Jason Frost - Warlord 05 - Terminal Island

by Jason Frost - Warlord 05

  “Sure they do. Getting ready to serve up a shrapnel salad. Low calorie. Step on one of them and you’ll lose weight real fast.”

  The three of them walked across the beach, intercepting the lone runner. The man didn’t look at them although they stood directly in his path, less than twenty yards away. Eric wondered if he would just dodge around them and keep running. His men didn’t seem to know, either. A couple slowed, hoisted their guns. The others kept pace, ignoring Fallows.

  The runner finally looked at Fallows. An annoyed expression came over his face but he slowed to a trot and then to a stop. His appearance surprised Eric. The man was as thin as some of the scavengers they’d seen skittering through the city. Each rib strained against his pale doughy skin like a relief map. The legs were long and coltish, just bones wrapped in sinewy muscle. The fingers were so long and thin they seemed clawlike, talons of a falcon. In contrast, his head seemed too big, too handsome for the freeze-dried body. He had a wide square jaw and dark eyes that rarely blinked. He was about forty-five, Fallows’ age.

  “Hello, Admiral,” Fallows said, smiling broadly.

  The admiral didn’t answer. He looked at Eric, the handcuffs. He obviously did not like what he saw.

  “What is he doing here?” the admiral asked. There was no accent, but the formality of his speech indicated English as a second language.

  “Admiral Jones, this is — ”

  Admiral Jones held up his hand. “I don’t want to know who this is. What is he doing here? He is not part of our arrangement.”

  Fallows’ smile never wavered. “Our arrangement is for me to provide protection while you and your men complete your project. Plus that other little item we discussed.”

  Admiral Jones looked nervously over his shoulder at his men. He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “We will discuss that later.”

  “Fine. I just thought you might like to know that those two men of yours that were missing didn’t go AWOL. They were killed. By this man.” He nudged Eric with his gun.

  Eric didn’t bother denying or explaining. It wouldn’t do any good.

  Admiral Jones waved at his men and pointed to Eric. “Kill this man. Now.”

  “Whoa there, Admiral,” Fallows said. “This man is my prisoner.”

  “He killed my men.”

  “He’s killed some of mine too. Look at this uniform he’s wearing. Used to belong to Driscol, one of my best men. He will be killed, I promise. I’ll do it myself.”

  Admiral Jones looked skeptically at Fallows. “I am beginning to worry about you, Colonel. I hope I didn’t make a mistake about you.”

  “You hired me to protect your men. That’s what I’ve done.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if I really need you after all.”

  Fallows shrugged. “Well, of course that’s up to you. I offer a service, but this is still America. You don’t have to avail yourself of it.” Fallows’ smile became thin and wolfish, his voice slick but threatening. “Who knows how many gangs of roaming banditos might see what you’re up to over there and start sneaking up on you at night, cutting throats and such. Could put your whole project in jeopardy. Not everybody here is as mellow as my men and I.”

  Admiral Jones pondered the implied threat while his men anxiously fingered their guns. Eric watched Fallows and Nhu, who held their guns casually, almost as if they forgot they were even carrying them. If it came to a fight though, Eric knew the Russians would be all be dead within three seconds. Chances are, however, Eric would also be dead.

  “I’ve got to whiz,” Eric said.

  The admiral looked confused. “What?”

  “Piss,” Fallows explained. “Don’t they keep you up to date on your American slang when they send you on these missions? Christ, they go through all this trouble of dressing you up like Americans, giving you American names and phony ID right down to letters from girlfriends in Kansas and such, and you guys don’t even know what a whiz is.”

  Eric nodded at the admiral’s Nike running shorts and shoes. “I see by your outfit that you are a runner.”

  The admiral, embarrassed by his not knowing the slang, was happy to change the subject. “Marathoner,” he said proudly. “You?”

  “Twice. A few half-marathons. Not so much anymore.” Eric turned his handcuffed wrists to Fallows. “I still gotta go.”

  Fallows stared at Eric, then grinned. He fished the key from his pocket and unlocked the cuffs. “You wouldn’t be stupid enough to try anything, would you, Eric?”

