Badlands w-3

by Jason Frost

  Badlands

  ( Warlord - 3 )

  Jason Frost

  Jason Frost

  Badlands

  Book One: THE MEANS OF EVIL

  Who overcomes By force hath overcome but half his foe.

  - Milton

  1.

  It was dark. Which was the only thing keeping Eric Ravensmith alive. That and the three feet of filthy swamp water covering his exhausted body.

  He hugged the heavy flat rock to his chest to keep him from floating up to the surface. His cheeks were puffed out with stored air like a bullfrog's as he squirmed his shoulder blades deeper into the muddy creek bottom. Christ, it was cold. His teeth ached. His toes were already numb inside his soggy Nike running shoes. His fingers weren't much better. He tried to scratch his thigh where the thorns had shredded his pants and skin, but his icy fingers kept stabbing the wrong place. Finally he gave up and just waited.

  Six feet away, the sloshing of heavy combat boots. There were eight men now, wading hip-deep through the icy water. All armed. All after him. Dirk Fallows's renegade soldiers.

  "Hey, guys, hold it a minute," one of them called.

  "Hold this, Greene," someone answered. Rough laughter.

  The voices sifted down through the water to Eric as if having first passed through several thick doors. But he could still make out the words.

  "He went through here. Right here. I saw him."

  "Well, he ain't fucking here now, Greene."

  "He was. Running with that damned crossbow of his. Right through here."

  "Uh-huh. Sure."

  "Fuck you, Dobbs."

  Dobbs laughed. "Your mama beat you to it, sonny. She's comin' back tonight for sloppy seconds. Yum, yum."

  "Shut your-"

  "Let's just spray the whole creek with bullets," someone else suggested. "If he's here, that'll finish him."

  "Yeah, right." Dobbs again, that cocky twang in his voice daring somebody, anybody, to disagree. "Then you can tell Fallows how you used up all his bullets. Man, he'd rather chew through your throat with his bare teeth than waste one fuckin' bullet."

  "Got that right," someone agreed.

  '"Sides, he said to capture the bastard alive if possible."

  "That's what I mean," Greene said. "It ain't possible. Son of a bitch is good, man. Real good."

  Jesus, Eric thought, why couldn't they argue while they kept walking? How long had he been underwater now? One minute? Two? It felt longer.

  At first his lungs had just tickled. Now they burned. Like the first time he'd tried to smoke a cigarette, he and Billy One-Nation in the boy's room after geography. Eighth grade. Unfiltered Camel. The raw raking feeling in his throat just before the principal caught them. Three whacks each.

  "Look, if he's dumb enough to be hunkering in this ice water, all we gotta do is stand around and wait for him to come to the surface. He can't hold his breath forever."

  "Brilliant, Ryan. Fuckin' genius, man. Only what if Greene's wrong and the asshole is already half a mile ahead of us? We sit around here with our thumbs up our asses and he's laughing knowing what Fallows is gonna do to us if we go back empty-handed."

  Eric opened his eyes and stared up toward the surface. He saw only the dark, filthy water, backed by dark, moonless sky. He could just as well be staring down into some bottomless cavern. Not at all like when he was a kid lying at the bottom of the community pool, seeing how long he could hold his breath while he watched the girls and their skinny frog legs kicking overhead. Old enough to like watching them, too young to know why. Finding out why didn't come until the next summer.

  The heavy boots churned closer to him, maybe three feet away. They were heading straight for him. He reached out his hand, groping through the mud for his Barnett Commando crossbow, already cocked and fitted with a sharp bolt.

  "OK," Greene said. The movement stopped. "I got an idea. We go over there and stand shoulder-to-shoulder from one side of the creek to the other. Then we just walk up the creek until we find him. Like a human net. Whatya think?"

  Dobbs said, "I think you're a fuckin' idiot, Greene. What makes you think he's in the water?"

  "'Cause I saw him splashing through here, but I didn't see him come out. That's why."

  "You didn't see him come out, huh?"

  "No, I didn't." Defiant.

  "Tough shit. We're not marching through this whole damn river just 'cause you don't see so good. Fallows told us this guy was some kind of hotshot soldier, served with him back in 'Nam. In that spook outfit, uh, Night Shift."

  "He's an Indian, too," someone else said.

