"Whoa," Leo Roth whispered, lightly tugging the reins. His horse ignored him, continuing to plod grudgingly along through the dense San Linder woods.
"Whoa already," Leo said again, but still not loud enough to offend the horse, an expensive appaloosa, which Leo knew could throw him any time it wanted and would probably take great delight in trampling the hell out of him. People from the Bronx were not meant to ride horses, especially Jews from the Bronx. It was against all natural laws. It defied physics. There should have been an Eleventh Commandment: Don't ride anything that can shit and walk at the same time.
Despite the fact that Leo had owned horses for several years, ever since the enormous success of his TV sitcom An Apple a Day, he'd never actually ridden any of them before. Once, a couple of years ago, at the insistence of his wife Cynthia, he'd struggled clumsily into the saddle atop one of these monsters. But that was just for the photograph for their personalized family Christmas/Hanukkah cards. They always had two batches printed up. One batch read "Merry Christmas from the Roths" above the photo of all of them astride bored horses at their Malibu home. Under the photo was an elaborate big Christmas tree. These were sent out to business associates, sponsors, employees, actors, writers, directors, agents. The other batch of cards read "Happy Hanukkah from the Rothsteins" above the photo, but under it was a big Menorah. Those were sent to his wife's family.
Not that he had anything to prove to anybody. Leo Roth had a reputation in Hollywood. You want funny, get Leo Roth. You want laughs, people clutching their sides, throwing up with laughter? Get Roth. At twenty, he'd dropped out of CCNY and sold his Datsun to raise plane fare, landed in L.A. fifteen hours after kissing his crying mother on the cheek and shaking his disappointed father's hand, and sold his first joke within the week. Phyllis Diller. Within the year he was adding jokes to troubled movie scripts, and within two years he was working on his own show. The rest, his mother liked to say, was show business history. At forty-one, still Mediterranean handsome and in good shape, a crown of black, curly hair clenched atop his tan face, only the slightest ring of flab hinting at his waist, he had been producer/writer of the highest rated show of the season.
Until the earthquakes cancelled the season.
Cancelled television. Cancelled Hollywood. Cancelled most of the audience. That was three months ago. Malibu was underwater, so was most of Los Angeles. So were most of their friends. Now all they had was the family: Leo, Cynthia, and their sixteen-year-old twin daughters, Cheryl and Sarah. And the damn horses.
He'd bought the horses for his daughters, dark-haired beauties already. Both were expert riders, prancing along with as much straight-backed grace as any tight-assed skikse. During the last actors' strike, he'd sat in in his office at Universal and figured out that their riding lessons cost him eighty-three jokes a year. Not just eighty-three standup Comedy Store jokes, but eighty-three Prime Time, 40-share jokes. After that he thought of everything in terms of how many jokes it cost. Dinner: two jokes. Trip to Hawaii: thirty-five jokes. Braces: forget it, a whole new TV series.
But that was before Richter became more important than Nielsen.
Now the four of them were working their way toward San Bernadino to his Aunt Paula's home. He had at least a dozen relatives there and in times like these it was best to be with someone you could trust, family. Little Israel, Cynthia called it.
"Whoa, you goddamn four-legged ape!" he hollered, yanking on the reins so sharply the horse reared to a halt too suddenly for Cynthia Roth to remember how to stop her horse. Instead of pulling the reins, she gigged her pinto's flank and he lunged forward knocking into the rump of Leo's appaloosa.
"What the hell, Leo?" Cynthia said, struggling with the reins. "What the hell?"
"Pull the reins, Mother," Cheryl suggested, an edge of contempt in her voice.
"You heard her," Leo said, "pull the goddamn reins."
"I am pulling the goddamn reins!" The pinto skittered to one side, then the other, his neck snapping to the left and right as Cynthia Roth jerked the reins back and forth, kicking, pulling, and trying to keep from sliding out of the saddle.
Finally Sarah trotted her horse over, leaned in front of her panicking mother, grabbed the reins, and tugged firmly. The horse settled down with a snort of relief.
"My God," Cynthia Roth said, pressing one hand against her temple. "I could have been killed."
