Jason Frost - Warlord 04 - Prisonland

by Jason Frost - Warlord 04

  “Ravensmith!” he bellowed.

  Eric sighed.

  “Ravensmith!” Nestor stood in front of the table, his thick muscular arms crossed in front of his chest like a challenge. His followers caught up and stood guard behind them. The pretty dark-haired woman with the tattooed dragon peeking up over her breasts; a teenage boy with spiked hair and a wiseguy sneer; a weasely looking man born to follow.

  “Jesus,” Riva said, “and I thought breakfast was hard to choke down.”

  “Shut up, Riva,” Nestor said. Then to Eric, “I thought we’d had a nice little talk last night, Ravensmith.”

  “You did all the talking, pal,” D.B. said.

  Nestor looked surprised a moment, then grinned. “It speaks, huh? Too bad.”

  Other diners turned and watched. The more heads focused on him, the louder and deeper Nestor’s voice got.

  “What’s on your mind, Tulane,” Eric said.

  “Same thing that was on it yesterday. Same thing that’s always on it. The good of this community.”

  “Can I hear the abridged version?”

  Nestor’s grin widened. “Sure. We had a deal. You keep your nose out of our business. You let the people of Alcatraz make up their own minds what kind of leadership they want.”

  “Yeah!” the teenager said, looking at the crowd. A few others said “right” or “yeah” too.

  “I haven’t decided about anything yet,” Eric said. “I’m just eating breakfast.”

  “That’s not all he’s been eating,” the tattooed woman said.

  “We heard about last night,” Nestor said. “You and Maggie Shreeve.”

  Eric shrugged. “Some grapevine.”

  “People like me. They tell me things.”

  “Fine. Just as long as you don’t try to tell me things.”

  Nestor planted his hands on the table top and leaned toward Eric. “I’m telling you to stay out of it.”

  “Don’t worry about him,” Riva said. “He was never in it.”

  “Shut up, Riva,” Nestor said.

  “Fuck you.”

  “You did, sweetheart, remember? And so did your little black friend, Maggie. And that moose, Lynda. And—”

  “That was a long time ago, bucko. People know you a little better now. Besides, the only reason they did it with you was because you’d had a vasectomy and they knew there was no chance of another creature like you being born.”

  Nestor’s face was red with anger. “Yeah? The only reason I got into bed with you losers was so you wouldn’t become dykes. I was too late.”

  “Hell,” Riva laughed, “I’d rather be a dyke than sleep with you again.”

  Eric stood up and started walking away. Nestor and Riva were still snapping at each other. Eric hadn’t gotten more than a few steps away when the first slap cracked through the air. He kept going.

  Then more yelling and another slap and the sounds of empty bowls clattering to the floor.

  “Stopit!”D.B. shouted.

  Eric took a deep breath and turned.

  Nestor stood over Riva, who was lying on the floor, holding her face. Red welts that matched Nestor’s fingers were branded across her cheek. Tears welled in her eyes, but more from anger than pain. She was still hollering in his face. Nestor raised his hand to strike her again.

  “Don’t, “ Eric said quietly.

  Nestor looked at him. “What?”

  “Don’t hit her. You’ve made your point.”

  The teenage boy, himself almost as big as Nestor, took a step forward. “Buzz off, asshole.”

  Nestor smiled. “My friends are very loyal.”

  “To a fault, it seems.”

  Nestor looked Eric over, the smirk on his face indicating he wasn’t too impressed by what he saw. Indeed, Eric was a smaller man, less bulky. “Listen, Ravensmith, you may be Warlord to a bunch of frightened kids down south, but here you’re no warlord. More like Warthog. How do you like your new name?”

  “Has a ring to it. Thanks.” Eric smiled, turned, and started to walk off.

  “Hey, Warthog, I’m not done.”

  Eric turned back.

  “You think you’re the only one around here who’s done some fighting? You think because I didn’t go to Vietnam I can’t handle myself? You think you’re the only one around here with muscles?”

