Jason Frost - Warlord 04 - Prisonland (17 page)

D.B. wrinkled her nose at the memory of the grasshoppers.

As they walked, they saw the extra guards standing high in the guard tower, several with guns and bows on the roof of the main cell block, mostly staring out to sea, watching for Thor’s fleet.

“That’s what I figured out,” she said, pointing at all the guards. “Look at all those gun-toting women standing around.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My song. I’m going to write like a ballad about this place and sing it wherever I go. A troubadour, like we talked about.” She gestured excitedly.

“I remember.”

“I’ve even got the title of the song. Get this: ‘Amazons of Alcatraz.’ What do you think?”

“Catchy.”

“Yeah, it’s supposed to be. Gotta hook your audience right away. I’ve got some of the music written in my head, but I’m having trouble with the words. Maybe you can help me. If we ever get back and Kenny Rogers records it or something, I’ll split the bucks with you.”

Eric smiled, put his arm around her. “We’ll work on it over breakfast, okay?”

“Great!”

“Fifty-fifty on those royalties, right?”

She shook her head adamantly. “Sixty-forty. It was my idea. Besides, I don’t even know if you got the knack yet.”

“Boy, I need an agent just to have breakfast with you.”

“It’s a tough world.”

“I told you it was better than grasshoppers.”

“Just barely.” D.B. jiggled her bowl of fish soup. Chunks of fish bumped with the bits of tomato. “I saw this same soup in a movie once. Only it was being served to prisoners in a Siberian work camp.”

“Just eat it.” Eric tilted the plastic bowl and slurped the contents. No one had silverware.

“So when do we start?” D.B. asked, slurping her own soup.

“Start what?”

“Helping these people. Planning how to get the doctor here. Setting up some defenses.”

“I didn’t agree to do any of that.”

“Well, no, not exactly. You said you’d think it over.”

“Right. That’s what I’m doing now. Thinking it over.”

“But after meeting that Nestor creep and after,” she paused, lowered her voice, “last night with that woman. I mean, I thought that meant ...”

“You thought sleeping together was like shaking hands on a deal?”

She nodded.

“It doesn’t work that way, kid. I think Maggie would be insulted if she knew you thought that.”

“I don’t think so. I think she’d be more insulted to know that you fucked her and now you plan to leave her here to die.”

“I didn’t say that. I said I was still thinking it over.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Riva Tulane’s sharp voice preceded her as she worked her way through the crowd of eaters lined along the tables. She wore her blond hair up in a bun. Sweat covered her face and arms. It only made her more beautiful. She plopped her bowl of soup across the table from Eric and D.B. “Been in that damn kitchen for the last two hours cooking these smelly things.” She sniffed the bowl and winced. “Christ, it’s a wonder they don’t lynch me for making this.”

“Where’s the rest of the trinity.”

“You mean Maggie?” She gave him a sly look.

“I mean Maggie and Lynda.”

“Lynda took the first fishing shift. Two boats and a dozen lines. You’re eating what they caught. Maggie’s got the second shift. You’ll be eating that for lunch. Only difference is that there’ll be more tomatoes in it.”

“Swell,” D.B. said.

There was a minute of silence while they each sipped their soup. Then Riva asked, “Well, what’s your decision, bucko? You helping us or what?”

“I haven’t decided,” Eric lied.

“What’s to decide? You come over here and eat our food, fuck our women, then tip your hat and slink off.”

“That Maggie’s attitude too?” Eric said.

Riva laughed. “Maggie? She’s too trusting. Whatever happened between you two last night, she won’t mention it to you again. Wouldn’t want to unduly influence you. Me, I’d shovel the guilt on so thick you couldn’t move.”

“Tough guy.”

“Tough enough.” She pushed her bowl away, her face suddenly grim. “I didn’t get to be a household name by playing nice. That’s one thing ole Nestor Tulane taught me. To get where you’re going, you do what it takes. Whatever it takes.” She looked away for a moment. When she spoke, she was barely audible, as if she were speaking only to herself. “Maybe. I listened too well.”

Eric finished his soup, then finished what D.B. didn’t want.

“Anyway,” Riva said, her voice loud again, cynical. “You’re no better than he is. At least we know what kind of jerk Nestor is. But you just wander around using us. Not that I mind you humping Maggie. Hell, I wouldn’t have minded a bit of midnight passion myself. You’ve probably noticed the slim pickings around here. That’s one of the reasons a lot of the women back Nestor’s plan to negotiate with Thor. At least they’ll be around men. They don’t know what kind of men they’ll be dealing with. But you know, don’t you, Warlord? Yeah, you know.”

