Badlands w-3

by Jason Frost

  "That if all the lizards had banded together, they could have killed the bug."

  "That's what your dad said. And if you look at it from the lizard's point of view you're right. But if you look at it from the bug's point of view, you see that the lesson is to keep everyone divided, break down their loyalties, and you can survive in a box full of lizards."

  Tim stared at Fallows. "What did my father say to that?"

  "Nothing. He got up and walked away." There was a look in Fallows's eyes, Tim thought, almost of great loss. Some color came back to them as he stared off. "I tried to teach Eric everything I knew. Make him into a friend. I don't know why I chose him. Something about him, something different. There are ways to make money during a war, lots of ways. I offered them to your father. He refused. No moral speeches about right and wrong. Just refusal. Somehow that was even worse. But later, when he testified against me at my court-martial, that was too much. Naturally I had to kill him. The lesson of the lizard, I'm afraid."

  "But your men. Phelps."

  "They won't help him. They won't help each other unless I order it. Each individual is a disposable unit, like a tissue. The only thing keeping them together is me. And that only works because I know how to get them what they want. So you see, we all need each other, but we don't need anybody."

  Tim didn't know what to say. Talking with Fallows was confusing, exhausting. He was safer when he just concentrated on killing the man.

  Fallows patted Tim's head. " 'Tut! I have done a thousand dreadful things/As willingly as one would kill a fly.' Titus Andronicus, Act IV, scene iv, line 82. Are you familiar with Shakespeare?"

  "Some. Dad used to read him to us sometimes. For every movie we went to see we had to read one book."

  "Admirable. Perhaps you'd like to read some of the books I have?"

  Tim backed off a few steps. "Why are you being nice to me now?"

  "For the same reason I do everything. It suits me. And it's time you stopped peering at every rock and tree thinking your dad will pop out to take you back. If by some chance he isn't dead, he will be soon enough. Besides, he has a new woman and they'll start a new family. One that won't include you. He probably can't even remember what you look like. I'm the only who'll take care of you, Tim. And I will teach you everything you need to know. More than he did. You're my son from now on. Get used to it."

  Tim thought it over for a few minutes, watching Fallows's craggy face, the bristly white hair like a field of snow-covered shrubs. When Tim spoke, his voice was cold and passionless. "I will kill you someday."

  Fallows smiled. "Good. At least you have a goal. Not like a lot of kids these days."

  He lead Tim back toward the camp, confident that within weeks the kid would be his. His alone.

  "Colonel!" one of his men yelled from the camp. "Up there! Look!"

  Fallows shaded his eyes with one hand and looked up into the sky. When he saw it, he just nodded. "Jesus Christ."

  10.

  Tracy hobbled toward the house, her makeshift crutches spearing yellow flyers as she walked. She stopped ten feet from the open doorway and shook one of the flyers loose from her right crutch. The big red letters exclaiming EVACUATE caught her eye and she felt her skin ice over. What if Eric was wrong? What if they really were going to drop those chemicals here today? But as she neared the house, the bitter, rotting smell smothered all other thoughts.

  Except one. Why had Eric's bow been fired?

  "Hey, Eric."

  The answer came from somewhere inside the house. "Yeah?"

  "How about I wait out here? Leg's a little weak. Not to mention the stomach." If he hesitated, or told her to come in anyway, she'd know he was in trouble. What would she do then? "OK with you?"

  "Sure," he said. Tracy sighed with relief. "It's pretty gruesome in here anyway."

  "I'll be right in."

  Tracy negotiated the three steps in a hurry, knocking aside the front door with a crutch. Inside, the smell was even worse. She brought her hand with the gun up to cup over her nose. The scent of gun oil helped kill the harsher odor a little. Not enough.

  The living room was as modest as the outside of the house. Home-made curtains, an old but well-tended sofa with doilies on each arm. A large studio photograph of a middle-aged couple and their teen-aged sons with their mother's pronounced overbite hung over the brick fireplace. Next to the fireplace was a pile of boards with nails still poking through the splintered wood where it had been torn apart. A thin layer of dust and ashes covered everything.

