Jason Frost - Warlord 04 - Prisonland (3 page)

And worse, as he fell, he heard Dodd’s voice hollering to the other men, “Get him, goddamn it!
Get him
!”

“Lookee, lookee.”

Eric heard the words as if they were echoing down a long marble corridor. Faint and hollow.

“Lookee, lookee what the cat dragged in.”

Eric struggled to open his eyes, but the lids were thick and heavy like rubber mud flaps on trucks. His cheek was scraped raw from brushing against bark, there was a nasty gouge in the palm of his left hand from a sharp branch. His back ached from landing in a lopsided tuck-and-roll. The rest of the damage was not from the fall, but from the fists and kicks of the men who’d captured him. His lower lip was swollen and pulpy from being punched, a front tooth wobbled when prodded by his tongue. His cheek had a painful purple knob rising just below the eye.

And he was roped to a tree trunk so tightly, his arms were going numb. Well, he thought, at least his tooth didn’t hurt anymore.

“Lookee, lookee, lookee,” Dodd chuckled, his black beard split with a dopey grin. “We got us some entertainment tonight, boys. Better than Johnny fucking Carson ...”

“Let’s just kill him and get on with the game,” Teasdale said grumpily. “I wanna win some of my stuff back.”

There was murmured approval of that suggestion from the other two men, Krimm and Studebaker.

“Kill him? Damn right we’re gonna kill him. But not now, not just yet.” Dodd pushed his shaggy buffalo head in front of Eric’s face. He smelled like wet, rotting leaves. “Somebody I know wants to see you, Eric m’boy. Guess who? Think hard now.”

“The pope?” Eric said.

Dodd laughed. “About as close to one as this miserable place has. Guess again, Eric. Here’s a clue: he’s a close friend of your son.” Eric’s face went rigid.

“Yessir, I think ole Colonel Fallows would be willing to fork over something nice in exchange for you. What do you think, Eric? Touching father and son reunion. Fallows would pay for that, wouldn’t he?”

“Sell me? You mean you and he aren’t buddies anymore?”

Dodd grinned. “A slight misunderstanding. You know how strict he can be.”

“You know this guy?” Krimm asked.

Dodd rolled his eyes at Eric as if to say, Look at the kind of morons I’m dealing with. “Know him? Hell, we’re practically blood brothers. Mostly his family’s blood, though, eh Eric?” Dodd let out a nasty laugh. “Damn right I know him.”

That seemed to satisfy them and they sat back down on their blanket and shuffled cards, the dead bodies of their two comrades still hunched in the dirt. “Come on, Dodd,” Krimm called. “Kill him and let’s play.”

“Real jerks,” Dodd whispered to Eric with a conspirator’s wink. “I’ll finish cleaning them out, then we can finish our chat.”

Dodd scratched at his beard and joined the other men on the blanket. “Deal ’em, Krimm.”

Krimm cradled his new shotgun in his lap and shuffled the cards. Despite two missing fingers and half a thumb, he was pretty deft.

Eric struggled quietly, but the ropes cinching him to the tree had obviously been knotted by Dodd. They had no give to them at all. Eric had learned from Big Bill Tenderwolf how to dislocate the thumb joints in order to slip a knot, but even that wouldn’t help here. Eric was lashed to the tree for good.

He stopped fighting the ropes and used the time to rest his body, prepare for the next opportunity. If one came.

He took deep breaths. The humid summer air was not very refreshing. The night was typical of the new California. High above, the Long Beach Halo sealed in the island like an impenetrable dome, imprisoning everyone still alive. Its poisonous gases not only kept Californians inside and the rest of the world outside, but it distorted light and darkness. The nights were dominated by an ominous darkness, a cavelike black disturbed only by an occasional flicker of dim stars and the splotch of moonlight that looked like a puddle of melting snow.

“What else you got to bet?” Dodd said to Krimm. “That pot ain’t worth pissing in the sink for.”

Krimm rooted through his pile of goods. “Another knife. For cleaning fish.”

“I don’t like fish. Reminds me of my ex-wife. What else you got?”

Krimm studied his cards. He smiled. “I got a down sleeping bag, fully lined, no tears.”

Dodd shook his head with disgust. “I ain’t sleeping in anything you slept in.”

“Screw you, man,” Krimm said.

“Okay, okay. No offense. The sleeping bag’s a good bet. I can probably sell it.”

“You’ll have to win it first,” Krimm said.

“Details, Krimm, details.” Dodd examined his cards. “Okay, I’ll call your bet with this.” He plunked Eric’s crossbow on the blanket.

“No way, man,” Krimm protested. “That’s not yours to bet. It belongs to all of us. We all caught him.”

“But he was after me.”

The three men stared at Dodd, trying to balance the logic of what he’d said with the risk involved in just jumping him and killing him. They looked over at their two dead partners, then at each other. They decided to accept Dodd’s logic.

“And I raise you,” Dodd said. He pushed in Eric’s pistol, an ancient-looking Colt that still had three bullets. Eric had traded a fancy HK 93 for this gun plus a week of hot baths, warm meals, and medical attention with a family of artichoke farmers he’d happened on a couple of weeks ago.

Teasdale and Studebaker dropped out of the game, slapping their cards on the blanket with disgust. That left Dodd and Krimm.

Krimm tapped the stump of his finger against his whiskered cheek and frowned. His crooked teeth flashed a dull yellow in the bright campfire. “I don’t have nothing else to bet.”