  "Nah, just brought up near 'em, Fallows said. Still, he knows some of their shit. Tracking and stuff."

  "So?" Greene said.

  "So, I'm sayin' maybe you didn't see Raven-smith because you're too fuckin' stupid or he's too fuckin' good. Take your choice. Only I ain't standing around ass-deep in this frozen piss water while you figure it out. I say we fan out with Darby at point and Ryan and Phelps on the flanks. And we comb through this brush like a whore looking for her virginity till we found his ass. Then we kick it the hell back to Fallows. That's what I say. What do you say, Greene Bean?" There it was, the challenge.

  Eric's lungs started to clench, trying to breathe despite him. Only his willpower kept them from sucking in the muddy water. But even that was getting harder to exert. Willpower was one thing, but breathing was a whole different story. His skull felt awkward, like a too-tight helmet. He could almost feel his brain expanding, swelling and contracting under his scalp as it panicked for air. Soon he'd have to breathe. Or drown.

  Above him and three feet to the right he could picture the two men facing each other, Greene and Dobbs, their sweaty hands on their weapons, their mean eyes locked. Thinking, what if I'm first on the trigger? The others would be casually backing off now, anxious to see who would win, but not wanting to be in the way of any stray bullets if it came to that. Sometimes it did.

  Finally, Eric heard Greene's voice, a little sheepish, but still trying to sound hard like he'd made up his own mind. "Fallows said you were in charge, Dobbs, so we follow you. For now."

  "Bet your ass you do, sucker. OK, let's hump on over to the shore, start fingering through these weeds. Greene, you're so fond of the water, I want you to stay in the creek, following us north. You see anything swimming around that ain't got fins, you give a holler. Got it?"

  "Yeah, Dobbs, I got it."

  Eric listened to seven pairs of boots sloshing to the shore, knowing that one pair still stood nearby. Damn! He twisted his head to the side, hoping to at least catch a glimpse of Greene, pinpoint his location. But it was no use. There was nothing to see. Only black, gritty water brushing against his eyes like sandpaper.

  He clutched the rock tighter to his chest, squeezing it as if to absorb any oxygen it might have. He tried not to think. Clear his mind. A crazy image persisted, banged his brain like a locomotive. There was Julie Andrews rushing over a green mountain, singing, "The hills are alive with the sound of music." Her cheeks were red from the crisp mountain air. Tons of it. She took deep breaths, winked at him.

  Eric chuckled like a drunk. Tiny air bubbles squeezed out of his nose. He was losing it.

  He heard Greene's boots starting to move away. Hold on a little longer. Think of something else.

  Three lousy feet of water. Most shark attacks occur in three feet of water. Where'd he learn that? Of course, Timmy. Taking his son to see Jaws had resulted in the family having to listen to shark trivia for two weeks afterwards. Now the family was gone. His wife and daughter murdered. His son kidnapped. All by the same man. Dirk Fallows.

  Eric dug his hand deep into the slimy mud next to him to warm his fingers. His head throbbed. He closed his eyes and saw little popp
ing lights. Suddenly his chest heaved, desperate for air. He sucked in a stream of dirty water through his mouth. He gagged, his head jerking as it choked out some of the rancid water, swallowing some. Immediately he flattened himself into the mud again, hoping his movements hadn't noticeably disturbed the water's surface. Hadn't attracted attention.

  He could no longer hear Greene's boots stomping through the mud and water. Was he gone, or only standing still, searching? He might even be staring at Eric right now. If only he could hold on a few more seconds. Just a few more.

  It was no use. His chest spasmed again, water plunged into his mouth. He broke for the surface.

  2.

  Stanley Greene hated water. Always had. Always would.

  There was no reason he could think of why he should hate water, no childhood trauma. He'd never nearly drowned, nor had anybody he'd known. In prison, they'd asked him about that because of that incident his first day when he'd refused to take a shower with the other inmates. The real reason was because Jesus Perez, who was doing three to five for armed robbery, had found out Stanley had slept with his girlfriend Maria the day after Jesus had been sent up. Now Jesus said he was going to do the same things to Stanley that Stanley had done to Maria. The skinny spic wasn't kidding, either. Of course, Stanley didn't tell the officials that. Instead he'd made up some story about having nightmares of being eaten alive by piranha. Yeah, piranhas, he'd told them, acting real scared, little fish with a lotta teeth snapping at his, uh, thing. He figured they'd like the sex angle. Actually, he'd gotten the idea from some jungle movie he'd seen on TV the day before his arrest. Something starring Johnny Weissmuller, but not as Tarzan. That had kept the shrinks busy scratching their heads for the eighteen months he'd done at Chino. Every so often they'd ask him about the nightmares, kinda offhand, like they'd just remembered, and he'd say, Yes, sir, they're worse than ever. Most every night now. Can't hardly sleep worrying about my thing.

