The Warlord w-1

by Jason Frost

  She looked at him, the giant American in the wrinkled business suit, half drunk and half crazy with lust, and shrugged resignedly. She stopped crying, stopped begging. She had seen men like this before, knew they would get what they wanted no matter what she said. Some would feel bad afterwards and beg for forgiveness, though she suspected this gringo was not such a man. With brisk efficiency she unfastened her uniform, slipped it over her head. Kicked her shoes off. Unhooked the tattered bra. Peeled off the worn panties. She sat naked in the middle of the bare mattress, the blanket lying on the'floor. She was skinny everywhere, bones protruding at angles in every direction. She was embarrassed more by her skinniness than her nakedness, and tried to hide herself with her arms.

  "Don't do that!" he snapped, stepping out of his pants. "I wanna see them sweet little titties of yours."

  She let her arms relax to her sides. She had only made love with one boy in her whole life, and with him only twice. Both times it had been over with so quickly she had wondered if she'd done something wrong. But Orlando had assured her she would get better with practice. Yet he too had been killed in the great flood.

  The American was naked now, his body even bigger without clothes. His thick stomach hung down almost to his penis, which was pale and not very large at all, even though it was sticking straight out. It reminded her of the small bars of soap she had to place in the bathrooms. Ivory.

  Then he was on her, his crushing weight driving her deep into the soft mattress. She could hardly breathe. He fumbled at her body roughly, squeezing her breasts, pinching the nipples until she cried out. His hand at her crotch felt like a burrowing pig, digging, thrusting, poking. Finally he lifted himself enough to stick his penis into her and began an awkward pumping rhythm. Once he burped in her face and she turned away from the bitter smell of cigarettes mixed with whiskey.

  He began grunting, his weight pounding into her tiny frame like a jackhammer. She dug her nails into the mattress, closed her eyes, and imagined a large knife plunging into the back of his neck.

  "Shitfuckshitfuck," he groaned, arched his back, and slammed into her as deep as he could, his penis squirting into her endlessly. He opened his eyes, glanced at the clock, and abruptly pulled out of her, dripping onto her stomach. "Gotta get to work. Fucking boss will shove a hot poker up my ass."

  He dressed without looking at Maria. She lay there, waiting for him to leave, her eyes still closed.

  "Christ, you're a skinny bitch," he said. He leaned over, stuck the five dollar bill between her wet legs and chuckled. "Don't spend it all in one place now." And he was gone.

  Nine months later Indigo Cruz was born.

  By the time he was eighteen, Maria Cruz was happy to see him join the Army. She didn't question how a boy who couldn't read and who was so grotesquely large could get in. She knew Indigo had his ways of getting what he wanted. She just said her prayers of thanks to the Virgin Mary and accepted the wonderful news. For she'd come to realize that he was just like his father in every way. Worse really. Where his father had merely been cruel, Indigo Cruz was cruel and cold. Arctic. He was not quick to violence, but when he did choose that direction, the outcome was inevitable.

  On the day he'd signed his loyalty oath to the United States, the San Antonio police had discovered the body of an eighteen-year-old Chicano boy named Juan Cortez. All his fingers, his tongue, and his eyelids had been cut off with a pair of toenail clippers. The coroner found the clippers later during the autopsy. Juan had been forced to swallow them.

  Maria read about it in the paper, recognized Juan as one of Indigo's friends. She never asked him about it, he never mentioned it. In fact, once he left for basic training, mother and son were never in touch again. The next day Maria moved to Los Angeles, left no forwarding address. Not that it mattered. Cruz couldn't write, and wouldn't have written her if he could have.

  Cruz managed to keep a low profile in the Army for awhile, getting by as he always did, through intimidation. Eventually he found his niche as a hand-to-hand combat instructor training new troops in how to fight. Things were going pretty smoothly until PFC Eddie Hooks showed up.

  PFC Eddie Hooks was a Golden Gloves heavyweight champion. Two hundred and twelve pounds of trim muscles packed tightly into a 6'2" frame. And he was fast. The hands snapped at any angle. He could bounce on his toes for fifteen rounds and still deliver a knockout punch on cue. His recruitment officer had promised him an easy gig on the Army boxing team. Free training for a couple years then he'd be ready to turn pro. He'd planned every little detail of his future. Except Indigo Cruz.

