Jason Frost - Badlands

Christ, what had he done back there? Slapped her. She'd never forgive him for that. Never. What had come over him? He'd never hit a woman before, never even came close. But she'd gotten him so angry, ordering him around, flirting with that bastard Ravensmith. He had no choice now. The only way he could redeem himself with her was to find her father or the papers and get them safely back to the shuttle. It was his only hope.

He moved through the woods using the fox walk, just as they'd taught him. His sergeant's Bronx accent rang in his ears now: "Don't none of yous get out dere and walk like yous usually do. Clomp, clomp wit yer heads down and big strides. In da woods you'd scare da animals, sos if da VC ain't hoid ya before, dey hoid yous now. Walk like da fox, short, smooth strides, rolling yer foot from da outside to da inside. Body and head erect, like yer dicks is most of da time."

Steve was pleased as he tramped silently using the fox walk. He'd pause every few hundred yards to listen, but he didn't hear or see any movement. Fallows and his men must be further behind than Ravensmith thought. But just to be safe, he'd start circling soon, covering his tracks. Once Fallows was past him, he could move much faster.

Something came to his mind as he fox walked through the dark forest. A line of poetry of all things. Paige was always trying to get him to read poems and sometimes he'd picked up one of her books just to make her think he actually enjoyed it. He didn't. Still, that line suddenly popped in his head. "The woods are lovely, dark and deep." He didn't remember who wrote it, or what came next. Just one of those things. Maybe when this was all over he'd ask Paige.

Enough backtracking, he thought, and started to veer off into a wide arc. He'd walked less than ten feet from the tracks Eric had left so plainly for Fallows to follow when he heard a rustling in the tree above him. He swiveled the SPAS shotgun up and looked for a target. A man was aiming an M-16 at him. Steve pulled the trigger and the twelve-gauge blew a mushy hole through the man's chest. He dropped from the tree, smacking three or four branches on the way down.

Suddenly, Steve watched the ground open around him as two men who'd been buried in shallow holes and covered with leaves and dead branches popped up with their guns aimed at his head.

One of the men went over to the dead man, prodded him with his boot. Shook his head at his partner.

"Well, well," the partner said, more annoyed than angry. "Get his stuff."

The first gunman stripped the weapons from the dead man.

"What are you going to do?" Steve asked, his voice quivering despite himself.

"That ain't the question, sonny." The second gunman chuckled. "It's what you're gonna do that counts."

"What do you mean?"

"He wants to know what I mean," the first gunman said.

The second gunman grinned. "Let's surprise him."

Col. Dirk Fallows ran his thick calloused hand over his short white hair. The stiff bristles flexed back like the plastic teeth of a comb. "Well, boys, any ideas?"

Cyrus Phelps said, "I think we oughta soak some rawhide in water, see, then tie it real tight around his balls. Then when the sun comes out and dries the rawhide, see, it tightens and crushes his nuts. I read that in a book, I think."

Fallows shook his head. "It's the middle of the night, Phelps. We don't have time to wait for the damned sun to come out."

Phelps shrugged. Hell, he'd tried.

Fallows gazed at Steve Connors, sitting against that big pine tree with his knees huddled against his chest, trying not to look scared and failing miserably. Good, Fallows thought, he's got plenty to be scared about. Listening to a few more lunatic ideas ought to put him in just the right mood. "Anybody else?"

"I don't know, maybe." Dean Leyson stepped forward. He'd served with Fallows in 'Nam. "Remember the time on the Delta, you stripped that guy, some dumb-fuck farmer, and strapped his head to a jigsaw. Then you attached that plastic garbage bag to his butt and dick so that if he had to go to the bathroom, it would go in the bag. Only thing is, you rigged it so any weight in that bag would flip the switch and start the saw. Man, funniest thing I'd ever seen. Thought that gook was gonna explode. Too bad we had to leave early. What do you think happened to him, Colonel?"

Fallows grinned. "What do you think?"

"Yeah." Leyson grinned back. "Yeah."

Someone else, Driscol, said, "We don't got no saw, Leyson, and no electricity. Christ, Colonel, let's just start chopping bits of him off and he'll talk soon enough."

"Right to the point, eh, Driscol?" Fallows said.

"Hell, every minute we fart around here they're getting further away." Suddenly fearing he may have said too much, he quickly added, "Sir."

Fallows reached over, snared Tim around the shoulders, and pulled him forward. "What do you think, Tim? What should we do to make this man talk?"

Tim looked around. Dozens of hard, cruel eyes stared at him, waiting. And then the sad eyes of that man by the tree. "I don't know."

"Come on, Tim. This man knows where your father is. Now that we're sure he's alive, don't you want to know where he is?"

Tim shrugged. "No."

"I see you're still not cured. Still not convinced of where your loyalties belong."

"If what you've told me is correct," Tim said, "and my father has abandoned me, then why would I want to find him?"

"Vengeance, son. It's what makes the world go 'round."

"I see no profit in that. All it can get us is more dead men. For what?"

Fallows smiled. The son of a bitch was learning fast. Fallows didn't dare look at his men because he knew what they were thinking. That the kid was right. Where's the profit? Was what they were going after worth risking their lives? These men needed a carrot dangling before they'd get up in the morning. If someone dared take a vote right now for leader, Fallows suspected the kid might just be a candidate. Too much of his father in him, even at thirteen.

"You're absolutely right, Tim. Vengeance doesn't feed a hungry stomach. What was it Brecht said? 'First eat, and then tell right from wrong.' "

"No," Tim said. "It goes, 'First feed the face, and then tell right from wrong.' From The Threepenny Opera."

A couple of men chuckled and Fallows whipped around to look at them. The chuckling stopped. He glared at Tim with such intensity that the boy looked like he wanted to back away. But he didn't. He stared into Fallows's pale eyes without flinching. His father's son, all right. Fallows composed himself, forced a smile. "Well, it's nice to know Eric taught you something. Meantime, we need to find out why your father hooked up with this bozo, and what it has to do with that plane we saw. That's when we discover the profit." He turned to Steve Connors. "I need to know three things from you." He counted off on his fingers. "One, where's Ravensmith? Two, where's the plane? And three, what's your mission?"

Steve Connors peered over his knees at the men surrounding him. Especially at Fallows. Even in the dark, Fallows's eyes were so pale it almost looked like he had no pupils, just white slits like some movie alien.

Steve hugged his knees to keep warm. He knew he was dead meat. No way was this bunch going to let him walk. The only question he had now was how would he act. Would he spill everything and beg for mercy? Would he bawl like a baby, snot running down his nose, blabbering incoherently? Or would he have the guts to spit in their faces and take what they dished out without talking? It was the topic of many heated debates with other pilots, what they would do if they were shot down and captured. Some admitted they'd talk right away. Some said they wouldn't talk no matter what. Steve Connors had never been sure.