“He said he’d think about it,” D.B. yelled, more angrily than necessary.

“Yeah, that’s what he said. But I’ve got a sneaky feeling he’s already thought about it. And made up his mind. Right, bucko?”

Eric stacked D.B.’s bowl on top of his own. “Nice chatting with you, Riva.” He was about to get up when he saw Nestor Tulane elbowing his way through the diners toward him. Nestor’s broad face was tight with anger. Several of his toadies followed in his wake.

“Ravensmith!” he bellowed.

Eric sighed.

“Ravensmith!” Nestor stood in front of the table, his thick muscular arms crossed in front of his chest like a challenge. His followers caught up and stood guard behind them. The pretty dark-haired woman with the tattooed dragon peeking up over her breasts; a teenage boy with spiked hair and a wiseguy sneer; a weasely looking man born to follow.

“Jesus,” Riva said, “and I thought
breakfast
was hard to choke down.”

“Shut up, Riva,” Nestor said. Then to Eric, “I thought we’d had a nice little talk last night, Ravensmith.”

“You did all the talking, pal,” D.B. said.

Nestor looked surprised a moment, then grinned. “It speaks, huh? Too bad.”

Other diners turned and watched. The more heads focused on him, the louder and deeper Nestor’s voice got.

“What’s on your mind, Tulane,” Eric said.

“Same thing that was on it yesterday. Same thing that’s always on it. The good of this community.”

“Can I hear the abridged version?”

Nestor’s grin widened. “Sure. We had a deal. You keep your nose out of our business. You let the people of Alcatraz make up their own minds what kind of leadership they want.”

“Yeah!” the teenager said, looking at the crowd. A few others said “right” or “yeah” too.

“I haven’t decided about anything yet,” Eric said. “I’m just eating breakfast.”

“That’s not all he’s been eating,” the tattooed woman said.

“We heard about last night,” Nestor said. “You and Maggie Shreeve.”

Eric shrugged. “Some grapevine.”

“People like me. They tell me things.”

“Fine. Just as long as you don’t try to tell me things.”

Nestor planted his hands on the table top and leaned toward Eric. “I’m telling you to stay out of it.”

“Don’t worry about him,” Riva said. “He was never in it.”

“Shut up, Riva,” Nestor said.

“Fuck you.”

“You did, sweetheart, remember? And so did your little black friend, Maggie. And that moose, Lynda. And—”

“That was a long time ago, bucko. People know you a little better now. Besides, the only reason they did it with you was because you’d had a vasectomy and they knew there was no chance of another creature like you being born.”

Nestor’s face was red with anger. “Yeah? The only reason I got into bed with you losers was so you wouldn’t become dykes. I was too late.”

“Hell,” Riva laughed, “I’d rather be a dyke than sleep with you again.”

Eric stood up and started walking away. Nestor and Riva were still snapping at each other. Eric hadn’t gotten more than a few steps away when the first slap cracked through the air. He kept going.

Then more yelling and another slap and the sounds of empty bowls clattering to the floor.

“Stopit!”D.B. shouted.

Eric took a deep breath and turned.

Nestor stood over Riva, who was lying on the floor, holding her face. Red welts that matched Nestor’s fingers were branded across her cheek. Tears welled in her eyes, but more from anger than pain. She was still hollering in his face. Nestor raised his hand to strike her again.

“Don’t, “ Eric said quietly.

Nestor looked at him. “What?”

“Don’t hit her. You’ve made your point.”

The teenage boy, himself almost as big as Nestor, took a step forward. “Buzz off, asshole.”

Nestor smiled. “My friends are very loyal.”

“To a fault, it seems.”

Nestor looked Eric over, the smirk on his face indicating he wasn’t too impressed by what he saw. Indeed, Eric was a smaller man, less bulky. “Listen, Ravensmith, you may be Warlord to a bunch of frightened kids down south, but here you’re no warlord. More like Warthog. How do you like your new name?”

“Has a ring to it. Thanks.” Eric smiled, turned, and started to walk off.

“Hey, Warthog, I’m not done.”

Eric turned back.