"Oh brother," Cheryl snickered.
"You okay, Mom?" Sarah asked, handing the reins back.
"Fine, dear. Fine. Thanks." She swallowed the stubborn lump in her throat and smiled bravely.
"Where's Mr. Ed when you need him?" Leo joked, hoping to defuse his wife's fear… and anger.
Cynthia glared angrily at him. "It's not the horse, Leo. It's you. Why'd you stop like that?"
"I thought I saw something up ahead." He pointed through the woods.
"Saw what? I don't see anything. What'd you see?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. Something moving. I don't know."
"Something moving?" She shook her head. "We're out in the middle of the woods, for Chrissake. Naturally something would be moving."
"Probably a deer or something," Cheryl offered.
"Maybe," Leo said, straining in his saddle as he studied the woods ahead. "But it didn't move like a deer. It moved kinda, you know, sneaky."
"Oh, excuse us, Mr. Daniel Leo Crockett."
"That's Daniel Boone or Davy Crockett."
"Right!" Cynthia proclaimed triumphantly. "That's the kind of stuff you know. Information. Books. But what's a Reformed-Jew-turned-atheist from the Bronx know about the woods and deer, sneaky or otherwise?"
"No need to take any chances,"' Sarah suggested. "If Dad thinks he saw something, we can double back and sweep around this place. Better safe than sorry."
"Better safe than sorry," Cheryl mocked.
"Knock it off," Sarah said to Cheryl.
"Knock this off," Cheryl snapped back, flipping her middle finger.
"Shut up, both of you!" Leo said, his eyes still intent on the woods ahead. It was his responsibility to provide for his family, his job to protect them. He'd done all right so far, saving the horses after the last quake, hiding them out in the Laurel Canyon home of his agent, who'd been killed in the first quake, the one they called Atlas. But this was different. This was trees and animals and fucking Nature. Cement he understood; moss was a mystery.
"I don't like it, Leo," Cynthia said. "I don't like riding through the woods like this. Why couldn't we just take the freeway to San Bernadino? God knows there aren't any cars there."
"We've already discussed why. The highways are unsafe. How many stories have we heard in the past couple months about bandits killing and robbing travelers? We've got to stay off the beaten track. Avoid people."
"What do we do, Leo?" Her voice was contrite now, frightened. That other part of her, the whining, nagging part, only came out when she was scared. It was how her mother acted all the time, and she hated it as much as he did. Basically she was a good woman, a loving wife, a doting mother, and she was the best lay of any Jewish American Princess he'd ever gone out with. And he'd be lost without her.
"Okay," Leo said. "We go on. It's gonna be dark soon and I'd like to chew up a few more miles before we make camp. Let's go." He waved his hand the way Ward Bond used to in that old series, Wagon Train. "Wagons ho-oh!" Ward used to say, and for a moment Leo was back on University Avenue in the Bronx, his legs tucked under him, his algebra book open, the TV glaring like a window out into space. He felt a tear drip down his cheek and quickly brushed it away.
They rode single file, weaving around thick trees that Leo tried to name, but couldn't. He felt an anxious ticking in his stomach, tried to ignore it. Couldn't. He took a deep breath. The smell of charred wood was heavy in the air, not from any recent fire, but from the great fires that ravaged just about every town, city, and hillside after the last quake. The fires burned for weeks, day and night, the air constantly filled with smoke and a charcoal taste always on your tongue, at the back of your throat. With few fire engines available and many of the access roads unpassable, the fires burned until they ran out of fuel or just tired out. And whatever hadn't burned smelled as if it had. That tangy, bitter odor still clung to everything, stinging the nostrils with each breath.
And the sky. Since the quakes it was always a kind of hazy yellow-orange. Except at night, when it turned pinkish-gray. Pretty, but spooky.
Leo stared at every leaf, every twig as they rode by, searching the dense woods for any sign of what it had been that moved. A bear, maybe. Or a cougar. Did they have cougars in the woods?
He reached back into his saddlebags and removed the slingshot. It was a store-bought kind that fit over his wrist and fired metal ball bearings. He dropped a handful of the ball bearings into his shirt pocket.
