Jason Frost - Warlord 04 - Prisonland (12 page)

Dodd swallowed a lump in his throat.

Eric laid the edge of the blade against the tip of Dodd’s nose. He pressed until a line of blood pooled around the silver blade.

“Stop, goddamn it! Stop!”

Eric heard the sound behind him despite Dodd’s hollering. He turned in time to see the slender man in the wool cap swinging the huge club at him. He shifted his body, absorbing the blow on his shoulder, trying to roll with impact. The arm went suddenly numb as if a huge wolf had just taken a bite out of him.

A second man in a Rams cap grabbed at D.B. A third, in a hooded sweatshirt, jabbed a rifle butt at Eric’s head. Eric rolled, but the butt clipped his temple sending a starburst through his skull. While the one in the Rams cap struggled with D.B., the other two jabbed at Eric like two boys trying to crush a skittering bug. They had black dirt smeared all over their faces and handled their weapons with a certain awkwardness. Still, they kept swinging and jabbing, sometimes missing, sometimes hitting Eric as he arched and rolled to avoid their blows. Finally he kicked out and caught the one with the rifle in the shin. The leg collapsed and the assailant sprawled to the floor next to him. Eric punched him in the mouth and heard a loud high-pitched squeal in response. He grabbed the hood and pulled it down and saw the long blond hair cascade out of the hood.

“Bastard,” she said through her bloody mouth and tried to knee him.

He punched her again and she was out.

But just as he turned to take on the other one, he saw the heavy wooden club rush at him. He hardly felt the blow that knocked him across the floor. He lay there dazed as the three women quickly jammed a pillowcase over his head, cinched a heavy rope around his neck, and began dragging him away.

All ambitions are lawful except those which climb upward on the miseries or credulities of mankind.

Joseph Conrad

“Hold still!” she warned.

“I am still.” Eric’s voice was low and calm. Her voice was high and agitated.

“Well not still enough. You keep jerking your head around like that and I might slip and cut your throat.”

Eric felt the vibration of the knife sawing through the heavy rope knotted around his neck. It felt like a hummingbird caught in his throat. They’d yanked the rope too tight during the kidnapping, then got it wet with salt water when they’d shoved him onto the bottom of the dinghy during the long row across the bay. Now the rope was dry again and even tighter, biting into his skin with the prickly sharpness of fangs. On top of all that, his tooth was starting to throb again.

“Almost,” the blond woman said. She slowed her sawing motion as she neared his skin. She paused, touched the thin scar that twisted up his neck, along his jaw, to the burst on his cheek like a dandelion. “Cut yourself shaving?”’

“Polo,” Eric said.

“Yeah, right. Polo.” She continued cutting.

Eric felt the rope loosen as individual strands broke free.

She plucked the last strand away from his neck and leaned closer to it, squinting slightly as she cut.

“Something wrong?” Eric asked.

“Sshhh.”

Her eyes looked slightly out of focus.

“You can see, can’t you?” Eric asked.

“Of course I can see. I’ve got contacts.” She started cutting again. Eric felt the nearness of the blade to his neck, a cold danger. “Well, one contact, really. I lost the other one months ago. Some smelly pelican’s probably used it to build his goddamn nest. But don’t worry, the right eye’s still okay. Usually.”

The last strand popped and the rope uncoiled from Eric’s neck. She straightened up with a pleased sigh. “There. And I didn’t even cut myself.”

Eric stood up from the ragged cushion he’d been sitting on. The room looked like it had once been a bedroom, though there was no furniture in it now except for a table made of a door laid across two orange crates. A few faded and torn cushions from a sofa were scattered around the table as seats. Through the window and across the bay, Eric could see the thousand smoky tails twisting skyward from all the campfires around the ruined city. The Long Beach Halo glowed a dim gray as night began its bored and listless descent.

“So this is Alcatraz,” Eric said.

“We call it home,” she said. She hooked her thumbs in her jeans loops and cocked one hip out.

Eric didn’t have to look at her again. He’d recognized her right away. Seen the face on the cover of
People
and
Us
and dozens of tabloids at the supermarket, staring at her face while unloading his oranges and eggs and bread. She starred in one of the afternoon soap operas as the bitchy executive secretary of a conglomerate head, screwing and conniving her way to the top of the corporate ladder. Only now her beautiful features were marred by the ugly bruises on her jaw where Eric had punched her during the kidnapping.

“Go ahead and stare, bucko. It’s your handiwork.”

“Where’s D.B.?”

“Who?”

“The girl who was with me.”

“Getting cleaned up. She’ll be back with the others in a minute.”

Eric pulled the white lab coat off. “Well, at least now you know you kidnapped the wrong person.”

“So you say. But even if you’re telling the truth, so what? At least we got some of the antibiotics.”

“You going to tell me your name?” Eric said.

“Don’t be coy, tough guy. You know who I am. I saw it in your eyes a few minutes ago. It’s okay to admit you watched a soap opera a couple times. They won’t come and confiscate your balls or anything.”

Eric rubbed the raw rope burns on his neck.

