Jason Frost - Badlands

Paige shook her head. "We won't help you get him back."

Eric smiled. "I know."

"I just wanted you to know that up front. We've got to understand each other right now."

"Oh, I think we understand each other, Dr. Lyons. Don't we?"

Paige didn't answer. "OK, everyone outside except Ms. Ammes. You can stay there for the time being. Once we're gone, though, I want this area secured with everything we've got."

"Including the mines?" Phil La Porte asked.

"Especially the mines." She grabbed Bart Piedmont's arm. "Go on, get out of here. Dr. Piedmont and I are checking out the flight deck upstairs first."

Eric walked over to Tracy, kissed her gently on the lips. She grabbed his shirt in her fist and pulled him down, crushing her lips against his. Everyone watched, the two soldiers exchanging winks, Steve Connors sulking from the humiliating blow Eric had given him, Bart Piedmont grinning, and Paige Lyons frowning, trying to ignore the warmth spreading along her hips and thighs.

"Take care, Eric."

"Sure," he said and led the others down the stairs.

Paige nudged Bart up the ladder to the flight deck. When they were upstairs, she closed the hatch to make sure they couldn't be heard. "Well," she asked him, "what do you think?"

"I think that we're lucky that guy happened along. Otherwise we'd probably all be dead by the time you returned."

"If he's telling the truth."

"Come on, Paige. You know he is."

"Yeah, probably."

Bart sighed, a grim look clenching his features. "You know our fuel situation, Paige. The computers are programmed to take off with only four people aboard. You, Steve, me and your father. The plan all along has been to leave Budd and La Porte behind, even though they don't know it. There's no way we can take the kid."

"I know."

"So what are you going to do? He's not the kind of man who'll let you back out of a deal."

"I know, Bart. I don't know what I'll do." She shook her head. "Kill him, I guess."

Fallows leaned against the pine tree and flipped the 9mm bullet into the air, caught it, flipped it up again. Tim squatted on the ground next to him, watching.

The rest of Fallows's men were making camp, following their routine silently, aware that Fallows was observing each one of them even when it looked like he wasn't. But even when the men were sure they were alone, they didn't complain. What for? Fallows might be the meanest bastard alive, but he was also the smartest. They lived better than any of the scum they'd come across in their travels. And there wasn't one thing that Fallows wanted that he hadn't managed to take. Who else on this damn island could make that claim?

"Catch," Fallows said, and flipped the bullet to Tim.

Tim caught it with one hand, opened his palm as if he wasn't sure he'd really caught it after all. But, yes, there it was. A 9mm bullet. A perfect match for his Walther. He didn't do anything with it, though. He watched Fallows, waiting for the trap.

"Smart kid." Fallows grinned, mussing Tim's hair.

Tim didn't budge. Fallows had taken to doing that a lot lately, mussing his hair or patting his back or hugging his shoulder. For the first time, these had become more frequent than the punches, bruises and burns. He didn't understand what Fallows was up to, but he knew it was something. Something creepy.

Tim examined the bullet sitting in the palm of his dirty hand like a jewel set in leather. He considered trying to load the bullet and shooting Fallows, but he knew he wasn't fast enough. He remembered Fallows's hard fingers wrapped around his own, forcing him to squeeze the trigger, forcing him to kill that man Dobbs. It had bothered him a lot at the time, not so much anymore.

"I want you to keep that bullet," Fallows was saying. "Keep it in your pocket. I don't ever want to see you loading that into your gun. You know I'll catch you if you try. Then I'll have to punish you. Right?"

"Right."

Fallows placed his foot against Tim's back. "Huh? I didn't hear you."

"Right, sir."

Fallows kicked Tim's back, sending him sprawling forward into the dirt. A few men glanced over their shoulders at them, but no one said anything.

Fallows had his heavy combat boot on the back of Tim's neck, pinning the boy's head to the ground. "Say what, Tim?"

"Right, sir."

"Louder."

"Right, sir!"

"Louder." He leaned his weight on Tim's neck. Tim moaned. "Louder, son."

"Right, sir!"

Fallows leaned back against the pine tree, lifting his foot from Tim's neck. His voice was calm, pleasant. "That's better. Now put the bullet in your pocket."

Tim slowly dragged himself to his knees. Dirt was smeared on the side of his face, powdered on his lips. He opened his fist and the bullet was still there. He shoved it into his pocket.

"And keep it there. One day I'm going to tell you to load it into your gun. But that's not until I'm certain that you know who your real benefactor is. Understand?"

Tim nodded. With the bullet out of sight, he didn't think about it anymore. He didn't think about his father or Fallows or escaping or anything. It was funny, but he wasn't even mad at Fallows for kicking him or stepping on him or anything. He hardly ever felt mad anymore. Or happy. Or anything. Sometimes he'd think about his mother, but not as much anymore. Sometimes he even had trouble remembering what she looked like. Another funny thing, sometimes Fallows would have to go off and do something and he'd leave Tim with a guard. Weird thing is, once or twice lately when that happened, Tim kind of missed Fallows. Not because he liked him or anything, it was more like: At least he was familiar; Tim knew what to expect. And Fallows talked to him all the time. Crazy talk, Tim used to think, only now he didn't know anymore. Maybe not so crazy.

"Hey, Ryan," Fallows yelled. "Get your ass out to the south perimeter and relieve Jose. Son of a bitch is likely to stay there all day."

"Right, Colonel," Ryan half-saluted with his M-16 and jogged off into the woods. Fallows was right about the big Mexican. He wouldn't budge unless Fallows told him to. He was a couple inches past six feet, used to fight as a heavyweight in Vegas and Atlantic City. Pounded the shit out of a couple contenders for a few rounds, but could never go the distance. Had white man's legs, they'd said, no endurance. But he was loyal to Fallows. Too dumb to be anything else.

"Jose." No answer. "Hey, Martinez." Ryan saw the huge bulk sitting up in the tree, his camouflage hat pulled low over his face, his carbine cradled in his arms. He didn't stir. "Asshole," Ryan muttered. He picked up a stone from the ground and hurled it at Jose. The rock popped off the trunk a foot from the Mexican.

"When I tell Fallows you was sleeping, man, he's gonna stuff your burrito, partner."

No reply.

Ryan walked up to the tree, slung the M-16 over his shoulder, and hung on one of the low branches, letting his weight shake the tree.

The big man in the tree stirred. "Hey, man?"

Ryan dropped from the branch and looked up. "Hey, man, your ass. Time for you to get back to camp, amigo."

But Jose just waved a hand at him, jamming his hat even further down on his face. That wasn't like Jose. Camp meant food to Jose, and no one in his right mind stood between Jose and food.

Ryan started to unsling his M-16, felt a stinging at the back of his neck, looked down in time to watch something slick with blood burst through his throat, and yank his whole body forward a few inches where the arrow stuck into the trunk of the pine tree, pinning his neck to the tree. Ryan tried to talk, but that only forced the air through the hole in his neck. Pink bubbles foamed around the arrow shaft and his throat. With what little strength he had left, he tried to pull his neck free from the arrow. He couldn't. The life drained from his legs, arms, chest. Everything turned heavy, petrified. He passed out and the weight of his body pulled the arrow out of the tree as he fell. He died seven seconds later.