  "Where are you?" Tracy asked.

  "Bedroom. Just follow the flies."

  "Flies? I thought they were crows." She waved a fat black one out of her face and leaned one crutch up against the wall. Resting her weight on the left crutch, she raised her.357 and limped forward to find Eric.

  The flies were everywhere now, buzzing throughout the house like a crowd of gossiping crones. They flicked from room to room in hungry swarms with no fear of Tracy. She brushed them out of her face and off her hair as she followed Eric's voice down the narrow hallway into the far bedroom. By the time she reached it, she was gagging on the horrid smell. She tugged her shirt up over her nose..

  "God almighty, Eric."

  Eric nodded solemnly. "Yeah, I know."

  His red kerchief was tied around his face like a bandit. The number of flies was staggering, huge, black clouds drifting around the room, humming like a chain saw, raining down plump, black flies onto the bed. And the man lying on it. At least she thought it was a man.

  Next to the bed in a puddle of fresh blood with a crossbow bolt sticking out its chest, sprawled a gray German shepherd, his teeth bared and flecked with chunks of flesh. Clamped in his stiff, dead mouth was half a human foot, torn loose from the corpse on the bed. Eric planted his foot on the chest of the dog and yanked his arrow free, wiping the blood on the bedspread.

  "This is probably the dog that made those tracks," Eric said. "He'd just started his meal when I came in. His name's Ralph."

  "The man?"

  "No, the dog." He bent over the dog and showed her the collar. MY NAME'S RALPH. CALL (213) 456-9080. "That's a Malibu prefix. He's come a long way."

  Tracy hated knowing the dog's name. "Did you have to kill him?"

  Eric gave her a look. "He didn't even bother dropping that foot when he came at me. It's going to be hard to keep these animals happy with Gainesburgers anymore."

  Tracy turned back to the corpse on the bed. Missing half a foot was the least of his losses. The right side of the face had been chewed off. She could still see the teeth marks where the flesh had been ripped off. He was also missing a leg and both arms, though their removal seemed neater, like the bodies back in Santa Carlotta. Flies dove at the open wound of his face, feasted, then flew away to be replaced by other flies. Tracy waved them all away with a pillow from the floor. But when she looked back at the face she saw the wound was moving. She looked closer. Clumps of tiny, white maggots squirmed inside the man's face. A couple crawled across what was left of his eyeballs.

  Eric put an arm around her shoulder. "Looks like our friends from Santa Carlotta were here. Managed to take a leg and two arms."

  "Christ, you make it sound like they were out shopping. Wings and thighs, extra crispy."

  "Well, they were. I think they scavenge the bodies, eating what they can and carrying some back to the others."

  She fought the tightening at her throat, the heaving in her stomach. "You mean, they killed him and then butchered him?"

  "They didn't kill him. He was already dead."

  Tracy looked at the body again. Of course. She'd sat through enough trials back when she sketched them for a living to notice there was almost no blood on the bed. Therefore the wounds had occurred after death.

  "Then what happened?"

  Eric shrugged. "I'm only guessing. But look at the hair. He's practically bald."

  "So? A lot of men are."

  "Yeah, but his is wispy here and there. Not
ice that photograph over the fireplace? This is the father. He's got all his hair there and the picture's dated two years ago."

  "Maybe he had cancer."

  "Maybe. But there are three graves out back that suggest his family died of something else. Problem is, the graves have been dug up. They're empty. Come on." He lead her back down the hallway to the living room. He squatted next to the fireplace, examining the half-burned boards among the ashes. Brushing his hands on the thighs of his jeans, Eric stood up and shook his head. "Arsenic poisoning."

  "Pardon me, Inspector Ravensmith of Scotland Yard. Are you saying someone poisoned him or he poisoned his family and then himself?"

  "Neither. It's the wood." He grabbed a board from the pile next to the fireplace and showed it to Tracy. "They probably scavenged this wood from some other home somewhere, maybe one that was destroyed in the quake. Been burning it for months now, using it for warmth and light and cooking."