“Just tell them you were home with the flu and the show came on and you were too sick to get up and change the channel.” She sighed. “Aw hell, what’s the difference. They’re probably shooting the show in New York now with Kitty Daniels taking over my spot. The writers probably have me lost in a plane crash. If we ever get off here and I’m not too old, they’ll just stick me back in as if nothing happened.”

Eric just watched as she paced back and forth jabbering away, gesturing like a chain-smoker unable to find a cigarette.

“So what are you looking at? I look taller on TV, right? Shorter? Thinner, fatter, balder?”

“Blonder.”

She raked her fingers through her blond hair, exposing some of the darker roots. “Damn right I was blonder. Six weeks ago I traded some teenage girl my favorite red lace bra for a box of L’Oreal hair color. Not that I need a bra anyway.” She cupped her hands under her breasts. “These puppies are as firm as a virgin’s ‘no.’ Still, I guess it was a dumb trade. But shit, it was worth it, just a few more weeks as a blonde, kind of like a sentimental reminder or something. I don’t know.” She mussed her long wavy hair. “Hell, when this color fades I’m back to brunette for good. Riva Tulane, blond bitch of afternoon television will be no more.” She paused, looked at Eric, seemed embarrassed for a moment, then headed for the door. “I’ll see what’s keeping them.”

Before she reached it, the door opened and the other two women entered. D.B. was with them.

The one who faced him was a young black woman, reserved and cool, a hint of contempt in her expression. “I’m Maggie Shreeve, this is Lynda Meyer. You’ve already met Riva.” She gestured toward one of the cushions but Eric didn’t sit. She shrugged and continued. “We checked out your story, Mr. Ravensmith, and it seems you were telling the truth.”

“I know,” Eric said.

“Hey, bucko,” Riva snapped, “no need to get testy.”

“You kidnapped me, remember?”

Maggie Shreeve continued to speak in her even modulated tone. “It was a mistake, Mr. Ravensmith. An error.”

“Apology not accepted.”

“I wasn’t apologizing, Mr. Ravensmith. Merely stating the fact.”

“Shove your apology, bucko,” Riva said.

Maggie and Riva stared with flat eyes at Eric. Lynda Meyer, tall and sturdy, mid-forties, a little overweight, stared out the window toward Asgard.

“As I said,” Maggie continued. “Though we accept no responsibility in the matter—after all you were wearing the lab coat without any authorization—we do accept a certain, uh, moral obligation ...”

“Bullshit,” Riva said.

“... to see you off Alcatraz and back to the mainland.”

“Fine,” Eric said. “Just lend me a boat and I’ll be on my way.”

Lynda Meyer still stared out the window as she spoke. “No boat.”

“What Lynda means,” Maggie said, “is that we can’t afford a boat right now.”

“Have someone row me back.”

“Can’t risk it. Not after we just hit them. They’ll be waiting for us.”

Eric threw up his hands. “Look, I don’t know what the hell is going on’around here. What your sad story is or the story of those maniacs across the bay. I don’t really care. I just want off this island. I have unfinished business back there. The rest doesn’t concern me.”

“Your compassion is touching,” Maggie said.

“Don’t hand me that crap. If D.B. here hadn’t backed my story, you’d still have that rope around my neck thinking I was Doctor Fishbine.”

Maggie glared at Eric now, her dark brown skin glistening in the damp heat. Her black kinky hair was cut into a one-inch afro. She was maybe 25, though the rich color of her skin could have masked five more years. “I assume D.B. is the name of this young woman. However, she has not confirmed or contradicted anything about your story. She has not uttered a single word. Whether this is physical or psychological impairment, I don’t know. Perhaps she’s simply afraid of you.”

“Or you did something to her,” Riva added.

Eric looked at D.B. She stared ahead with dull unfocused eyes, the same expression she’d adopted when Eric had first seen her. “Tell these people I haven’t been abusing you, D.B.,” he said.

D.B. said nothing. Just stared at the wall.

Riva smiled contemptuously at Eric. Maggie radiated controlled hostility. Lynda gazed toward Asgard.

“Come on, tell them.”

D.B. stared.

“Christ.” He shook his head. “Just be glad for the silence. Once she starts up again you won’t be able to shut her up. Half the time she’ll be singing Herman’s Hermits medleys.”

“You’re a sick freak,” Riva said, touching the bruise on her own jaw.

Lynda Meyer turned away from the window, her face more solemn than before. Her eyes were rimmed with red, but her voice was just as steady as before. “There’s no advantage to calling him names, Riva. Maybe he found the child like that, maybe he’s been protecting her.”

“Ha! Fat chance.”

“It doesn’t really matter either way.” Lynda Meyer looked at Eric carefully. Eric thought he detected something in that look, a flicker of guarded hope. “We’ve heard of you, Mr. Ravensmith. Some of our citizens have anyway. They call you the Warlord, right?”

“Some have.”

“I saw the movie,” Riva sneered. “Charlton Heston you ain’t.”

“Not nearly as much as you are,” Eric said.

Maggie Shreeve smiled.

“Smartass,” Riva said.

“Knock it off, Riva,” Lynda Meyer said. “We aren’t here to insult the man. We’re here to make a proposition.”

“I’m not interested,” Eric said immediately.

Maggie was angry. “You haven’t heard it yet.”