Jason Frost - The Warlord

Foxworth cocked his crossbow, slid a bolt into the groove, took aim on Ravensmith. Maybe if I dropped him…

Eric inched along the ground, the sand's heat seeping through his clothes. Sweat dripped into his eyes and he blinked it away. He scanned the horizon at the top of the incline, trying to decide how many were out there. Not many, he decided, or they would have attacked when they were all together. Probably thought they could pick Season and Tag off, then do the same to the rest later.

One thing was certain, Fallows wasn't one of them. If he had been, they'd all be dead by now. He'd never have tried such a lame ploy as this. He was too smart, no one realized just how smart.

"Rydell," Eric called over his shoulder. Rydell bellied over the sand next to Eric. "How's Season?"

"Tracy's got the arrow out. Don't know how good that arm's going to be, but she'll live."

Molly edged closer. "What about those guys in the cabins? Are they going to help us?"

Eric looked back to the cabins behind them. Everyone had gone inside. "Don't count on it."

"Maybe they'll lend us that shotgun," Rydell said.

"I wouldn't. It's not their fight."

"What about Tag? Maybe I should make a run for him. See how he's doing."

Eric shook his head. "He's dead."

"How do you know? Maybe he's just unconscious."

Eric gave him a look, turned back to study the terrain ahead. A few mesquite trees to the left, their pods a bright lemon yellow, ready to eat. A clump of stinging nettle bushes to the right, their green shoots used as flavoring for soups. All that information stored up in his brain along with song lyrics to "When I'm Sixty-four" and Magic Johnson's free throw percentages for the last three seasons. "There's only a couple places up there with enough cover to hide. If we pepper them with a few arrows, we should get a reaction. Ready?"

The movement was so slight, Eric couldn't be sure it was real. Maybe it was just a chuckwalla lizard. When frightened they blow themselves up like balloons and wedge themselves into crevices of rocks. Whatever it was, Eric flipped his crossbow toward it without hesitation and squeezed the trigger.

The bolt punched through the saltbush, severing a few dull green flowers before whistling by Foxworth's dirty ear. The shock of having Ravensmith fire at him just as he was aiming at Ravensmith, jolted Foxworth off balance.

Fucking spooky. He tipped backwards, tumbling into the sand, his finger tightening reflexively around the trigger. The bow twanged and hurled its bolt harmlessly into the orange sky.

'There!" he heard Ravensmith shout, saw him pointing toward Foxworth,

Foxworth knew he was only seconds from a volley of arrows aimed in his direction. He thought of the excruciating pain, the sharp point of an arrow clefting skin, tissue, slicing muscle, puncturing organs. Or, God no, his face! The shaft burrowing into his brain, gnawing through the soft jelly of his eye. He felt warm urine soaking his pants leg. Suddenly he leaped to his feet, tossed the heavy crossbow over the top of the saltbush, threw his hands into the air. "Enough! Enough!"

Eric smiled. "Are you scared?"

"M-Maybe. A little."

"Sure, a little. That's good."

"What do you mean?"

"Respect for pain is a good thing. Especially now."

"I don't get you."

"I'm about to fill you with a lot of respect."

Foxworth swallowed. "Whataya gonna do?"

Eric ran his finger lightly along his scar.

"Shit, man, no need for any of that. I'll tell you what you wanna know. Just fucking ask, okay? Just ask?"

"But how will we know it's the truth? You might be lying. No, I'm afraid that won't do. You see, the Hopis have a saying. A tongue in pain always speaks the truth."

"I swear, Mr. Ravensmith. Honest to God, I'll tell you the truth. Tell you first time. Really. Ask me. Go ahead."

Rydell trudged wearily up the hill. Joseph Baldwin was beside him. Both carried shovels.

"We buried them both," Rydell said. "I hated to put them both in the same hole."

"Won't matter to either of them," Joseph Baldwin said, clapping Rydell on the shoulder. "Couple weeks and they'll both be grown over with a patch of Mormon tea."

Season adjusted the red bandanna Tracy had taken from her head and wrapped around the wound. She winced slightly from the pain, but made no sound. No tears.

Molly and Tracy stood on either side of Eric, each with a crossbow aimed at Foxworth, who sat trembling on the ground. His legs were folded under him and he kept wiping the sweat from his palms onto the thighs of his pants.

"What's your name again?" Eric asked, cupping his hand to his ear.

"Foxworth."

"What's your first name?"

Foxworth hesitated. He hated his first name as much as he hated tall niggers or raw fish. He looked down, mumbled.

"What?"

"Ariel. My old lady's idea." He didn't add that the rest of the guys used to call him Airedale because he skinned the dogs and usually smelled like one.

"Well, Ariel. You can stand up and take off all your clothes."

"Yes, sir," he said, jumping to his feet and unbuttoning and removing his shirt. He stripped off his pants, leaving on his boots and underpants.

"You can leave the boots, but not the pants."

"Jeez, Mr. Ravensmith. Can't you just ask me what you want to know, man to man. Do they have to be here?" He nodded at the women.

"You've got something against women, Ariel?"

"Well, shit, all this isn't gonna change my answers any. I swear."

"The underpants."

Foxworth squared his shoulders, summoning some defiance. "At least send her away," he said, pointing at Molly. "I don't want no goddamn gook staring at my naked ass."

Rydell crossed the space between them in two steps, his face glowering with rage, then swung the shovel into Foxworth's jaw. The jaw shifted like a slammed drawer and Foxworth fell moaning to the ground, clutching his face. Rydell raised the shovel over his head as if to hit him again, but Tracy's hand at his arm stopped him.

"You damn fool," Eric snapped. "If you had to hit him, why not in the kneecap so he couldn't walk. Not the jaw which he needs to talk."

Rydell held the shovel in both hands like an axe, stared down at Foxworth as if noticing him for the first time. He looked over his shoulder at Eric. "Sorry, I… Sorry."

"Actually," Molly said. "I kind of preferred the jaw."

"Help him up," Eric nodded to Molly.

Molly shifted the bow to one hand, wedged a hand behind Foxworth's back, and pushed him to a sitting position. "Don't mind us gooks."

Foxworth's jaw hung at an odd angle, obviously broken. He cradled it gently between his hands like a baby bird fallen from its nest.

"Now, Foxworth," Eric said, his smile gone, his eyes narrowing. "Maybe now you're ready to tell the truth."

Foxworth nodded enthusiastically.

"Does Fallows have my wife and son?"

"Yes." Speech made him wince.

"Has he hurt them at all?"

Foxworth shook his head.

Eric leaned over, his face inches away. "Hasn't touched them or abused them?"

"No."

Eric grabbed Foxworth by the shattered jaw and yanked it back and forth twice. Foxworth howled and cried. "Again. They haven't been abused or touched?"

"Just the colonel. He's… been… with her. In his tent. No one else was allowed. The kid hasn't been touched. I swear to God."

"Where's Fallows heading now?"

"North, Me and Toomey were supposed to meet up with him near Santa Barbara. Depending."

"Depending on what?"

"On where the new coastline is."

Eric stepped back, his face slightly ashen. His fingers tapped along the scar on his cheek, as if they were playing a tune. "North, huh?" he mused, staring off in that direction.

"Yes, sir. Santa Barbara."

Eric nodded slowly, turned to the others. "Let's get the gear together. We're moving out in a few minutes."