The Warlord w-1

by Jason Frost

  "Eric! Come quick!"

  Tracy's cries, like a sharp slap, brought him swiftly to consciousness. He was on his feet and running, the loaded crossbow in his hand, before she'd finished calling. Behind him he heard the others following. He didn't wait.

  Eric's feet kicked up puffs of sand as he ran, nimbly dodging brush and rocks as he sprinted ahead. He was still twenty feet away when he saw Tracy dragging something out from behind a clump of mesquite trees. He stopped, gaped with shock.

  "Holy shit," Season said, running up behind him.

  "It's like Twilight Zone," Molly said.

  "I was just about to drop my drawers and relieve a nagging bladder," Tracy explained, "when I spotted this hiding nearby." She gave another yank.

  They had never seen anything like it.

  The girl lay on the ground, struggling to pull her arm free from Tracy's grasp. Her free hand clawed at the dirt for leverage, her bare feet dug in for resistance. When that didn't work she just made her body limp, heavy.

  "I could use a hand," Tracy said, but everyone just stood there and stared.

  The girl wore a magnificent flowing gown, red satin that draped in swirling folds. It plunged daringly down between her small teenage breasts, revealing bruises and teeth marks across her chest. Her face was caked with heavy makeup, clumsily applied lipstick and rouge, smeared eyeshadow and mascara. But most shocking of all was her hair. She didn't have any. Her head was shaved bald.

  "Who are you?" Eric asked.

  "I already asked her that," Tracy said. "She won't talk."

  "Poor kid," Rydell said.

  "Poor kid, nothing," Tracy said. "She jumped me and tried to take the crossbow."

  "N-n-no," the girl rasped.

  "Let her be," Eric said, motioning for Tracy to step back. "Give her room. Season, run back and get a canteen."

  "Right."

  Eric turned to the girl. "Want some water?"

  The girl looked at each of them suspiciously, the cornered rabbit preparing to fight its way to freedom or death. Her eyes were hateful, surrounded with dark circles. There were sores on her face and arms, torn blisters on her feet, a long scab on top of her head where the razor had slipped. Bones poked at sharp angles through the damaged skin. Her face, thin from lack of food, looked like a Halloween skull.

  Season nudged Eric with the canteen. "Here."

  Eric walked slowly toward the frightened girl, the canteen held at arm's length. "Water. Help yourself."

  She stared steadily at him, not moving. He set the canteen on the ground ten feet in front of her, then backed away. When he had returned to the others, she climbed to her feet and raced for the canteen, limping as she ran. Eric noticed the recent cut on the back of her leg above the foot. Smooth and clean, as if made with a knife.

  The girl grabbed the canteen with both hands, fumbling the cap off and guzzling it down with such desperation, much of it spilled down her neck soaking her clothes.

  "That's a two or three hundred dollar gown," Tracy said. "Six months ago I'd have done almost anything to own it."

  "Where'd she get it?" Molly asked. "She can't be more than sixteen, seventeen tops."

  Rydell nodded. "What's important is what's she doing out here wearing it? And what happened to her hair?"

  "And who cut the Achilles' tendon in her leg to cripple her?" Eric added.

  "Jesus," Season frowned.

  The girl finished drinking, wiped her mouth with her wrist, and hungrily clutched the canteen to her chest. Her eyes remained distrustful as she hobbled backwards a step or two.

  Eric walked toward her.

  "N-n-no!" she screamed, shaking her head wildly. Her shrill shrieks pierced the hot air like stabbing icicles. She stumbled backwards, screaming and shaking her head.

  The sudden thunder of galloping horses drowned out her cries as three riders stormed into sight. They were still a couple hundred yards away when Eric spotted them.

  "Weapons," Eric snapped, and everyone lifted their bows, armed and ready, toward the approaching riders.

  The girl saw them coming too and her screams became even louder, more hysterical. She dropped to the ground again, arms flailing, legs churning like a beetle on its back struggling to flip itself over.

  The three horsemen rode into camp enshrouded by clouds of yellow dust. There was nothing friendly about their appearance.

