“What for?” Eric had said.
Big Bill smiled again. “Gonna teach you a new dance step. The Hopi Hot Foot.”
“What?”
“It’s all the rage on the reservation. You’ll love it.”
“Like hell.” Eric crossed his arms and shook his head. He’d endured a lot of painful lessons from this man, but this was asking too much.
When Big Bill sighed it was like a hard wind rattling between icy mountains. He sighed now. “Control, Eric. That’s what life is all about. There are some things over which you have no control. The weather. The Lakers. Certain situations. The craziness of others. But there are things you can control, manipulate. First and most important, you must be able to control yourself. Physically and mentally. Control your emotions.”
“Then you’re nothing but a robot,” Eric said.
“I didn’t say destroy emotions, I said control them. Like a wild stallion. Your emotions are like that stallion, especially at your age. If you try to tie the horse up, cage it in, it will die. And if you let it run free without any control, it will carry you over a cliff. Either way, you will be destroyed.” He finished the can of beer and tossed the empty can onto the smoldering coals. A few drops of beer sizzled. “But if you can ride that stallion, learn to make it do what you want, when you want, then you will have the greatest ride of your life. You understand?”
Eric shrugged.
“Good enough. You must start this control by being able to control your emotions. Pain is an emotion.”
“Bullshit. Pain is a physical fact. Nerve endings, receptor impulses, and frontal lobes. That stuff.”
“True. But it conspires with the imagination to exaggerate the facts.” He tapped his temple. “Mind over matter. Love, hate, fear, and desire. The person who controls those four emotions cannot be controlled by anyone else. Now, what you’re going to do is walk slowly across those hot coals with your bare feet-”
“No way!”
“It’s easy. Concentrate. Empty your mind of the concept of pain. Imagine the hot coals are ice cubes, cool to the touch on this hot day. Your feet welcome them. You must — ” He frowned. “You’re not con centrating.”
“Damn straight. I’m not going to do it.”
“Hopi children do this. It’s like hopscotch for them.”
“Fine. I’ll watch.”
Big Bill sighed again, deep gusts of disappointment blowing past Eric. “Oh hell, I’ll do it myself.” He tugged off his fancy snakeskin boots and socks. Stood at the edge of the bright coals. He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing down.
He took his first step.
Eric watched Big Bill’s face. There was no sign of pain, no hesitation, no hollering. Just a little tightening of skin around the mouth and eyes. A few drops of sweat on the tip of his hawk-nose. Big Bill took another step, the bare soles of his feet hushing against the glowing coals. Still no reaction. Three more steps and he was through it. He opened his eyes and stared at Eric. He wiped the sweat from his nose and smiled. “See? Like I said, easy.”
Eric nodded, indeed impressed. But no closer to actually doing it himself.
“Think it over,” Big Bill said, walking toward his house. “I’ll get another beer and be right back.”
Eric watched him walk away, his steps sure and hard, as if he had only walked on ice cubes. Amazing.
So amazing, Eric decided to follow him, just to make sure. He crept around the side of the house and peered in through the kitchen window over the sink. He saw Big Bill limping gingerly to the chair, two trays of ice cubes in one hand and a fat jar of aloe vera salve in the other. He sat at the kitchen table, his face wincing from pain. Under each foot he placed an ice cube tray. He alternately cursed his own stupidity and praised the miracle of ice. Then he rubbed the aloe vera salve into the soles of his feet. Eric couldn’t see them, but he could imagine the size those burn blisters must be.
Eric hurried back to the coals. It wouldn’t do for Big Bill to be caught in his lie and embarrassed. Eric felt terrible thinking of the pain and suffering his Indian friend had endured just to teach Eric. He knew firewalking was common among many of the Indians, so it was possible. He didn’t doubt Big Bill had done it when he was younger. But that was long ago. Eric felt bad. He couldn’t let Big Bill down, not now.
He kicked off his penny loafers and removed his socks. He regulated his breathing, concentrating on the rhythm, not the amount of air. Feeling the air at the bottom of his lungs, not just the tops. He emptied his mind of fear. Thought about the worst pain possible and how silly pain was anyway. Just impulses flickering along a thread like nerve. Nothing to it.
