The Warlord w-1

by Jason Frost

  With hands flying one over the other, Eric scampered up the rope a few feet, out of reach of Cruz's legs, and snagged Cruz's rope. One hand gripping each rope, he coiled his legs up until his knees touched his chin, then catapulted them into Cruz's broken face.

  There was a moment's pause as Cruz looked up, dazed. His nose was mashed flat against his face, his lips were torn, a bare hone protruded through the split cheek, like a white stone amidst the bloody pulp. He hung by one hand, a stubborn rag doll, refusing to die.

  Eric tilted his foot up, then snapped his heel into Cruz's hand. Two knuckles cracked; he slipped on the rope an inch. But still he held on. Eric kicked the hand again. It opened.

  It was a short fall for Cruz, six feet, which was a foot less than his height. But it seemed farther to Eric, maybe because of his vantage, maybe because of the silence. For a man who had so little to say in life, Cruz had nothing to add in death. He dropped to the altar, falling through the fire-weakened floor another foot to the cement base. Quickly he clawed himself to his feet, shaking off the burning wood lying across his back. He started to run toward the aisle, but it was too late. The flames, still drunk on gasoline, splashed over him like confetti, dragging him back until he was clothed in fire. Still, he made no sound, no screams, no concessions to death. His body staggered a few more feet, his hair leaped up in flames, his skin ignited, shriveled. He fell face first into the front row seats, ripping them out of the cement floor with his weight. After that, he didn't move.

  Eric wrapped his legs around one end of the rope, using the other end to tie the two together. When the knot was secure, he shifted his body weight until the rope was swinging back and forth. The smell of Cruz's burnt flesh tore at his stomach. He felt the sour bile bubbling up his throat, swallowed it back. He was swinging more now, one foot in his noose like a stirrup. Wider and wider the rope swung, carrying him back and forth over the sea of flames like a pendulum ticking off the last seconds of the world.

  When the rope swung far enough, high enough, he breathed out and let go of the rope. His hands shielded his face as he crashed through what was left of the stained glass window, flying through colored triangles that were either Mt. Sinai or a soaring dove. He tucked his body, twisted for the landing. Falling through space among the shards of stained glass. Falling the way he'd been taught. The way Dirk Fallows had taught him.

  30.

  They found him lying under a tree two hours later. His back was propped up against the trunk, his feet splayed out in front of him like a Bowery bum. He didn't move, just stared at them as they trudged slowly toward him across the flat terrain. They were moving, but through the steaming heat rising from the ground and his throbbing headache, they looked like flies preening on the carcass of a dying animal.

  It took them twenty minutes from the time they spotted him until they actually reached him.

  He could see the shock on their faces as they got closer, realized his condition. Their eyes traveling from head to foot, taking inventory of the damage.

  Tracy was the first to compose herself. "You faking, or what?"

  "Or what."

  "Thirsty?"

  "What have you got?"

  "Black Russian, Brandy Alexander, and water."

  "I'll try your water."

  She bent down, lifted his head slightly, tilted the canteen so the water could trickle into his mouth. He swallowed a few times.

  "Thanks."

  Season brought a first-aid kit over.

  "Where'd you get that?"

  "We passed through Savvytown on the way here. Everyone running around like crazy. With Flex and Savvy dead, it looks like Lido's taking over. Anyway, the confusion gave me a chance to steal this out of the infirmary."

  "You know what you're doing?"

  "I bandaged my collie's leg once."

  "What was wrong with him?"

  "Nothing. I was just practicing to be a nurse. I thought I might need something to fall back on in case I didn't become a sex goddess."

  The four of them worked over his wounds together; Season and Tracy took everything from the waist up, Rydell and Molly handled the rest.

  Eric closed his eyes, drifted in and out of sleep. Exhaustion dulled the pains a little, though he did wake up when they picked the slivers of glass out of his neck. And he felt the tug on his pants leg as they cut the material and tried to soak it where it had burned onto the skin. They bound his cracked ribs, cleaned the cuts and burns, and forced him to drink hot lentil soup that Tracy made from a box of instant Knorr's mix they'd also picked up in Savvytown.

  "Why aren't you following Fallows' men?" he finally asked. There was no accusation in the tone. It was just a question, like why do you like the color red.

  "We tracked them for a while," Rydell said. "But then we decided to come back for you. See if you needed help."

  "You are the worst bunch at following orders I've ever seen. If this were the army…" He laughed dully. "But it ain't."

  There was a long pause no one bothered to break. They knew what was coming and weren't anxious to hurry it.

  "Annie's dead," Eric said.

  "We know," Tracy said. "We saw her."

  Eric nodded, told them what had happened. They listened without questions, letting his voice unwind slowly in the morning breeze. Two miles behind them the black smoke from the smouldering church swirled in the air like a painted tornado. Ashes snowed lightly around them as they listened, the smell of a fresh fire somehow nostalgic.

  "Cruz is dead. But Fallows is still alive. With Timmy. I followed for a while, but they're on horseback."

  "We'll find them," Tracy said. "Just rest for now."

  "Nope. No time." Eric dragged himself to his feet, using the tree trunk for support. He winced at the pain in his chest, rubbed the bandage Season had wrapped around his ribs. "Did that collie live?"

  "Yeah," she snapped, "because he was smart enough to know when to lie down. Unlike others of less breeding."

  Molly cupped her hand under Eric's elbow. "She's right, you know. You could make things worse by moving around."

  Eric nodded. There was no point in describing how he'd wandered through the jungles of Nam for two weeks with worse injuries. Then again, he was younger then. The young can feed off hate much better; it tastes as good when you're older, but it lacks nutrition. "Lend me a bow," he said to Tracy who was still carrying the crossbow they'd taken from Foxworth,

  She handed it to him, and the quiver.

