The Warlord w-1

by Jason Frost

  Across the room, Timmy sat tied to a plastic kitchen chair. His little finger was wrapped in a splint and bandaged. His clothes and body were clean, in shocking contrast to his mother. "Dad?" he said. It was a question. But asking what?

  Next to Timmy, leaning arrogantly against the wall, was Dirk Fallows, a black beret tilted rakishly on his head. A P-38 rested loosely in his hand.

  "So." Fallows smiled. "All the players finally assembled in one room. That would suggest the play's almost done. Curtains, as they say." He motioned with his gun. "Lower the bow to the floor, Lieutenant. Those things go off so easily."

  Eric eased the crossbow to the floor.

  "Hup, hup, hup."

  Eric pushed it away with his foot.

  "Better. Much better."

  "Are you all right, Annie?"

  She laughed and cried together and Eric could hear the Annie he loved, see her in the twinkling eyes. "Sure. A little soap, a little water. Some eyeliner. Good as new." The speech took a lot of effort and she sagged a little in the chair trying to regain her strength. She winked at Eric.

  'Timmy?" he asked, looking at the boy.

  "Fine," he said, lowering his head.

  "Well, Eric, I may have taught you all you know, but I certainly didn't teach you all I know. There are things-"

  "You know the part I dreaded most about being captured by you, Fallows? Having to listen to your pompous speeches."

  Cruz laughed. "He sure has your number."

  Fallows' face tightened with a grim smile.

  "Look, Fallows, you've finally got me. Now I imagine you want to toy with me a bit before actually killing me, so why not just let my son and wife go. There's not much sport in hurting them."

  "Well, now, Eric, your son and I have grown quite close in the past few days. Old buddies. Right, kid?"

  Timmy's face quivered with anger. "I hate you."

  "See what I mean. He used to loathe me, now it's only hate. But in a few months, maybe years, he might even come to love me. What do you think, Eric? Possible?"

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "He wants a son," Annie explained. "He wants Timmy."

  Eric remained silent, his mind ticking over possibilities. Dive for the bow; tackle Cruz; jump Fallows.

  "So you see, Eric, it's not over yet. Though it is time to say goodbye to some of our players. Unclutter the stage, so to speak." He nodded at Cruz.

  It all happened so quickly, so coldly, that Eric didn't have time to react.

  Cruz reached over, grabbed Annie by the head, and twisted sharply. The bones crackled like gravel and she flopped forward onto the floor, dead.

  Eric lunged for the crossbow, his hands stretching toward it as he flew through the air. But as he dove, Cruz's heavy boot kicked toward his face, crashing into his jaw. It took forever to fall, but finally he plunged into a black, inky ocean. He swam against the tide, toward consciousness. On the distant shore he could see the furniture, familiar people, their faces illuminated by the ghastly light of the moon. Annie, sprawled across the sand, her neck twisted at an uncomfortable angle. Timmy, tied to a chair, his face streaked with tears. Cruz, one foot on the shore, the other in the ocean looming over him, bending over to hit him again. And Fallows. A gun raised over Cruz's head, swinging it into his skull. Cruz swooning, wavering. Fallows hitting him again. Cruz falling into the ocean next to Eric, splashing everyone. Fallows laughing. Someone calling, "Daddy. Daddy!"

  And the black tide sweeping him out to sea.

  29.

  "Showtime, gentlemen."

  The voice droned in Eric's ear like a record being played too slowly.

  "Come on, Eric," the voice continued. "You're slowing the show down. And I think you're going to like this."

  Eric felt the hands on his shoulder holding him up, his knees wobbly, rocking slightly. Something thick and scratchy around his neck.

  A sharp slap across the face. His eyes sprang open.

  Dirk Fallows stood before him, hands on hips. 'That's more like it. There's a good trooper."

  "Daddy!" The word sliced through Eric's foggy mind like a propeller, whooshing away any grogginess. His eyes frantically searched for Timmy. Daddy wasn't a word Timmy used anymore; in fact, he made a point of calling Eric Dad or Father depending on how adult he was feeling. But calling him Daddy now and before squeezed at Eric's heart. All that pain, confusion, and fear packed into one universal word.