He stepped onto the coals.
And felt —
— what? —
— nothing.
Not any temperature. Not heat. Not coolness. Barely the pressure of anything at all, almost as if he walked on air. The rest of the steps were the same.
He was several steps past the coals when he realized he’d done it. There was that little difference. He immediately sat on the ground and examined his soles. No blisters. Not even red.
Applause.
Big Bill Tenderwolf leaned against the porch, an open can of beer pinned between arm and chest, applauding with both hands. “Very good, Eric.”
“You showed me how.”
“Ah, yes. I did, didn’t I. But not in the way you think.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a can of Coke and tossed it to Eric. “You watched me in the kitchen, didn’t you? Saw me with the ice and salve?”
Eric hesitated. “Yes.”
Big Bill laughed, showed Eric the soles of his feet. No blisters. “That’s what I mean by control, Eric. No way were you going to walk those coals, I knew that. Unless I could control you. How? By using your guilt, challenging your sense of accomplishment. You couldn’t resist doing something I failed at. Beating me just once, even if I never knew. Right?”
“No, I . . .” Eric stopped, nodded. “Right.”
“That’s control. Making your body do what you want; making other bodies do what you want.”
Now Eric stood stark naked surrounded by a gang of graverobbers, the one-eyed, one-eared female leader rubbing up against him. And he willed his body not to respond.
It didn’t.
Deena stood back, stared at his penis with surprise. “Either you are a very disciplined man or you’re more interested in Edgar than you are in me. Which is it?”
“Neither,” D.B. piped in. “He’s my man.”
Eric almost smiled, except for D.B.’s earnestness. True, she’d tried seducing him periodically over the past few months, and true, he’d been tempted to give in. Still, something of the old civilization still remained within him and he’d avoided bedding the eighteen-year-old girl. Watching her stand there, unashamedly naked, hands defiantly on her slender hips as she yelled into Deena’s face, Eric felt proud of her.
Deena laughed. “My dear, no one is anyone’s anymore. By tomorrow morning you’ll have been everyone’s in this camp. You won’t be able to remember the last dozen men who fucked you or what end they did it to. And when you’re able to walk again, we’ll sell you to someone who’ll do the same thing.”
“That doesn’t scare me,” D.B. said. And Eric could see that it didn’t. She’d had all that happen to her before. She’d been more afraid of walking through the cemetery, the primal childhood fears. This grim reality was only what she’d expected. She fingered her choke collar, the only thing still on her naked body.
“What are we waiting for,” Edgar said.“Let’s tie them up and do them now. It’ll be light soon.” He grabbed a hunk of rope from one of the guards and gestured to Eric. “Turn around.”
Eric didn’t move. He looked around, studying every possibility. His crossbow and bolts were being held by a skinny middle-aged man over by the open grave. D.B.’s gun was empty and they had no more bullets in their backpacks. The backpacks had already been emptied and the food and clothing inside distribute
d to the scavengers around them. Escape did not look possible.
He would try anyway. Because he knew one thing about himself: he knew that he was going to kill this man Edgar. Control was one thing, but Eric knew there are some things he would not submit to. This was one. He would kill Edgar and they would try to kill him. Their ambivalence toward death was not unusual considering their surroundings, but they’d only let him live after having killed several of their men because they could still make a profit selling him. One more killing and Eric was no longer cost-effective.
There had to be a way out. A man who can walk on fire can cross any threshold, that’s what Big Bill Tenderwolf had told him. But how? He was surrounded by twenty armed animals.
“You’re lucky,” Eric stalled. “All these rotting bodies. I’m surprised you haven’t caught any diseases.”
“Shut up and turn around,” Edgar said, looping his rope.
“Oh we have,” Deena said, cutting Edgar off. “There were many more of us before. Some had come up from Lake Elsinore, most had filtered down from Mission Viejo.”
“We passed through Mission Viejo yesterday. Not much left.”
