If I’d have thought of it, maybe I’d have picked it for my name rather than Thor.”
“You’re welcome to it.”
Thor thought that over, then shook his head. “Wouldn’t be the same. You’ve already made a rep under that name.”
“You haven’t done badly as Thor.”
“Yeah, that’s true. That’s true. Still, it’s a little obscure to most of these guys.” He stared at Eric. “Question now is, what to do about you?”
Eric waited for Thor to answer his own question. They were sitting in the front row of the little movie theater in the bottom level of Ghiradelli Square. A dozen armed men were scattered throughout the auditorium, most in the seats listening and watching, their feet hooked over the seats in front of them. A couple guys sat on the floor playing backgammon, their backs leaning against the screen. Hanks sat three rows behind them, waiting.
Thor had been a surprise to Eric. Considering the intense fear and respect his name invoked from everyone in Asgard and on Alcatraz, he’d expected some slobbering hulk of a man who snarled and spat. What he got instead was in some ways even more frightening: a man in a buttoned-down shirt and maroon knit tie. An ironed shirt.
Like most of the other men in Asgard, he had long hair that hung to the shoulder blades, though his was streaked blond by the sun. He combed it straight back from his head like a Viking warrior. Unlike most of the other men, though, he was clean shaven, a concession to his youthful good looks. Not much older than thirty, he had an easy grin and watery blue eyes that gave him more the look of a con man than the convicted murderer he was. His face was unmarked by scars or tattoos or blemishes. Sitting there in the posh little theater in his pressed shirt and knit tie, his long hair combed straight back, he looked like a hip movie producer about to run his latest film. The only thing that belied that image was what was dangling from his right hand.
The hammer.
A sledge hammer once, the handle had been sawed down to about sixteen inches to make it more portable. The heavy black head was square and blunt. The leather strap around Thor’s wrist kept the hammer from tipping over as he rocked it back and forth while he spoke, almost like he were easing a child into sleep. Thor wasn’t an overly muscular man, but he was tall and lean with the rangy look of an outdoor sman. A hammer that heavy would be a problem for most men to wield; it looked as if it would be no problem for Thor.
“Like the shirt, huh?” Thor said, noticing Eric’s gaze.
“Like your laundry service.”
Thor chuckled. “Yeah. Petey does a good job. You know how hard it is to iron clothes without electricity?”
“I can imagine.”
“Son of a bitch has to heat the whole damn iron up over a fire, then go over the shirt or pants or whatever, then heat it up again after only a few wrinkles. Tough job.”
“But worth it. You’re the best dresser in Asgard.”
“Probably in all California.”
“Probably.”
Thor leaned closer to Eric, not really whispering, but giving the impression of conspiracy. “Tell you the truth, Ravensmith, I don’t give a fuck about having my clothes ironed. Wrinkled or ironed, I’m happy either way. Thing is, I’m the leader around here. I run this place. And these guys aren’t exactly Boy Scouts, you follow me?”
“Yes.”
“They’re fucking killers.” He said it as if it were something he’d only just found out and the information amused him. “I mean, they’d cut off your grandmother’s head with a butter knife, then hump the severed head for fun. You know the kind of guys I’m talking about?”
“I get the picture.”
“Good. Because they aren’t the kind of guys easily impressed. Yeah, okay, I was in the joint for murder, but so were a lot of guys. Thing is, I wasn’t crazy like some of these others who chopped up
their dogs, cats, and kids at halftime of the NFL game of the week. I killed for profit. I’m not talking a lousy couple grand to knock off your Uncle Harry so’s you can collect his veteran’s insurance. I’m talking big time.”
“Hit man.”
Thor grinned, made a gun out of his finger and thumb. “Pow. Right on target. Got caught the last time because the car I rented broke down. I pop the mark in the men’s room at LAX, some hot shit exec on his way to New York to make some deal my clients don’t want to go down, and I’m driving the fuck out of there when the goddamn Mustang blows a hose. A Mustang, for Chrissakes. I mean, I used to drive a Mustang when I was a kid copping feels at the school hop.”