  Eric tried not to think of his own pain. Of Annie, falling again and again in his mind, each time her neck twisted at a more grotesque angle. He remembered a dream he'd had while unconscious: he and Annie were swimming naked in a clear blue lake. They touched each other underwater, tried to make love but the water was too deep. They laughed and swam for shore. When they arrived, Eric was alone. He dove underwater, searching, but his swimming only made the water muddy. The more he searched, the cloudier the water became, the less he could see.

  Annie dead. A fact. Simple as a sunrise.

  He had to fight the depression tugging at his body, draining his strength. There was still Timmy to save.

  And Fallows to kill.

  "Your son's safe, Lieutenant, Down there." He pointed at Timmy, tied to an auditorium chair. For the first time, Eric's head was clear enough to take in the full situation.

  He was standing on a board laid across two six-foot ladders. A noose was tight around his neck and his hands were tied behind his back. About five feet to his left, Cruz also stood, a noose around his neck, his hands tied. Eric studied the room.

  "It's a church," Fallows explained. "Actually multi-denominational. Used as a synagogue on Saturdays and a Methodist church on Sundays. The rest of the week they split it up between them. At least used to."

  The room was huge, built as a modified A-frame with a ceiling that slanted upwards from two sides before joining fifty feet above. The steel girders were exposed at the top as was popular with these designs, painted a sedate blue for the industrial design effect. The rope around Eric's neck had been thrown over the two parallel girders, then dropped on the other side to be looped around Cruz's neck. They were to be hung by the same rope, the weight of the other keeping them suspended, choking.

  The scaffold was on the altar overlooking the auditorium's rows of built-in seats. Behind them was a wooden cabinet where the Torahs were kept. One cabinet door had been torn off, the other hung by a stubborn hinge. The Torahs were gone, rescued by some of the faithful or destroyed by someone angry at the gods.

  On either side of the altar, were long narrow windows that rose the full height of the wall to the ceiling. Fifty feet high, yet only three feet wide, the design of an architect who'd been told to cut a few thousand dollars out of the plans and had therefore made the windows three feet narrower, requiring less of the outrageously expensive stained glass. Both the rabbi and reverend had been pleased by this compromise. One of the windows was completely shattered, the stained glass in broken heaps on the floor inside and ground outside. The other was only half destroyed; for some strange physical reason the bottom half of the window had broken along the leaded design while the top half remained, filtering out the orange sunrise beyond. The designs on the remaining glass were modernistic to the point of abstract, meant to offend neither group sharing the building. Something like two blue boxes that might have been the Ten Commandments. Three intersecting triangles that resembled either Mt. Sinai or a dove in flight.

  "Like the good old days, eh, Eric?" Fallows said, tapping his bayonet against his open palm. He stood to the side, the board not being wide enough to stand in front. He reached out with the point of the blade and ran it Lightly along Eric's scar, the blade making scraping noises as it brushed whiskers around the scar. "Nasty accident. Wish I could say this was the same bayonet, just for irony's sake, but I'm afraid I left that baby buried in the belly of a Cong. Same day you had your little accident." He moved deftly to the end of the scaffold, the board quivering with each step, threatening to tip over. F
allows climbed down the ladder and stood in front of them looking up at his handiwork. He nodded with satisfaction. "Ingenious. And what's more, good theatre." He laughed. "Too bad you sent your friends chasing my troops, Eric. I was hoping to capture them too. They would have made a fine audience. I don't think Tim and I will be able to stay for the complete performance. I think it wise to put some distance between everything that's happened here and us."

  "I'll find you," Cruz said, his voice calm. Not a threat, a fact.

  "Not much on dialogue, is he, Eric. But somehow effective. At least he didn't say, 'You can run but you can't hide.' "

  "I'll find you," Cruz said again. His repeating it made it even more ominous, and for a moment. Fallows looked shaken.

  But it passed quickly. "Maybe, Cruz. But you'll have to kill Eric first. You see, whether he wants to or not, he's going to protect me from you; and you're going to protect me from him."

  "With our hands tied?"

  "Back up to each other and pull the free cord. They'll come undone."

  They walked backwards toward each other, shuffling carefully along the narrow board, fingers groping at their ropes. The noose around their necks stretched tautly, choking each while he worked. Eric's fingers were the more nimble, unfastening Cruz's rope first. But Cruz's rough yank untied the rope around Eric's hands, though not without a couple rope burns on his wrist.

  "What's to stop me from killing him now?" Cruz said.