“Your shotgun,” Dodd suggested.

“Forget it, man. I just got it. I’m not going back to no bow and arrow shit.”

Dodd shrugged. “Then you lose.”

“Wait a second,” Krimm said. He showed the cards to both his companions. Each nodded with appreciation. “Come on, lend me something.”

“Can’t do it, Krimm,” Teasdale said. “We’re cleaned out. Dodd’s got everything.”

It was true. Despite Dodd’s cheating, Krimm had been able to hold his own during the games, even managing to win a little. Now everything he had was riding on this one hand.

“Duchess,” Krimm said.

“
No way
!” Teasdale and Studebaker chorused.

Krimm pleaded. “Come on. I got the bastard beat. Look!” He showed him his cards again. “If I win this hand I not only get everything back you guys lost, but all Dodd’s stuff. I’ll split it with you.”

The two men exchanged uncertain looks, stared at Krimm’s cards.

“I dunno,” Teasdale said, fingering the Band-aid that held his glasses together. “The Duchess, man. Shit. If you lose ...”

“I can’t lose,” Krimm said.

Teasdale and Studebaker hesitated, staring greedily at the stack of goods on the blanket. Before the great quake, any one of them could have picked all this junk up in one afternoon at Sears. Now it was precious treasure.

“Go on,” Krimm encouraged. “Get Duchess.”

Finally, Studebaker stood up, hitched his sagging jeans up over his hefty gut, and headed toward the large tent about 25 yards away, near the river.

Eric watched them. He didn’t know what or who the Duchess was, but he knew once the card game was over, so was his life. Dodd would either kill him then, or take him to Fallows, perhaps to buy his way back into favor. If he took him to Fallows, he’d follow Fallows’s teachings first and permanently cripple Eric, severing an Achilles tendon or something to keep Eric from running off.

Eric grimaced. If he was going to avoid either fate, he had to do something. Quickly.

Dodd’s back was turned toward Eric as he studied his cards, waiting for Studebaker to return. Eric used that opportunity to signal Krimm by shaking his head, silently warning him not to bet. But Krimm’s stupidity was startling. He stared at Eric with a confused expression and said aloud, “What’s he shaking his head at?”

Dodd turned around.

Dodd’s eyes were gray and squinty, his mouth pressed tight with anger. His nostrils flared as he clawed through his beard at whatever insects were nesting there. He stared coldly at Eric. “I’m disappointed in you, Eric. Sticking your face in where it don’t belong.” Dodd stood up, leaned over the campfire, and picked up a club-sized stick of wood that was burning on one end. He walked toward Eric. “I’d have thought the colonel’s little lesson back in ’Nam would have taught you the value of silence.”

Eric took deep relaxing breaths, preparing for what he knew was coming.

Dodd stood directly in front of Eric now, almost nose to nose. He held the glowing wood like a torch. “Still got that scar, huh? Didn’t you learn nothing from that?”

Eric didn’t answer. The scar Dodd was staring at was a gnarled white tendril of skin, thin and pale as a plant root, that climbed up Eric’s neck, clung along the jawline, then ended in a sunburst splotch on his cheek. It was not unattractive, and in some strange way, almost accented his angular good looks. But the memory of how he got it was ugly, still made his stomach churn with unfulfilled vengeance.

Dodd glared into Eric’s face. When he spoke, his voice was low so the others couldn’t hear him. “Keep your mouth shut, Ravensmith. These bums wouldn’t help you even if they could.” Dodd’s eyes widened as he brought the torch closer, the pupils seeming to have a blaze of their own, fueled by his own cruel passion. He grinned at Eric as he pressed the flaming end of the wood against Eric’s neck.

Eric cried out. The flames instantly charred his flesh, white blisters swelling on the skin. Charcoal from the fiery wood covered the burn with a gray smear.

“Jesus!” Krimm gasped with surprise.

“Spare the rod and spoil the child,” Dodd said, backing away from Eric, still smiling. “Now you’ve got something other than our little poker game to occupy your mind. Or maybe you need another scar. Something symmetrical to balance out your face.” He pulled out his knife and began heating it over the flaming wood.

“What the hell’s going on?” Studebaker said, returning from the tent with Krimm’s wager.

A girl. Maybe seventeen. It was hard to tell under the dirt and bruises.

“What’s he doing?” Studebaker asked, pointing at Dodd and Eric. Krimm and Teasdale shrugged, unable to explain Dodd’s behavior, but obviously a little frightened by it. “Well, Dodd,” Studebaker said, puffing from the slight exertion of the walk, “will this cover your bet?”

He had a thick metal choke collar around her neck fastened to a chain leash which he used to drag her after him. When she lagged behind, he gave an annoyed tug on the leash and the collar tightened around her throat, pinching off the air, jerking her forward until she stumbled to her scabby knees. She wore only a pair of dirty red gym shorts, New Balance running shoes, and a white T-shirt with 1984 OLYMPICS: GO FOR THE GOLD! printed on it.

“C’mon, Duchess,” Studebaker shouted, his fat belly shaking. “Get your skinny rump up.”

Dodd turned away from Eric, gazing lecherously at the girl. Forgetting about Eric, he tossed the flaming wood back onto the campfire and walked over to inspect her, his mouth half-open with that dopey grin.

“Duchess, huh?” he leered.

“Yeah,” Krimm said. “Bitch is snooty. But we been teaching her some humility.” He grinned. “The old-fashioned way.”