  The lead rider rode clumsily, his back erect like a parody of an English foxhunter. He was short, though thick chested, and the stirrups hung a couple inches too low for him, causing his feet to slip out. But there was nothing comical about him. His face was mean, the mouth a lipless gash behind a dusty, black beard. Under his left eye, a tattoo of three tears dripped down his cheek.

  "I'd lower those weapons, Jack," he warned Eric. "Unless you're looking for trouble."

  "We're not looking for trouble," Eric said, keeping his weapon aimed at the man's chest.

  The man squinted angrily at Eric. He wore a battered cowboy hat, fancy snakeskin boots, jeans, a big silver buckle, and a denim vest over his bare chest. The thick, curly, black hair on his chest and arms was matted with sweat. Strapped to his hip was a Western-style holster with a 9mm Smith amp; Wesson Model 59 jammed awkwardly into it. His hands rested on the saddle pommel, only inches from the gun.

  Eric noticed that the other two riders carried an assortment of knives, but no guns. Not that they needed any. The S amp;W packed a fourteen-shot staggered column clip and could fire semi-automatic. Enough to kill everybody here, even with an arrow or two in him.

  "Hell of a situation, Slim," the rider said, a nasty grin stretching his face. "I imagine you don't want to fuck with us and we don't want to fuck with you. That about sum it up?"

  "Just about."

  "Good. 'Cause I dig this Western shit and all, but I ain't much in the mood to be sucking a bunch of arrows." He stood up in the stirrups, rubbed his buttocks. "I once rode a thousand miles at one sitting on a Barley, man, but ten miles on one of these fucking animals an' my ass feels like I've been dragged butt-end down 101."

  "What's your name?" Eric asked.

  "Flex."

  "What can we do for you, Flex?"

  "Looks like you folks found something belongs to us."

  "Like what?"

  "Like that." He pointed at the girl, scurrying frantically like a crab gone mad in the sun. "It belongs to us."

  "You bastards," Tracy spat. "She's a human being, not animals like you."

  Flex laughed huskily, his barrel chest shaking. "That broad's got a mouth, huh, Slim?" His two companions also laughed.

  Eric smiled, studying the men like a biologist examining a new bacteria never before classified. The leader shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, a nervous tic starting to tug at his tattooed eye. The other two wore identical denim vests with "DEVIL'S DANCERS" stitched across the back over the picture of a grinning skeleton playing a fiddle and sitting astride a motorcycle. However, they didn't share Flex's fascination with Western outfits, remaining true to the plain black motorcycle boots. But from the arrogant looks in their eyes, they did share his taste for violence.

  By looking at them, Eric was sure of this: Flex had already made up his mind that he was either going to ride out of here with the girl, or he was going to die trying. And he didn't really care which, Eric was tempted to oblige him, but that gun made the odds bad. Oh, they'd lose all right, but chances were good that they'd take two of Eric's people with them. And he couldn't risk that.

  "So what's it gonna be, Slim? Do we have a problem?"

  "No," Eric said. "Take her and get going."

  "N-no-no!" the girl stuttered, her voice hoarse from screaming.

  "We can't let them take her, Eric!" Tracy said, stepping protectively in front of the girl. "For God's sake, look what they've done to her."

  "Hey, bitch," one of the other riders sneered.

  "Hey, what, asshole?" Tracy said, swinging her crossbow toward his face. The man glared but said nothing.
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  "She's right, Eric," Rydell said. Molly and Season mumbled agreement. "It isn't right to hand her over."

  "Well, pardner?" Flex sighed, looking bored. "We gonna mix it up over this cue ball or what?"

  "Take her," Eric repeated.

  Flex grinned. "Smart man. No need to shit our guts out in this sandbox for nothing." He nodded at one of his riders, who jumped down from his horse, jerked the girl off the ground, and threw her roughly over the saddle face down. "See how easy it is. Slim. No harm, no foul." He leered at the three women and winked. "Happy trails, pard." With a yank on the reins, he jerked the horse around and the three of them rode off laughing.

  Eric turned his back. Didn't see Sarah Roth's pleading eyes as she looked back…

  The next ten miles were covered in almost complete silence. No one complained when Eric moved them out immediately after Flex's departure without any rest. They were all anxious to work off the feelings churning inside.