  "The same thing that's stopping you from removing your nooses. This gun." He patted the P-38 in its holster. "Now, when I knock this scaffold down, you'll both be dangling by your necks. Of course, with your free hands, you can hoist yourself up and not strangle. But that brings you a couple problems. There's only a few feet between you. Arm's length. Not being the best of friends, that could be a complication. Also, being tied to the same rope, it will be difficult to get much leverage to climb too high."

  "What else?" Eric said.

  "Pardon?"

  "I know you, Fallows. What's the twist here? You know that once one of us kills the other, he'll come after you. You're not about to take that chance."

  Fallows laughed heartily, his pale blue eyes almost as white as his hair. "You know me too well, Eric." He reached behind the seats of the front row and lifted two five-gallon cans of gasoline. "I know that Salvadore won't miss these too much. And it should be some indication to you both how dangerous I consider you to be willing to waste such a valuable commodity just to kill you. But what the hell, what price art? Right?"

  He opened the cans, sloshed the gasoline over the carpeted altar, soaking the floor, the ladders, the seats. He felt the plastic upholstery of the seat. "I wonder if this is the kind that gives off that poison gas when it burns?" He shrugged, slit the upholstery, poured gasoline over the stuffing. "Don't worry about the kid, Eric. He goes with me. Unfortunately we won't be able to enjoy this to the end. But fires tend to be a bit stifling. And I don't want to be around in case the flames bring the usual scavengers. Remember how they used to come in Nam, Eric. Picking through the bones of a burnt-out village like surgeons probing for tumors."

  "Look for me, Fallows," Cruz pointed. "After Ravensmith, you."

  Fallows' face clenched as he threw the gas cans to the floor and snapped almost to attention. Standing there now, his mouth twisted to a scowl, his glacial eyes glaring, he looked perfect. The ultimate soldier, strong, tough, smart. Ruthless. He sneered at Cruz. "You overgrown asshole. Did you really ever think I'd let you get away with insubordination? We may not be regular army, but we are still soldiers. And you are still my subordinate, Sergeant. Now it just so happens we're an army without a country, which makes me the only law. So when you're disrespectful to me, you commit treason. Understand?"

  "Just keep looking over your shoulder, Fallows," Cruz said.

  Fallows shook his head impatiently. "You can see what I was up against, Eric. He had potential. I mean the man kills the way rain falls. Indiscriminantly. Without interest. Like breathing. But he has no loyalty. Like you.

  Eric said nothing.

  "Well, there are so many appropriate phrases from Shakespeare, I don't know which to use." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a box of wooden matches, and struck one on the side of the box. He held the flaming match in one hand, slipping the box back into his pocket. "Let's see. How about one for your son, Eric? Because in a few minutes he's going to be an orphan. But don't worry, I've decided to adopt him and raise him as my own. Much in the same way you did when his father died." He looked over his shoulder at Timmy. "This one's from Romeo and Juliet, but it'll play here. 'Deny thy father, and refuse thy name.' " He laughed and tossed the match into the air.

  The flame brightened with the rush of oxygen, burning like a comet as it splashed into the gasoline-soaked floor. A whoosh of fire sprang up from the ground like a mutant plant. Fire sprouted everywhere, from chairs, carpeting, the wooden railing around the altar. Even the ladder and scaffolding crackled with flames. Smoke swirled around their feet. With a clatter of popping explosions, the ladders collapsed in flames, dropping the board out from under their feet. But each man had already gotten a hold of his own noose with both hands, pulling up on their arms to support their weight. Their legs dangled in the air.

  Eric saw Fallows running up the aisle, grabbing Timmy out of his seat, and dragging him toward the door. Timmy struggled, feet kicking, but Fallows lifted him easily under one arm. Fallows turned at the door, looked back at the flames. His eyes met Eric's and for a moment, the time it takes a hummingbird in flight to change course, something like regret flashed in those cold eyes. And vanished. Back was the real Dirk Fallows, the man who'd ordered Jennifer's and Annie's deaths. Then he was gone. With Timmy.

  But hanging next to Eric on the other end of the rope was the man who'd actually done the killing. Who'd slit the throat that once harmonized with waiters to sing "Happy Birthday" to strangers in restaurants without embarrassment. Who'd snapped the neck that refused to wear anything but cheap costume jewelry until the children were in college or she became president, whichever came first.