“The shirts,” Eric reminded him.
“Yeah, right. How come I make some poor asshole go through all that trouble of ironing my shirts and everything?” He smiled. “Because I can. That’s it right there. I can. I can make anybody around here do anything. That’s the whole point of power. But the thing is, once you’ve got that power you’ve got to constantly use it. It’s like a muscle, man, you don’t use it and it gets weak. People around here, they expect me to make them do things, even dumb things. They expect me to be tough. That’s what they want from me, someone with the power to punish them. I don’t do that, then they’ll find someone who can. Kind of complicated psychologically, huh?”
Eric nodded. He was amazed at Thor’s grasp of the situation, his understanding of the men of Asgard.
“Now, my men want pussy, we’re going to go over to Alcatraz and get pussy. My men want drugs, we’re going to get drugs. Which brings me back to you.”
“The plants I gave Grub and Hanks.”
“Yup. I don’t go in for that shit myself, but the guys who tried it said it was the best stuff they’d had since the marijuana ran out. What is it?”
Eric shook his head. “I want a trade.”
Thor’s smile was intact as he hefted his heavy hammer above his head. “See this? Know why I carry it?”
“Never know when you might have to pound a stubborn nail?”
“Or a stubborn man.” His smile faded. “I did a lot of reading in Q. Some guys studied law, worked on their appeals. Other guys studied creative writing, wrote books about their tough lives and the harsh conditions of prison, how they were misunderstood and mistreated. I read mythology. Greeks and Romans and especially the Norse myths. You know about Thor?”
“Thor, the thunderer,” Eric said. “Eldest son to Odin, chief god in Asgard. Thor was the noblest and most beloved of the gods. He had three special gifts: his hammer, which had split the skull of many Frost and Mountain giants, and which, when he threw it at an enemy, always returned to him; his belt of strength, which when fastened around his waist doubled his power; and his iron gloves, which made him use his hammer more accurately. Thor’s name is where we get our word Thursday.”
Thor nodded respectfully, though looking a little annoyed. “You and I are probably the only ones in this damn town who even know that much. I don’t have the magic belt or iron gloves, but I got a fucking hammer. And I know how to use it.”
“I still want to trade.”
Thor laughed, lowering his hammer. “Make your pitch.”
“I tell you the plant, where you can find it, how to make it grow.”
“For what?”
“Dodd.”
“What’s a Dodd?”
“A man I’ve been tracking.”
“A man?” His smile was lewd. “You didn’t strike me as the type.”
“Strange times,” Eric said, not caring what Thor thought.
“Wait a minute. Dodd. Isn’t that the guy in the infirmary? The one you were knocking around when those broads kidnapped you?”
“Yes. They thought I was your Doctor Fishbine.”
Thor chuckled. “Just like women, huh? Come in for a doctor, go home with a warlord. I love it.” Thor turned to Hanks. “That Dodd guy still around?”
“Yeah,” Hanks said. “You had me lock him up until you figured out if he’d had something to do with those chicks sneaking in here.”
“Oh, yeah. Go get him.”
Hanks started up the aisle.
“Not you, Hanks,” Thor said. “Rydell.”
One of the cardplayers leaning against the screen looked up, tossed his cards down, and started up the sloping aisle toward the exit. Hanks just stood in the aisle looking confused.
Thor stood up, his hammer hanging by the leather strap around his wrist, dangling loosely against his leg. Slowly he started up the aisle. Eric stood up and followed. “The problem with my job, Ravensmith, is my followers expect me to be perfect. Expect me to be a god. Of course, where else is there left on this planet but right here in this savage environment where a man can become a god?”
“This is the place for it, all right,” Eric said.