  Cruz had Eddie out on the mat for a demonstration of a wing-roll throw. It was simple technique, but required sharp timing.

  "All right, Hooks," Cruz had said. "I want you to throw a punch at me with your right hand."

  "Yes, sir." Eddie tossed out a slow-motion right cross.

  Cruz stepped back and stared at him contemptuously. "I said throw a punch. Hooks. Not slap me silly."

  "Well, I thought…" Hooks trailed off.

  "Just throw the damn punch."

  Hooks stepped back into position, threw a punch. This one was a little faster, but still not a real punch.

  Cruz caught Hooks' fist in his hand in midair. "I said a punch, cocksucker. Do you know what a punch is?" Cruz began squeezing Hooks' fist, grinding the fingers under his grip.

  Hooks felt his own fingernails digging into his palms. "Jesus, you're breaking my hand."

  "Good. When I tell you to do something, fucking do it. Understand?"

  Hooks winced under the pain, nodded. Cruz released his grip. Hooks shook his fingers out, massaged them. Four half-moons of blood were etched in his palms where the nails had bitten through the flesh. Son of a bitch, Eddie thought. He wants a punch, I'll give the freak a punch to write home about.

  "Okay, Hooks. Go ahead."

  And Eddie did. He snapped a left into Cruz's chin, then double-pumped it into his nose. Cruz's head flew back. Blood trickled out of his nostril.

  Cruz nodded apprecialely. "Nice, Hooks. That's more like it."

  Hooks was still bouncing on his toes, huffing angrily through his nose, his face grimly set. He'd expected Cruz to yell at him, take a swing, have him arrested. Something. But the big guy was just smiling. Maybe he was okay after all.

  Cruz turned to the rest of the recruits, all of whom had stopped breathing. "Now that's how to throw a punch. You watch Hooks here and you guys can learn something. Way to go, Hooks."

  Hooks shrugged proudly. He was used to accepting praise. Besides, he'd be hearing a lot of it when he was heavyweight champion of the world.

  "Okay," Cruz said. "Let's try it again, Hooks."

  "Again, Sarge?"

  "Yeah. Just like last time."

  "Fast?"

  Cruz grinned through thin bloodless lips. "As fast as you can."

  Eddie began bouncing on his toes, his left hand hanging near his hip in a cocky posture, his right hovering near his chest. He danced to the left, then to the right, changing directions with impossible speed and agility.

  Cruz stood still, his arms hanging at his sides.

  Eddie snapped out a left jab, so quick and unexpected some of the recruits jumped a little. It was aimed directly at Cruz's face, but somehow-and this Eddie didn't understand-it missed! Cruz hadn't lifted his hands to protect himself, hadn't blocked the punch in any way. It looked to Eddie like the only thing he did was sort of shift his weight a little from one foot to the other. An accident really.

  Eddie moved to the left again, bouncing on his toes, feigning to the left, then lashing out with a right cross at Cruz's jaw. Cruz spun his huge bulk to the side with incredible grace and ease. Again, Eddie missed.

  "You see, men," Cruz explained to the recruits, "fighting isn't just doing damage to the other guy. It's also avoiding having damage done to you. In other words, don't get hit."

  Eddie drew in a deep breath. The hippo sergeant was making a fool out of him. Dodging his punches so easi
ly. Shit, they'll never take him seriously as a contender if every elephant that comes along can slip his punches like this. Eddie brought his left and right up to his face for the classic no-nonsense fighter's stance. He was bouncing less as he moved in toward Cruz, who took no step in any direction. Just waited.

  The first punch was a left jab, grazing Cruz's ear. The second was an immediate left hook that mussed Cruz's hair, but otherwise missed. The third was a right uppercut that slashed through nothing but air.

  Cruz had not moved his feet, yet every punch had missed. Eddie Hooks backed up and stared for a moment, frustration welling up inside of him like sour bile. He was afraid he would cry, and blinked back the tears.

  "You see," Cruz continued talking, his voice taunting, contemptuous, "fighting is a hell of a lot more than just your throwing punches. It involves timing, for one. And brains, for another." His grin widened at Hooks. "Try it again. Hooks. And stop holding back on me."

  Hooks felt his skin burning, with embarrassment, with hate. He had to teach this cracker asshole a lesson if it was the last thing he ever did.

