The Warlord w-1

by Jason Frost

  Season was running toward him now, her legs and arms pumping, fighting the sand's pull as it sucked at her feet. The bloody arrow through her forearm looked like some child's prank, a toy bought at a cheap magic shop to scare her parents. Once it banged against her thigh as she ran. Her howl of pain was sudden, reflexive. Then she gulped it back and ran even harder.

  "Drop to the ground!" Eric yelled. "Drop!"

  She shook her head as she ran toward him. Another bolt flew out from the clump of brush behind her, whizzed within a few inches of her back before shooting past her.

  Eric flopped to his stomach, lifted the crossbow to his shoulder, and calculated the backward trajectory of the bolt that had just missed Season. It was like playing the film of the arrow's flight in reverse. Then he freeze-framed the film on the exact spot where the bolt had emerged from the brush, aimed the crossbow, and squeezed the trigger.

  The short arrow spat from the bow like an angry torpedo headed for an enemy U-boat.

  A surprised grunt of sudden unendurable agony burst from the brush, followed by a body in combat fatigues pitching forward, grasping madly at the bolt blooming like a deadly flower from his stomach. But the shaft was too slippery with blood for him to get a firm grasp. His fingers slid helplessly off the arrow. Then he died.

  Twelve yards to the left, young Foxworth swallowed a bubble of panic as he watched Toomey's eyes stare unblinking into the orange sky. Tiny grains of sand coated Toomey's bloody fingers like breading and Foxworth suddenly thought of Kentucky Fried Chicken, the one thing he missed most since the quakes. He wanted to laugh, to cry, to vomit, to piss his pants. All at once.

  Through the crisp skeletal twigs of the brush, he could see Ravensmith and the others crawling cautiously toward him. He calculated his chances of running away.

  Slim to none. Ravensmith would put an arrow in his back before he got ten yards away. He squirmed, wringing his sweaty hands around the crossbow. Damn thing. Why hadn't Colonel Fallows given them guns. Then he remembered the feeling he'd got when he'd fired into that guy's body. Sure, Toomey had already brought him down, but Foxworth had put another arrow into him anyway. To see how it felt. It felt good. The way the body twitched and jerked as the bolt thumped into it. It was, well, satisfying. Almost as good as fucking those twins and their mother, though he was the last in line and by then they'd all been so abused they were hardly conscious enough to notice him doing anything. He did it anyway.

  Foxworth cocked his crossbow, slid a bolt into the groove, took aim on Ravensmith. Maybe if I dropped him…

  Eric inched along the ground, the sand's heat seeping through his clothes. Sweat dripped into his eyes and he blinked it away. He scanned the horizon at the top of the incline, trying to decide how many were out there. Not many, he decided, or they would have attacked when they were all together. Probably thought they could pick Season and Tag off, then do the same to the rest later.

  One thing was certain, Fallows wasn't one of them. If he had been, they'd all be dead by now. He'd never have tried such a lame ploy as this. He was too smart, no one realized just how smart.

  "Rydell," Eric called over his shoulder. Rydell bellied over the sand next to Eric. "How's Season?"

  "Tracy's got the arrow out. Don't know how good that arm's going to be, but she'll live."

  Molly edged closer. "What about those guys in the cabins? Are they going to help us?"

  Eric looked back to the cabins behind them. Everyone had gone inside. "Don't count on it."

  "Maybe they'll lend us that shotgun," Rydell said.

  "I wouldn't. It's not their fight."

  "What about Tag? Maybe I should make a run for him. See how he's doing."

  Eric shook his head. "He's dead."

  "How do you know? Maybe he's just unconscious."

  Eric gave him a look, turned back to study the terrain ahead. A few mesquite trees to the left, their pods a bright lemon yellow, ready to eat. A clump of stinging nettle bushes to the right, their green shoots used as flavoring for soups. All that information stored up in his brain along with song lyrics to "When I'm Sixty-four" and Magic Johnson's free throw percentages for the last three seasons. "There's only a couple places up there with enough cover to hide. If we pepper them with a few arrows, we should get a reaction. Ready?"

  The movement was so slight, Eric couldn't be sure it was real. Maybe it was just a chuckwalla lizard. When frightened they blow themselves up like balloons and wedge themselves into crevices of rocks. Whatever it was, Eric flipped his crossbow toward it without hesitation and squeezed the trigger.