  For awhile, Eric walked ahead alone, shunned by the rest of them. Then Tracy joined him, walking silently at his side. He never acknowledged her presence, but she could tell he appreciated the gesture.

  The orange sky was leaking into gray-pink as night claimed its few hours. For the past few miles they'd been muttering among themselves, though no one spoke directly to Eric.

  They followed a dirt road for a while as Eric bent to the dirt and examined tracks and signs. He didn't tell them what the signs meant. He just walked and they followed.

  "Look," Tracy said to him. "A sign up there."

  "Where?" Rydell asked.

  "There," she pointed. "By the side of the road." She turned to Eric. "Can you read it?"

  "We're almost there," Eric said.

  Within a couple minutes they were gathered around the base of the metal sign. The background was green, the lettering white. Except where someone had made some changes.

  "WELCOME TO COTTONWOOD. POPULATION 219."

  Only Cottonwood had a red X spray-painted over it, with "SAVVYTOWN" sloppily painted above. And 219 was also X-ed out, replaced with "VARIABLE."

  "Welcome to Savvytown," Tracy read aloud. "Population variable. What do you think that means?"

  'That we have to be careful. Fallows and his men came through here. But then so did Flex and his friends."

  Season had wandered ahead and climbed a small hill. "Look. Jesus, look at that." She was jumping up and down pointing.

  The others climbed up after her and followed her waving hand.

  "Lights, for God's sake. Electricity!"

  It was true. Another two or three miles down the road was a cluster of homes and trailers, all glowing with the bright steady gleam of electrical lights.

  "I didn't think I'd ever see a real bulb again," Molly sighed. "This must be Paradise."

  "Let's find out," Eric said, starting down the hill.

  "Wait a second," Rydell said, his voice tense, his tone deliberate. "I want to say something first. Something important."

  "Let it go," Molly suggested.

  "I can't. We haven't talked about it, but it's been on all our minds. I mean, what happened back there with that girl." He hesitated, took a deep breath as if each word cost him an exorbitant amount of energy. "Anyway, Eric. I don't know about the others, but up until now, I've followed you because I respected you. Admired your courage and know-how. Sure, I wanted to help you get your family back. But even if we hadn't been going after them, I'd probably have followed you. No questions asked." He looked Eric in the eyes, forced himself to keep them there, though it was like looking straight into the sun. "But I can't understand what you did back there. Giving them the girl that way."

  "C'mon, Rydell," Tracy said. "He explained that. You saw the gun. Fourteen semi-automatic shots could have wiped us out."

  "Maybe. I'm no hero. I want to live as much as any of you. But all I know now is that I feel dirty. As much a part of what happened to her as the men actually doing it."

  "Make your point," Eric said quietly.

  "Okay. From here on I follow you for only one reason. To rescue Annie and your son. I go for their sake now, not yours. Is that clear?"

  Eric's smile was thin and hard. "That's all I ever wanted. Now, let's go check this Savvytown out."

  25.

  It was nothing but a couple dozen shabby houses and rusty trailers forming two intersecting streets. But the aura of bright lights glowing from each window and the rock 'n' roll music being broadcast over a public address system and the rare sounds of people laughing made them approach Savvytown with awe, like children on their first visit to Disneyland.

  "Music, for Christ's sake," Molly said. "It's been so long since I've heard a stereo I wouldn't care if they played Donny and Marie Sing Porgy and Bess."

  Fifty feet down the road at the entrance to town, two armed men stood on either side of the road. The one on the right wore his long, black hair in two braids with a leather headband around his forehead. He wore the familiar denim vest of the Devil's Dancers along with a few crow feathers in his headband. Eric studied him for a moment and frowned; he was no more an Indian than Flex was a cowboy. He was leaning against a telephone pole from which no wires were strung, lazily twirling his homemade spear like a baton. One end of the spear had a long serrated knife lashed to it; the other end boasted a huge two-pronged stainless steel carving fork,

  Across the street stood one of the riders who'd been with Flex earlier. His hair was chopped short, but his beard was thick and full. Ten feet in front of him he hada mouse tied on a twine leash attached to a stake in the ground. The mouse darted in frantic circles around the stake while he flipped his knife into the dirt, trying to come as close to the mouse as possible without killing it. His last throw had been a little too close and one of the mouse's feet was severed. The mouse squealed, hopped away.

