Jason Frost - Warlord 04 - Prisonland (5 page)

“They taste even better cooked,” Eric said.

“Then cook it,” Studebaker said.

Eric gathered kindling. “Matches?”

“Dodd got them, too,” Teasdale said.

“Lend me your glasses.”

“Huh?”

“Your glasses. So I can start the fire.”

Teasdale reluctantly handed over his thick glasses, which Eric used to direct a sharp beam from the sun onto the dry leaves and kindling until the fire puffed into being. Then he handed the glasses back.

Studebaker huffed. “Big deal. I used to do that as a kid, with my dad’s magnifying glasses from his stamp collection.”

“Then why didn’t you think of it?” Teasdale asked.

” ’Cause we’ve always had matches.”

Eric roasted the rootstalks, peeling back the inner starchy part for them to eat.

“Eat up,” Eric encouraged, “we’ve got a long march ahead of us.”

Studebaker and Teasdale complied, devouring many of the plants, patting their swelling stomachs.

“What’s it like north?” Eric asked. North is where Dodd’s real trail led.

“Not much,” Teasdale shrugged, stuffing more cooked ferns into his mouth.

“Any major encampments?”

“We seen a few. Ft. Dixie near Palo Alto. Seen it, but didn’t go in. One in Silicon Valley. Bunch of computer whiz kids. Nothing much there.”

“Asgard,” Studebaker said, munching his ferns.

“Yeah, Asgard,” Teasdale nodded. “Hell of a place. Tough place, we hear. Haven’t been there yet.”

Eric served them each more ferns. “Asgard, huh? What else do you hear?”

“It’s on the bayside in San Francisco. Run by a bunch of cons who escaped from San Quentin. Real trash.”

“Shit,” Studebaker laughed. “That ‘trash’ runs the whole fucking harbor. I’d like to be in with them, man. That Thor must be doing something right.”

“Thor?” Eric asked.

Teasdale answered. “That’s what he calls himself. He’s the leader of the prisoners. We’ve heard some weird stories about the place. Real strange shit.”

When they were full, Eric led them back through the woods on yet another series of circles designed to exhaust them. Within a couple hours both men were not only dragging, they were looking a little pale. The ferns were taking effect.

“Let’s stop a minute,” Studebaker said, his hair matted with sweat across his forehead. His jowls sagged like pouches under his chin and neck. He pressed a hand against his bulging stomach. “I’m not feeling so hot.”

“Me too,” Teasdale said, sitting on a large rock.

“It’s that shit we ate this morning, those fucking plants.”

They looked at Eric. “I feel fine.”

“I’m gonna be sick,” Studebaker said.

“Puke sick?” Teasdale asked.

“No. Just sick.” Studebaker staggered off deeper into the woods, fumbling at his belt and pants as he ran. “You keep an eye on him ’til I get back.”

“Hurry up,” Teasdale shouted, obviously just as anxious to run off into the woods.

Eric leaned up against a tree while Teasdale aimed a Smith & Wesson .38 at him. Teasdale grimaced, took a deep breath, fighting to control his bowel muscles. But there wasn’t much he could do. Not being used to the ferns, and eating as much as they did, was like going down to Mexico for the first time and drinking a couple gallons of local water. They would have diarrhea for at least a couple of days, probably longer.

“Hurry up, goddamn it!” Teasdale hollered after Studebaker.

Finally, Studebaker wandered back, his eyes heavy-lidded, his hand still clutching his stomach. “Jesus, I think I have to go again.”

“You had your turn,” Teasdale said, already tugging at his belt as he hopped off the rock.

And just for a second the two of them stood side by side, Teasdale’s .38 lowered as he pulled at his pants’ snap, Studebaker’s shotgun dangling limply from his hand.

That’s when Eric uncoiled into action, springing at them with a double body block that knocked both men to the ground. Eric landed on top of them, Studebaker’s bloated body absorbing most of the shock. There’d been a time when Eric would have been able to knock one of them unconscious on the way to the ground, but this was not then. Now he settled for just unbalancing them, scrambling for one of the guns before they recovered.

Teasdale was first to roll free, still holding his .38. Eric groped for the shotgun, yanking it free from the still dazed Studebaker. Teasdale came out of his roll with the .38 lifted toward Eric’s face, but Eric jammed the shotgun against Teasdale’s stomach and pulled the trigger. Teasdale’s middle flew backward, bits of buckshot, flesh and chipped spinal bone scattering through the trees, ruffling leaves like a flock of suddenly frightened birds. Teasdale’s mushy body flopped in the dirt five feet away, folded neatly over in the middle like a dish rag.

The recoil from the shotgun rocked Eric backward into the thick powerful hands of Studebaker. The large man wrapped his fingers around the shotgun and jerked it tightly against Eric’s throat. Eric felt the hot metal denting his windpipe as Studebaker pinned Eric’s head between the gun and his own massive stomach.

Eric was surprised by the enormous strength of the man. Try as he might, he still couldn’t budge the barrel crushing his throat. He’d have to work on the hands.

Eric grabbed Studebaker’s little finger with both hands and pried it easily from around the gunstock. His eyes were watery as he rasped for what little air that scraped past the barrel. Concentrating, he bent that little finger back further and further until he heard the sickening crack like dry twigs snapping. Studebaker yowled from pain. The finger was broken.

