The Warlord w-1

by Jason Frost

  Leo looked off into the woods at an imaginary audience. "She thinks I'm fooling with the horse. As if I have any choice here."

  "What'd you see, Dad?" Sarah asked.

  "Nothing really," he shrugged. "Just a feeling"/'

  Cynthia frowned. "Feeling? What kind of feeling? Like a sick feeling, or what?"

  "A feeling, that's all. Nothing specific."

  Suddenly Leo's horse lifted his head and tail at the same time, shivered slightly. Large, greenish droppings plopped to the ground.

  Cynthia frantically waved the air in front of her face. "For God's sake, Leo."

  "What do you mean Leo? It's the damn horse doing it, not me."

  "Couldn't you have moved him first or something?"

  "He and I have grown apart. He doesn't confide in me anymore."

  The horse finished, swished his tail back and forth a few times, then dipped his head back to eat more grass.

  "Would you look at that?" Leo pointed. "He doesn't even wait a respectable time. Just eats and shits. What the hell kind of animal is this?"

  Cheryl shook her head with disgust, as she always did over her parents' antics. In high school they'd been a constant source of embarrassment, her father always cracking corny jokes with her friends, trying to be one of the guys. Christ. Sarah never seemed to mind, but then Sarah didn't have that many friends. Not the ones that counted anyway.

  Leo Roth looked at his family. He knew he was acting the fool, but he was scared and he didn't know why. He didn't want them to see how frightened he really was. He had to be the strong one, keep them all together. He'd even accept Cheryl's obvious contempt now; it was better than having her as terrified as he was.

  "So what are we going to do, Dad?" Sarah asked. "It'll be dark soon."

  "We could make camp here," Cheryl suggested. "We passed a stream half a mile back."

  Leo nodded, considering.

  "Why don't we just keep going another hour," Cynthia said. "That'll bring us a few more miles closer to getting off these creatures for good. I'll break out the can of plums as a treat."

  "Sounds great, Mom," Sarah said.

  "I'm in," Cheryl agreed.

  Leo looked over his shoulder, back into the woods. Nothing moved. A couple birds warbled at each other, but other than that everything was peaceful. Still, something nagged at the back of his neck, some kind of chill. Silly. Maybe. Aw hell, what did he know about the woods. He was just acting like a dumb city boy, jumping at every toad.

  "Sweetheart?" Cynthia said.

  Leo jerked his horse around, pointed it ahead. "We go on."

  "One more hour?" Cheryl pleaded.

  "Promise. Just one more." Leo smiled. "Wagons ho-oh."

  They rode on.

  Cynthia concentrated on keeping her horse next to Leo's, though for some reason every time she caught up, his horse would surge ahead a couple steps. "Leo, don't you want me next to you?"

  "Yes, but this stupid horse doesn't."

  "It's Mom's horse he doesn't want," Sarah explained. "He wants to be the lead horse. You've got to rein him in more if you want Mom riding next to you."

  He turned around and winked at the girls. "I don't know, I might have a good thing here." The girls laughed. Cynthia pretended to be mad, but laughed too.

  "A clown I married, A real joker."

  "It was in the cards, dear."

  The girls groaned.

  "Even Rodney Dangerfield wouldn't use that one," Cheryl said.

  Leo laughed. "Where do you think I stole it?"

  He was feeling a little better now, safer. There was nothing like the laughter of your own family to make the rest of the world shrink away. Everything would be just fine, he was sure. He felt silly now for still gripping the slingshot in his left hand.

  "Do you think things are as bad at Aunt Paula's as they are around here?" Sarah asked.

  "I don't know," Leo said. "It all depends on the-"

  Cheryl screamed. "Daaddyyyy!"

  Men were swarming all around them, dropping out of trees, jumping up from under piles of leaves. They brandished weapons, machetes, bayonets, spears, a couple guns.

  "Hold your fire!" someone barked. "Don't waste the bullets."

  Two men grabbed Cheryl, yanking her roughly off her horse. Leo heard her clothes being ripped, her cries, a loud slap.

  His horse was prancing wildly from side to side, but he tightened his grip on the reins and swung the horse around in a tight arc. Digging his heels into its ribs, he urged the horse into the two men who were attacking Cheryl, knocking both to the ground. Cheryl scrambled to her feet, her blouse torn down the front, her pants bunched halfway down her hips. She dashed for her horse, but another man grabbed her around the waist and swept her off the ground.