  "So?"

  "So most lumber for outdoor use is treated with a preservative, chromate copper arsenate. When you burn it, you get fumes, smoke, and ashes loaded with arsenic, plus chromium and copper. That combination will eventually kill you. But not before you lose your hair, get muscle cramps, diarrhea, headaches, earaches, and bronchitis."

  Tracy tossed the wood back onto the pile of lumber. "Let's get out of here, OK?"

  "He's got a hand pump rigged up to his own well. Plenty of fresh water."

  "OK. We fill up the canteens first."

  He raised one eyebrow. "I was thinking more along the lines of a bath."

  "A bath? Jesus, Eric. Here?"

  "Sure here. Maybe you haven't noticed, but your twenty-four-hour deodorant quit working about three months ago. My clothes are soaked through from that cesspool I was swimming in the other night and yours are three pounds heavier from the dirt and sweat. I say we make a campfire outside, heat some water, wash our clothes, and take our first hot bath in months. How's that sound?"

  Tracy was surprised. At first, she thought she'd be revolted by the idea. Bathing while the owner's mutilated corpse rotted in a heavy coat of flies and maggots. It seemed horrible. But then again, the idea of hot water, of feeling scrubbed, of clean clothing was intoxicating. She was as excited as she might have been before the quake if she'd just won a million dollar lottery. Priorities change, she reminded herself.

  "OK," she said. "Let's get naked."

  Outside in the back yard, Eric stood bare-chested next to the tub and poured a bucket of steaming water around Tracy's naked body. The steam swirled into her face.

  "Too hot?" he asked.

  "No such thing. More, slave, or you shall feel my wrath."

  "Without delay, Your Royal Boniness." Eric used one of Tracy's crutches to snag the handle of the second pail and lifted it off the fire. He tested the water with his finger before pouring it over her back.

  "Oh God, yes." She leaned her head back to let the last half of the water stream over her short red hair. "I'm starting to think hot water will replace sex."

  Eric laughed. "Just remember, nobody heats water the way I do, baby."

  Tracy leaned back against the metal tub, closed her eyes, and sighed.

  Eric peeled his pants off and dunked them into the clothes tub with Tracy's clothing. The hot water was already brown with dirt.

  "No starch in mine," she said.

  Eric climbed into the big, metal tub with Tracy, careful not to disturb her bandaged leg which was elevated into a sling he'd rigged over the tub. His body throbbed with gratitude as it felt the hot water wash over it. He dangled his hand over the side, felt the reassurance of his crossbow leaning there. Saw Tracy's.357 resting in the sling with her leg. Now he could relax.

  Tracy lifted her good leg up and prodded his chest with her toes. "Look at all those scars. As if someone played tick-tack-toe on your chest."

  He leaned forward, placed a finger on her left breast. "What about this?" His finger traced the three-inch scar that arched over her nipple, the result of an unknown sniper in Pasadena.

  "Oh yeah? What about this? Looks like the fossil of some snake." She wound her fingertip along the eight-inch scar that twisted across his chest. A fall from a sheer cliff he'd been climbing had left him with two broken ribs and this scar.

  He caught her fingers in his fist. "We can waste a lot of time counting scars. Visible and otherwise."

  "Yeah." She pulled his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles. Her foot skiied along his body until the arch was snug against his crotch. "Need soaping, mister?"

  "We don't have any soap."

  "Don't we?" She held up her empty hand, cupped around an imaginary bar of soap. "My favorite brand."

  He nodded at her leg. "You'll hurt yourself."

  "Only if I'm lucky."

  Their hands explored each other lazily, kneading and massaging hard muscles at first. Tracy loved to have him squeezing her muscles, knowing they were firm and sinewy. Her body had chanced so much since the quakes. It had been curvy and thin before, but now it felt different to her. Powerful and practical. Completely within her control. Even the broken leg didn't bother her all that much. Once she would have yelped and whined about it, now she treated it as an adversary, easily conquered.