“Yeah, well it was one of those planned communities. You’ve seen their slogan on billboards: The California Promise. They planned everything but the fucking earthquake that ripped through there. I ought to know; I was one of their planners.” She laughed. “That’s right. Used to plan where to put all those wonderful plants you see everywhere. All day with blueprints deciding whether to use pyracantha or jacaranda or maybe gazania. Now I just decide who lives and who dies.”
“And this is more fun,” Eric said.
“Yeah, it is.” She smiled. “Hard to believe a nice WASP college girl like me would be doing this, huh? From Yuppie Princess to the Pirate Queen of Graverobbers. Okay, maybe it stinks. But I’ll tell you something, it beats taking shit from a bunch of macho assholes who acted like they were gods because they let me work for them. If you ever get to the outside world again, go ask any professional woman if she wouldn’t trade places with me. See how long it takes her to answer.”
“He’s stalling, goddamn it,” Edgar said.
“Of course he is,” Deena said. “So what? He’s not going anywhere. You’ll get your share of him.” She shook her head at Eric. “You know, that’s the one bad thing about this surviving. It’s fucking boring. I mean, we eat and dig up graves and fuck. That’s it. Edgar here was a pool cleaner for Mission Viejo so you can imagine what fun he is to talk to. The most fun we have is guessing what the corpse we dig up will be wearing.”
“What do you eat?” Eric asked.
“Before I got here, they were eating the bodies. That’s why a lot of them died.”
Eric nodded. “Embalming fluid.”
“Right. Now we leave some of the fresh bodies we kill lying at the bottom of an open grave. That brings the coyotes and dogs from the hills. Then we pop out of our hiding places, kill them, and eat them. Not as easy as it sounds.” She pointed to her missing eye and ear. “One wild coyote was still alive. Jumped at me before I managed to get my knife in his throat. He did a little damage.”
“What happens to the people who wander through here?”
“Kill them or sell them.”
“Pretty tidy,” Eric said. “You must have been a good planner.”
“Take a look.” She swept her hands out to encompass the whole cemetery. “This is my better mousetrap.”
“Just one question,” Eric said. “Why the gold? What can you possibly do with gold now?”
“Sell it.”
“Where? Nobody cares about that anymore.”
“Somebody does. And he pays in goods and drugs and whatever else we need.”
“Who?”
“A guy has an outpost set up down around San Diego. Has his own damn army and, man, they don’t fuck around. Some kind of ex-marine or something. Colonel Dirk Fallows.”
Eric’s body tensed. The muscles in his stomach and chest rippled like a strong tide. He felt his skin contract all the way up through his scalp. He knew now he was going to make his move. And he knew how.
Edgar shoved him. “Turn around, asshole. It’s party time.” He nodded to the young kid with the white tux and spear. “He tries anything, Dean, stick him.”
“You bet,” Dean said. He jabbed his spear up against Eric’s stomach.
Edgar looped the rope around one wrist first. “Guess we’ll start with you face down. This is the way we did it in prison. Yeah, I done time. Some burglary. Used to check out the houses with pools then hit them later.”
Eric felt the rope tighten around his right wrist, the rough hemp pinching his skin. His arm shoved painfully up between his shoulder blades. If he didn’t do something before Edgar tied the left wrist, it would be too late. Eric moved.
A slight movement at first. Hardly noticeable. Except to Edgar, who saw Eric’s right hand coming back down. Edgar grabbed the hand with both of his, but Eric’s strength was too great. The slabs of muscles across his back flexed and the hand came down. Now Eric was turning, just a little, grabbing with his right hand the rope that led to his wrist, wrapping it around Edgar’s forearm, and jerking hard.
“Shit!” Edgar yelled.
Eric felt Dean’s spear pressing into his stomach, the skin breaking. But it was all happening so slowly, so clearly, he knew he had plenty of time. Even as he felt the brass letter opener digging into his stomach, he yanked on the rope, swung Edgar around, and plowed him straight into Dean, knocking the boy to the ground.
“The spear,” he said to D.B. and she dove for it. She snatched it away from the boy.
Now everyone else was moving. The skinny man with Eric’s crossbow was struggling to cock it. The others behind Eric were lifting their clubs and swords and spears and coming toward him.
Deena drew out her own machete and raised it over her head.