  The bolt punched through the saltbush, severing a few dull green flowers before whistling by Foxworth's dirty ear. The shock of having Ravensmith fire at him just as he was aiming at Ravensmith, jolted Foxworth off balance.

  Fucking spooky. He tipped backwards, tumbling into the sand, his finger tightening reflexively around the trigger. The bow twanged and hurled its bolt harmlessly into the orange sky.

  'There!" he heard Ravensmith shout, saw him pointing toward Foxworth,

  Foxworth knew he was only seconds from a volley of arrows aimed in his direction. He thought of the excruciating pain, the sharp point of an arrow clefting skin, tissue, slicing muscle, puncturing organs. Or, God no, his face! The shaft burrowing into his brain, gnawing through the soft jelly of his eye. He felt warm urine soaking his pants leg. Suddenly he leaped to his feet, tossed the heavy crossbow over the top of the saltbush, threw his hands into the air. "Enough! Enough!"

  Eric smiled. "Are you scared?"

  "M-Maybe. A little."

  "Sure, a little. That's good."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Respect for pain is a good thing. Especially now."

  "I don't get you."

  "I'm about to fill you with a lot of respect."

  Foxworth swallowed. "Whataya gonna do?"

  Eric ran his finger lightly along his scar.

  "Shit, man, no need for any of that. I'll tell you what you wanna know. Just fucking ask, okay? Just ask?"

  "But how will we know it's the truth? You might be lying. No, I'm afraid that won't do. You see, the Hopis have a saying. A tongue in pain always speaks the truth."

  "I swear, Mr. Ravensmith. Honest to God, I'll tell you the truth. Tell you first time. Really. Ask me. Go ahead."

  Rydell trudged wearily up the hill. Joseph Baldwin was beside him. Both carried shovels.

  "We buried them both," Rydell said. "I hated to put them both in the same hole."

  "Won't matter to either of them," Joseph Baldwin said, clapping Rydell on the shoulder. "Couple weeks and they'll both be grown over with a patch of Mormon tea."

  Season adjusted the red bandanna Tracy had taken from her head and wrapped around the wound. She winced slightly from the pain, but made no sound. No tears.

  Molly and Tracy stood on either side of Eric, each with a crossbow aimed at Foxworth, who sat trembling on the ground. His legs were folded under him and he kept wiping the sweat from his palms onto the thighs of his pants.

  "What's your name again?" Eric asked, cupping his hand to his ear.

  "Foxworth."

  "What's your first name?"

  Foxworth hesitated. He hated his first name as much as he hated tall niggers or raw fish. He looked down, mumbled.

  "What?"

  "Ariel. My old lady's idea." He didn't add that the rest of the guys used to call him Airedale because he skinned the dogs and usually smelled like one.

  "Well, Ariel. You can stand up and take off all your clothes."

  "Yes, sir," he said, jumping to his feet and unbuttoning and removing his shirt. He stripped off his pants, leaving on his boots and underpants.

  "You can leave the boots, but not the pants."

  "Jeez, Mr. Ravensmith. Can't you just ask me what you want to know, man to man. Do they have to be here?" He nodded at the women.

  "You've got something against women, Ariel?"

  "Well, shit, all this isn't gonna change my a
nswers any. I swear."

  "The underpants."

  Foxworth squared his shoulders, summoning some defiance. "At least send her away," he said, pointing at Molly. "I don't want no goddamn gook staring at my naked ass."

  Rydell crossed the space between them in two steps, his face glowering with rage, then swung the shovel into Foxworth's jaw. The jaw shifted like a slammed drawer and Foxworth fell moaning to the ground, clutching his face. Rydell raised the shovel over his head as if to hit him again, but Tracy's hand at his arm stopped him.

  "You damn fool," Eric snapped. "If you had to hit him, why not in the kneecap so he couldn't walk. Not the jaw which he needs to talk."

  Rydell held the shovel in both hands like an axe, stared down at Foxworth as if noticing him for the first time. He looked over his shoulder at Eric. "Sorry, I… Sorry."

  "Actually," Molly said. "I kind of preferred the jaw."

  "Help him up," Eric nodded to Molly.

  Molly shifted the bow to one hand, wedged a hand behind Foxworth's back, and pushed him to a sitting position. "Don't mind us gooks."

  Foxworth's jaw hung at an odd angle, obviously broken. He cradled it gently between his hands like a baby bird fallen from its nest.