  He brought his hands up again, moved toward Cruz. No bouncing now. His hands flew in frenzied blurs. A double left jab, a right to the stomach, a wild left hook, All misses. When he straightened up, Cruz was standing behind him. Laughing.

  "Shit, son, I thought you had something. Guess I was wrong. Just another dumb nigger."

  Eddie spun with a growl, coiled his arms again. He was used to fighting from a distance, flicking out the jab and running. Wearing his opponent down before stepping in close to finish him off. But this fucking ape was using some kind of Kung Fu shit that Eddie couldn't figure out. He'd have to get in close with this guy to wipe that grin off his fat face.

  Eddie tucked his chin down, moved cautiously closer to Cruz. Cruz stood still, let him come, his hands hanging lazily at his side. Eddie circled to the right, then suddenly shifted to the left, lunging forward with a looping left hook.

  What happened next no one who was there ever forgot.

  Cruz saw the punch coming and leaned backward out of its path. For a moment Eddie's arm seemed to be suspended in midair, with nowhere to go. That's when Cruz's powerful arms grabbed it out of the air like a swooping hawk and jerked it around, spinning Eddie off balance. With an easy movement, Cruz trapped Eddie's elbow between his own hands, yanked. Eddie screamed in pain as his arm popped out of his shoulder socket.

  "My arm! You busted my fucking arm!"

  Cruz glanced calmly at the recruits. "So you see, men, how important it is not to get too close to your opponent unless you are adequately prepared."

  "You son of a bitch," Eddie hissed through clenched teeth, holding his limp and twisted arm. "It's busted."

  Cruz ignored him, continuing his lecture. "It is also important to remember that hand-to-hand combat is not to be taken literally. That is, it don't mean just using hands. For example…" He pointed at Eddie who was hunched over, grasping his useless arm, thinking about his career. "The elbow is even harder than a fist." Cruz hovered over Eddie a moment, then brought his elbow crashing down in the middle of Eddie's back. Eddie's legs buckled and he sprawled forward, his injured arm slamming into the hard wooden floor.

  "Jeeesus! Goddamn!" His face was contorted with pain.

  "Then there's the foot," Cruz said, kicking Eddie's ribs with two quick blows. Bones cracked like dry twigs. Eddie lapsed into semi-consciousness.

  Cruz kneeled next to him, flipping him onto his back. "Hey, Hooks, you okay?" He patted Hooks' cheeks.

  Hooks' eyes rolled a moment, then slowly focused. "Son of a bitch," he gasped.

  Cruz grinned. "I knew you was all right. Guy in your shape. So let's continue, okay?" A look of terror tore at Eddie's face as Cruz turned to the recruits again. "Now, when you actually, have to use your hands, remember that there are many parts of the hands available. The knuckles…" He made a fist and jabbed it into Eddie's nose. Thick, gooey blood squirted out both nostrils. The nose remained flattened against Eddie's face, broken.

  "Owww! Oh God, help me!" Eddie cried out to the others. "Help me, you guys!"

  The recruits looked at each other but no one made a move. They didn't know what to do. They'd all heard about tough sergeants before, especially Sergeant Cruz. But that was part of the game, wasn't it? Surely the sergeant would stop soon, having taught the black kid a lesson.

  Cruz continued. "Then there's the palm of the hand…" He drove his palm into Eddie's mouth, just enough to loosen all the front teeth so they'd all have to come out within the week. "And fingers…" He V-ed his two fingers and jabbed them into Eddie's sinus cavities. Mucus mixed with blood streamed out of Eddie's nose. His eyes swam in lakes of tears.

  "Please, Sarge," he begged, crying. "Please God, Sarge."

  Cruz ignored him. "And, of course, the flat edge of your hand…" He raised his stiffened hand over Eddie's exposed throat, watched the boy's eyes widen with horror, his mouth too dry to choke out a plea, then brought it slicing through the air at a hundred miles an hour.

  At the last instant, he stopped.

  The edge of his hand rested on Eddie's protruding Adam's apple. But no damage was done. No physical damage.

  Eddie's eyes fluttered open. When he realized he was still alive, he panted hysterically, blood bubbles foaming at his nostrils. He emptied his bowels in his pants. His body shook from his sobs.

  Cruz stood up, his face expressionless, as if he were watching a bug writhing on a pin.

