Jason Frost - Warlord 04 - Prisonland (14 page)

“Anyway, everything was going pretty well. We’d had a couple cases of plague, but my husband was a doctor, navy trained, and he knew what to do.”

Eric nodded encouragement, though he knew the story before the telling. Everyone had a story, a bad one, a story about great loss, about horrors they’d never expected to see, about guilt over surviving when those they loved died. The responsibility of surviving was too great for many. Eric had seen their bodies too, the wrists slashed wide open, lying limp on ground made muddy with blood. Some with a book open across their chest, a favorite photograph by their head. Some looking relieved.

Maggie continued. “Considering the circumstances, we had done a damn good job. Then Thor and his men came. It was like those Indian attacks you see in movies, the way they swooped down on us. Most of the women, children, and the elderly were put on the boats we’d been using for fishing, and set off for Alcatraz. The men stayed behind to fight. Stupid when you think about it. We could have fought too, though there weren’t that many weapons really. Still, we should have stayed, been given the chance to fight. But in the crisis and confusion we all reverted to our old roles. The men herded us onto the boats toward safety while they stayed behind to be slaughtered by Thor’s men. It didn’t take long.” She took a deep breath, stiffened her back. “But that was then and this is now. Thor and his convict buddies have been trying to get to us ever since. We took most of the boats, and what we didn’t take our men sank. A few men survived the battle and made it out here on rafts. But for Thor to bring enough men out here to take us, he’s going to need boats. Lots of them. So they’re scavenging some, trying to build others. Every day they get stronger, closer.”

“This is a tough place to take. It’ll cost him a lot of men. Hundreds I’d guess.”

“But he’ll take it, right? Right?”

Eric shrugged. “Yes.”

“That’s the way we figure it too. He doesn’t care how many men he loses, he can always get more. But women are worth something. We’ve gone back to the beginning of time: women as chattel.”

“What do you want from me?”

“You’re this hotshot Warlord. You’ve got a military background. We want you to help us fight them.”

“No.”

Maggie looked surprised. “Just like that? No?”

“Just like that.”

“Why?”

“You can’t win, that’s why. He has the manpower and, as you said, he doesn’t care about the cost.”

“We’ll pay you?” she said with a cynical sneer. “What’s your price?”

Eric started to walk off. D.B. followed him. He stopped and turned back, facing Maggie. “How soon will Thor’s fleet be ready?”

“From what we’ve been able to observe,” she said. “It’s ready now.”

“You’re a maggot. The same scum that my husband died fighting. You belong over there with the other slime just like you. Calling you a vulture would be too kind. You’re more like a wild pig, burrowing your snout into the rotting entrails of festering corpses, feeding off the misery of others.” Maggie stormed off toward the warden’s house, leaving Eric and D.B. standing by the wall. She’d only gotten a few feet away when she stopped, whirled back, and hollered. “The day we need jackals like you to help us is the day I surrender to Thor!” And off she marched again.

“Whew!” D.B. said. “She’s really got your number, huh?”

Eric gave her a cold look.

“She sure was pissed. I didn’t think Miss Prim and Proper had it in her.”

“Shut up, D.B.”

“First you want me to talk, practically begging me to, now you want me to shut up. Make up your mind.”

Eric walked away at a brisk pace.

D.B. jogged after him. “Hey, where we going?”

“We?”

“Sure. We’re partners.”

“Uh huh. My faithful companion.”

“Silent companion.”

Eric shook his head, but smiled.

“Besides,” D.B. continued, “me being quiet makes everyone think you’re smarter. Just think of me as a kind of agent. Publicity agent.”

“They all think I’ve abused you so badly you’re either too afraid to speak or too damaged. Great publicity job you’re doing.”

“Hey, haven’t you heard, there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

“Since meeting up with you, I’ve heard just about everything.”

D.B. smiled widely as if Eric had just paid her the greatest compliment of her life. “Like Karen Carpenter said, ‘We’ve Only Just Begun.’ ”

They hiked up the incline and skirted the patch of garden where tomatoes hung bright and plump from vines. Two women with rifles guarded the unfenced plot of land. Both were thin, though the shorter one’s skin sagged a bit as if her weight loss had been rather sudden and involuntary. They both warily eyed Eric and D.B. until they’d passed the garden. Eric had no doubt that if he’d picked a single tomato, they’d have shot him.

“Stay close and don’t touch anything,” he told D.B.

“Where we going?”

“Power house.”

“That’s where the men stay, right?”

“The single men.”

D.B. giggled. “That black gal too much for you, Doc Rock? Need to hang around with the guys? Talk man-talk?”

“You don’t have to come.”

“You kidding? I wouldn’t miss it.” She lowered her voice and walked with an exaggerated swagger. “How about them Rams, guys. Really toss a pigskin around, can’t they?” She laughed. “How’s that?”

“Manly.”

“Yeah?” She seemed pleased.

They heard the music and singing before they reached the stone building. It was a woman’s voice accompanied by someone on the guitar. She was singing “Desperado,” but Eric couldn’t be sure the guitarist was playing the same song.