  "Now, Foxworth," Eric said, his smile gone, his eyes narrowing. "Maybe now you're ready to tell the truth."

  Foxworth nodded enthusiastically.

  "Does Fallows have my wife and son?"

  "Yes." Speech made him wince.

  "Has he hurt them at all?"

  Foxworth shook his head.

  Eric leaned over, his face inches away. "Hasn't touched them or abused them?"

  "No."

  Eric grabbed Foxworth by the shattered jaw and yanked it back and forth twice. Foxworth howled and cried. "Again. They haven't been abused or touched?"

  "Just the colonel. He's… been… with her. In his tent. No one else was allowed. The kid hasn't been touched. I swear to God."

  "Where's Fallows heading now?"

  "North, Me and Toomey were supposed to meet up with him near Santa Barbara. Depending."

  "Depending on what?"

  "On where the new coastline is."

  Eric stepped back, his face slightly ashen. His fingers tapped along the scar on his cheek, as if they were playing a tune. "North, huh?" he mused, staring off in that direction.

  "Yes, sir. Santa Barbara."

  Eric nodded slowly, turned to the others. "Let's get the gear together. We're moving out in a few minutes."

  "Maybe we should wait a little longer," Tracy said. "Give Season a chance to rest. Recover from her wound."

  "If she wants to rest she can stay here. Try to catch up with us later."

  Tracy glared at him. "Christ, Eric. Why are you acting so damn hard-core?"

  "No, really," Season said, "I'm fine. Fine. Besides, I haven't been to Santa Barbara in years. Since Daddy filmed that spy flick there."

  "We're not going to Santa Barbara," Eric said, swinging his pack onto his shoulders. "We're going south."

  "What?" Rydell said.

  Tracy pointed at Foxworth. "But he just said-"

  "I know what he said. But it's not the truth."

  Foxworth twitched nervously, panic twisting up his throat like a fat snake. "It's the truth. I ain't lying. I swear. North. That's what he told us. Santa Barbara."

  "That's what he told you, Ariel. But that's not where he's going. You see, you weren't meant to join them later. In fact, you weren't even meant to kill me."

  Molly sat on the ground. "I need a drink."

  "I'd settle for an explanation," Tracy said.

  "It's simple, really, if you know Fallows. He sent these two clowns to be caught."

  "Why?" Rydell asked.

  "To tell us he was going north. In the meantime, he heads south."

  "I don't know. That's quite a stretch to make in logic."

  "Not really. If Fallows had wanted me dead, he would have sent a couple guys with more experience. He's got them. And he would have given them guns. He's got them too. Instead he sent a couple amateurs who he knew I'd kill, or capture and torture. You have to know one thing about Fallows, he wants to kill me himself."

  "Jesus," Tracy said. "All this just to shake you off his trail."

  Eric shook his head. "That's the clever part. He knows I wouldn't fall for this. We used the same device in Nam a couple times. Rattles the nerves. He just doesn't want it to be too easy for me."

  Joseph Baldwin cleared his throat, leaned on his shovel. "I don't know who this Fallows is, but he sounds damn dangerous. And smart as the devil."

  "Maybe smarter," Eric said. "Okay, everybody, grab your gear and let's go."

  "What about him?" Rydell nodded at Foxworth.

  "Kill him."

  "No, Mr. Ravensmith," Foxworth pleaded. "I told you what I knew. It's not my fault Colonel Fallows didn't tell me the truth. I told the truth."

  Eric ignored him, spoke to Rydell. "We don't want him warning Fallows, and we don't want him following us. So kill him. Use a knife or your bow."

  "Please! I won't follow you. And I swear I won't warn the colonel. Why should I? The son of a bitch hung me out here to die."

  Rydell stared at Foxworth. "I-I don't think I can. Not like this."

  "Why not?" Eric said angrily. "He killed your friend. He murdered Tag Hallahan, remember him? He's the guy you were joking with about his red hair a few hours ago. The same guy you just buried a few minutes ago. The one with two arrows sticking in his body. This guy fired one or both of them."

  "No! No, I missed," Foxworth said. "I couldn't shoot him like that. I missed on purpose. I swear to you."

  "I know, Eric," Rydell said. "And I want to do it, I want to kill him. I thought I could. But I guess I can't. Not in cold blood."

