“Well, gentlemen,” he said, standing in front of their cage, his crossbow pointed at them. “It’s truth or consequences time.”
* * *
12
Eric dangled the key to their cage. “Want to go for a walk, boys?”
Bolinski eyed Eric skeptically. “What do you want?”
“Freedom. Freedom for my fellow man.”
“For a price?”
Eric shrugged. “There’s always a price on freedom.”
Washington sat at the back of the cage. His shoes were five feet away. His socks were balled up and he was lobbing them toward the empty shoes in a makeshift game of basketball. He tossed his sock. It dropped neatly into the shoe. He looked at Eric. “Don’t jerk us around, man. You gonna let us out, fine. Do it. You gonna jerk us around, get lost.”
Eric smiled broadly. “Just had to be sure.” He inserted the key and unlocked the cage. He pulled open the door. “Last stop before Trenton.”
The two men scrambled out of the cage, Washington grabbing his shoes and socks on the way. Now that they were out, he sat on the ground and pulled them onto his feet.
“Who are you?” Bolinski asked. His tiny eyes were fixed on Eric like barnacles.
“I’m the guy who just let you out.”
“Why? What do you want? And don’t give me none of that freedom bullshit.”
Eric’s face went hard. “Fallows sent me.”
The two men exchanged looks. Petty Officer Bolinski sneered, his upper lip curling to reveal lower teeth so crowded some were wedged in sideways like packed subway riders. “We already told you, we don’t know no Fallows.”
“Suit yourself,” Eric said. “He sent me here to get you out and bring you back. He’s a little pissed at you boys for screwing everything up. But maybe I’ve got the wrong guys. There must be plenty of salt and pepper teams with submarine uniforms.” He motioned with his crossbow. “Back inside, fellas. I’ve got to keep hunting.”
“No, wait,” Washington said. He finished tying his shoes and stood up. A splash of freckles marked his forehead. His hair had a hint of red beneath the black curls. “We’ll go with you.”
Eric lowered his crossbow a little, his finger drifting from the trigger. He knew that’s what they were waiting for. If Washington kept talking and Bolinksi began inching to Eric’s side, he knew he was right about them. Then there would be only one thing to do.
“What about the women?” Washington asked, grinning at Eric.
“What about them?” Eric said.
“Shit, man, we’re talking about women! You want the chink, fine. I like ’em young anyway. I’ll take the skinny kid in the dog collar. I mean, whatever is right —”
As he talked, Eric could sense Bolinski’s movements, slight, almost imperceptible. Mostly he was shifting his body weight, balancing himself for leverage. But he was hesitating, unsure. Eric decided to make it easy for him. He switched the crossbow to his left hand and used his right hand to scratch the back of his head.
Bolinksi lunged.
Eric could tell from the body position what form the attack would take before it happened. Nothing fancy. Bolinski was no martial arts expert. He was the kind of man who’d relied on sheer size and brute strength all his life. He would simply try to hammer Eric with his meaty fists.
Eric relaxed his shoulder and hip muscles just as Bolinski lunged. The blow connected with Eric’s left arm, but he allowed the force of the punch to swivel him on his hips, something like a weather vane. Still, his shoulder ached from the impact.
Now Washington was grabbing for him too.
Eric did just as he’d planned. He pushed himself backward against the cage door and slid to the ground. While the two men shifted their positions of attack to accommodate, Eric brought the crossbow up, thumbed the safety off, and fired a short lethal bolt into Bolinski’s chest. The arrow drilled so deep that only part of the feather cluster was still visible in his chest.
Bolinski staggered backward a step, dropped to one knee, flexed his hands into claws, and reached for Eric. From his seated position, Eric snapped out a sidekick that planted his foot right on the tip of the arrow, driving it further into the petty officer’s chest. Bolinski toppled with a groan, spoke three words in Russian, and died.
* * *
13
“Hey, kid. Come here.”
Tim looked around. The huge fire in the middle o! the camp sent some tendrils of light throughout th< campsite. Enough to see the three men sitting ir front of their tent swigging on a bottle of Southerr Comfort they’d taken on a raid last week. They wen laughing and poking each other, but Tim could tell they were in an angry mood. The one in the middle, Judd, waved at Tim to join them.