  Leo saw Sarah kick one bearded attacker in the face, watched him slam back into a tree. He glanced over his shoulder as three men leaped at his wife. One clutched a handful of her hair and jerked her out of the saddle. She screamed, but kept fighting, her arms and legs flailing at all of them at once.

  Leo hunched low, gigged his horse again, and plowed into two of the men. As before, they tumbled to the ground. While Cynthia clawed at the third man's face, Leo lifted his slingshot, nestled a small metal ball into the leather pocket, stretched the rubber tubing back to his chin, and let it fly. The metal ball whistled through the air, punched through his wife's attacker's cheek, and shattered the bone. The man fell to the ground clutching his bleeding face.

  Leo dropped another ball into the leather pocket, swung around toward his daughters to protect them. But just as he did, he caught a glimpse of a giant bear of a man crashing through the brush toward him, a raised machete in his hand. The man's eyes were fixed on Leo, glistening black pearls behind slits of flesh. He had to be at least seven feet tall, but he ran with remarkable speed, dodging low-hanging branches with ease. His face was strangely calm, like a jogger just hitting his stride. The machete reflected spears of lights as it came closer.

  Leo felt as if he were trapped in a vat of honey, moving with dreamlike slowness as he raised his slingshot, aimed it at the charging giant, began tugging the rubber tubing back.

  But too late.

  The machete winked in the light, then sizzled in a wide arc toward his arm. He felt a tug at his left sleeve, saw his hand fly off into the woods, land five feel away in a nest of leaves, still clutching the slingshot.

  He looked at his arm with confusion, saw the blood pouring from the stump. It looked like something from a bad horror movie. Unreal. Fake blood. He started to laugh, held up the bloody stump for everyone to see, as if it were a practical joke. Looked into the giant's face, saw him smiling. He understood the joke. Then watched as the smiling giant swung the machete toward his throat. The blade seemed to move so slowly, Leo knew all he had to do was move and it would miss him altogether. So simple. Just move.

  Suddenly he felt a solid blow at his throat, a sharp stinging, then nothing. He heard a gurgling, saw the ground rushing at him. Thought about how stupid horses were. Died before he finished the thought.

  "Perfect!"

  "Sir?"

  Dirk Fallows lowered the binoculars, a satisfied grin cracking his rugged face like a rocky chasm. "Here, Foxworth, take a look." He offered the kid the binoculars.

  "Thank you, sir," Foxworth said, quickly wiping the dog blood from his hands onto the thighs of his fatigues. He took the binoculars and peered down into the woods.

  "Over there," Fallows said, nudging the glasses a couple inches to the left.

  Foxworth studied the scene for a few seconds and whistled. "Holy shit!"

  "Don't worry, Foxworth, they'll save you some."

  Foxworth lowered the glasses and leered. "I hope so, sir. Them twins is mighty nice looking. So young and all."

  "By morning they'll be a lot older."

  "Yes, sir," Foxworth chuckled, looking through the binoculars again. "Boy, Sergeant Cruz sure whooped the shit outta that guy. Jesus."

  Fa
llows stood up. Cruz had certainly done the job down there, but in an eerie way. Fallows had had the binoculars focused on Cruz's face as soon as he'd shown himself. Yet, Cruz had remained so expressionless, even as he hacked that guy's hand off and nearly sliced his head from the shoulders. There was a thin smile, but not one of pleasure or disgust. More like a twitch than any display of emotion. Fallows couldn't figure the guy out. Sadists he understood, at least they enjoyed what they did. But Cruz seemed to neither enjoy it nor dislike it. It was more as if he simply was compelled to do it, like a robot programmed to destroy. It could make him difficult to control in the future. Fallows would have to keep an eye on Cruz.

  Foxworth stood up, handed the binoculars back to Fallows. "What's next, Colonel?"

  "Next?"

  "Yes, sir. You said as soon as we'd made a couple more hits and collected some tradeable goods, we'd be off on a major campaign."

  Fallows brushed his close-cropped white hair with one hand as he stared at the kid. "You anxious to fight, Foxworth?"

  "Yes, sir. I'm ready."