  In fact, Eric never gave his own body much thought, except for feeding it, keeping it alive so he could rescue Tim. His physique was indeed muscular, flared chest, trim flat stomach, hands flat and hard as shovels. But his muscles were just there, like his toes, his eyes. The result of running, climbing, fighting. Surviving. Nothing to be proud of.

  “I’ll tell ya,” Nestor continued,, “I may have refined these muscles in some ritzy Beverly Hills health club, but I learned how to use them on the streets of the Bronx. You understand?”

  “I think so,” Eric said. “You’re from New York, right?”

  A few in the crowd laughed. Nestor turned around to see who they were and the laughter stopped. When he looked at Eric again, his eyes were blazing with hate.

  “You think you come here and take our hospitality, fuck our women, and then make fun of us. That what you think?”

  “Leave him alone,” Riva said, climbing back to her feet with D.B.’s help.

  “I told you to shut up,” Nestor said and hit her again, knocking her back to the floor.

  “Bastard!” D.B. said and punched him in the stomach.

  Nestor didn’t flinch. He merely backhanded D.B. and sent her somersaulting over the table.

  Eric walked over to Nestor. The people around the two men backed off a few feet even though Eric didn’t look as though he were going to fight. He didn’t look angry. His fists weren’t up. He merely stood there, a slight smile on his lips. The only thing that looked unusual was the scar that curled up his neck, along the jaw, and splotched onto his cheek. Somehow that looked paler, white as an albino snake.

  Nestor looked down into Eric’s eyes. “Nothing personal,” he said so only Eric could hear. “It’s just politics.” Then he swung a right cross straight at Eric’s jaw.

  But Eric moved so quickly, with such economy of motion, that it appeared he’d merely swatted a fly. Instead, he’d leaned to the side, allowing Nestor’s fist to swoosh over his shoulder, then popped back in front of Nestor, this time with his two fingers pronged into a stiff V. Then he jabbed lightly into Nestor’s eyes, temporarily blinding him. Nestor’s hands flew up to protect his eyes. Eric hooked the same two fingers into Nestor’s nostrils, yanked upward until Nestor screamed as if his nose were being torn off. Now that the head was hinged backward, Eric whipped his elbow into Nestor’s windpipe, just enough to bring him gagging to his knees, vomiting on the floor.

  But it still wasn’t over.

  Behind Nestor, the hulking teenager sprang at Eric, his hand brandishing a Swiss army knife. Next to him, the dark-haired woman with the dragon tattoo flicked open a straight razor, holding it like she’d used it before. They closed in on Eric.

  Eric took the kid first, hopping up onto the table and kicking him in the face. The boy flew backward, sprawling into the women sitting at the next table. A couple were knocked off their seats, but the others just frowned and threw him back toward Eric. A white knob swelled on the kid’s forehead as he staggered back at Eric, this time holding the knife in his fist with the blade down so he could stab Eric’s foot, the same foot that had booted him in the head.

  The woman with the razor was maneuvering around behind Eric, her razor ready. Riva grabbed at her but she sliced the razor through the air and laid open a six-inch gash along Riva’s forearm. Blood spilled down both sides of the arm.

  All movement was orchestrated by the sound of Nestor’s dry heaves as he sucked for air.

  The big kid lunged at Eric again, stabbing the knife down toward Eric’s foot. But Eric danced out of the way and the blade thudded into the wooden table. Eric kicked the boy again, first with his right foot, then with his le
ft foot. The kid flopped back to the floor, knocking Nestor down as he landed in an unconscious heap.

  Eric spun just as the dark-haired woman’s razor sizzled toward his crotch.

  But her hand never made it all the way there.

  The snap of elastic. A high-pitched whistling sound. The loud crack of stone smacking bone. The dark-haired woman’s scream as she dropped the razor and brought her hands groggily to her face where blood webbed from the indentation between her eyes.

  Eric jumped down from the table, dislodging the kid’s Swiss army knife before walking over to D.B. She was grinning at Eric. Several in the crowd applauded and she gave a playful curtsy to them. Others hooted angrily at her. She curtsied to them, too. Her slingshot dangled from one hand. A second stone was clutched in the other.

  “Nice shot,” Eric said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Right between the eyes. One inch either way and you’d have hit her in the eye.”

