Jason Frost - The Warlord

"He's going to remember that it was because of you his finger is broken," Fallows said. "Right now he blames me and maybe even Cruz. But in a day or two, he'll blame you for not speaking up fast enough." He lifted the gun and pointed it in Annie's face. "Suck it," he said.

Annie hesitated, saw Cruz reach for Timmy, and took the barrel in her mouth. She closed her eyes, tried to think of other things, picture Eric coming for her. She saw the look of determination on his face, saw him clawing over rocks and hills. He was calling her name now, shouting it, listening for an answer. She saw his face so clearly, she was surprised he couldn't see her. That tight, grim expression that always made her feel safe.

Fallows pul!ed the hammer back, the threatening click made her open her eyes.

"Parting is such sweet sorrow," he said and pulled the trigger.

The hammer struck the empty chamber with a deafening metallic crack. Annie jerked back at the sound so suddenly the sight on the end of the barrel tore the roof of her mouth. Blood seeped over her lips.

"You son of a bitch," she hissed, shaken.

"You don't know the half of it, Ms. Ravensmith. This was just the first scene. There's much more in store for you. And it gets worse and worse." He glanced over at Cruz. "Get them out of here."

Cruz brushed open the tent flap, snapped his fingers at someone, and young Foxworth came running. When he saw Annie naked, his eyes widened. He licked his lips.

"Take them back," Cruz said.

Annie stooped down to gather her clothes. Fallows stomped his foot on them.

"You won't he needing these."

Immediately, Timmy took off his shirt and handed it to Annie. She smiled at him and slipped it on. The tail barely covered her.

"Move it, Foxworth," Fallows snapped, and the soldier hurriedly ushered Annie and Timmy out of the tent.

When they were gone, Fallows sat back on the cot. "It's going well, eh, Cruz?"

Cruz shrugged. "It's not my game."

"But you've liked your part in it so far, haven't you?"

"Listen, Fallows, you're a fucking military genius. Everybody knows that. Maybe all that theatre shit helped you, I don't know and I don't care. As long as you make the plans and they work, and everybody gets what they want, I'll follow orders. It don't bother me to kill anymore than it bothers you." Cruz crossed the tent in two steps, grabbed Fallows by the arm. The fingers closed around Fallows' flesh like a mechanical claw. Fallows felt the bite against his muscles, but he showed no reaction. "I don't mind playing the stupid ox in your little dramas, Fallows. You can say anything about me you want, I could give a shit." He wagged a warning finger. "Just don't you start believing it." He released Fallows' arm and strolled out of the tent, closing the flap behind him.

Fallows shook his arm and laughed. How predictable everyone was, even Cruz. The poor bastard didn't realize that Fallows could have killed him a hundred times over as he stood there wagging his sausage-sized finger in his face. But that wasn't part of the plan. Every player has his part-Eric, Annie, Timmy, even Cruz. And when the time was right, each would act accordingly, as Fallows knew they must. As he had planned.

But first, Annie. Fallows shook his head happily, imagining Eric's face when he finally found her, what was left of her. He won't know whether to kiss her-or kill her.

'They were here," Eric said, hiking up the steep embankment to join the others. "Camped down there last night."

"Jesus, Eric," Tag whistled with respect, "you must be a hell of a tracker to be able to follow them so easily."

"Only because Fallows is careful to leave plenty of clues."

"I can't see them," Rydell said, studying the ground.

"You aren't supposed to. He doesn't want it to be too easy. Nor does he want every scavenger out here following him. This is between him and me. That's the way he wants it."

"And you?"

"Yeah, that's the way I want it too."

Season collapsed on a large boulder and began fanning herself with her hands. "Damn, it's hot." She took a swig from her canteen, peered into the opening, held it up to her ear and swirled it around. "Getting a little low on liquid refreshment here. Who's going to run down to the liquor store for soft drinks and wine?"

"Yeah," Molly agreed, sitting on the ground with an exhausted sigh. "I think I've sweated off a bra size today alone. And I can't afford the loss."

Eric unfastened the portable shovel from his pack, tossed it to Tag. "Start digging a hole."

Tag looked at the shovel. "You think we're going to dig up water? Just like that?"

"Just dig the hole. Three feet across and two feet deep."

"Where?"

Eric pointed. "Over there, where there is no shade."

Season made a face. "I hope that's not the latrine."

Eric reached into his pack, pulled out a folded sheet of clear plastic. He flipped it through the air to Season. "Roughen one side of this with sand, but be sure you clean it thoroughly when you're done."

"Okay," she agreed, exchanging confused expressions with Tag.

"An evaporation still," Rydell explained. "Right?"

Eric looked at him over his shoulder, surprised and pleased. "Right."

"We learned about it at camp. You dig a hole, place a bucket or container at the bottom of the hole, stretch the plastic over the hole. If you've got it, you run a plastic straw from the bucket out the edge of the cover so as not to disturb the process. Then you place a fist-sized rock in the middle of the tarp so it sags to a point about two inches above the opening of the bucket."

"Sounds clever as hell," Season said. "But what's it do?"

"Well, the sun heats the air and soil to furnace temperatures under there, which causes the water in the soil to evaporate. When the air becomes saturated, droplets form on the plastic sheet because it's cooler than the air. The drops trickle down into the bucket. Presto change. You've got drinking water."

Season frowned skeptically. "Water? Out of the ground, huh? Sounds like a lot of work for a few drops of water. You sweat more than that away digging the damn hole."

"Depends," Rydell continued. "Even a bad site can yield a pint a day, and a good one can give you a quart a day for a month."

"Not bad," she nodded.

"At least we'll all have a sip of water with our beef jerky breakfast in the morning."

"No, you won't," Eric said. "At least not from the still."

"What?" Rydell said. "I don't get it."

"We aren't making this still to use now. That's one of the reasons we're camping here. It's remote. The still probably won't be discovered by anyone else. That way it, and the water, will be here later."

"So what?"

Eric sighed, tipped his canteen to his lips enough to moisten them. "There are only two ways to get my wife and kid away from these people. We either shoot it out or we steal them. Any volunteers for a shoot-out, raise your hands."

No one moved.

"Good. We know they have a couple guns, anyway. And they have more and better-trained troops. Any head-on confrontation will only result in all our deaths. And Annie's and Timmy's as well." He looked around at each of them. In the three days since they'd left camp, Eric's skin had bronzed by several shades, almost like a chameleon taking on protective coloring. The hard, angular muscles blooming from his rolled-up sleeves made him look like he'd been carved from a block of teak. He removed the Australian bush hat he'd taken from the clothes storage at University Camp and wiped the grimy sweat from his forehead. "So we want to try and steal them and then run like hell. Chances are excellent that Fallows will follow us. But if we leave some water holes behind us, we can get the jump on them by not having to search for water."