  "You wouldn't think so if you knew the target as well as I do."

  The kid squared his shoulders. "I'm not afraid of nobody, sir."

  Fallows laughed. "That's because you're a stupid asshole, Foxworth, who doesn't know which end speaks and which end farts."

  Foxworth frowned, lowered his eyes. "Yes, sir."

  "Now get back to skinning that dog. I want you used to the smell of blood, because soon that smell is going to fill the air."

  "Yes, sir." Foxworth trotted back to the dog carcass and continued his work.

  Col. Dirk Fallows tucked the binoculars back into their leather case, snapping it shut. He'd had a couple months to work out the plan and was sure of its success. Every detail had been considered. Every option. Tonight, after his men had enjoyed themselves with their captives, he would tell them the rest of the plan. Not all of it, of course, but enough.

  He heard his troops tramping up the hill and turned to watch. The women's screams had been reduced to dim whimpers of resignation. Cruz marched ten feet ahead of the others, who leered and pawed anxiously at the females. Cruz stared straight ahead, Fallows noticed with a grin, as if indifferent to their prize. Well, he'd already gotten his kicks.

  Suddenly Cruz stopped, spun back on the men, grabbed Dennis Grover by the hair, and dragged him across the campgrounds toward the firepit.

  "Hey! Shit, what the-" he protested, his feet scrambling for footing, his arms snatching at air.

  The others stopped and stared, the women terrified, the men relieved that it hadn't been them that Cruz held.

  Fallows watched silently, allowing Cruz to continue, knowing there was a reason behind Cruz's brutality.

  "Fuck, Sarge!" Grover pleaded. "What'd I do?"

  Cruz flung him face forward into the dirt next to Foxworth's feet. "You're the one that made the noise. Almost scared them away. I taught you better."

  "It wasn't me, Sarge. I swear it!" Grover was a combat-hardened veteran, tough gritty. But confronted with Cruz's wrath, even rocks whimpered.

  Cruz stared at him with disgust. "It was you."

  He reached down, wrapped his thick fingers around Grover's neck and forced his face forward into the pile of guts Foxworth had scraped out of the dead German Shepherd. "Eat, you stupid bastard."

  The men squirmed with sick expressions. Fallows smiled.

  "Oh, God, Sarge," Grover begged. "Give me a chance. Please."

  Cruz pulled his bloody machete out of its sheath and held it over Grover's head. "Here's your chance, pal."

  Grover's face was pale, slightly green as he looked at the slimy heap of dog innards glistening eight inches away.

  "C'mon, Grover. Let's see. Start with the intestines. They look nutritious."

  Grover took a deep breath, scooped up a handful of steaming intestines and took a bite. It squished against his teeth like a fat worm. He chewed slowly, meticulously, holding his breath against the randy taste.

  "Swallow," Cruz said, nudging Grover's neck with the machete.

  Grover swallowed hard, but it wouldn't seem to go down. He kept swallowing until it did.

  "Try the heart next. You need all you can get."

  Grover lifted it with one hand like a precious jewel, brought it to his mouth. Suddenly his stomach heaved and pitched, spewing vomit. Chunks of dog intestine shot out of his mouth.

  Cruz booted Grover in the middle of the back, sending him face down into the vomit and organs.

  "Other than that, you did well, men." Fallows raised his hands in a welcoming benediction. He smiled, his pale colorless eyes twinkling like melting ice as they approached. "And for that you will be amply rewarded."

  The men sent up a roaring cheer for their leader, hats flying in the air, arms waving merrily.

  Fallows kept his smile in place, but he was thinking. Thinking about tomorrow. Tomorrow would be Eric Ravensmith's turn.

  11.

  "What can I do to help?" Annie asked.

  Eric pointed with his screwdriver. "Hand me that piece of rubber hose over there."

  Annie followed the line of the screwdriver, picked up the short length of hose from the bed, and dropped it on the small oak desk where Eric was tinkering. "Hey, look," she said, snatching up one of the items scattered across the desk. "You know what this looks like?"

  "A sardine key," Eric said.

  "Yeah. Just like a sardine key."

  'That's because it is a sardine key. We picked up a couple dozen of them last week when we toured the Dead Zone."

  Annie frowned, tossed the key back on the desk. "You mean eight of you risked your lives sneaking through that godforsaken Dead Zone just for a handful of sardine keys?"