Eric flicked his wrist and the rope around Edgar’s wrist unwound. An instant later, just as Edgar was rising to one knee rubbing his skinned wrist, Eric whipped the rope around Edgar’s neck. Edgar grabbed at the rope, trying to uncoil it. But suddenly he was being lifted off the ground.
Eric held the rope with both hands now and was swinging Edgar around as if practicing a hammer throw. Edgar clawed frantically at the rope as he swung through the air, his feet smacking into the charging graverobbers, knocking them over as they got closer.
D.B. crouched by Eric’s legs. Edgar’s orbiting body whooshed over her head.
Edgar’s face was reddish blue. He dug his fingers under the rope, but the momentum kept the rope tight. He gasped for air, but none squeezed under the rope.
“Now what, King Kong?” D.B. asked. She jabbed the spear out at any feet that came close.
“We move,” Eric said. Slowly he staggered forward, still swinging Edgar like a propeller. He walked carefully toward the skinny man who was still trying to cock the crossbow.
A sallow man in his mid-twenties prodded Eric with a pitchfork. Eric stepped toward him and swung Edgar at him. The man dodged back, jabbed again. The tines of the pitchfork stuck Edgar’s calf. Edgar gurgled hoarsely.
“Come on,” Deena commanded her followers. “All at once.” She stalked toward Eric, her machete high over her head. Sweat gathered in the socket of her missing eye. The moisture glistened off the scar tissue. In the orange glow of the lantern it looked like a real eye. “You know,” she said to Eric, “now we’ll have to kill you.”
Eric watched them form a half-circle, closing in on him. Behind him the open grave yawned. He glanced down, winced at what he saw.
It looked like a butcher’s shop. Arms, hands, legs, torsos. All jumbled together like spare parts, but not connected to anything. And on top, a dead German shepherd and a golden retriever, each with a spear through his chest. They’d thrown the body parts in as bait to lure the dogs, then killed the dogs for food. The better mousetrap, Deena had said.
The smell sent a surge of bitter bile up Eric
’s throat. He swallowed hard.
“D.B.?” Eric said.
“What?” She was still hunched over Edgar’s swinging body, stabbing her spear at kneecaps.
Eric nodded at the skinny man fumbling with his crossbow. “Him.”
“Right.”
“When I tell you.”
Deena’s machete sliced air close to Eric’s chest. She jumped back again as Edgar came hurtling around. The long blade whacked into Edgar’s shin, slicing open a long nasty gash. He could only manage a choked gasp. Deena didn’t care. Eric could see her face was determined, she would get him now even if she had to chop Edgar up piece by piece.
“Now!” Eric yelled. D.B. rolled out from under Edgar and charged straight at the skinny man. He brought the crossbow up as a shield, but too late. She rammed her spear into his chest, knocking him into the open grave with the body parts and dead dogs. D.B. grabbed the metal crossbow and quiver of bolts. She hesitated.
“Run, damn it,” Eric shouted. “Run!”
She did. Her pale naked body seemed almost iridescent under the eerie glow of the Long Beach Halo. He glanced over his shoulder, saw her disappearing into the darkness, and turned his attention back to the graverobbers.
Deena swung the machete again at him, this time hacking into Edgar’s ankle, nearly severing the foot. The sneakered foot hung by a knot of tendon and bone. Edgar didn’t mind. He had strangled to death twenty seconds earlier.
Eric kept swinging the body around and around over his head. Part of him wanted to laugh: he pictured himself, naked, swinging a corpse over his head like Steve Reeves in those Italian muscleman movies he’d loved as a kid. Absurd. But part of him wanted to kill: stay here and battle until each of these graverobbers was dead. His hatred was fierce, a physical heat that burned up his spine like napalm. He had to kill them or be consumed by his own fire.
Also absurd.
He was out of control. Big Bill Tenderwolf had warned him against the bloodlust. “Use hate, Eric,” Bill had said. “It can be a good ally. But when it becomes so strong you do stupid things to satisfy it, then it’s your enemy. It will get you killed.”
Jason Frost - Warlord 05 - Terminal Island Page 3