Jason Frost - Badlands

"Uh, than you did. I believed them."

"You're here."

She nodded at the crutches on the ground. "I wasn't given a lot of choices."

Eric stared at her for a moment. She was right. He hadn't considered her at all. He'd thought only of the opportunity to outwit Fallows. For once to know where he was going and get there first, instead of having to track him. This was his chance to rescue Tim. Nothing else had mattered.

"You're sure he's coming?" Tracy asked.

"I'm sure. He's a master at exploiting opportunity. And when the government doesn't want you someplace, that's a guaranteed opportunity begging for someone like him."

"What do you think it really is?"

"I don't know."

Tracy stooped down with awkward grace, her bandaged leg balanced straight out, and snatched up her crutches. She wedged one under each arm. "I guess the romantic mood has been broken."

They started for the house in the clearing. Eric lead the way with Tracy keeping pace remarkably well despite her crutches.

"I saw this guy with one leg run the New York Marathon on these things one year," she huffed as she swung next to Eric. "Young kid, maybe seventeen. I kept wondering what the people behind him with two legs were thinking as they tried to catch up."

"Probably that winning the race wasn't as important as being able to at least run in it."

"Uh-oh. There goes that deep thinking again. You know what Einstein said, 'I shall never believe that God plays craps with the world.' "

"He said dice. 'I shall never believe that God plays dice with the world.' "

"You're no fun. Just because you used to be a history professor doesn't mean you know everything. You can't believe everything you read in books. My uncle Gerald was a gardener for Einstein when he was at Princeton. Uncle Gerald had just told Albert that the azaleas he'd planted last season were all dead of rot. Professor Einstein was devastated. Uncle Gerald tried to cheer him up by telling him that in that particular climate, planting azaleas was a crap shoot. To which Einstein replied, 'I shall never believe that God plays craps with the world.' He later polished it up using the word dice."

Eric stopped in the middle of the field and stared at Tracy. "Is that true?"

Tracy kept swinging ahead choppily on her crutches, laughing with each hop. She glanced over her shoulder at Eric and smiled. "Gotcha."

They approached the cabin downwind. Immediately Eric knew something was wrong. "Down," he whispered. "Down."

Both of them dropped to the ground, letting the long grass surround them. Tracy had her.357 clutched in both hands. Eric checked the bolt in his crossbow.

"What?" Tracy asked, eyes raking the house for movement. "You see something?"

Eric shook his head. "Smell something."

Tracy took a deep sniff. The usual smells: burned wood from the many campfires and brush fires that swept unmolested through huge portions of the state. There was always the smell of fire in the air. But there was something else. Something rotten. "What is it?"

"Something dead. Probably human." He pushed up to one knee. "Wait here."

"Count on it."

He gave her a smile and was off, dodging in zigzags toward the modest weather-beaten house. She saw him slam up against the house, kick open the door, then crouch into the dark room, his crossbow sweeping for a target. Then he was gone.

Tracy waited, ears straining for the sound of an arrow, a gun, a knife, a muffled cry for help. Maybe she was too far away to hear. Her stomach sloshed and growled, but otherwise there was silence.

Finally, Eric appeared at the door and waved at her to come up to the house. She waved back and he disappeared back into the house.

As she climbed slowly to her feet, pulling herself up with one crutch, something odd occurred to Tracy. Eric's crossbow had been fired. As he'd waved to her with one hand, his crossbow had been gripped in his other hand, but there was no bolt in it and the string was uncocked.

Had he fired at something? Or was someone in the house? Someone holding Eric prisoner and waiting for her to come too?

Tracy hopped slowly toward the house, her gun balanced awkwardly as she held it and maneuvered the home-made crutches at the same time. What would she do? Refuse to go any further? They might kill Eric. But if she kept going, they'd probably kill both of them. With both dead there was no chance of saving Tim. At least with her alive, she could try.

But would she? With Eric gone would she try to save Tim? Probably not, she admitted.

She kept moving toward the house.

They'd been watching the sky all day. Their faces were fearful, their sweaty hands clenched tightly around their weapons.

"Quit looking up," Fallows commanded. "The only thing you have to be afraid of is down here standing in front of you."

Still, the men moved slowly through the woods. Santa Barbara was a good twenty miles away. If they were going to get there in time to investigate whatever was going on, they'd have to quit dragging their asses and hurry. Fallows surveyed his men and smiled. Looks like they'd need some inspiration.

"Hey, Phelps." Fallows waved the tall ex-CHP officer over to him. "Got a cancer stick?"

"Sure, Colonel." Phelps dug into his cotton shirt and pinched a Virginia Slim out of the pack. "This is all I got."

"That's OK. We've come a long way, baby. Right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Damn right. But then we got a long way to go. Right?"

"Yes, sir."

Fallows snatched the ancient Zippo lighter from his pocket and flamed the cigarette. The rest of the men had stopped marching to wait for Fallows. A few kept glancing up at the sky.

Tim Ravensmith stood next to Fallows. Within arm's reach. He had Eric's Walther P.38 tucked into his waistband, but there were no bullets for the gun.

"You boys have been moving a bit slower than I like. We're behind schedule." He puffed smoke from the Virginia Slim up toward the sky. Then he bent over and picked up one of the soggy yellow flyers that were littered everywhere. "I get the feeling that you fellas don't trust my judgment. That so?"

"We trust you, Colonel," someone said. A chorus of agreement followed.

"Good. That's good." Fallows put his hand on Phelps's shoulders and turned him around to face the rest of the troops. Fallows stood directly behind Phelps now. "Because you have to trust me to know the way the tiny government mind works. I have no doubt that they wouldn't hesitate to conduct experiments that would be deadly to the inhabitants. Hell, many of you were in the service or worked as cops or firemen. You know what stupid things they're capable of doing."

There was murmured agreement.

"But you also know that this is not the place they'd try something like that. Nor is this"-he waved the flyer-"the way they'd go about doing it. They want something here. Or they want to do something here. I don't know what, but I know it will prove profitable for us."

They nodded support, but he could still see the fear in their eyes. Words would not be enough this time. They needed a more dramatic demonstration.

"Maybe they're dropping some kind of monitoring station. Something we can hold for ransom until they get us off this island." Fallows gently thumbed open the Zippo lighter. "We could be back on the mainland in a matter of weeks." He spoke loudly to cover the sound of his thumb flicking the flame to life. He touched the flame to the tail of Phelps's cotton shirt. It turned black at first, then a small flame ripped up the back of the shirt.

"Shit!" Phelps screamed, trying to swat at his back, thinking at first he'd been stung by some giant wasp. Then the flame was all over his back and he knew. "Help! God, help!"

Fallows booted him in the backside, sending him forward, arms windmilling to keep balance. "Now that's how I want you all to move. With speed and dedication. Like Phelps there."