“What’s that awful wailing?” D.B. said as they neared the door. “Someone step on a cat’s tail?”

Eric held the door open for her. “Maybe it’s open auditions. This could be your big break, kiddo.”

D.B. hooked a thumb over her shoulder where Maggie Shreeve stood near the garden talking to the two women guards. They were all looking at Eric. “Or yours,” D.B. grinned.

“Christ,” D.B. complained. “Is that what passes for singing around here? She missed about five notes in just one phrase.” She’d said it quietly, but a few people turned around and she immediately went into her dumb act, staring blankly at the floor. Those in the crowd who’d heard looked around her to see who’d said that, but eventually gave up and returned to their conversation or just listening.

Eric strolled around the perimeter of the crowd. There were about a hundred people there, though only about eight were men. The rest were women of all ages, mostly under forty, and children of both sexes ranging from late teens on down to about ten. Occasionally, Eric would catch a few of them staring at the two of them and whispering when they thought he didn’t know, but most of the time they just kept talking and listening to the music. Some were dancing, mostly women with women. The room had a pleasant casual air about it and people seemed to be having a genuinely good time. Eric was impressed; he hadn’t seen much of that lately.

Over in the corner, with a picnic table overflowing with people, a man sat at the head of the table, obviously in control of the group. Women sat on either side of him and he took turns whispering seductively in their ears, licking them, fondling them. Both women enjoyed the attention, laughing at everything he said. Yet, despite his attention to those women and the other followers at his table, his eyes never seemed to leave Eric. Eric felt them on him all the time as if they were hooked into his skin, an invisible wire connecting the two of them.

The man seemed to be waiting for Eric to approach his table, meet on his home ground. When Eric planted himself and D.B. against the wall across the room, he broke away from his companions and sauntered across the room, approaching Eric as if it were a chance meeting.

“So you’re the Sundance Kid?” the man grinned. His smile was flawless. In fact, Eric noticed that everything about him was flawless. He was handsome, with dark wavy hair dipping casually across his forehead. Though a few inches shorter than Eric, he more than made up for it in the breadth of his body. He probably outweighed Eric by fifteen pounds, though there wasn’t an inch of fat anywhere. He offered his hand to Eric. “You don’t look much like a hired gun.”

Eric shook it, felt the power lurking beneath each thick finger. Though the handshake was cordial, Eric had the feeling the man wanted to crush his hand right there, grind the bones into white powder.

People around them stopped to watch.

“I’m Nestor Tulane,” the man smiled. “Yes, the same as Riva Tulane. Only we’re not married anymore. Haven’t been for seven years, though I was still her agent and business manager during that time. Why don’t you join us over at my table?”

“Thanks,” Eric said, allowing Tulane to guide him through the crowd. D.B. followed, though she was busy frowning at the singer who was now warbling a peculiar version of Rod Stewart’s “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy.” The guitarist was having trouble following her key changes.

When they reached the table, Nestor Tulane gestured with his head and the two women who’d been sitting on either side of him scooted down the picnic bench. Five of the room’s eight men sat at Tulane’s table, the other six were women. A dozen or so teenage boys hung around the fringes of the table, each with a woman nearby. The women were usually five to fifteen years older than the boys.

“Welcome to Rick’s,” Nestor said, his smile threatening to expose every tooth in his head. “I came here for the waters, but I was misinformed.”

Eric nodded. “
Casablanca
.”

“Right! See,” Nestor said to those gathered around his table. “I knew we’d be friends right away.”

Eric heard D.B. snort behind him.

“Have a drink. Your girl too.” Nestor poured a reddish liquid from a Tupperware pitcher into a plastic coffee cup. Many of the people in the room were drinking the same liquid.

Eric picked the cup up and sniffed it.

“It won’t kill you,” Nestor laughed, “but when you wake up tomorrow, you may wish it had.”

“Pruno?” Eric said.

Nestor looked impressed. “Very good. Same stuff they make in prison. Couple of our guys didn’t want to stay with Thor and his merry band of murderers, so they joined us. Brought a little slammer technology with them.” He raised his own cup into a toast and drank. He smacked his lips. “Just add some yeast to oranges or tomatoes and let it ferment a couple days. Then it’s partytime.”

D.B. started to sip from her cup but when she saw Eric put his cup down untouched, she did the same.

“I understand you were the victim of a monumental fuck-up.” When Nestor spoke, he stared straight at Eric, but he seemed to always be addressing everyone within twenty feet.

“Mistaken identity,” Eric shrugged.

“Fuck-up by any other name.” Those around him laughed.

“Maybe. But they’re the ones who risked their lives. And they did bring back some antibiotics.”

A man in the crowd behind Eric said “amen.” A couple of women nodded agreement.

“Not good enough. They brought back enough antibiotics for maybe twenty people. What about the rest of us.”

Eric smiled. “I have the feeling that you’d somehow be one of those twenty people to receive it.”