  This man must die.

  Eric felt Cruz's tremendous weight shifting on the other end of the rope as he pulled himself up the rope far enough to loosen the rope around his neck. Being lighter and more agile, Eric managed to do it first, loosening the knot and slipping the noose over his head. For a moment he thought about letting go, dropping to the ground and making a run for Fallows. But the flames below were thick and blistering, covering too wide an area. Chances are he would burn before getting away. Also, if he let go of the rope, they'd both fall and he'd be fighting flames and this maniac at the same time. He didn't want to risk Timmy's life that way.

  With both men free of the noose, but still dangling six feet above rising flames, there was nothing left to do but fight each other. But with one man holding on to both ends of the rope, there was a chance-a splinter of a chance-of survival.

  Cruz was the first to act. His legs wrapped around the rope, holding on with one arm, he rocked toward Eric, his free hand grasping like a grappling hook. Eric knocked the hand away, but it kept coming back. The momentum of their movements caused the ropes to swing more dramatically toward each other, until they were passing within inches.

  They both were fighting with their one free hand, jabbing at the throat, eyes. Trying to disable the other, but careful not to knock him off the rope, killing both of them. The heavy smoke stung their eyes, burned their nostrils. Eric was coughing, but Cruz breathed the smoke as naturally as if it were air.

  They swung toward each other again, Cruz hammering Eric on the top of the head with such force that Eric's grip slipped. He dropped a few inches, the rope chewing the skin on his palms like sandpaper. But he caught the end of the rope, just as Cruz's weight started to pull it out of his hands. Eric's feet dipped into the flames below, singing his feet and legs. His pants were smoking as he quickly shinnied up the rope.

  Again, Cruz swung toward him.r />
  Neither man spoke. What was there to say? A waste of energy to threaten, posture, curse. This was business. And each man went about it silently, professionally. Like bankers.

  Eric rammed his heel into Cruz's nose, crumbling it like an aluminum can. At first, the nose just shifted to one side, then the blood began to rush out of the nostrils, over lips, down the chin. Cruz didn't seem to notice. He was busy swinging his legs around Eric's back, locking his ankles in a scissors hold. He pulled Eric close enough so that he could grab his rope. Now, holding onto both ends, he squeezed his legs together, trying to make the knees meet despite Eric's spine between them. Eric felt the bones grind and shift, a pain running up both legs so intense he thought for a moment they were on fire. His fingers began to loosen around the rope, slip a few inches. A few inches more.

  Still Cruz squeezed, his teeth gnashing together as he stared at Eric. He had only one thought, kill. And he would keep squeezing until it was done.

  Eric's legs were numb, his breathing strained. He couldn't seem to catch his breath. His arms were leaden, too much trouble to lift. He could almost feel Cruz's knees rubbing together on either side of his spine. He heard his lower ribs crack.

  With the greatest effort, Eric struggled to raise his useless arms. It was matter of seconds now; his body wouldn't be able to stay conscious much longer. And once he'd passed out, Cruz would drop into the fire below. Move! he yelled at himself. Do something. His arms lifted a few more inches. His mind reeled between light and darkness as he tried to focus.

  He remembered sitting in a bar with Big Bill Tenderwolf, nursing a beer and explaining special tactics he'd learned at camp. They were called Togakure-ryu. Big Bill had stopped him halfway through the explanation with a shake of his head.

  "We have a very similar technique among the Hopis."

  "What do you call it?" Eric had asked.

  "Pain," Big Bill had grinned, handing him the bar tab.

  Now Eric spread his hands apart, cupping them slightly, and brought them together with a thundering slap on either side of Cruz's head over his ears. Cruz groaned in agonizing pain as his eardrums exploded, the blow having separated the anvil where it joins the stirrup, disrupting the ossicular chain, and resulting in his sudden deafness. But despite the pain, he tightened his grip on the ropes, though his legs weakened slightly. Eric used the lapse to firm his own grip on the rope and ram his head full force into Cruz's face. Cruz wavered from the impact, his broad face collapsing as bones shattered here and there. His legs went limp around Eric, though they remained hooked at the ankles. His hands slipped a few inches down the rope. Eric's head was tender from the impact, but he didn't hesitate; he rammed him again. Cruz buckled a little more, losing his grip on Eric's rope.