"What's that for?" Cynthia asked.
"Nothing. In case I see a rabbit or something. I thought some fresh meat might be a nice change."
"Ha, David the Comedian versus Goliath the Bunny," she teased and they all laughed.
"Who's going to clean it?" Cheryl asked, appalled.
"We will," Cynthia said. "If your father can figure out how to actually hit something with that thing, the least we can do is figure out how to cook it."
"You can do it, Dad," Sarah said.
"You bet he can," Cynthia said.
Actually, Leo was a pretty fair shot, having practiced with the girls on tin cans in the backyard. Still, that was different than a moving target, and a living one to boot.
Cynthia was discussing ways to prepare rabbit when Leo thought he heard something rustle ahead.
"Hear that?" he asked.
"Hear what?" Cheryl said.
"Nope," Sarah said.
Cynthia was excited. "A rabbit?"
"I don't know." Leo frowned, bit his lower lip. "You guys wait here. I'm gonna check it out."
No one argued.
Leo squeezed the slingshot handle and rode forward. Alone.
Dirk Fallows snapped his fingers twice.
A young man in blood-splattered fatigues ran over, slapped a pair of binoculars in Fallows' open hand, and retreated back to the fire pit to finish skinning the damn dog. He was the only one besides Colonel Fallows who wasn't down the hill hidden in the woods, though he'd have given anything to be crouching behind a tree with the others where all the action was about to take place. Anything other than doing this crummy job which they gave him because he was the youngest one there. Personally, eating dog made him nauseous, and once or twice he'd even sneaked off to the woods after they'd feasted on one to throw up. But Colonel Fallows had gotten a taste for them while in Nam and would as soon eat a German Shepherd as a rabbit or deer. And it wouldn't do to argue with the colonel. Not unless you wanted to end up worse off than the dog.
"Very nice," Fallows grinned, as he peered through the binoculars at the scene below. The man was riding ahead, his head cautiously panning the woods. Searching. The three women sat on their horses and waited. Excellent. It had been close, they'd almost lost them. Someone had fucked up and made a noise that spooked them. They'd hesitated. If they'd turned back then, well, that would have been that. They'd have gotten away. But they didn't. And soon his men would do what they were trained to do. Simple as a stone sinks in water. And as inevitable.
Fallows swept the woods with his binoculars, but saw none of his men. No rustle of leaves, no twitching branches. His thick lips stretched into a huge grin and square white teeth bloomed into view. Well done, Cruz, he nodded. Cruz was turning out to be a better leader than Fallows had anticipated. The men were deathly afraid of Cruz, sometimes even more than they were of Fallows. Certainly he'd given them occasion to be once or twice. Even Fallows was respectful of Cruz to some extent, but then only he knew about Cruz's past.
They'd met in an Army stockade two months after Fallows was sentenced. Cruz worked in the library, filing books that he never read because he couldn't read. He got the job because he was the tallest man in prison, maybe the tallest man in the Army and could reach the high shelves without a ladder. He had to be almost seven feet, even in that hunched bearlike walk of his. Fallows had asked him once how he got past the Army's 6'8" height restriction and Cruz had answered coldly, "I lied about my size." Fallows had let it drop.
Because Fallows was using the library's law books to mount his own legal appeals, he had a lot of contact with Cruz, who never offered a single word unless he had to, as if every word he spoke cost him money. A grunt or a shrug was the most you could expect from the man. And nobody pushed it because Cruz was not only tall, he was the most powerful man in the stockade. He lifted weights with awesome regularity, his muscles swelling and bulging under his clothes like hidden animals. Once Fallows had seen him working out in the yard doing arm curls with a 250-pound barbell. Cruz had been naked to his waist, his dark skin slicked with sweat like rain-soaked macadam. His chest was gigantic, quilted with solid muscles like layers of rock on a mountainside, all funneling down to a trim waist of maybe twenty-nine inches of corrugated steel. With each curl of the arm, muscles popped or stretched, thick drops of sweat plopped into the dirt. But the face remained serene, distant, the eyes thin slits covering shiny black marbles. It was as if Cruz had slipped out of his body, was wandering about somewhere else while his muscles worked on themselves. It was unnerving to everyone else, especially the guards, who did their best not to offend or annoy Cruz. The rest of the inmates just avoided him as much as possible. Only Fallows found him intriguing.