  Meantime, Jesus got a sharpened spoon through his right lung during a Johnny Cash concert. Bled to death in his seat right in the middle of "Amazing Grace." They never found out who did it. Stanley still had the spoon, wore it around his neck on a gold chain he'd swiped from Maria.

  Stanley Greene never went swimming and, even without Jesus around, wasn't all that fond of showers or baths. Even before the quakes, when he was living with some buddies down near the beach in Venice, he'd get off work from the dry cleaners and walk along the beach only on the off chance that some cute high school chick in one of those skimpy string bikini jobs might start talking to him. He had a nice body himself that looked good in a tight bathing suit, but that damn suit never once got wet since he'd owned it. Not once.

  Water. Hell, he didn't even like to drink the stuff.

  So what was he doing marching through this stinking creek in the middle of the night? That bastard Dobbs. Thought he was hot shit because Fallows put him in charge of this patrol. He'd go along because anything was better than having Fallows pissed at you. Jeez, this was the nastiest bunch of guys he'd ever seen brought together, in or out of prison, and they were all scared of Dirk Fallows. Still, that Dobbs had mouthed off a bit too much. Maybe could use some of Dr. Greene's spoon therapy. An attitude adjustment, yeah, between the ribs. Tickle, tickle, little Dobbs. Well, Stanley had seen what he'd seen. Ravensmith running through this creek, disappearing behind some brush, but not coming out on the other side. He'd seen it clearly through his scope.

  But, then, where was the son of a bitch hiding?

  Damn, this water was cold. Smelled bad, too. Probably being used as a toilet by most of the people living around here. Probably used it himself once or twice, further upstream. Thinking about it now made him want to take a leak. He could just climb out for a second and take a whiz over in the bushes. Ah, what the hell, his pants were already wet. They'd need to be washed out after walking through this muck anyway. He stood still, cradled his M-16, and let himself go. The warmth felt kinda nice.

  Then he heard something behind him. Something stirring in the water. He shouldered the M-16 as he spun to face it, his finger hooking around the trigger.

  "Hey, Dobbs! Goddamn," Greene shouted, aiming his M-16 at Eric's emerging face. Jeez, that scar. "Dobbs!"

  But Eric hadn't come up empty-handed. He'd brushed aside the heavy rock on his chest and snagged his crossbow on the way up, wedging the black metal stock to his shoulder as he popped through the surface and balanced on one knee. The hardest part had been squeezing the trigger before gulping down any air. But he hadn't wanted to spoil his aim. The bowstring catapulted the sharp wooden shaft with 175 pounds of fury.

  The bolt plunged through Greene's chest, just below the sternum, punching out hunks of flesh and muscle and organs like coring an apple. The bloody bits splashed into the water behind him. A hungry gray fish surfaced, slurped up a chunk and dove back down.

  Greene continued to stand there aiming at Eric a few seconds afterwards. Then he got a funny look on his face, as if he'd just remembered a song title he'd been struggling with for days. He looked down at the feathers sticking out of his chest, then flopped backwards into the water.

  The metallic chatter of another M-16 echoed through the night and a spray of bullets stitched the water six inches in front of Eric. He sprang up and kicked through the water for the opposite shore.

  Another burst of semiautomatic fire chewed up a branch of the tree just as Eric ducked behind it. Wood and leaf confetti sprinkled down onto his dripping head.

  "Don't waste the bullets, you dinks!" Dobbs hollered. Thelps, swing left. Hey, Ryan."

  "Yeah?"

  "How many grenades you got left?"

  "Three."

  "Loosen up your arm. You're pitching big league tonight."

