Jason Frost - Warlord 05 - Terminal Island (10 page)

“I didn’t stop to think.”

Fallows ignored the implication. “That’s the mark of a good soldier. Reaction. Muscle memory. The body moving before the mind slows it down.”

Tim shrugged. “It’s done.”

“Yes, it’s done. Now what?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you keep fighting me, or do you join me? Accept that it’s better to rule in hell than serve in heaven.”

“John Milton said that. My dad taught me.”

“What would he answer to that?”

Tim thought a moment. “Probably that it’s better to rule in heaven.”

Fallows laughed. “Yes, that’s exactly what he would say.” Then Fallows’ face went grim. “But he was always overambitious. In trying to doublecross me, in trying to protect his family, in trying to get you back.” Fallows stood up. “My ambitions are more modest. But they come true.”

Tim didn’t say anything. There was truth to what Fallows said. But it felt like a trap, a possible checkmate in three moves.

“We’re going back into San Diego again. We have enough gold for now. I think maybe it’s time to get you a woman. Interested?”

Tim turned away. How many nights had he listened while the others had taken women (and sometimes boys) in their tents. Sometimes he heard the moans of pleasure, sometimes the shrieks of pain and terror, depending on the mood of the men and how rough they were. At first they had kept Tim tied up, now they let him roam about, though there was always one or two men keeping him in sight. Tim had to admit, there were times when he felt an urge, a need to be next to a girl.

“You can decide later,” Fallows said. “Meantime, you’ll need this.” He took his Walther out of his holster and tossed it to Tim. Tim caught it by the grip. The last time Fallows had given him a gun, Tim had fired at Fallows. But the gun had been empty, a trick. Now Tim just held it. “It’s loaded,” Fallows assured him. “If you shot me now, there wouldn’t be anything I could do about it.”

Tim looked at the gun. The clip was in. But were there any bullets in the clip? Perhaps Fallows had a sniper in the brush with his sights trained on Tim’s back.

“Go ahead, Tim. Check the clip.”

Tim released the clip. It was full. He slapped it back into the grip. The firing pin could be busted, he thought.

Fallows laughed, as if he could read Tim’s mind. “Shoot it at a tree. It works.”

But Tim knew it would fire. He knew the gun was perfect, he could tell from the look in Fallows’ eyes. He could shoot him right now, kill him. Then why didn’t he?

Checkmate.

“It’s yours now, Tim,” Fallows said, turning his back and walking toward the camp.

Tim watched him go. He thought about shooting, but the gun seemed so damn heavy, impossible to lift. Then Fallows was gone.

Tim stuffed the gun in his waistband and followed Fallows back to camp.

Eric kicked the wire cage. It flexed but did not break. Next door they could hear the frantic chatter of monkeys hooting and scampering around their own cage. Eric kicked the wire mesh again and the monkeys’ voices rose excitedly.

“Think they’re laughing at us?” D.B. asked, sitting in the corner.

“Why not?” Eric said. “I am.”

He continued to explore the small room. It was about the size of a walk-in closet. The other three walls of their prison were beige cement, too solid to break through. He tested the strength of the wire mesh again, then inspected the small feeding door at the back of the cage. The whole building was a series of such rooms, each facing out so the spectators could walk all the way around the building viewing the different types of monkeys.

“What now, bwanna?” D.B. asked.

Eric was on hands and knees, rapping on the feeding door, looking for weaknesses. “Maybe you could lead us all in a rousing chorus of ‘We Shall Overcome.’ ”

“I’d like to overcome this smell. Christ, what do these apes do?”

“Guess.”

She made a face. “Yuck. I thought they were supposed to be so clean, you know, the way you always see them picking fleas outta each other’s fur.”

Frustrated, Eric stood up and kicked at the feeding door, which brought nothing more than another enthusiastic clamor from their neighbors and a searing jolt of pain along Eric’s tender ribs. He sighed and sat down next to D.B. “They’re not picking fleas, they’re grooming. Big difference.”

“Grooming, huh? Like one of them is a hairdresser or something? They all call him Mr. Chimp?”

Eric laughed. “Something like that. It’s partially hygiene, but mostly socializing. Sometimes they do it just to soothe each other, like massages. Sometimes it’s a matter of social status. Depending on your rank in the group, you mostly either give or get. Females have it worse. They groom the male for about ten minutes, he gives them back an obligatory 30 seconds, then they give him another ten minutes.”

“The usual male bullshit,” she teased.

“Just remember that it’s a woman who’s got us locked up in here.”

D.B. reached over and gently placed her hand on Eric’s sore ribs. “How they holding up? You took some heavy tenderizing from that ape.”

“At least I showed him who was higher on the evolutionary scale.”

“Yeah,” she laughed. “It was clever the way you let him tire himself out crushing you.”

Eric took a deep breath, felt the sharp sting as his lungs expanded against his battered ribcage. He could still feel those hard bristly arms coiled around his body. He was sure that if he lifted his shirt he would discover the perfect imprints of thick primate muscles on his bruised skin, every sinew perfectly embedded as if in wet sand.