“You think you’re the only one around here who’s done some fighting? You think because I didn’t go to Vietnam I can’t handle myself? You think you’re the only one around here with muscles?”

In fact, Eric never gave his own body much thought, except for feeding it, keeping it alive so he could rescue Tim. His physique was indeed muscular, flared chest, trim flat stomach, hands flat and hard as shovels. But his muscles were just there, like his toes, his eyes. The result of running, climbing, fighting. Surviving. Nothing to be proud of.

“I’ll tell ya,” Nestor continued,, “I may have refined these muscles in some ritzy Beverly Hills health club, but I learned how to use them on the streets of the Bronx. You understand?”

“I think so,” Eric said. “You’re from New York, right?”

A few in the crowd laughed. Nestor turned around to see who they were and the laughter stopped. When he looked at Eric again, his eyes were blazing with hate.

“You think you come here and take our hospitality, fuck our women, and then make fun of us. That what you think?”

“Leave him alone,” Riva said, climbing back to her feet with D.B.’s help.

“I told you to shut up,” Nestor said and hit her again, knocking her back to the floor.

“Bastard!” D.B. said and punched him in the stomach.

Nestor didn’t flinch. He merely backhanded D.B. and sent her somersaulting over the table.

Eric walked over to Nestor. The people around the two men backed off a few feet even though Eric didn’t look as though he were going to fight. He didn’t look angry. His fists weren’t up. He merely stood there, a slight smile on his lips. The only thing that looked unusual was the scar that curled up his neck, along the jaw, and splotched onto his cheek. Somehow that looked paler, white as an albino snake.

Nestor looked down into Eric’s eyes. “Nothing personal,” he said so only Eric could hear. “It’s just politics.” Then he swung a right cross straight at Eric’s jaw.

But Eric moved so quickly, with such economy of motion, that it appeared he’d merely swatted a fly. Instead, he’d leaned to the side, allowing Nestor’s fist to swoosh over his shoulder, then popped back in front of Nestor, this time with his two fingers pronged into a stiff V. Then he jabbed lightly into Nestor’s eyes, temporarily blinding him. Nestor’s hands flew up to protect his eyes. Eric hooked the same two fingers into Nestor’s nostrils, yanked upward until Nestor screamed as if his nose were being torn off. Now that the head was hinged backward, Eric whipped his elbow into Nestor’s windpipe, just enough to bring him gagging to his knees, vomiting on the floor.

But it still wasn’t over.

Behind Nestor, the hulking teenager sprang at Eric, his hand brandishing a Swiss army knife. Next to him, the dark-haired woman with the dragon tattoo flicked open a straight razor, holding it like she’d used it before. They closed in on Eric.

Eric took the kid first, hopping up onto the table and kicking him in the face. The boy flew backward, sprawling into the women sitting at the next table. A couple were knocked off their seats, but the others just frowned and threw him back toward Eric. A white knob swelled on the kid’s forehead as he staggered back at Eric, this time holding the knife in his fist with the blade down so he could stab Eric’s foot, the same foot that had booted him in the head.

The woman with the razor was maneuvering around behind Eric, her razor ready. Riva grabbed at her but she sliced the razor through the air and laid open a six-inch gash along Riva’s forearm. Blood spilled down both sides of the arm.

All movement was orchestrated by the sound of Nestor’s dry heaves as he sucked for air.

The big kid lunged at Eric again, stabbing the knife down toward Eric’s foot. But Eric danced out of the way and the blade thudded into the wooden table. Eric kicked the boy again, first with his right foot, then with his left foot. The kid flopped back to the floor, knocking Nestor down as he landed in an unconscious heap.

Eric spun just as the dark-haired woman’s razor sizzled toward his crotch.

But her hand never made it all the way there.

The snap of elastic. A high-pitched whistling sound. The loud crack of stone smacking bone. The dark-haired woman’s scream as she dropped the razor and brought her hands groggily to her face where blood webbed from the indentation between her eyes.

Eric jumped down from the table, dislodging the kid’s Swiss army knife before walking over to D.B. She was grinning at Eric. Several in the crowd applauded and she gave a playful curtsy to them. Others hooted angrily at her. She curtsied to them, too. Her slingshot dangled from one hand. A second stone was clutched in the other.

“Nice shot,” Eric said.

“Thanks.”

“Right between the eyes. One inch either way and you’d have hit her in the eye.”

“What do you think I was aiming for?”