  "He's not like you yet," Tracy said, her eyes blazing at Eric. "He's still too human."

  "Unfortunately that's not a valuable quality against Fallows. Not if we want to get Annie and Timmy back." He cocked his crossbow, snatched a barbed hunting bolt from his quiver, and nestled it in the groove. Then he aimed it at Foxworth's heart. "One of your own arrows, Ariel."

  "Jesus, mister. Jesus." Foxworth blubbered through the tears, his broken jaw slack and quivering. "Please, I…" But his sobbing prevented his continuing.

  When Tracy spoke to Eric, her voice was quiet, yet with a stainless steel edge. "What makes you think Annie will want you the way you are now? You aren't the man she married. You're Dirk Fallows. In that way he's already killed you."

  Eric glared at her a minute. Then he spun back to face Foxworth, lifted the crossbow to his shoulder, aimed down the sight, released the safety, and pulled the trigger.

  Foxworth began screaming even before the trigger was pulled, and he continued screaming once the arrow drilled through his right kneecap, boring out the back of the leg and embedding itself in the back of the calf that had been folded under him.

  "I can't move it! Help me!" Foxworth whined, trying to unfold his leg, but unable to because of the barbs dug into his flesh.

  Eric turned his back on all of them and marched off toward the south.

  "Come on," Tracy gestured, and they all scrambled after him.

  Joseph Baldwin looked at Foxworth writhing on the ground, then at Eric and the others as they trekked grimly through the mesquite trees. He shook his head. "That's one hard man," he said, balancing the shovel on his shoulder as he walked back down to the cabins, whistling.

  24.

  "It's my fault, I know. Sorry."

  "It's nobody's fault," Eric said. "Forget it."

  Season sighed. "It's this damn wound. I know it slowed us down for the past few days. Now they're even farther ahead, aren't they?"

  "A couple days. Three at most." Eric leaned back into the shade using his pack as a pillow, "We'll catch up." They sat around resting from their night's march. Molly was already asleep, for once not even bothering to complain about her blisters. Rydell lay next to her, his head propped on his
hand while he read a sun-faded copy of Newsweek they'd found the day before in an abandoned VW bug.

  Tracy was fussing over Season's wound. Two days ago Season had gotten a sudden fever, chills, nausea, and they had lost half a day's travel. Eric hadn't complained or acted sullen. He'd merely made camp and treated her symptoms, even joked with her a little. Everyone noticed the change in him. Sure, he was just as determined as ever to rescue his family, to kill Fallows. But he was also kinder, compassionate, more the way he used to be before Jennifer's murder and the kidnapping.

  Eric tilted his Australian bush hat over his eyes, felt the stares of the others as they tried to figure him out. He knew he was acting differently toward them and he knew why. Tracy had been right. He had become Dirk Fallows, and in that way Fallows had already killed him. Had already won. Eric couldn't allow that. There had to be a greater purpose to survival than just… existing. Essence precedes existence. That's what Annie would tell him now, had told him several times in the past few months. "Our survival has to stand for something, Eric," she'd say. "Something more than a testament to our ruthlessness and cleverness. Bugs can claim that." They'd argued good-naturedly about it, mostly for the fun of it, he'd thought then. But now he could see how important it really was to Annie. He couldn't even remember his arguments now, or if he could, they seemed silly, cynical. Tracy had been right, he couldn't go to her now as just another version of Fallows. If he did, he didn't deserve her. That's what Big Bill Tenderwolf would have said.

  He heard Tracy's voice. "Rydell, would you cover guard duty for me while I search for the ladies' room?"

  "Sure thing, Trace."

  "Take your bow," Eric reminded her without opening his eyes.

  "Got it, Coach."

  Eric dozed, his mind drifting like a curl of smoke among giant photographs. Annie in the bathtub. Timmy concentrating on a chess move. Jennifer wobbling on her skates. Then he turned a corner and the photos were more sinister. Annie screaming for help. Timmy crying.

  Jennifer, her throat red and grinning, a mockery of her lifeless lips, Philip and Tag, their bodies covered with hundreds of arrows like porcupines. Fallows, floating above it all on a magic carpet, a silk turban on his head, laughing. There was one other photograph, turned at an angle away from the light. Eric strained to make out the face, but couldn't. He knew only that it was Cruz, the man who'd murdered Jenny, who'd cut her throat. He edged closer. Closer. Turned the corner.