Jason Frost - Warlord 05 - Terminal Island (4 page)

Deena chuckled. “You need help, Tommy?”

Tommy spun around, glared at Deena. Obviously a candidate for husband number four, Eric thought. Tommy then turned back to D.B. and socked her hard in the jaw, sending her sprawling backward to the ground. She lay there, dazed, her body barely moving. Tommy squatted beside her, forced her mouth open, and checked her teeth.

“One,” he said happily.

“Tote that tooth, lift that biscuspid,” Deena said.

Tommy jammed his pliers into D.B.’s mouth. He started tugging, lifting D.B.’s sluggish head from the ground.

Eric watched a moment. He looked at Deena, at the others, all rapt in Tommy’s actions like hungry wolves watching a rabbit being disembowled. It would be stupid to try anything against them. Too many. What was one lousy tooth compared with their lives? He had been trained to ignore emotion, he reminded himself. But watching Tommy’s gleeful attack on helpless D.B., Eric decided to indulge himself. His movements were swift and sudden, too quick for anyone to stop him.

Eric took three running steps forward, brought his right leg back, and kicked Tommy’s jaw as hard as he could. Tommy’s head snapped back with a terrible crack, flipping him in a backward arc away from D.B. The pliers flew into the dirt.

A dozen guards quickly thrust their weapons against Eric’s chest and back, but Eric had stopped moving anyway. He stood and waited as D.B. struggled to her feet, rubbing her jaw. She winked at Eric. “My hero. Kinda like the tooth fairy in reverse.”

The young boy in the white tuxedo squatted over Tommy, listening at his chest. He shook his head. “Not a peep. I think his neck is busted.”

Deena sighed. “He couldn’t do much right.”

“Can I have the gloves,” the boy asked, already tugging them off Tommy’s limp hands.

Deena walked up to Eric. “Pretty soon you’re going to have made a complete wardrobe for the boy.”

“Let us go,” Eric said. “We don’t want anything from you.”

Deena laughed. “But we want something from you.” She gestured to the others. “Strip them naked,” she commanded.

Dozens of hands began pulling at Eric and D.B.’s clothing.

“Not bad,” Deena said, staring at Eric’s naked body. Her eyes drifted from the thick chest muscles down the narrow waist, the cubed stomach muscles. She lingered on his penis and grinned. “You got a name?”

“You asking me or my penis?”

Deena laughed. “You’re funny. It would be a shame to kill you without sampling the goods.”

“As long as you share,” a bearish bearded man from the crowd said. He stepped forward wearing a high school letter sweater with a hole above the heart. An ancient dark stain ringed the hole. The letter was a large white L with a basketball embedded in it. He tapped a long machete against his thigh. His cold eyes stared into Eric’s. “Sharing is the sign of a wise leader, Deena.”

“Which do you want, Edgar?” Deena asked him. “Him or her?”

Edgar’s smile curled his lips, revealing small yellowed teeth. “Both.”

“You’re too greedy, Edgar. Always have been.”

“Always will be,” Edgar chuckled.

Deena said to Eric, “Usually he settles for the bodies we dig up, if they’re not too ripe. You can see why it’s so tough to find a good husband around here.”

“Dating is hard,” Eric said.

Deena laughed. “I’m going to hate to lose you.”

“But you will. Right?”

She shrugged. “Eventually. Either you try something stupid again and we’ll have to kill you. Or we sell you off with her. No offense, but sexy young girls bring a lot more than guys, even guys in your kind of shape. Finally a society that recognizes a woman’s true worth.”

Eric watched her strut in front of him, reminding everyone who was in charge. Actually she was quite attractive, even with the missing eye and ear. Her face had the lean sharp lines of a model, the angles that all led to her mouth, full and wide and cruel. Her body was long, slim-hipped but not boyish. She wore bib overalls with nothing underneath. The bib part barely covered her large breasts. Hard muscles were layered across the top of her chest and down her arms, hinting at the power beneath. The scars over her eye and ear seemed almost decorative, exotic marks, like beauty spots or punk make-up. Maybe he’d just seen too many scars by now to be affected. Or maybe he had too many of his own.

He stood with his hands at his sides, not wanting to appear afraid or ashamed. The object now was to stay alive. Not just for his sake or D.B.’s, but for Tim. Someone had to steal Tim back from Fallows. And no one else but Eric would be crazy enough to try.

Deena stood in front of him now, barely brushing his body as she reached up and let her finger trace the long scar that started at the base of his neck, sprouted straight up, hung right along the jawbone, edging up over the jaw and ending on his cheek in a white splotch like a burst skyrocket. “Nasty,” she said. “How’d it happen?”

“Clipping my toenails. One sliver flew up and sliced me clean open.”

Her finger lingered on his face. She leaned close enough now that her hip brushed across his penis. She was trying to arouse him. Humiliate him.

Thing is, Eric thought, it was working. She was sexy and her touch was just right. He could feel himself stirring. He had to concentrate. Control himself. He thought back on Big Bill Tenderwolf, the Hopi Indian who had trained him as a teenager. Big Bill dumping a bag of charcoal on the ground, soaking it in lighter fluid, then tossing in a match. Watching it burn while he sipped his beer.

