Jason Frost - The Warlord

"The situation is simple," Fallows continued, tapping his bayonet against his thigh as he spoke. This action seemed to mesmerize his troops as they listened to his words and watched the blade flashing orange with each tap. "We're low on water, so I sent Cruz out to scout for more." He gestured with his bayonet at Cruz, who leaned against a nearby boulder. Cruz nodded slightly. "He was unable to find suitable drinking water. Even unsuitable water. That puts a serious strain on our water supply. You know the laws of survival as well as I do: If you have all the water you need, you can eat whatever you want; if you have two to seven pints a day, avoid meat, cheese, and beans which contain proteins. Proteins require water for digestion which, if you don't provide, is drawn from body tissues. And that leads to dehydration. If we only had one pint, well, there'd be no eating at all. So I guess we're lucky, we're in the middle range. That means we can eat food with carbohydrates and fats. Fruits, sweets, biscuits. Got it?"

There was muttered acknowledgment, nodding heads. Fallows eyed them all carefully. He didn't like sharing information, even such basic information as this. He considered every man a potential enemy, a possible assassin, and his edge over others was his knowledge and training. Every time he taught a soldier how to shoot better, hide more effectively, kill more efficiently, he had the uneasy feeling he was giving away precious information that might be used against him, dulling his own edge. Still, they had to know enough to be useful to him, and that was the balance he tried to achieve. Teach them enough to be useful, but not enough to be threatening.

"Which brings me to my current decision. We've been traveling south for the past few days, on our way to do a little trading at Savvytown."

This time the men gave off a series of jubilant whistles and lecherous cheers.

Fallows fixed his sharp face with an understanding smile. "I appreciate your enthusiasm. It's been six weeks since we were there. And this time we've got something worth trading." He pointed his bayonet across camp at the prisoners sitting with legs and hands bound. Annie still wore Timmy's shirt, but the rest of her was naked except for shoes, which they'd permitted her for the walk. She'd had to endure the crude shouts of the men as they'd marched, the pinches, squeezes, rough hands and clumsy fingers. But nothing more had happened yet.

Next to her huddled Cynthia Roth and her twin daughters, Cheryl and Sarah. Cynthia's right eye was half-closed, the skin around it an ugly shade of purple. Her upper lip was swollen and split, a black scab crusted over it. Yesterday she'd kicked a soldier who'd stuck his hand down Sarah's pants, and he'd punched her. She didn't even know why she'd done it, she and her daughters had already been raped by almost every one of them. By now the soldiers seemed almost bored with them. The actual rape itself seemed minor compared with the embarrassment of having her daughters watch, followed by the horror of being forced to watch them. By kicking that animal, she'd attempted to restore some sense of dignity in her own eyes and in her daughters'. She smiled weakly now through her swollen lip. It had been worth it.

Jimmy was kept separate from the women, his hands bound, but otherwise treated like one of the men. He ate with them, full helpings, not the half-rations the women received. Fallows knew this would make him feel wrenching guilt, and that the only way to rid himself of it would be to reject his mother, the source of that guilt. Standard intelligence brainwashing. The Gestapo used it, the KGB, the CIA. Once you destroy the emotional tie to the parents, the child will need to replace it with something else: a uniform, a flag, a country. Or Dirk Fallows.

"But because of our shortages, I've decided to switch course and head us all up north, toward Santa Barbara. Or whatever's there now. More food and water opportunities up there. We might even establish a home base there."

The initial disappointment he saw on their faces was mixed with the excitement of building a base camp of their own. Fallows permitted some excited mumbling among the men. Then he held up his hands, bestowing his huge smile on them. "Now all I need is two volunteers for a decoy mission." His eyes raked the crowd, paused for only a fraction of a second on Foxworth, then on Toomey. For some reason neither understood, both raised their hands to volunteer. "Excellent. Meet me in my tent, men."

He nodded at Cruz, who straightened up, marched to the front of the men, and bellowed, "Dismissed." The men scattered. Cruz escorted Foxworth and Toomey to the only tent in camp, Fallows'.

They stood at parade rest in front of him, a little nervous at being in confined quarters with their commander. There was something about his energy, his intensity. Something none of them discussed, even among themselves, but all of them felt. It's what made them want to run, made them stay.

"You're going to like this mission, men," Fallows grinned.

"Yes, sir," Foxworth replied, a little too loudly. He avoided Fallows' eyes because they were so pale he sometimes thought he could see clear through them right into the brain itself. The idea made his skin clammy.

"Here it is then. I want you both to stay behind, set up an ambush for Ravensmith, and kill him. Any questions?"

They both looked stunned.

"Uh," Toomey started, thinking he should have a question, but not being able to complete one.

"Yes, Toomey?"

"Nothing, sir. Mission understood."

"Excellent. When you've successfully completed your assignment, we'll meet you north, in the Santa Barbara area. Whatever part of it isn't under water."

"Yes, sir."

"Weapons, sir?" Foxworth asked, getting excited now that he thought about it. Ambushing. Killing. Neat!

"Take a couple of the crossbows. That should give you the accuracy and the stealth."

Foxworth hesitated. "No guns, sir?"

"Against one man? What for? Of course, if you want to back out, Foxworth."

"No, sir!" He snapped to attention.

"Fine. Check out your weapons and start backtracking to set up your ambush. We'll meet you up north in a few days. Dismissed."

"Yes, sir," they both said, pivoted, and marched out.

Cruz sauntered over to Fallows' cot and sat down, something he'd never dared do before. "What was that all about?"

"Diversion," Fallows said, not seeming to notice Cruz's liberty. "We give them a couple hours to backtrack, then we head over to the water you found, fill the canteens, and shoot toward Savvytown as planned. South."

Cruz nodded his huge head with appreciation. "You're one smart son of a bitch, Fallows."

Fallows smiled, tapped his bayonet against his thigh.

"I can't remember all that."

"You'd better try. If you want to eat."

"Okay, okay, I'll take a stab at it." Season sighed, I looked up into the sky in concentration, began reciting like a bored schoolchild. "First, dig for the roots of trees and shrubs. Peel off the root bark for soft, edible inner tissue. How's that?"

"Fine," Rydell said. "Molly?"

"Next, try aboveground parts, such as the flowers or shoots. Young tender leaves are better than old ones. The thicker and fleshier the better. And no obscene comments, thank you very much."

Rydell laughed. They were sitting around waiting for Eric to return from scouting. Since they only had another day's food left from what they'd brought from University Camp, they'd soon have to start eating whatever they could find. Eric didn't know how good the hunting would be, and didn't want to spend too much time finding out, so he'd spent the whole night lecturing them while they hiked on what to look for in local plants.

Now, following Eric's instructions before he'd left, Rydell was quizzing them on what they'd learned.