  “I just want to take a leak.” He gently massaged his wrists, the skin hanging in shredded flaps, bleeding. He turned his back to the group of men and walked a few paces away. He unzipped his fly. Eric heard the sound of the safety of Fallows’ SMG clicking off.

  “I know my men searched you, Eric. But just in case, when your hand comes out of your fly, it better have nothing in it but your dick.”

  Eric shrugged. “Don’t worry. It’s not lethal.”

  From behind him they could see the yellow stream of urine splashing into the sand.

  “You see, Admiral,” Eric said over his shoulder as he continued to piss. “You’d be making a big mistake underestimating Colonel Fallows here. The man is a pig with no morality whatsoever.”

  “Ah, a testimonial,” Fallows said.

  “Something about what I’m doing makes me think of you,” Eric said. Then to the admiral. “So, even though he’s obviously blackmailing you and you think you can be rid of him right now because your men outnumber him, don’t. He knows what he’s doing.” And suddenly Eric shifted around and let his stream of piss hit another spot in the sand, washing over a small clump of weeds.

  “Vidish!” one of the admiral’s men said in Russian, pointing. They stared at the clump of weeds.

  Slowly the urine hosed away the sand and a face began to appear underneath. The eyes were squeezed closed and there was a hollow reed in the man’s mouth that had been hidden among the clump of weeds. Piss splattered across the man’s face.

  He jumped to his feet, revealing the shallow hole he’d been lying in and the three lines of sand that had covered his body so no one could see him. Or the H&K MP-5 SMG he carried.

  Eric was zipping his fly again by the time the rest of Fallows’ men were unearthing themselves and leaping to their feet. Each armed. Each aiming their weapon at the admiral. There were six of them.

  Fallows was laughing, the sound harsh and metallic. “You still have it, Eric.” He faced Admiral Jones. “Like Eric said, Admiral, I know what I’m doing. If I’d wanted you dead, they’d be sifting sand for your remains right now. But I need you and you need me, so let’s cut the bullshit and get down to business. Twenty-four carat business.”

  The admiral wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand while he looked from Fallows to Eric to Nhu to the six armed and sandy men. He crooked a finger at one of his one men and the soldier produced a clean yellow t-shirt. The admiral pulled it on. Immediately it soaked up wet spots of sweat. On the chest was a large blue insignia, a sort of modified checkmark. Over that the word Nike.

  “Okay,” he said. “We will discuss this matter. But not in front of him.” He nodded at Eric. “Either kill him now or we discuss nothing.”

  Fallows looked at Eric. “What can I tell you, Eric? The guy thinks he’s Joe Stalin.”

  “Tell him you can’t kill me, you need a fourth for bridge.”

  “You heard him, Admiral,” Fallows said. “But I’ll tell you what, I’ll send him back to camp. Nhu, you’ll take him, won’t you?”

  Nhu’s dark face was as emotionless as carved hickory. “I think I should be here during negotiations.”

  “I can talk for both of us, General,” Fallows insisted. “Don’t you trust me?”

  Nhu smiled slightly. “I have done business with you before, Colonel.”

  “Dickens,” Fallows said. The man Eric had pissed on stepped forward. “Take Eric back to camp.”

  Dickens, his face spl
otched with the gritty mixture of sand and urine, glared at Eric. “Alive, sir?”

  “Relatively,” Fallows answered. He tossed the handcuffs to Dickens. “You’ll need these.”

  Dickens patted his SMG. “No I won’t.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  Dickens yanked Eric’s arms behind his back and snapped the cuffs on tighter than they’d been before. Dickens booted Eric in the back, sending him to his knees.

  “Don’t kill him,” Fallows said.

  “I won’t,” Dickens said.

  “I was talking to Eric.”

  Dickens looked a little frightened as he hauled Eric to his feet and pushed him ahead. He stuck his SMG in Eric’s back and nudged him forward toward the camp.

  Fallows waited until Eric and Dickens were out of sight. He nodded at two of his men. “Follow them, but stay out of sight. If he tries anything, shoot off his legs.”

  General Nhu watched the two men run off. He shook his head at Fallows. “I would feel better if Eric were dead.”

  “Tonight,” Fallows grinned.