  Eric didn't move. They wanted to spook him, scare him into running so they could corner him. He hung the crossbow over his shoulder and pulled his Walther P.38 from his boot. He'd traded his Remington.32 for this. The man he'd traded with had been a hard bargainer, an ex-Honda salesman who applied a little too much pressure when he shook hands, trying to squeeze sincerity through your pores. He'd wanted Eric's Remington, the boxes of ammo, Tracy's Smith amp; Wesson.357 Combat Magnum and a night with Tracy, though he'd winked at Eric and said it wouldn't take a whole night, if Eric caught his drift. Eric did. The ex-Honda salesman had finally settled for the Remington, the ammo, half ajar of Skippy extra-crunchy peanut butter and a broken hand.

  Eric wasn't worried about the Walther. He could've buried it at the bottom of the creek and dug it up a week later and chances were it would still clip the ears off a squirrel with the first shot. The pull on these things was a little rough, like squeezing a grapefruit, but it still delivered.

  He jammed the gun into the waist of his pants, recocked the crossbow, and slid a bolt into the brass runner. It was too dark for them to be certain of where he was, so they were trying to force him to make a move, give himself away. If he fired his gun, they'd have the flash to zero in on. With the crossbow, they'd see nothing.

  To his left, maybe thirty feet. A noise. The squeak of feet moving in wet boots. It was faint, could almost be mistaken for the sound of some anxious bird. Probably just what the guy hoped. But Eric had spent a lot of his youth learning the difference, mostly in front of a TV screen in Big Bill Tenderwolf's house on the Hopi reservation.

  "Christ, listen to that, would ya?" Big Bill would say, pointing his beer can at the TV and shaking his head. They'd be watching another one of those cowboy and Indian cheapies. "Hear that noise? They're trying to tell us that that's how the Apaches communicate. Jesus, sounds more like someone farting than a bird calling." Then he'd let go with some warbling that always made Eric smile. "Now that's what a fucking owl sounds like."

  Eric stood shivering in the dark, waiting for the squeaking to get closer, lifting his crossbow, following the sound with the point of his arrow.

  Squeak.

  Squeak.

  Whoosh.

  The bolt zipped
through the brush, rustling leaves as it spit into the night, finally chipping the edge of a pine tree and sticking in the ground.

  Eric immediately dropped to the ground. He hadn't really expected to hit anybody, but he had expected something else. It came.

  A blast from somebody's pistol, a 9mm from the sound of it, maybe a Steyer GB or a Tarus PT-99. Eric could see the flash only twenty feet away, hear the slug whizzing overhead on its way to the creek.

  Less than two seconds after the shot, half a dozen other shots drummed the air. All of them directed at the flash twenty feet to the left of Eric. As he'd hoped.

  "Stop it, goddamn it!" Dobbs yelled. "What the fuck you doing? Kriegstern? Hey, Kriegstern?" There was no answer. "Nice work, morons. You just blasted Kriegstern. Remember him? He's the guy with the wart on his eyelid. Worst fucking poker player in the squad. You killed him with me still holding his markers worth eight cartons of cigarettes and fifty rounds of ammo. Christ."

  Eric crawled behind another tree. He'd been tempted to go after Kriegstern's body, see what provisions he might scavenge. If nothing else, that 9mm would come in handy. But they'd be expecting that. They'd be waiting.

  Absently, Eric pinched at the thin, white scar that clung to his jawline before dripping down his neck like hot wax. Another memento from Dirk Fallows.

  OK, get organized, Eric. First thing to do is hotfoot it back to Tracy, who he'd left to make camp just outside Santa Carlotta. Or what was left of Santa Carlotta. Wait here, he'd told her, I'm just going to scout their camp. Nothing more. She'd nodded, told him to be careful, she'd seen a cougar earlier when she'd gathered wood. He'd known she was lying, but had agreed to be extra careful. That was one of the strange things about Tracy. Lately, maybe in the last month, she'd started lying. Not about anything serious, not in a malicious way. About small things, things he'd usually know were lies anyway. But she'd say them with a straight face and argue like hell if he challenged her. At first it had bothered him. Now it was almost like a game, a charming game that somehow enhanced their intimacy. Like with the cougar story, he could tell she'd been disappointed when he hadn't challenged her about it, so right before he left he'd asked her exactly where she'd seen this cougar. She'd pointed south.