Jason Frost - Badlands

"Not if I get there sooner. And at this rate-" she glanced at her watch-"I'll be there in another two or three hours."

"Not if I don't lead you back."

"OK, add on another hour or two. I may not be Gertrude Girl Scout, but I've had survival navigation. I'll find my way."

Eric grinned. "Maybe."

Paige looked a little uncertain. "Look, Eric, I'm not trying to foul you or your boy up. I mean, you did save my life and everything. But I've got responsibilities too. With Steve gone we should have room for you. Maybe even squeeze on your lady friend. But we're not waiting around while that madman and his army come marching toward us, with you single-handedly trying to take your son away from him. You come back to the States with us, find another way back, maybe with some troops of your own. That's my final offer, and it's the best one you're going to get. Otherwise, I'm heading out on my own right now. So make up your mind."

Eric watched her pick up her gun and march away through the woods. He let her go.

Fallows rigged the wires to the batteries and punched the Play button. Isolated piano notes staggered through the tinny speaker. After listening to it half a dozen times, he was able to correlate the notes to the letters and numbers of the code. Some code, he thought. But poor Dr. Lyons probably hadn't had time for anything too elaborate.

"Phelps, come here." He waved.

"Sure, Colonel." Phelps left the circle of men who were sitting in the garage of the Union 76 station, what was left of it. The garage part of the building was still pretty intact, complete with a yellow diesel Rabbit parked inside. Someone had long ago drained the oil and fuel from the car and from the station. The other half of the building, the one with the office containing the rack of local state maps and vending machines and bathrooms, had been sheared off when the ground split during the quake. A ragged fissure zigzagged along the ground as far as one could see in either direction. The half with the garage had sunk, leaving the other half of the station on the other side of a ten-foot crevice, eight feet higher.

"What's up, Colonel?" Phelps asked, absently scratching himself.

Fallows said, "Listen." He played the piano notes. "What's that sound like to you?'

Phelps continued scratching himself. "Shit, I dunno. Sounds like some dude don't know how to play the piano."

Fallows turned to Tim, who sat within arm's reach on the edge of the gas pump island, next to the unleaded. "What do you think, Tim? Some tone-deaf Beethoven?"

Tim listened again, though he'd heard it every time Fallows had played it. "No, there's a pattern, but it's not based on sound. Probably a code."

"A code, kid?" Phelps guffawed. "You been playin' with yourself too much."

"He's right, Phelps," Fallows said. "It's a code."

Phelps face crumpled. "Sure, Colonel, a code. But what for?"

"You can get back with the others now," Fallows said.

Phelps hesitated, fighting his anger and embarrassment, not wanting to say anything Fallows would make him regret. He wandered back to the rest of the men.

Fallows listened to the tape a few minutes longer. Mentally he transposed notes with corresponding numbers and letters. A gift, really. Perfect pitch. His piano teacher had fussed over young Dirk Fallows, encouraging the lad to develop his remarkable talent even further. "You could be great," Mr. Letweller had rhapsodized. "Perhaps among the best." But Dirk's mastery of the instrument had come so easily, as with many other things, he became bored with it. He wanted something more active, more exciting. Skydiving, hot-rodding, mountain climbing. Dirk Fallows's hair had turned completely white by the time he was eighteen; some joked it had burned out on all of Dirk's dangerous exploits. Doctors theorized it might have been a vitamin deficiency, a kind of birthmark.

He punched the Stop button. "We'll be there in a few hours, Tim. Give the men a chance to rest up first, then we march straight for that shuttle."

"What makes you think it will still be there? My father and that astronaut won't rest. They could be there and take off."

Fallows grinned. "I know your father pretty well. Better than you realize. She may want to get back and take off, but not your dad. He'll come back."

"For me," Tim said.

"For me," Fallows said. "I told you, if he'd wanted you, he'd have grabbed you by now."

Tim didn't say anything. He reached into his pocket and fondled the thick bullet.

Fallows looked away, but still watched Tim. Good, the longer he kept the bullet, the more he'd lose his desire to use it. It would become more of a charm then. Fallows had seen the same brainwashing technique in Cambodia. Give the prisoner a small weapon, but within circumstances that make it suicidal to use it. The longer they don't use it, the more they convince themselves that there's a reason why they don't. That they don't really want to harm their captors. That, in fact, the captors trusted them with a weapon, so they must care. Loyalties become confused. Looking at Tim, Fallows realized it was only a matter of time.

Fallows smiled to himself. Soon he and Tim would be aboard the Columbia and on their way back to civilization. Part of him would miss this place. He liked its rawness, the potential to become anything. In time, maybe even a monarchy, a kingdom, with you-know-who playing the part of the wise king. His only regret was that he hadn't killed Eric. That desire was an ache deep inside him that was always there. Beating a reminder. But maybe this was even better. Yeah, leaving the island with Eric's son, and poor Daddy unable to follow, having to live the rest of his life here knowing his only son was being raised by his worst enemy. He chuckled to himself. Yes, that was even better than killing him, letting him slowly kill himself.

"Coming in, Colonel," Eli Palmer called through the brush.

Fallows stood up, reached for his Walther. What was Palmer doing back here so soon? He was supposed to be stationed on the southeast perimeter keeping watch.

"Move it, bitch," Palmer said, stepping through the underbrush onto the road. He shoved Paige Lyons in the back with her own HK 93 and she stumbled face-forward into the buckled pavement. Shards of macadam dug into her palms and arms. Palmer kicked her buttocks. "Move your fucking ass before I blow it off."

Paige struggled to her knees, brushing off some of the pebbles that were embedded in her palm.

"Faster," Palmer barked, grabbing her blond ponytail in his fist and yanking her to her feet. Then he started running, dragging her after him. "Hup, hup, hup." He laughed.

Fallows was smiling, hands on his hips, as Palmer gave her a final rough tug on her hair.

"Found her sneaking through the woods about a mile south."

Fallows nodded. "Following the same trail they'd taken up."

"Just like you figured," Palmer said.

"Where's Ravensmith, Dr. Lyons?" Fallows asked politely.

Paige pecked at the pebbles in her hand, digging one large one out of her thumb. Blood swelled into the tiny hole. "I don't know."

Fallows's right hand lashed out and clamped around her throat, his thumb denting her windpipe. "Are you sure?"

Paige looked into Fallows's face for the first time and felt a tremor of terror as if her whole insides were suddenly shrinking. The eyes, so pale they reminded her of special contact lenses they use in the movies for vampires. The bristly white hair like a thicket of snow-covered thorns. The mouth, thin and sharp. If his lips were pressed against paper and he smiled, he would probably shred the paper. But even more than the physical features was the sense of energy. Relentless throbbing energy ready to flood and drown anybody around him.