  “What do you think I was aiming for?”

  Riva came up, someone’s bandanna tied around her wound. “You two take off. I’ll clean the mess up.”

  “We’ll help,” D.B. offered.

  “Better not. A lot of these women are still loyal to Nestor. Nothing’s changed.”

  “But—” D.B. started.

  “Thanks, Riva,” Eric said, shoving D.B. ahead of him as he worked through the prison cafeteria.

  Outside, D.B. pranced giddily about, her adrenaline pumping through her veins. “You see that stone bop her? This thing really works, it really does. Man!”

  Eric strolled back toward his cabin.

  “Did you see? Did you see the way she just stood there stunned, like someone had clubbed her from behind? The blood on her face?”

  “I saw.”

  “Jesus.”

  She walked beside him, slowly coming down from the rush. Eric knew the feeling, the sudden explosion of sensations, the tingling of nerves through the entire body, each breath somehow cold and refreshing, charged with energy as if you were breathing in some invigorating gas. It was addictive. That was the feeling that called to men like Fallows and Dodd and Thor and Nestor. Maybe once even to Eric. But it was a dangerous sensation, an arrogant one that convinced you of your own power and superiority. Anything and anyone was worth sacrificing so that you might feel that rush of invulnerability again.

  “You gonna help now?” D.B. asked. “We could take on Thor and his gang. Easy.”

  There it was. The desire. The need to face combat again for another fix.

  “I mean, you kinda owe them now, don’t you?” she continued.

  “How do you figure?”

  “Well, now Nestor’s going to be even harder to handle. He’ll have more to prove.”

  She was right, of course, but that wasn’t Eric’s problem. He was concerned with getting off this island, back to Dodd, back to Tim.

  “I’m still thinking about it,” he said.

  She gave him a scornful look. “Yeah, Well don’t strain yourself.”

  The knock at the door surprised him. He’d been stretched out on the bed reading a novel he’d found under the bed. Leaving Cheyenne by Larry McMurtry. The paperback cover had come off and many of the pages were loose or out of order, but Eric patiently found them and restored the book as best he could while he read.

  “Want me to get it?” D.B. said. She was leaning against the wall near the window, adjusting her slingshot to get more tension from the elastic.

  Eric reached next to him for the Swiss army knife he’d taken from the kid. The blade was open. “Who is it?”

  “Lynda Meyer.”

  He bounced off the bed and unbolted the door. The knife was in his right hand as he stepped back and said, “Come in.”

  Lynda Meyer opened the door, hesitated when she saw him, then stepped into the room. She nodded at D.B., then stared at Eric as if looking for something in his eyes.

  “Come on in,” Eric said. “Lots of room.”

  “I heard what happened this morning. In the mess hall.”

  Eric shrugged. “You find a boat for me yet?”

  “What about our proposition?”

  “He’s still thinking,” D.B. said. “He does a lot of that.”

  Lynda Meyer nodded. She was a big woman, close to six feet, with a thick body that wasn’t so much fat as just her. Big-boned they used to call it. Her hair was cut short in a severe fashion that made her look a few years older than the early forties Eric guessed her to be. Her face was broad, but attractive, more so because of the intelligence and strength in her features. She sat on the edge of the bed with a weary sigh. Obviously she had something on her mind and was having trouble bringing it up. Eric wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it anyway.

  “How’s Riva,” D.B. asked.

  “Sore. More her temper than her arm. But she’s tough. I stitched her up and she only threatened to hit me twice.”

  “You a doctor?” D.B. asked.

  “I was a doctor’s assistant when I was working my way through college. Dermatologist. Mostly zits and rashes, but occasionally I got to suture something.”

  Eric sat on the floor. “Long way from the City Council meetings.”

  “Yes,” she said, “a long, long way. Though I can’t honestly say I miss it that much. Oh, I miss the world the way it used to be, I miss the city, there’s nothing like San Francisco, but those endless meetings with all the political maneuvering and backstabbing.” She flicked her hands. “It’s the past anyway.”

  “Is it?” Eric said. “Looks like politics as usual around here.”