  * * *

  19

  Eric ran his tongue over his swollen lip. The blood had crusted some. Dickens had hit him there. The tender knob on his shin still ached where Dickens had kicked him with those steel-tipped boots. A deep pain smoldered high on Eric’s right thigh. Dickens had tried to kick him in the crotch, but Eric had managed to turn and catch the blow on his thigh, though he moaned and doubled over as if Dickens’ kick had been accurate.

  Eric had looked up from the ground, blood dribbling down his chin, and said firmly, “That makes us even.”

  A fearful look crossed Dickens’ face again and he backed away. Then he remembered the gun in his hands, the fact that Eric was handcuffed, and he stepped boldly forward. “You picked the wrong man to piss on, chump.” He hauled back and kicked Eric solidly in the ribs. “It’s not so funny now, is it?”

  Eric had to admit it wasn’t. Especially now that they were back in camp and Eric had the time to inventory his wounds. The kick to the ribs had cracked something because he could feel the rattle in his chest whenever he took a deep breath. He stopped taking deep breaths.

  He was alone in Fallows’ tent. Dickens had shoved him to the ground, tied his ankles until the circulation was cut off, and then pounded some tent spikes through his shirt and pants, pinning him to the ground like Gulliver in Lilliputia.

  Dickens had grinned down at him. “Now we’re even.”

  The only part of his body Eric was able to move was his head. He shook it sadly. “Now I owe you.”

  “You’re just lucky I don’t gotta piss, man, or you’d be drinking it right now. Tell you what, though. I’m gonna go out and drink me some beer and see what happens. By then you should be real thirsty and won’t mind if it’s a little used.”

  That was half an hour ago. Eric could hear Dickens drinking with several other men. Eric could have killed him on the way back, there had been half a dozen opportunities that wouldn’t have required much effort. But he’d spotted the two-man tag team that Fallows had sent behind them. He could imagine their orders. Maim but don’t kill.

  He’d wait for a better time.

  Unfortunately, this was the better time. No one around to watch him work his clever miracles. Problem was, he was fresh out of miracles. He was lying on top of his handcuffed hands, his feet were bound, his clothes were staked to the ground so he couldn’t budge. Outside the tent a man was loading up on beer so he could come in here and piss on Eric. And soon Fallows would be coming back, no doubt to kill him. The quick kill wouldn’t suit Fallows’ purposes. He would have to turn it into a show, a major Broadway production with music and a chorus. He would stage it as religious entertainment, a voodoo ritual where his men could see that Fallows could defeat any enemy. Eric had once read of a high school football coach who used to bite off the head of a toad before every game to get his players motivated. Tonight, Eric was going to be the toad.

  He struggled against the stakes, not worrying about what he would do if he managed to pull them free. One thing at a time. Big Bill Tenderwolf once had Eric tie him up, hands and feet, as tight and escapeproof as Eric could manage. Eric was only seventeen at the time and learning different sailing knots from a book his father had bought him. He trussed Big Bill up like a spool of cable, tying nautical and Hopi knots, and a few he made up on the spot. By the time he was finished, he had a Black wall hitch, bowline, cat’s-paw, clove hitch, fisherman’s bend, sheet bend, square knot, surgeon’s knot, and a dancing snake. Big Bill had rolled round the floor of his house, writhing and flexing, struggling, his face turning red with exertion. Eric had sauntered smugly into the kitchen, brought a six-pack of Big Bill’s favorite beer back, pulled the ring, and loudly sipped, smacking his lips.

  “Great stuff, Bill,” Eric had said.

  “Okay, Eric,” Big Bill had said, lying like a beached whale in the middle of his colorful Hopi rug. “Untie me.”

  “No way, pard. You told me you could be out of anything I tied within half an hour. It’s barely been ten minutes.”

  “I was wrong. Come on, untie me.”

  Eric took another swig of beer. Big Bill watched, licking his lips.

  Eric shook his head. “You told me not to untie you no matter what you said. Made me promise.”

  Big Bill struggled some more, twisting and turning on the floor like a worm on a griddle.

  Eric drummed his hand on top of the beer can and sang, “Writhe and roll is here to stay, it will never die.”