  "Of course not," Eric grinned. "We also got a bunch of these nifty mousetraps."

  "Swell."

  Eric gestured with his chin. "Slide over that spool of monofilament fishline, would you?"

  Annie nudged the spool over, picked up an orange flare, hefted it. "What're you making, some kind of gun?"

  "Trip flares. We hide these all around the perimeters of University Camp and hopefully anybody trying to sneak up on us will set one off. Then we know right where to look for them."

  "Hmmm. Clever little devil." She stood behind Eric and kissed the top of his head, nuzzling her nose in his hair. "You smell funny."

  He continued fastening the mousetrap to the wooden stake, tightening the screws. "Gee, I can't understand why. We just washed this shirt two weeks ago and I've only worn it ten times since."

  "It's not just you. It's me, you, the kids. Everybody. And it's not a bad smell. It's just, you know," she shrugged, "funny."

  "You mean earthy."

  "I prefer 'natural.' It sounds cleaner."

  Eric chuckled. "Well, whatever you call it, better get used to it. Considering the water shortage and our changed diet, we're all going to be smelling a lot more 'natural.' "

  "I kind of like it. It's certainly a hell of a lot better than that sterile sanitized way we all used to smell. Yesterday I was working in the garden with Gertie Potts when she dug up half a bottle of Ralph Lauren cologne. She sprayed some on faster than a starving man will eat a stew. It smelled so sweet I thought I'd puke."

  "Ah ha," Eric nodded. "That explains it."

  "Explains what?"

  "Why you smelled that way last night."

  "What smell? That was just my natural scent."

  "Yeah, you and Ralph Lauren."

  Annie grabbed a single strand of hair from atop Eric's head and yanked it out.

  "Owww!" Eric dropped the screwdriver and rubbed his head.

  "That should teach you not to make fun of me when your hands are full."

  Eric scraped his chair back and jumped to his feet. "Now you've had it. I warned you." He spun around, hands out, fingers wiggling in the air.

  "Oh Jesus, no," Annie pleaded, backing away. "No tickling, Eric. Please. I'm sorry."

  "Too late for that now
." He came toward her, herding her across the tiny room into a corner.

  "It was an accident, Eric. I swear. Here," she held out the strand of his hair like a flower. "We'll put it back."

  He stepped closer, his arms outstretched to prevent her breaking for the door.

  "Stop it, Eric, this is childish." She straightened herself, adopting her stern parental expression. "I will not permit you to bully me."

  Eric wiggled his fingers.

  Annie collapsed in the corner, her arms pressed to her sides, her hands covering her hips, her most ticklish spot. "Please, I didn't mean it. I forgot."

  Eric leapt forward, dropping to his knees and bundling her up in his arms. He pressed his lips against hers. She kissed back, touching her tongue to his. When they broke, he lifted her to her feet. "Let that be a warning, young lady. There's plenty more where that came from."

  "Yeah? Then I might just have to pluck you bald."

  He laughed, wiggled his fingers at her.

  "Use those itchy fingers for something more productive," she grinned, pointing at the desk. "After all, you're the Security Chief of the whole University Camp. You have responsibilities, duties, a calling."

  He gave her a look. "You're asking for it. Have fingers, will tickle."

  She giggled.

  Eric pulled up his chair and hunched over the desk – again, twisting eye screws into the base of the mousetrap. "Can you give me more light, honey?"

  Annie walked over to the single window and slid another 2x4 board out of its brackets. Yellowish-orange light stabbed into the tiny room. It was the only kind of light they got anymore, a hazy amber so popular in motel paintings of sunsets. Through the gap, she could see the clear plastic cover over the swimming pool glazed with orange light like a slab of Jell-0. She leaned the board against the wall and returned to the mattress, where she was cutting a vinyl seat cover into "feathers" to be glued onto wooden shafts, eventually becoming arrows for long bows or bolts for crossbows. When she finished another dozen shafts, she and Eric would go over to the basement of the library, which was now the hospital, to see how Jennifer was doing. She'd picked up some kind of summer cold last week, but the doctor wanted to keep her isolated, just to be safe. With their limited medical supplies, they had to be careful about epidemics. There was too much to do, too many walls to defend against the Dead Zone.