  Eric's body had changed too. He'd been hard and muscular before, but now he was quicker, stronger. His reactions were instantaneous. She could especially feel the difference when they made love. His self-control was absolute. Delightful, rapturous. Sometimes even a little scary.

  She let her hand slide along his hard thigh until she had hold of his solid penis. She squeezed slightly, felt the warm blood inside him pulse.

  Eric's hand swooped between her legs, raking through her pubic hairs, then dipping into the exposed folds. He rubbed here, tapped there, toyed with her until she was wiggling along the bottom of the tub, thrusting herself onto his hand.

  They looked into each other's eyes as they continued. They hardly ever closed their eyes anymore during sex. Instead they studied each other. It was as if they were checking to make sure the person was the same, that the world hadn't changed them too much. Tracy thought of it in terms of the old Invasion of the Body Snatchers, when Kevin McCarthy comes back and kisses Dana Wynter, only to find she'd been taken over while he'd been gone.

  "This is going to be difficult," Eric said, sliding closer to her. Water slapped the edges of the tub.

  "Necessity is the mother of invention. Start inventing."

  Eric reached under her buttocks and lifted her up, sliding his hips directly under her. Slowly he lowered her onto his penis. With one hand, Tracy guided him into her.

  Their movements were slow at first, a tender grinding against each other. Tracy's broken leg hurt a little, then the pain was replaced by a tingling of nerves. Sweat from the hot water and activity slicked her face, dripped into her eyes. Her mouth was partially open as she bit her lower lip.

  Eric watched her green eyes, the lids heavy yet open. She didn't say anything, didn't try to act sexy. She didn't have to. It was all there in every swivel of her hips, the impish grin, the demanding eyes. He picked up the pace, his hands clamped on her hips as he lifted her slightly and brought her back down again. And again. And again.

  He inhaled a lungful of steam mixed with Tracy's own musky scent. Not the scent of a city woman who shopped at Macy's or Bloomingdale's and finished each work day at some Happy Hour. It was the tangy scent of pure energy and desire. When he brought his hips up against hers again he felt his penis reaching even deeper inside. The muscles of her vagina tugged at him, pulled him into her. The pace increased.

  Her long nipples rubbed against his chest as they bounced in the water, scars brushing scars. Then the heat began bubbling from somewhere inside him.

  "Better come now before you bust my other leg," she said, her eyes fluttering, her face taut with pleasure.

  Eric drove into her. She gasped, squeeled, gripped his hair in her fist. He drove into her again. Her eyes closed, her teeth
clenched. "Now, damn it," she pleaded. "Now!"

  He bucked up while forcing her hips downward. His penis spurted like a lawn sprinkler. They hugged each other close, claws buried in flesh, while they rode out Eric's continued spasms.

  They separated, Eric arranging Tracy so that her leg was comfortable. They both leaned back against opposite ends of the tub. Tracy's eyes were closed. She wiped sweat from her face and smiled. Eric stared up into the orange sky.

  "Holy Christ!" he said.

  Tracy grinned. "Thanks."

  "Not you. That. Up there!"

  They both stared up at the sky, their mouths slightly open.

  11.

  Everyone was strapped tightly into their form-fitted seats listening to Bill Weaver's nasal countdown through their helmets.

  "Ten, nine, eight…"

  Paige Lyons glanced over her shoulder at Dr. Bart Piedmont, who winked at her through his face plate and mouthed the word asshole at Weaver's whine. She laughed and turned back to check the five flight-control computers one more time.

  "… Six, five, four…"

  At T minus five seconds, Paige felt the three main engines start up with a bang. Her insides swirled as if they were being pureed by some internal blender. The hell with what anybody said: This was always exciting. It was her third flight and she was wet between her legs now just as she had been the first two times. She'd been too embarrassed to tell anyone the first time it happened, even the flight physicians who wanted to know every damn thing. But later at a luncheon for a bunch of the old-time astronauts, she'd sneaked off to a bar with a few Mercury and Gemini astronauts where two of them confessed to having climaxed during takeoff. One said he thought he'd climaxed, but it turned out he'd just pissed his pants.