“C’mon over, kid. Join the party.” Judd gulped from the bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then licked his own hand. “Don’t wanna waste a fuckin’ drop,” he snickered. The others laughed drunkenly.
Tim kept going. He’d come out of his tent only to relieve himself in the woods. He wasn’t interested in whatever these men had to say, especially Judd, whose arrogance was well known among the men. He was only barely tolerated by Fallows.
Tim passed a thick pine tree on his way back to his tent. A sudden thunk behind him caused him to turn to see the handle of Judd’s knife wobbling in the trunk of the pine tree. Tim saw Judd standing, his body twisted into the stance of a man’s who’d just thrown a knife. The booze had washed away the frozen smirk that usually highlighted his narrow face. Now all that was left was a cruel grimace, a malevolence in the eyes that marked every one of Fallows’ followers, but seemed magnified in Judd’s eyes, as if viewed under thick glasses.
“Even genius brats like you gotta talk to the common folk some times, kid,” Judd said. “Just to see how real people live.” Judd drank again. When he lowered the bottle, back was his grinning smirk. He winked and waved at Tim like they were old chums. “C’mon, Tim. Have a drop or two with us.”
Tim decided it was better to go along for a few minutes than to cause any trouble. He plucked Judd’s knife from the pine tree and walked over to their tent.
“Yes?” he said.
“Ever have drink before? I mean hard stuff.”
Tim shook his head.
“Here. Try it.” He offered the bottle.
Tim didn’t take it.
“Oops,” Judd said. He took the bottle back, wiped the bottle opening on his shirt, and offered it again. “There, that’s better. More hygienic.”
“Hygienic,” Dyson, one of Judd’s buddies, said. “I like the sound of that.”
“If not the practice of it,” Judd said. All three men laughed.
Tim turned to go. Judd’s large hand fell on his shoulder, holding him back.
“Not so fast, little brother. I mean, you are our little brother, aren’t you. Colonel Fallows is our father, and you’ve become his ... His what?” He winked at Dyson, but Dyson didn’t respond. It was one thing to tease the kid, but to say anything about Colonel Fallows was asking for trouble.
Judd didn’t seem to be afraid. “I mean, the good colonel did give you your own damn tent, didn’t he?
I’ve got to bunk with these two crawfish and you’ve got your own fuckin’ tent.” He looked around at Dyson and Bechler. Both men seemed suddenly sober. “I mean, look at these two. Ever seen two men more disgusting. Dyson here jacks off in the middle of the night when he thinks we’re asleep.”
Dyson started angrily to his feet. “Wait a min —”
Judd swung the bottle of Southern Comfort around and cracked Dyson across the face. Dyson’s cheekbone swelled to a large blue knob and the shattered glass plowed three deep furrows across his jaw. He fell unconscious to the ground.
At the sound of breaking glass, some of the other men in the camp looked over. Their expressions were bored, indifferent, only mildly curious at the break in routine. They watched, but no one interfered.
“Bechler here is worse,” Judd chuckled. “Son
of a bitch farts in his sleep. By morning the tent smells like a latrine. Right, Bechler?” He looked sharply at Bechler.
Bechler grinned. “That’s true enough. Never could hold my gas.”
“But you, runt,” Judd said, pointing at Tim, though Tim stood almost as tall at six feet as Judd. “You get a tent all to yourself. What are you doin’ for it, kid, suckin’ Fallows off?”
Tim straightened at the accusation, feeling his hand tightening around the knife handle he was still holding. Anger burned deep in his stomach and the tops of his ears. He wanted to do something, not just because of what Judd said but because he was tired of having to take crap from everyone. At first they had all mistreated him, taking their cue from Fallows. The scars from the knife cuts and cigarette burns he’d endured as punishment back then still pocked the skin of his arms and neck. Later, when Fallows showed more open regard, the men had begrudgingly imitated their leader. But the hostility and resentment from everyone was evident. Only their fear of Fallows kept them from displaying any outward signs. Until now.