Eric had sat on the porch not knowing what today’s lesson was, but feeling cocky, a little arrogant. “That the way your ancestors did it? Lighter fluid and Quick-Start charcoal?”

Big Bill had just smiled and tossed on more charcoal. When the flames had died down and there was nothing left but fiery red coals, Big Bill had waved Eric over. “Take off your shoes.”

“What for?” Eric had said.

Big Bill smiled again. “Gonna teach you a new dance step. The Hopi Hot Foot.”

“What?”

“It’s all the rage on the reservation. You’ll love it.”

“Like hell.” Eric crossed his arms and shook his head. He’d endured a lot of painful lessons from this man, but this was asking too much.

When Big Bill sighed it was like a hard wind rattling between icy mountains. He sighed now. “Control, Eric. That’s what life is all about. There are some things over which you have no control. The weather. The Lakers. Certain situations. The craziness of others. But there are things you can control, manipulate. First and most important, you must be able to control yourself. Physically and mentally. Control your emotions.”

“Then you’re nothing but a robot,” Eric said.

“I didn’t say destroy emotions, I said control them. Like a wild stallion. Your emotions are like that stallion, especially at your age. If you try to tie the horse up, cage it in, it will die. And if you let it run free without any control, it will carry you over a cliff. Either way, you will be destroyed.” He finished the can of beer and tossed the empty can onto the smoldering coals. A few drops of beer sizzled. “But if you can ride that stallion, learn to make it do what you want, when you want, then you will have the greatest ride of your life. You understand?”

Eric shrugged.

“Good enough. You must start this control by being able to control your emotions. Pain is an emotion.”

“Bullshit. Pain is a physical fact. Nerve endings, receptor impulses, and frontal lobes. That stuff.”

“True. But it conspires with the imagination to exaggerate the facts.” He tapped his temple. “Mind over matter. Love, hate, fear, and desire. The person who controls those four emotions cannot be controlled by anyone else. Now, what you’re going to do is walk slowly across those hot coals with your bare feet-”

“No way!”

“It’s easy. Concentrate. Empty your mind of the concept of pain. Imagine the hot coals are ice cubes, cool to the touch on this hot day. Your feet welcome them. You must — ” He frowned. “You’re not con centrating.”

“Damn straight. I’m not going to do it.”

“Hopi children do this. It’s like hopscotch for them.”

“Fine. I’ll watch.”

Big Bill sighed again, deep gusts of disappointment blowing past Eric. “Oh hell, I’ll do it myself.” He tugged off his fancy snakeskin boots and socks. Stood at the edge of the bright coals. He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing down.

He took his first step.

Eric watched Big Bill’s face. There was no sign of pain, no hesitation, no hollering. Just a little tightening of skin around the mouth and eyes. A few drops of sweat on the tip of his hawk-nose. Big Bill took another step, the bare soles of his feet hushing against the glowing coals. Still no reaction. Three more steps and he was through it. He opened his eyes and stared at Eric. He wiped the sweat from his nose and smiled. “See? Like I said, easy.”

Eric nodded, indeed impressed. But no closer to actually doing it himself.

“Think it over,” Big Bill said, walking toward his house. “I’ll get another beer and be right back.”

Eric watched him walk away, his steps sure and hard, as if he had only walked on ice cubes. Amazing.

So amazing, Eric decided to follow him, just to make sure. He crept around the side of the house and peered in through the kitchen window over the sink. He saw Big Bill limping gingerly to the chair, two trays of ice cubes in one hand and a fat jar of aloe vera salve in the other. He sat at the kitchen table, his face wincing from pain. Under each foot he placed an ice cube tray. He alternately cursed his own stupidity and praised the miracle of ice. Then he rubbed the aloe vera salve into the soles of his feet. Eric couldn’t see them, but he could imagine the size those burn blisters must be.

Eric hurried back to the coals. It wouldn’t do for Big Bill to be caught in his lie and embarrassed. Eric felt terrible thinking of the pain and suffering his Indian friend had endured just to teach Eric. He knew firewalking was common among many of the Indians, so it was possible. He didn’t doubt Big Bill had done it when he was younger. But that was long ago. Eric felt bad. He couldn’t let Big Bill down, not now.

He kicked off his penny loafers and removed his socks. He regulated his breathing, concentrating on the rhythm, not the amount of air. Feeling the air at the bottom of his lungs, not just the tops. He emptied his mind of fear. Thought about the worst pain possible and how silly pain was anyway. Just impulses flickering along a thread like nerve. Nothing to it.

He stepped onto the coals.

And felt —

— what? —

— nothing.

Not any temperature. Not heat. Not coolness. Barely the pressure of anything at all, almost as if he walked on air. The rest of the steps were the same.

He was several steps past the coals when he realized he’d done it. There was that little difference. He immediately sat on the ground and examined his soles. No blisters. Not even red.

Applause.

Big Bill Tenderwolf leaned against the porch, an open can of beer pinned between arm and chest, applauding with both hands. “Very good, Eric.”

“You showed me how.”

“Ah, yes. I did, didn’t I. But not in the way you think.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a can of Coke and tossed it to Eric. “You watched me in the kitchen, didn’t you? Saw me with the ice and salve?”