“When’s feeding time around here?” D.B. asked. “I’m hungry.”

“You think she’ll waste precious food on us?”

“Tarzana? Sure, she’ll feed us. Why starve us to death? She could’ve shot us last night, or let her ape do the mashed potato on our heads.”

Eric looked at her and smiled. “Tarzana?”

“That’s what I call her. Like Queen of the Apes. Maybe she was with a circus or something. An animal trainer.”

“Not likely. She used American Sign Language with the ape. That takes years of working with the same animal. Very specialized. She was probably with the zoo. Research maybe.”

D.B. had already lost interest in that topic. She fidgeted with her choke collar. “You think she’s a looker?”

Eric shrugged. “A little hairy, maybe, but sure.”

“I mean Tarzana. I’m no smart-ass history prof, but even I could tell that ape was a male.” She nudged Eric. “C’mon. Answer me.”

Eric could see she was serious. Sometimes it was hard to remember that even here in the violent world under the Halo, kids still had the same growing pains as those outside. “Yes. She is attractive.”

D.B. nodded wisely. “Guys always go for those Oriental types.”

“I’m not going for anything, except your throat if you don’t knock it off. Let’s concentrate on getting out of here.”

“Sure. Got any ideas?” She smiled at him. “We could use my head for a battering ram.”

Eric reached over and mussed her hair. “What wall would stand a chance?” He stood up, pressed his face against the wire, looked both ways. “I don’t see her anywhere. Let’s try kicking on that feeding door together.”

They lay on their backs next to each other, their knees tucked up to their chins.

Eric counted. “One, two,
three
. . .” On three, they both stomped their feet straight ahead, whacking the door with all four feet. But to no effect. The door remained locked.

They tried again. And again.

Nothing.

D.B. rolled away, hugging her sore feet. “I’ll never polka again.”

Eric kicked the door a few more times by himself. He knew it was no use, but he had to try something. The monkeys next door were screeching and wailing like irate neighbors in an apartment building.

“Uh oh,” D.B. said. “Guess who’s coming to dinner.”

Eric turned, saw the huge silverback ape who’d bounced him around last night. The ape ambled up and pressed his leathery face against the cage. He peered in, tilting his head quizzically.

Eric and D.B. slowly climbed to their feet, the ape watching them with obvious curiosity. His head was large, the huge flared nostrils looking like twin volcano craters. The corneas of his eyes were tinted red. His head and body were covered with shaggy black fur, except for a saddle of silver fur spanning his back.

The monkeys in the adjoining cages were practically hysterical now, screaming and thumping. The big silverback hopped backward a few steps, glared at the monkeys on both sides. They fell silent. The gorilla waddled back to D.B. and Eric’s cage.

D.B. looked him over. “Once you get used to the smell, he’s kinda cute.”

Eric didn’t respond. He was staring at the ape, thinking.

D.B. recognized his stance. The grim expression, the fixed eyes. He was changing even as she watched him. Not like those Lon Chaney movies where he turns into a wolfman with hair sprouting out of his forehead. The change in Eric was more subtle, yet just as dramatic. He was changing from the amiable professor, the caring companion, the big brother; changing into something primal, almost a state of pure energy. It was how she imagined him in Vietnam when he was with that elite group of government assassins, Night Shift.

His face tightened into a cold, hard visage, as stony as a primitive Mayan mask. The lips stretched thin and sharp. The white scar on his cheek pulsed like a slow crack working its way across a frozen glacier.

D.B. stepped back. Away from both of them. When he was like this his power was frightening. His concentration was so acute that his personality seemed to be snuffed out under the brighter hotter fire of his will. Gone was the sense of humor, the compassion. What was left was deadly efficiency.

The ape seemed to sense the change in Eric too. He rocked side to side, standing hunched, leaning on his knuckles. He curled his rubbery lips up, baring his chunky teeth at Eric.

Eric took a step toward the ape. He made some hand movements D.B. didn’t understand: he opened his right hand with his palm facing left, then dragged the tip of his thumb down his jawline, flicking the hand down to chest level. He repeated this three times.

The ape stared at Eric. He no longer bared his teeth. Instead he seemed a little calmer. He sat down in front of the cage.

“It’s working,” D.B. said, relieved.

Eric didn’t answer her. He started making a different hand movement: he opened his left hand, palm down; he stuck the index finger of his right hand straight out, pressed it under the flat left hand, and shoved it forward in a stabbing motion.

The ape leaped to his feet and slammed his fists into the cage. He threw his head back, pursed his lips, and started hooting. The monkeys in the other cages made frightened skittering noises. The giant black gorilla ran over to a nearby tree, yanked a few leaves off and pretended to eat. He threw the leaves away, grabbed a branch, tore it from the tree, and threw it against the cage. It bounced off the wire.

Eric continued to make the same hand movements. This only enraged the ape more. He beat his chest a few times. The sound was surprisingly loud, echoing like rolling thunder. He began stomping his feet and beating his chest in unison. He ran sideways back and forth, finally picking up a yellow trash can with “Pitch in!” stenciled on the side and hurling it at the cage.