“How old are you, boy?” Judd asked.
“Thirteen. Almost fourteen.”
Judd held up his hands in mock-awe. “Wow. Thirteen fuckin’ years. You know how old 1 am? Thirty-six. Yeah, thirty-six years old and still sleeping with roommates in a tent that smells like the devil’s asshole. That seem right to you?”
Tim said nothing.
“I mean, does that seem right that a guy my age should be penned up with these two slobs while some thirteen-almost-fourteen-year-old punk gets his own goddamn tent?” He took a step toward Tim.
Tim didn’t flinch. “Perhaps you should ask Colonel Fallows.”
Judd lashed out and slapped Tim across the cheek. The force spun Tim backward to the ground. “Maybe I should just claim you were trying to escape and kill you right now. That would leave an opening for your tent.”
Tim’s face stung. The slap had caught him wrong and he clamped his jaw together on his tongue. He cold taste the dull metallic flavor of blood in his mouth. He looked up at Judd. “If you’re going to kill me, then do it. Don’t talk me to death.”
Judd swung again with a backhand slap that snapped Tim’s head around. The big man laughed. “You asked for it, kid.” He glanced at Bechler. “Didn’t he ask for it? Huh?”
“He asked for it,” Bechler quickly agreed.
Tim stayed on the ground. His anger was so great that his skin seemed to shrink, tightening around his bones and muscles like the skin of a tomato. He realized that the angrier he got, the less afraid he was. And he was afraid. He’d seen what Judd could do, had watched him on several raids using those throwing knives of his, picking a target area — head, throat, heart — and betting with someone if he could kill some victim who was running away.
“You think you’re one of us?” Judd said, standing over Tim. “You think ’cause Fallows drags you along, that makes you tough?” Judd’s face contorted into pure hate. “Maybe if you do for me what you do for Fallows, I’ll let you live.” He unzipped his fly. “Well?”
“Jesus, man,” Bechler said. “You’d better cool it, Judd.”
“Or what?” Judd snapped. “Daddy Fallows gonna spank?”
“Suit yourself,” Bechler said, jumping to his feet and jogging off.
Judd’s hand seemed to scratch at his thigh and then suddenly there was a flat throwing knife in his hand just like the one he’d tossed at the tree. His arm swooped down and the blade whirled through the air picking up red flickers from the campfire as it spun. It stuck in the back of Bechler’s right thigh and he let out a yowl of pain.
The others in camp continued to watch. No one interfered.
Except Fallows.
“What’s going on here?” Fallows said, stepping out of his tent. He was smiling, his teeth large and white. He brushed his hand over his close-cropped white hair that came to a sharp widow’s peak over his forehead. “Having a party, Judd?”
Judd looked frightened at first, like a child caught with his hand in his father’s wallet. But then he turned defiant, stiffening a little as he felt everyone’s eyes on him. “Yeah, Colonel, I’m having a party.”
“And you didn’t invite me? How rude.”
Judd seemed confused by Fallows’ calm smiling demeanor. His right hand passed near his thigh again where his secret pockets held several more throwing knives.
Tim watched without moving. Fallows kept walking closer, but he didn’t even look at Tim. Maybe he’s angry at me, Tim thought, and is going to punish me. It was hard to tell with Fallows. His moods didn’t seem to relate to anything outside himself.
“You have something to say, Judd?” Fallows asked. He stopped walking. Tim sat on the ground between the two men.
“Yeah, I got something to say. I say this is between me and the kid and you have no business sticking up for him. If he rides with us and eats a share of what we take, then he ought to fight with us too. So far all he’s done is moon around. He’s never killed or captured anyone. Yet he wears new clothes, eats good food, sleeps alone in a tent.”
Fallows looked at Tim, brushing his hand over his hair again. “Well, kid, he’s got you there.” And with that Fallows turned and walked back into his tent.
Tim sat on the ground, alone.
Judd’s grin twisted across his face like a strand of barbed wire. “So much for protection, punk. Now, where were we? Oh yeah.” His grin broadened as he pulled his zipper the rest of the way down. “Time for a little late night snack, boy.”