  When Eric and the others were within twenty feet, the knifeman called over his shoulder. "Hey, Flex. Your boyfriend's back."

  The man with the spear laughed and sang, "Your boyfriend's back and there's gonna be touble, hey na, hey na, your boyfriend's back."

  Flex stepped out of the shadows, his gun in one hand and an open bottle in the other. As Eric got closer he could smell the tangy scent of homemade liquor. This was stronger than most. Flex took a long swig, clenching his eyes tight against the taste, afterwards smacking his lips repeatedly. "What'd you come for, Slim? No, no, don't tell me. Um, the girl, right? If I don't hand her over, you and your gang of desperados is gonna take her. Am I close?"

  "We don't want the girl and we don't want trouble."

  Flex smiled, but his eyes grew colder. "That's good, Slim. You're a smart man. A little low on guts maybe, but smart. And it's the smart ones that die of old age. Right, Lido?"

  "Yeah," the man with the spear said.

  Flex bolstered his gun. "So, what do you and your tough gang want here?"

  "Information."

  "Information!" he roared, stepping in front of Eric. He was six inches shorter, but the breadth of his chest and thickness of his legs put him about fifteen pounds heavier. "Shit, man, we got the greatest fucking town since Sodom and Gomorrah. We got whores of both sexes who'll let you fuck 'em any way you want. We got booze so strong we use it to strip paint. We got a goddamn stereo system that Hugh Hefner would envy. And we got gambling. Blackjack, poker, three card monte. You name it."

  "Just some information."

  "Information, huh?" Flex scratched his beard, glanced at Tracy, Rydell, Molly, and Season. "Guess you don't need no pussy, considering how much you're packing. Even got yourself a young stud for variety, huh. Slim?"

  "It's the spice of life," Eric said.

  "What?"

  "Variety. It's the spice of life."

  "Spice of life? Hmm, that's pretty good. Never heard that before."

  "Oh, brother," Molly groaned.

  Flex gave her a sharp look. "A fucking smartass nip, huh?"

  "Chink," Molly said. "A fucking smartass chink."


  He grinned, looking her up and down, "I like you, smartass."

  "That makes one of us."

  "You got balls, girlie, maybe more than your old leader here. You know, I fucked a lot of girls, but I don't think I've ever fucked a chink before. Have I, Lido?"

  Lido thought it over. "There was that dumpy broad in Bakersfield. No, she was French."

  Rydell stepped toward Flex. "I think we've heard enough of your mouth, buddy."

  Flex laughed, looked at Eric. "Whoa, Slim. You've got yourself a handful here. No wonder you're so easy going. But between you and me," he leaned his head toward Eric, his breath staggering, "I'd keep a muzzle on your friends, or I'm gonna yank their lungs out and piss in the hole in their chest."

  "Right."

  He reached up and patted Eric on the cheek. "Good boy."

  Lido and the knifeman laughed.

  "Now, Slim, back to business. It don't matter what you want in this town, you got to pay for it. You want food, booze, whores, water. You pay. You want information, you still gotta pay."

  "How much?"

  "For that, you talk to the man himself. Savvy."

  Eric was truly surprised. The boss of Savvytown was nothing like what he'd expected.

  "These are the people I was telling you about," Flex explained, a tone of deference even in his voice. "The ones we found with the runaway. The Jew girl."

  They were all crowded into the trailer, standing in front of a beat-up metal desk. A fluorescent desk lamp provided the only light in the room, a wedge of light like the opening in a dense layer of clouds where the sun pokes through. Behind the desk, a bespectacled, timid-looking man sat, a NY Yankees hat jammed low on his head. He reminded Eric of Wally Cox. He was smiling, not maliciously. But friendly.

  "I take it you're the spokesperson?" he asked Eric, His voice was nasal, forced at high pressure through his nose.