“The point is, it’s tough being a god.” Thor was next to Hanks now and he paused, looking back at Eric. Then Thor’s arm suddenly snapped high into the air, his fist gripping the worn wooden handle of his hammer as it whistled through the air in a blurred arc of black metal and came thundering down on top of Hanks’s head. Blood-soaked clumps of hair and bone and brain splattered about like the spray in a swimming pool when a diver belly-flops. Red goo freckled Eric’s body. The warm flecks of living tissue stuck to his face and shirt like leeches. Eric backed away as he saw Thor’s hammer fly up into the air again.
Hanks had sagged to his knees with the stunned look of a bludgeoned pig. Blood slurped from the crack atop his head, mapping his face in crazy zigzags. The mallet crashed down on Hank’s weakened skull again. This time it sank through the collapsed bone and into the brain like a meteor hitting quicksand. More blood sprayed up onto Thor’s immaculately ironed shirt and maroon tie, soaking through, plastering the shirt to his skin.
Hanks was dead, but he remained balanced on his knees because Thor’s hammer had sunk so deep into the skull he couldn’t dislodge it.
“Come on,” he coaxed, jerking on the handle with one hand, holding Hanks’s bobbing body down with the other. Finally the hammer snapped free with a muddy squishing sound. “Asshole,” Thor said angrily at Hanks, as if it had been his fault the hammer had gotten stuck. Thor took one last vindictive swipe at Hanks’s face, caving in the cheek and shifting the nose across the face with the same solid blow. “Clean this mess up,” he said to no one in particular, but all of the men rushed to do as he said.
Eric followed Thor up the aisle and out into the morning sunlight. A couple more of Thor’s guards were standing around outside. They straightened as he emerged.
“This god business,” Thor said to Eric, shaking his head. “Tough job.”
“Messy, too,” Eric said, deadpan.
Thor turned and smiled at Eric. “You’re about to find out just how messy, Warlord. You see, I’m going to give you Dodd all right. Bu you’re going to meet him in combat. In a little bit of entertainment we call the Womb Tomb.”
“Entertainment?”
“To those watching. Not so much for those inside.”
“Me and Dodd.”
He nodded. “You and Dodd.” He turned to one of the guards. “Spread the word. We’re putting on a show.” To the other guard he said, “Get the Tomb ready.”
Both guards grinned excitedly and ran off on eager legs.
“Show biz,” Thor shrugged.
Within half an hour, hundreds of people had gathered, elbowing for a better view, leaning out of balconies where famous stores and restaurants used to be. They began to chant in unison, “Womb Tomb! Womb Tomb!”
* * *
FIFTEEN
“He’s here,” the guard said. “Dodd.”
“Very good,” Thor said, speaking a little louder over the din of the shouting crowd. They had worked their way up to a chanting frenzy, demanding that the Womb Tomb begin.
“Having fun so far?” Thor asked Eric with a laugh. The splotches of Hanks’s blood and flesh had hardened onto Thor’s shir
t in a sickening pattern. It looked as if Thor had been blasted by a shotgun. He glanced down at the mess and frowned. “Uh oh. Petey is gonna be pissed at this. I don’t know how many times he’s told me to soak blood stains right away or they won’t come out.”
“Good launderer is hard to find,” Eric said.
Thor lifted his hammer and playfully nudged Eric’s chest with the blood-crusted mallet. “I like your sense of humor. I hope you still have it after you’ve strolled through the Womb Tomb.”
Looking up the brick steps and between buildings, Eric could see the fringes of the crowd as they huddled even closer together, their chanting getting louder and louder. Suddenly there was a growling of motors starting, like dirt bikes or lawn mowers.
“Ready?” Thor asked.
“Where’s Dodd?”
“Up those steps and through that crowd. Waiting.”
“You going to give me a hint what’s going on here?”
“You mean the Womb Tomb?” Thor snickered. “Silly name, I know, but you have to remember the mentality of the people we’re dealing with here. These guys are nickel-and-dime crooks, slaughter your family for the change in your sofa cushion. They’re a little low on female companionship, so their blood is pretty hot for some action.”
“Violent action?”
Jason Frost - Warlord 04 - Prisonland Page 14