Tim felt the fear again. The coldness in his stomach. The dryness in his mouth. His hands shivered.
“Tell ya what,” Judd said. “I’m gonna give you a chance. Man to man. I’m gonna let you go for your gun, just like in them cowboy movies. Like in The Magnificent Seven, when James Coburn draws against that other guy. Only Jimmy’s got a knife and the other guy’s got a gun. Remember that?”
“Neville Brand,” Tim said.
“Huh?”
“That’s who played the other cowboy.”
“Who gives a shit?”
Tim felt a little better. He’d been able to speak despite his fear. He’d told Judd something he didn’t know, something meaningless, but it was something. And that little bit of useless trivia made him feel slightly more confident. It made Judd seem less invincible. If only this were a trivia duel, Tim thought, I’d kick his ass. He smiled to himself. That was something his father would have said. But it was good he could still laugh. His hands weren’t shaking anymore.
“What’s the matter, kid?” Judd asked. “Not feeling too chatty, huh? Scared? Tell you what, I’m gonna let you unsnap your holster flap first. Go ahead.”
Tim dropped the knife he still held. Slowly he moved his hand toward his holster, his fingers un-snapping the flap.
“That better?” Judd looked around at the others who stared across the fire at them. “I’ll even go one better, kid. I’ll turn my back.” He turned away from Tim, though he still looked at him over his shoulder. “Now, before I look away, let’s get the rules straight. Once I turn my head, you’re on your own. You can pull your fancy gun out and start shooting. All I’ll have are my knives.”
Tim looked at the back of Judd’s pants. Long narrow pockets lined the backs and sides of each thigh. A Velcro flap held the knives in place. Tim calculated how long it would take for Judd to pull the knife out, turn, and throw. Surely he could pull his gun quicker.
“Ready?” Judd asked.
But he’d just seen how quickly Judd had managed to nail Bechler in the, leg. It had happened so fast Tim hadn’t even seen Judd pull out the knife.
“Ready, kid?” Judd repeated.
Tim nodded.
Pulling open the flap would take a moment, so would drawing out the gun. The safety was on, that would take a fraction of a second too. Aiming wouldn’t take long, neither would pulling the trigger. But add them up. Tim didn’t know.
“Here we go,” Judd said, his head slowly swivelin
g away.
Oddly, Tim found himself wondering, not what his father would do in this situation, but what Fallows would do. After all, it was Fallows who had beaten Eric so far, who had kidnapped Tim and survived every raid and provided the best available goods for his men. Who would know better?
“Go!” Judd said.
Tim watched Judd’s right hand swing back, the thumb extended, digging under the Velcro, prying the flap apart. The index finger and thumb pinching the black blade, pulling it free.
Tim’s instincts were to go for his gun, to scuttle back as far away from Judd as possible as he fired. That made sense. Increasing the range would give the gun the advantage.
But Tim didn’t even go for his gun.
What happened next was something he’d heard about, but never understood. Something his father had told him about, something Big Bill Tenderwolf had described, something Fallows had tried to explain. They had each talked about a moment when your brain gave itself over to the body. It wasn’t instinct, because it told him to go for the gun. It was some primal pulsing at the back of the brain, a black box that released a warm inky fluid that washed over Tim in an instant. And suddenly he was moving, doing things over which he had no say, no control. Logic was dead.
He did not go for the gun. He did not back away.
Instead he grabbed the knife that’d he’d dropped. And as Judd spun around, one of his flat black throwing knives raised high over his head ready for launching, Tim leaned forward, toward Judd, and plunged the knife straight into Judd’s open fly.
Judd screamed like no one Tim had ever heard scream. Judd’s knife dropped to the ground as both his hands went toward his crotch.
Tim drove the knife deeper, holding on tightly as Judd clawed at his hands.
“You little fucker,” Judd rasped, his clawing becoming weaker. He dropped to his knees, face level now with Tim. But still Tim clutched the knife, pressing it forward, though it could go no deeper.
Jason Frost - Warlord 05 - Terminal Island Page 10