  Finally exhausted, Big Bill had stopped struggling and just lay there. “Okay you win. How much more time?”

  Eric checked his watch. “Ten minutes.”

  “Give me a sip of beer while I wait it out.”

  Eric grinned broadly as he knelt next to Big Bill. “You owe me a new bow. That was the bet, a new bow or I weed your garden for a month.”

  “That was the bet. Now give me some beer.”

  Eric lifted Big Bill’s shaggy head with one hand and put the can to his lips with the other.

  Suddenly Big Bill’s huge hands were free of the rope and around Eric’s neck. Within seconds Big Bill had Eric on the floor, wrapped in the Hopi rug, and the rope tied tightly around the rug. “We call this pig in the blanket.”

  “Shit! How’d you escape?”

  Big Bill grinned, sipped beer. “There is no such thing as true escape. One can only change captors.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Eric had said, twisting inside the rug.

  “Maybe not. But it’ll give you something to think about while you’re weeding my garden.”

  Lying on the floor of Fallows’ tent, Eric smiled at that memory. “Writhe and roll is here to stay,” he repeated, wincing at how much like D.B. he’d sounded. Maybe Big Bill had been right. Eric had been captured by graverobbers, a woman and her ape, and then a Vietnamese general. But it was Fallows that had captured him long ago, the day he’d killed Annie and Jennifer and kidnapped Tim. Ever since it was as if Eric had been hooked on a long fishing line and even though he thought he was attacking, it was Fallows who was reeling Eric in. He’d been a captive all this time and hadn’t known it.

  No more!

  Eric concentrated on one stake at a time. The one next to his shoulder. The metal stake hammered through his sleeve, the cool aluminum scraping against his skin. He shrugged his shoulder, heaving up with his whole body. The effort brought him back down on his cuffed wrists with a thump, crushing his fingers.

  He tried again. He bucked up, rolling away from the stake. It loosened. He repeated the movement several times, each time the stake shifting in the dirt, rocking slightly, then wiggling, and finally, with one mighty heave, it pulled free.

  He did the same with his other shoulder, but this time the shirt tore before the stake moved. Eric kept pulling until the patch of shirt staked to the ground tore completely loose of the rest of the sleeve.

  “Who wants to come with me?” he hea
rd Dickens shout outside the tent.

  Eric froze.

  “Come on, you can watch me piss in his face.”

  Someone else laughed. “One more beer and we can all piss in his face.”

  “Yeah,” a few others chorused.

  “Okay,” Dickens said amiably. “One more. But I get to go first.”

  Eric kicked up with his legs, trying to jerk free the stakes in his pants cuff. Sweat soaked his face and clothes as he listened to the men outside hoisting their drinks. It wouldn’t take them long to finish.

  He heard a noise behind him and sat up.

  “Father.”

  I Eric turned, saw Tim crawling under the tent. Tim stood up and stared at his father. Eric could see the confused emotions struggling in Tim’s eyes. He had a man’s body, a man’s experiences, but he was still a thirteen-year old boy trying to sort the emotions. Eric had to be careful.

  “Visiting hours?” Eric said.

  Tim pressed his lips together until they drained white. He kicked at the stakes in Eric’s pants until Eric easily uprooted them. Eric waited for Tim’s next move. Tim seemed just as unsure as to what it would be. Then with a deep breath, he unsheathed the knife at his belt and stooped at Eric’s feet. He looked into Eric’s eyes, but Eric could see little that was familiar in them.

  “You must promise first,” Tim said. “You will leave and never come back.”

  “I’m taking you with me,” Eric said.

  “No. I belong here. We are survivors. We take what we want because we are strong. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Come with me. Explain it to me then.”

  Tim hesitated. Eric could see the longing in his son’s eyes. Tim shook his head violently. “No. We aren’t the same anymore. I used to think I wanted to be just like you. Good, fair, compassionate. What good did that do the people you loved, the ones who trusted you? Mom? Jenny? Me? Your way didn’t protect us.”

  Each word from Tim was worse than the steel-toed kicks from Dickens. Eric tried to harden himself to them, reminding himself that they were more Fallows’ words than Tim’s. “Cut me loose, Tim.”