But still the gun pressed tighter against his throat. Breaking the finger didn’t seem to affect Studebaker’s strength.

Eric grabbed the next finger with both hands.

This one was more difficult to pry loose, but finally he did, bending it back until it too snapped and Studebaker cried out. Yet still the man held firm, doubling his efforts to strangle Eric.

Eric snorted for air, but none came. He felt a wooziness in his head, a lightness that seemed strangely relaxing. His eyes closed for a moment and he wondered if maybe a short nap wouldn’t help him regain strength. Just float lazily on the pool he pictured in his mind.

He bit his lip, chomping down hard enough to send a jolt of cold adrenaline through his stomach. Quickly he grabbed Studebaker’s middle finger from the same damaged hand and yanked it backward. The bone popped right out of the socket. Studebaker’s sudden yell shook the forest. Now Eric was able to grab the shotgun, twist it out of Studebaker’s hands. He somersaulted free, gulping air as he rolled. When he came up, he saw Studebaker lunging for Teasdale’s .38.

Eric pumped a new shell into the chamber and pulled the trigger. The buckshot hit Studebaker like a meteor shower, pinning him to the ground halfway through his dive. His fat bloody hand twitched, clawing at pine needles and dirt before relaxing into death.

Quickly Eric searched and stripped the bodies of whatever he could use. The shotgun and pistols were serviceable, but not much good for long range. He found an old Boy Scout knife in Teasdale’s pocket, the blade broken at the tip. He unhooked the green army canteen from Studebaker’s belt and fastened it to his own. Shoelaces and belts could also come in handy. Whatever was left, the animals and scavengers were welcome to.

Within an hour he had picked up Dodd’s trail again, moving swiftly through the woods until he came to a highway. Dodd had stuck to his training, leaving several false trails that a lesser tracker might have spent days trying to pick up. But Eric had had Big Bill Tenderwolf as an instructor, the Hopi MBA whose love for cold beer, chubby women, and the Los Angeles Lakers was overshadowed only by his great wilderness knowledge and his affection for young Eric.

By dusk, Eric was back on Dodd’s trail. This one was much easier to follow thanks to Dodd’s overconfidence in his false trails.

It took the rest of the night for Eric to finally catch up to Dodd and the girl. It was still hauntingly dark as he crept toward the camp, his shotgun leveled at the two still figures.

There was no campfire. Just two dark lumps nestled in the shadows of the long grass on the other side of a stream. One in a new sleeping bag, the other in a makeshift bedroll. Dodd would naturally be in the sleeping bag.

Eric approached the stream slowly, his toe nudging aside sticks or leaves before he allowed his weight to follow. Each step was a battle, the tiny scrap of land captured through great physical and mental exertion. There wasn’t the slightest sound as he stole his way through the 4 AM darkness.

The stream was difficult. Eric stepped in without a splash, wading through the hip-deep water while holding the shotgun chest high. The water was cool and swift as it swept around him, tugging at his clothes. Eric didn’t mind. They needed washing anyway.

On the other side of the stream, Eric flopped down onto his belly and crawled up the bank through the long wavy grass. The dark figures were only ten yards away. Eric stood in a low crouch and crept closer, the shotgun shouldered, his thumb tensed on the hammer.

The urge to fire point blank into the sleeping bag was hard to resist. Images of his slain daughter, tortured wife, the dead friends and mutilated innocents, his missing son, all pulsed through his mind like blinding strobe lights. He missed his family, his old life, more than he had imagined possible. Before them he had been nothing, a trained soldier with an infamous past. They had given his life—what? Flavor. Color. Purpose. He missed that too.

His only hope of recapturing even a shred of that life again was to rescue Tim from Fallows. Each day Tim remained with Fallows was dangerous. Not just because of the mercenary lifestyle Fallows lived, but because Fallows’s influence, force of personality, charisma, was so powerful, so hypnotic, that given enough time he could dominate any individual. His sinister charm had almost done so to Eric in ’Nam.

And now Tim.

Last time they clashed, Eric had almost freed Tim from Fallows. But that moment of hesitation from Tim, that look of doubt from his own son had been enough to blow the rescue. Eric could still see that alien look in Tim’s face as he imagined what lies Fallows had been drilling into the boy daily.

Eric swallowed something bitter in his throat as he neared the sleeping bag. His finger tightened against the trigger of the shotgun, but Eric controlled his urge. Dodd had information about Tim’s whereabouts. That was most important. The killing would come later.

Eric was almost there, just paces from the sleeping bag, when he heard the rustling noise to his right. Then up out of the grass the dark figure leapt with hands flexed into claws. Eric instinctively swung the shotgun around but, remembering Tim, hesitated pulling the trigger. The two bodies collided, somersaulting backward through the cushy grass, down the embankment. Eric reached out and grabbed a handful of hair, yanking the body after him as he slid backward into the cold stream.

Eric felt the fists hammering at his face as he sank under the water, his cheeks ballooned out with the last gasp of air he’d taken before going under. A hard knee clipped him between the legs and his air exploded out in an eruption of bubbles.