It took some digging and paying some bribes, but finally Fallows managed to get a photocopy of Cruz's case history. It was worth every cent.
His full name was Indigo Cruz, though no one called him anything but Cruz. His mother was a Yucatan Indian come to the United States after a flood had destroyed her village and killed her parents. She had managed to bargain her way across the border by dropping to her knees among the Rio Grande brush and allowing two border guards to relieve themselves in her mouth. Her knees had scraped on rough pebbles and rocks as they'd taken turns pumping their hips against her face, jerking in spasms as each clutched her long, black hair in clenched fists, finally shooting their semen into her mouth, across her tongue, down her throat. Not allowing her to rise until she swallowed and licked each clean like a pet cat. Laughing, they left her kneeling there, good for their promise at least, her knees imbedded with sharp gravel, skin shredded and bleeding. She kept the scars on her knees for the rest of her life.
She was thirteen.
Within two weeks, she became a maid in a San Antonio motel that catered to afternoon traffic from nearby office buildings. Mostly husbands and wives, though not each other's. One Wednesday she was changing the soiled sheets in Room 216 when the man in 217 came over. His jacket was off and his tie loosened. He had a huge, jowly face with a splotchy red nose blistered with fiery capillaries. Even Maria Cruz recognized the signs of an alcoholic, having seen many such men in her own village. Her own father had begun to show similar signs.
"Yes, sir?" she'd asked, trying hard to pronounce each word properly. It was important to her to learn perfect English as soon as possible. Become a U.S. citizen. Its best citizen, she hoped.
"What time is it?" the man barked, his words slightly slurred. "The fucking clock in my room is broke."
Maria Cruz glanced over at the cheap radio/alarm built into the bedside stand. The laminated wood around the edges was chipped and scratched where someone had tried to pry it out of the table. "Eet sayas 1:20," she said, inwardly delighted at how much like an American she was already sounding.
The man laughed, a thick, cruel laugh. "It don't say shit, gal. Ya gotta read it." And he laughed again, holding himself up against her laundry cart.
Maria didn't understand the joke, but smiled anyway.
The man stopped laughing abruptly. "Fucking twenty goddamn minutes after fucking one." He looked out over the ledge of the balcony, peering left and right. The railing sagged under his weight. "My lunch hour's almost over and that cunt still ain't showed up yet. My boss'll chew my ass like a dog with a rag if I'm not back in the fucking office on time again. Fucking cunt and her fucking excuses."
Maria didn't understand everything the big man was saying so she just smiled and continued changing the bed. The couple who'd rented the room had only checked out fifteen minutes ago and the sheets were still wet. Maria stripped the bed with a couple of practiced motions, then checked the pillowcases. If they had lipstick or anything that could be seen on them, she changed them. But if not, her orders were to leave them. One pillowcase had a smudge of black eyeliner so she changed it. The other was clean.
"You women are all alike," he drawled, scowling at Maria. "Nothing but slimy holes on two legs. You know why women have cunts? Huh, do ya?"
Maria bustled the sheets into a ball in her arms. "Excuse, please," she smiled, heading toward the door and her laundry cart.
"I'll tell ya why. 'Cuz if they didn't, there'd be a bounty on 'em." He guffawed, slapped the laundry cart with a huge, meaty hand, jarring a couple rolls of toilet paper loose. One tumbled off the edge of the balcony.
"Ex-cuse, please," Marie said again, squeezing by him through the door. She flopped the dirty sheets into the bottom of the cart, then started off after the toilet paper. But a hand grabbed at her, snagged the back of her bra through her uniform, tugged her backwards.
She spun away from him, her face red with anger, but her voice quiet and measured. "Must work, sir. Many rooms to finish."
"Hell, girl, I'll pay ya for your trouble." He reached into his pants, fumbled drunkenly for his wallet. "Shit, I come here to fuck and I intend to do just that. Here's five bucks. Buys a shitload of refried beans." He held out a crumpled five dollar bill.