  “Nestor? Yes, he’s a problem. He’s a born hustler, and he’s damn good at it. Oozes charm. To women anyway. But after a while the smart ones see through him.”

  “Like you?”

  She smiled. “So he told you about our brief liaison. One week, that was all. Right here in this room. This bed, in fact. The next week he was at work on Maggie. Only she had the good sense to dump him after one night.”

  Eric watched her as she spoke. Something was wrong. There was a hesitation in the voice, a certain sense of guilt that seemed out of character. Eric asked her directly, “Why did you come here?”

  Lynda Meyer glanced at D.B.

  “You want me to go?” D.B. asked, a note of sympathy in her voice Eric hadn’t detected before.

  Lynda shook her head. “No. You might as well hear this too. I’ll try to be brief since personal matters make me uncomfortable.” She took a deep breath, calling up some inner reserve of strength for what she had to say. She looked straight into Eric’s eyes and he could imagine how effective those steady brown eyes used to be in City Council meetings, pinning adversaries to their overstuffed chairs. “I am married, Mr. Ravensmith. My husband used to be the manager of a Safeway supermarket, you know, with his photograph hanging near the customer service counter. The guy okaying checks from people who didn’t have two forms of ID. That’s what he was before I became a Council member, when I was just a housewife on Clay Street, walking the dog through the park and cleaning up after him with a shovel. And that’s what he was after I was elected. He was good at his job and though he thought it a bit boring and frustrating at times, he seemed satisfied. Until I was elected. Then nothing was good enough. I was making more money than he. I was on television. And so forth. You know the story.”

  Eric nodded. “Jealous.”

  “Who could blame him? He’d been so supportive when I’d run, helping me with the campaign and such. But afterward, when the reality settled in, he became morose and withdrawn. We were seeing a family counsellor. Then the quakes hit.”

  “Where is he now?”

  She pointed toward Asgard. “Over there, with Thor.” She walked toward the window and stared out across the bay. “You have to understand, Mr. Ravensmith. My husband and I were like most couples, not happy, not unhappy. But adjusted. Accommodating. We got along, had friends, paid our bills, went to Hawaii or Mazatlan or Seattle for vacation. Occasionally we
had sex. Like most couples our age.” She moved away from the window. “But when all this,” she waved her hands, “insanity happened, Bill changed. It was like some shell cracked and fell off and a new Bill emerged, that part of himself he’d kept hidden all those years, even from himself. The part that wanted out, that saw himself as a Viking or outlaw or pirate. Fucking and robbing and doing whatever he wanted, when he wanted. Sounds nice, huh?”

  “Sometimes,” Eric admitted. “Not for long.”

  “Well, it sounded fine to Bill. And to a lot of the other husbands who abandoned their wives and families and took up with Thor.”

  “A lot didn’t. I’ve seen them up and down the state, scratching food out of the ground, building shelter, trying to raise their children with some sense of decency. The same as you’re doing right here.”

  She waved a dismissing hand. “Maybe. It doesn’t matter. What I want from you doesn’t have anything to do with Alcatraz or the people here. It has to do with me. And my son.”

  Eric and D.B. exchanged glances.

  “When my husband decided to turn outlaw, he took our son Gary with him. Gary’s only seventeen. I want him back. I think you can get him for me.” She stared deep into his eyes. “Like I said, it has nothing to do with this settlement. What they want from you still goes. But I’m willing to pay extra, give you whatever I have or can borrow if you’ll do this for me.” She handed him a tiny photograph. It had been torn from a strip of four that came out of those photo booths in arcades. Lynda and her son had their faces pressed together, both sticking their tongues out at the camera. D.B. looked over Eric’s shoulder at the photo.

  Eric handed it back to her. “I can’t promise anything. Not to your settlement, not to you.”

  “But you’ll think about it?” she pleaded.

  “Maybe he’s where he wants to be. He’s old enough to decide.”

  “Yes, he is. But he hasn’t had the opportunity. Maybe he wants to be here.”

  Eric studied her for a moment. “What if I took the job and when I got there it came down to bringing back your son or the doctor? What then?”