  One of the recruits finally summoned enough courage to speak. "Shouldn't we get him over to the infirmary, Sergeant Cruz?"

  Cruz grinned. "Nah. Let him get used to his own shit and piss for a while. We got work to do. Everybody out on the field."

  And they left him there, pants soaked with waste, blood streaming out of his nose, ribs splintered, a ringing in his ears. Anyone looking at the shattered heap squirming on the gymnasium floor would know that he'd never again dream about becoming the champion of the world.

  Actually, he'd never dream of anything again. When Cruz brought the recruits back into the gym half an hour later, Eddie Hooks was unconscious. Doctors operated for two hours, removed the blood clot in his brain that had formed when one of the blood vessels had burst. He stayed on life-support systems for nine days before finally dying.

  Eddie Hooks had been a popular home-town boy in Philadelphia and the local newspapers knew they had a good story here. And they pursued it every day with lurid detail. The Army, in an effort to avoid yet another accusation of racism, fed them Cruz. Eighteen years for involuntary manslaughter.

  By the time Dirk Fallows had arrived, Cruz had done six of those years. A couple inmates confided to Fallows that Cruz had killed at least two other prisoners in those six years. One had been overheard making fun of Cruz's size. He was found drowned in a toilet bowl he'd just finished using, his pants still wound about his ankles. The second had winked suggestively at Cruz. He'd been found with an eight-inch nail driven through his eye and into his brain. Cruz had been questioned, but never charged.

  That was one of the odd things about Cruz, Fallows had realized. He seemed to have no interest in sex, with women or men. Not even with himself. In a prison, there is no privacy, and secrets are hard to keep. But no one had ever seen Cruz do anything. Even the soldiers who knew him before his imprisonment had never seen him with a woman. With anything.

  Not that it mattered to Fallows. All he cared about was that Cruz had the ruthlessness to do what was necessary, and the skill to succeed. That's why Fallows had helped Cruz get out legally. The Army was happy to get rid of him, let the civilian world worry about him for a while. Then he'd made Cruz his second in command.

  The men were afraid of both of them. Of Fallows because they couldn't understand him. He was brilliant, mysterious. Of Cruz because they understood him too well. He was brutal, indifferent. Fallows planned, Cruz executed the plan. Sometimes with more enthusiasm than necessary.

  Dirk Fallows f
ocused the binoculars on the man riding ahead. Thin, late thirties. Uncomfortable riding a horse. Nervously glancing around. A cheap slingshot in his hand.

  He swung the binoculars back to the waiting women, studying each from head to toe. Only one was old enough to be called a woman. She was a few pounds overweight, but not bad. Marketable. When he looked at the two girls he was momentarily confused, thinking he'd made a mistake, then realizing they were twins. Young, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Pretty. The men would be pleased tonight. After him.

  He shifted the binoculars back to the man as he rode deeper into the woods, scouting ahead. A few more yards and he'd be there. Fallows could almost imagine Cruz hulking in some tree, crouching patiently, his giant hands open and waiting. Fallows grinned. It was an image to frighten any man, even himself.

  Damn!

  The man on horseback stopped. Leaned forward in the saddle, peered into the woods. Waited.

  "Shit!" he spat. "The son of a bitch is turning around."

  The kid at the firepit stopped peeling the flesh of the German Shepherd and looked up. He started to speak, felt the tickle of black shepherd hair on his lips, spit it out. "Christ."

  Fallows studied the scene with intensity. The man had turned around and ridden back to his family. They were talking. He refocused the binoculars, trying to read the man's lips, but the man's horse turned slightly and all Fallows could see now was the back of his head.

  Fallows sighed. Well, if they were deciding to ride the other way, that would be that. They'd be gone, free and clear. But if they were deciding to push ahead, they'd be in Cruz's hands soon. There was nothing to do but wait and see.

  Fallows smiled. Wait and see.

  "Goddamn it, horse, stay still." Leo Roth sat helplessly gripping the saddle horn with both hands as his horse moved to the right to nibble some grass. Leo tried to tug the horse back around, felt bad about taking it away from food, threw up his hands. "You just relax," he told the horse. "Bon appetit. I'll just twist around here in the saddle until my spine cracks. Don't bother yourself."

  "Leo, stop fooling with the damn horse," Cynthia Roth complained.