Maria's nostrils flared, but she said nothing. Instead she turned around and began marching for the stairs to retrieve the toilet paper. Again, the hand grabbed at her uniform, held her bra, and jerked her backwards off her feet. Her breasts, slightly large for her age, were flattened painfully, the rough material scratching her nipples.
"I ain't asking, honey," he growled, and wrapped his thick hand around her mouth. She tasted nicotine on his sweaty fingers. Panic sizzled along her skin and she felt vomit bubbling up in her throat as she struggled against his powerful grip.
Quickly he dragged her into the room she'd been cleaning, slammed the door shut, and slipped the chain into place, all the time holding the kicking girl under his left arm. When the door was secure, he tossed her easily across the room onto the bed. "Strip!" he said.
"Please, sir," she sobbed. "No, please."
"Strip or I'll do it for ya." He was already unbuttoning his shirt.
She looked at him, the giant American in the wrinkled business suit, half drunk and half crazy with lust, and shrugged resignedly. She stopped crying, stopped begging. She had seen men like this before, knew they would get what they wanted no matter what she said. Some would feel bad afterwards and beg for forgiveness, though she suspected this gringo was not such a man. With brisk efficiency she unfastened her uniform, slipped it over her head. Kicked her shoes off. Unhooked the tattered bra. Peeled off the worn panties. She sat naked in the middle of the bare mattress, the blanket lying on the'floor. She was skinny everywhere, bones protruding at angles in every direction. She was embarrassed more by her skinniness than her nakedness, and tried to hide herself with her arms.
"Don't do that!" he snapped, stepping out of his pants. "I wanna see them sweet little titties of yours."
She let her arms relax to her sides. She had only made love with one boy in her whole life, and with him only twice. Both times it had been over with so quickly she had wondered if she'd done something wrong. But Orlando had assured her she would get better with practice. Yet he too had been killed in the great flood.
The American was naked now, his body even bigger without clothes. His thick stomach hung down almost to his penis, which was pale and not very large at all, even though it was sticking straight out. It reminded her of the small bars of soap she had to place in the bathrooms. Ivory.
Then he was on her, his crushing weight driving her deep into the soft mattress. She could hardly breathe. He fumbled at her body roughly, squeezing her breasts, pinching the nipples until she cried out. His hand at her crotch felt like a burrowing pig, digging, thrusting, poking. Finally he lifted himself enough to stick his penis into her and began an awkward pumping rhythm. Once he burped in her face and she turned away from the bitter smell of cigarettes mixed with whiskey.
He began grunting, his weight pounding into her tiny frame like a jackhammer. She dug her nails into the mattress, closed her eyes, and imagined a large knife plunging into the back of his neck.
"Shitfuckshitfuck," he groaned, arched his back, and slammed into her as deep as he could, his penis squirting into her endlessly. He opened his eyes, glanced at the clock, and abruptly pulled out of her, dripping onto her stomach. "Gotta get to work. Fucking boss will shove a hot poker up my ass."
He dressed without looking at Maria. She lay there, waiting for him to leave, her eyes still closed.
"Christ, you're a skinny bitch," he said. He leaned over, stuck the five dollar bill between her wet legs and chuckled. "Don't spend it all in one place now." And he was gone.
Nine months later Indigo Cruz was born.
By the time he was eighteen, Maria Cruz was happy to see him join the Army. She didn't question how a boy who couldn't read and who was so grotesquely large could get in. She knew Indigo had his ways of getting what he wanted. She just said her prayers of thanks to the Virgin Mary and accepted the wonderful news. For she'd come to realize that he was just like his father in every way. Worse really. Where his father had merely been cruel, Indigo Cruz was cruel and cold. Arctic. He was not quick to violence, but when he did choose that direction, the outcome was inevitable.
On the day he'd signed his loyalty oath to the United States, the San Antonio police had discovered the body of an eighteen-year-old Chicano boy named Juan Cortez. All his fingers, his tongue, and his eyelids had been cut off with a pair of toenail clippers. The coroner found the clippers later during the autopsy. Juan had been forced to swallow them.