  "Fallows head south?" Rydell asked.

  "First things first?" Eric said.

  "Huh?"

  "I mean we have other business first."

  "Other business?" Tracy said, puzzled. "What are you talking about?"

  He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "Savvytown."

  "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying that now's the time to hit them. If Lido takes charge it will be business as usual, only worse." He thought of Annie, saw her haunted face. "And, yeah, maybe I do owe those women something."

  "What about Fallows and Timmy?"

  "I won't make much time on foot against their horses. So I'd be better off going back and taking one of the horses at Savvytown. Once we're finished there. Any questions?"

  There were none.

  31.

  The destruction of Savvytown took less than an hour.

  The fighting was limited to the killing of four of the Devil's Dancers. Three of them were standing together waiting for Lido to come out of Savvy's trailer where he'd gone to get the feel of being in charge. He'd never been in charge of anything before except in third grade when he delighted the faculty by volunteering to take a collection for poor Mrs. Leander when she took sick with pneumonia. Lido had promised to buy her some flowers, but had stolen the money instead and claimed he'd lost it. This trick had worked several times through school before he dropped out after his third time through tenth grade. He poked around Savvy's desk, played with Flex's gun, but other than that he didn't know wha
t to do except what they'd always done. Keep the whores on their backs and the whiskey still boiling. Maybe mark the cards a little. Or change the name of the town to Lidotown or Lidoville. It didn't matter what you called the place, from now on it was Fat City for the Devil's Dancers.

  He was admiring his new alligator skin shoes when he heard the noise. Something like a zipper being closed too fast. Then a scream. Randy hollering, "Fucking shit!" More screams.

  Flex's 9mm was in his hand as he charged out the door, saw Alex and Greaseball lying in the dirt with a couple arrows sticking out of them at all kinds of angles. It made him think someone was going to start yelling, "Indians! Circle the wagons."

  Randy was crouching behind a trailer, popping out to blast both barrels of his shotgun, then ducking back and reloading.

  Lido dove for cover just as two arrows whizzed toward him. He caught a glimpse of the blonde with the big tits shooting her bow from behind the porch of the infirmary. What the hell were they doing back here? They'd done their damage and split. He figured they'd be miles away by now. Shit. What to do now? He raised his gun and fired twice at her, but missed. Damn thing pulled to the left.

  "Over there," Randy warned, "behind the craps trailer. A guy with a bow."

  Lido waved thanks, but saw Randy suddenly slapping at his neck. Something sticking out of it, an arrow. No, too small. A dart. Stepping out behind him, the nip girl. She threw another dart into his back and Randy spun angrily with his shotgun. But before he made it all the way around, a dark-haired girl with a bow popped up and fired an arrow into Randy's stomach. Lido could see the tip poking out his back as he fell.

  "Fucking cunts," he growled, aiming the 9mm at the dark-haired girl, adjusting for the pull to left. Tightening his finger.

  But his finger never got a chance to close. He felt a hand yanking on his hair, jerking him backward off his feet. The gun tumbling out of his hand. A nudge at the bottom of his stomach. He looked down, saw Eric's hand wrapped around a knife. The blade was embedded to the hilt in his stomach. Now, dear God, it was traveling upward.

  He pushed at Eric's hand, trying to stop the movement. But the strength had already drained out of him. His stomach was on fire and crazily he thought maybe the fresh air would help cool it. There was a pressure at his chest as the knife bumped the sternum. He watched his intestines spill onto the alligator shoes, and died.

  Most of the customers had been asleep when it started and were only now rousing themselves now that it was over. They figured it was just a business dispute, nothing more. They took one look at what had happened and decided to get out of town, maybe come back when the new owners had settled in. The two remaining members of the Devil's Dancers had shunned their denim colors and left town with the others, hoping they wouldn't be recognized.

  Those that remained-the abused women, children, the doctor, a few men who'd been at forced labor-approached their liberators with caution, then suspicion. Finally, shouts of happiness mixed with tears of loss.

  It took longer to convince Tracy, Season, Rydell and Molly that they should stay while Eric went on alone. There were protests and arguments, but in the end there wasn't much they could do. They accepted his decision and his advice for them to stay on here and get the place in shape.

  He rode out while they argued over what to rename the town. Molly had suggested Gotham City.

  He noticed her following him almost immediately. Tracy wasn't a very good rider and was an even worse tracker. At first he'd been angry with her, determined to teach her a lesson by shaking her right away. But then he'd decided it would be better if she gave up on her own. He'd give her three days. After that she wouldn't be able to take it any longer. Too hungry, too thirsty, too tired, too lonely. She'd have to turn back.

  By the fifth day he almost lost her. The winding trip through the San Gabriel Mountains had been too much for her and he wasted half a day's riding while waiting for her to pick up his trail again. For awhile he was worried, considered going back after her, but then he glimpsed her dark hair bobbing up and down on the trail below and sighed with relief. She'd become a better rider, he noted.

  By the seventh day Tracy was still there. Eric admitted surprise, even admiration. She was tougher than he'd given her credit for. Still, where he was going, what he had to do, she didn't belong. She'd proven herself in combat back there in Savvytown, but that was easy compared with what lay ahead. No, for her own good, he should lose her. Somehow she'd make it back to the others. And she'd be better off.

  Yeah, he should do that, he really should. All he'd have to do is ride faster, cover his trail. She'd never find him. He should do that right now, kick his horse in the ribs, trot up over that ridge and she'd be out of his life forever. Right now.

  He sighed, reined his horse, and climbed off the saddle. He picked out a shady spot by the side of the trail, sat down with a smile. And waited.

  On the other hand, there was something about her…

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