Jason Frost - Badlands

Eric pulled Tracy close. "They'll search this place sooner or later. But at least from here we have the high ground and some cover. With some luck and in this dark, we might be able to take them. Or at least enough of them to make the others reconsider."

"Take them? You don't really believe that, do you?"

"Yes," he said.

She shrugged. "I like my lies better."

Eric pushed open the door. The room was even darker than the outside. But his night vision was excellent and he made his way across the room to the window without stepping on anything. Tracy held onto the crossbow slung over his shoulder, following his steps.

"Christ," she said, shuddering. "Look."

Huddled in the corner was a nest of rats, fat as opposums. There were at least four of them, but bunched together like that in the dark, it was hard to tell. They didn't bother to run, just twitched their noses at the intruders and continued burrowing in the corners.

"Don't worry about them," Eric said. "It's the rats outside we got to keep an eye on." He unslung the crossbow from his back and rested it against the wall. He drew the Walther P.38 from his waistband.

"I never saw so many goddamn bones," one of the men outside said. "Piles of 'em everywhere."

"What're you, a fuckin' archaeologist?" Dobbs said. "You wanna study bones, let's catch Ravensmith and his bitch first. Then you can jump her bones."

A few of them laughed.

Dobbs stood in the middle of the street, leaning against an overturned Toyota. He was pretending to rest, but Eric could see his eyes sweeping the stores, searching. Even if he saw Eric he probably wouldn't tip. He'd just keep standing there, leaning, probably yawn. Then in a couple of minutes he'd gather them up and tell them real loud to move on to the next street. Within five minutes the place he'd spotted Eric would be nothing but dust and rubble. Yeah, Eric decided, Dobbs knew what he was doing.

Across the street was an empty lot. The huge banner stretched across the whole lot, attached to a small white trailer on cinder blocks. The sign read: SANTA CARLOTTA'S CAR LOT. LOTTA CARS, LOTTA DEALS, LOTTA FINANCING. 12.9%. NOT USED, JUST EXPERIENCED.

A couple of Dobbs's men stood there scratching their heads. Eric gauged the distance. The window had no glass, so that was no obstacle. He waved Tracy away from the window, pivoting away himself. He checked his bow, made sure the bolt was snug against the string, took a deep breath, hinged around in front of the window long enough to fire the arrow, then swung to the other side next to Tracy.

"Unngh." The grunt was loud enough to carry across the street.

The man standing next to Eric's target began to shout. "Shit! Shit, man. He got Hiller. Hiller's fucking down."

Eric peeked around the edge of the window, saw Dobbs drop to the ground and wedge his body close to the Toyota, his M-16 pointing at no place in particular. "Drew?"

"Yeah?"

"What's Hiller's status?"

"His status? Dead, man. That's his status. A fucking arrow in his chest."

"Where'd it come from?"

"I dunno. We were just standing there, figuring where to look next. Then, zing, Hiller's trying to yank this arrow outta his chest. Jesus."

"That leaves five," Eric told Tracy.

"Right. And two of us."

"Hey, Drew?" Dobbs again.

"Yeah?"

"The arrow. How'd it go into his chest?"

"How? Through his heart, that's how."

"No, you dink, I mean the angle. What kinda angle? Up, down, sideways?"

"I dunno."

"Check."

Silence.

Eric cocked the bow and slid in another bolt. He aimed at Drew who was crawling out from under the trailer, bellying along the twelve yards of gravel between his cover and his dead buddy. He fired.

The bolt sank into Drew's back between the shoulder blades. He could see Drew squirming as he tried to reach behind his back to pluck the arrow free. He died trying.

Suddenly the window sill exploded in a clamor of splinters and dust.

"Up there!" Dobbs shouted, firing another blast of bullets through the window.

The rats shrieked out a protest, but didn't move. However it came out, they'd eat well.

"Oops," Tracy said.

Eric shrugged. "It was a matter of time before they figured out where we were. At least now there's only four left."

"Four of them. Two of us. One window." Tracy checked her Colt Magnum. "What's the plan, General?"

"We wait. No point in trying to sneak out. At least from up here they've got to come to us."

"They could always wait for reinforcements."

"They could. But they won't. They aren't that smart."

"Not smart like us. Trapped in a hotel with a family of rats." She looked over at the rats. "Boy, are we laughing, huh, fellas?"

Eric cocked his bow, wedged a bolt along the brass runner. Placed it on the floor. He held his Walther P.38 in a two-fisted grip next to his cheek, jumped in front of the window, and squeezed off a round aimed at the base of the Toyota where Dobbs had been snuggled. He knew Dobbs wasn't there anymore, but he had to find out just where they were.

As soon as he fired, he dove to the side, just barely glimpsing the flashes as four guns fired simultaneously. The window frame was pulverized from four different angles.

"Well," Tracy said, "did you kill that damned Toyota?"

"It won't bother us again."

"Whew." He felt her body pressed up behind his as they hugged the wall. She was trembling, but fighting it. She'd been through worse before. But from the beginning she'd been tough about it. Sure, he'd been tough too, but she'd gone him one better. She'd gotten tough without losing her compassion. That was something he couldn't always claim about himself.

The gun flashes had identified where they were but not where they'd stay. By now they had probably shifted to new locations. So should he and Tracy.

"Come on. Let's try another room."

"Yeah, maybe they've got one with Magic Fingers in the bed."

"Sure. Got any quarters?"

They were duck-walking along the floor when they heard the heavy thud on the floor.

Eric saw it immediately. Apple green. RGD-5 in Cyrillic written on the side. Inside were 110 grams of TNT hooked to a percussion fuse with a delay of 3.2 to 4.2 seconds. How much of that precious time had already elapsed?

It was less than a second from the time the grenade came through the window and bounced on the floor to when Eric had bumped Tracy through the open door into the hall. Tracy shoved open the door opposite their room and continued on through. It was only as she took her first step that she realized there was no floor beneath her feet. She was falling. She grabbed for Eric, caught him off balance, and pulled him through too.

They barely felt the explosion as they dropped through the darkness.

Col. Dirk Fallows sat next to the campfire, poking at the burning logs with his knife. The same knife he'd used to carve that scar along Eric Ravensmith's jaw and neck while they were both in Vietnam. On his lap sat the Walther P.38 his men had brought back, the one they claimed belonged to Eric.

"Quiz time, kid."

Timmy Ravensmith, thirteen, sat on the ground within arm's reach of Fallows. Always within arm's reach.

"You hear me, kid?"

Timmy nodded, rolled up his left shirt sleeve, exposing bruised and scabbed skin.

"Yccch," Fallows said. "Starting to look nasty. Better use the other arm."

Timmy brushed down the left sleeve, rolled up the right one. He shifted so the arm was within reach of Fallows. There were fewer bruises and scabs, but not by much.

"OK. Let's see, we'll start with the easy ones first. What kind of gun is this?"

Timmy looked up at it with dull, lifeless eyes. "Walther."

"Walther what?"

"P.38."

Col. Dirk Fallows grinned. "Very good." He patted the holstered gun riding his hip. "Just like mine. Your daddy has good taste in guns. Had good taste."