Maria read about it in the paper, recognized Juan as one of Indigo's friends. She never asked him about it, he never mentioned it. In fact, once he left for basic training, mother and son were never in touch again. The next day Maria moved to Los Angeles, left no forwarding address. Not that it mattered. Cruz couldn't write, and wouldn't have written her if he could have.
Cruz managed to keep a low profile in the Army for awhile, getting by as he always did, through intimidation. Eventually he found his niche as a hand-to-hand combat instructor training new troops in how to fight. Things were going pretty smoothly until PFC Eddie Hooks showed up.
PFC Eddie Hooks was a Golden Gloves heavyweight champion. Two hundred and twelve pounds of trim muscles packed tightly into a 6'2" frame. And he was fast. The hands snapped at any angle. He could bounce on his toes for fifteen rounds and still deliver a knockout punch on cue. His recruitment officer had promised him an easy gig on the Army boxing team. Free training for a couple years then he'd be ready to turn pro. He'd planned every little detail of his future. Except Indigo Cruz.
Cruz had Eddie out on the mat for a demonstration of a wing-roll throw. It was simple technique, but required sharp timing.
"All right, Hooks," Cruz had said. "I want you to throw a punch at me with your right hand."
"Yes, sir." Eddie tossed out a slow-motion right cross.
Cruz stepped back and stared at him contemptuously. "I said throw a punch. Hooks. Not slap me silly."
"Well, I thought…" Hooks trailed off.
"Just throw the damn punch."
Hooks stepped back into position, threw a punch. This one was a little faster, but still not a real punch.
Cruz caught Hooks' fist in his hand in midair. "I said a punch, cocksucker. Do you know what a punch is?" Cruz began squeezing Hooks' fist, grinding the fingers under his grip.
Hooks felt his own fingernails digging into his palms. "Jesus, you're breaking my hand."
"Good. When I tell you to do something, fucking do it. Understand?"
Hooks winced under the pain, nodded. Cruz released his grip. Hooks shook his fingers out, massaged them. Four half-moons of blood were etched in his palms where the nails had bitten through the flesh. Son of a bitch, Eddie thought. He wants a punch, I'll give the freak a punch to write home about.
"Okay, Hooks. Go ahead."
And Eddie did. He snapped a left into Cruz's chin, then double-pumped it into his nose. Cruz's head flew back. Blood trickled out of his nostril.
Cruz nodded apprecialely. "Nice, Hooks. That's more like it."
Hooks was still bouncing on his toes, huffing angrily through his nose, his face grimly set. He'd expected Cruz to yell at him, take a swing, have him arrested. Something. But the big guy was just smiling. Maybe he was okay after all.
Cruz turned to the rest of the recruits, all of whom had stopped breathing. "Now that's how to throw a punch. You watch Hooks here and you guys can learn something. Way to go, Hooks."
Hooks shrugged proudly. He was used to accepting praise. Besides, he'd be hearing a lot of it when he was heavyweight champion of the world.
"Okay," Cruz said. "Let's try it again, Hooks."
"Again, Sarge?"
"Yeah. Just like last time."
"Fast?"
Cruz grinned through thin bloodless lips. "As fast as you can."
Eddie began bouncing on his toes, his left hand hanging near his hip in a cocky posture, his right hovering near his chest. He danced to the left, then to the right, changing directions with impossible speed and agility.
Cruz stood still, his arms hanging at his sides.
Eddie snapped out a left jab, so quick and unexpected some of the recruits jumped a little. It was aimed directly at Cruz's face, but somehow-and this Eddie didn't understand-it missed! Cruz hadn't lifted his hands to protect himself, hadn't blocked the punch in any way. It looked to Eddie like the only thing he did was sort of shift his weight a little from one foot to the other. An accident really.
Eddie moved to the left again, bouncing on his toes, feigning to the left, then lashing out with a right cross at Cruz's jaw. Cruz spun his huge bulk to the side with incredible grace and ease. Again, Eddie missed.
"You see, men," Cruz explained to the recruits, "fighting isn't just doing damage to the other guy. It's also avoiding having damage done to you. In other words, don't get hit."
Eddie drew in a deep breath. The hippo sergeant was making a fool out of him. Dodging his punches so easily. Shit, they'll never take him seriously as a contender if every elephant that comes along can slip his punches like this. Eddie brought his left and right up to his face for the classic no-nonsense fighter's stance. He was bouncing less as he moved in toward Cruz, who took no step in any direction. Just waited.
The first punch was a left jab, grazing Cruz's ear. The second was an immediate left hook that mussed Cruz's hair, but otherwise missed. The third was a right uppercut that slashed through nothing but air.
Cruz had not moved his feet, yet every punch had missed. Eddie Hooks backed up and stared for a moment, frustration welling up inside of him like sour bile. He was afraid he would cry, and blinked back the tears.
"You see," Cruz continued talking, his voice taunting, contemptuous, "fighting is a hell of a lot more than just your throwing punches. It involves timing, for one. And brains, for another." His grin widened at Hooks. "Try it again. Hooks. And stop holding back on me."
Hooks felt his skin burning, with embarrassment, with hate. He had to teach this cracker asshole a lesson if it was the last thing he ever did.
He brought his hands up again, moved toward Cruz. No bouncing now. His hands flew in frenzied blurs. A double left jab, a right to the stomach, a wild left hook, All misses. When he straightened up, Cruz was standing behind him. Laughing.
"Shit, son, I thought you had something. Guess I was wrong. Just another dumb nigger."
Eddie spun with a growl, coiled his arms again. He was used to fighting from a distance, flicking out the jab and running. Wearing his opponent down before stepping in close to finish him off. But this fucking ape was using some kind of Kung Fu shit that Eddie couldn't figure out. He'd have to get in close with this guy to wipe that grin off his fat face.
Eddie tucked his chin down, moved cautiously closer to Cruz. Cruz stood still, let him come, his hands hanging lazily at his side. Eddie circled to the right, then suddenly shifted to the left, lunging forward with a looping left hook.
What happened next no one who was there ever forgot.
Cruz saw the punch coming and leaned backward out of its path. For a moment Eddie's arm seemed to be suspended in midair, with nowhere to go. That's when Cruz's powerful arms grabbed it out of the air like a swooping hawk and jerked it around, spinning Eddie off balance. With an easy movement, Cruz trapped Eddie's elbow between his own hands, yanked. Eddie screamed in pain as his arm popped out of his shoulder socket.
"My arm! You busted my fucking arm!"
Cruz glanced calmly at the recruits. "So you see, men, how important it is not to get too close to your opponent unless you are adequately prepared."
"You son of a bitch," Eddie hissed through clenched teeth, holding his limp and twisted arm. "It's busted."
Cruz ignored him, continuing his lecture. "It is also important to remember that hand-to-hand combat is not to be taken literally. That is, it don't mean just using hands. For example…" He pointed at Eddie who was hunched over, grasping his useless arm, thinking about his career. "The elbow is even harder than a fist." Cruz hovered over Eddie a moment, then brought his elbow crashing down in the middle of Eddie's back. Eddie's legs buckled and he sprawled forward, his injured arm slamming into the hard wooden floor.
"Jeeesus! Goddamn!" His face was contorted with pain.
"Then there's the foot," Cruz said, kicking Eddie's ribs with two quick blows. Bones cracked like dry twigs. Eddie lapsed into semi-consciousness.
Cruz kneeled next to him, flipping him onto his back. "Hey, Hooks, you okay?" He patted Hooks' cheeks.
Hooks' eyes rolled a moment, then slowly focused. "Son of a bitch," he gasped.
Cruz grinned. "I knew you was all right. Guy in your shape. So let's continue, okay?" A look of terror tore at Eddie's face as Cruz turned to the recruits again. "Now, when you actually, have to use your hands, remember that there are many parts of the hands available. The knuckles…" He made a fist and jabbed it into Eddie's nose. Thick, gooey blood squirted out both nostrils. The nose remained flattened against Eddie's face, broken.
"Owww! Oh God, help me!" Eddie cried out to the others. "Help me, you guys!"
The recruits looked at each other but no one made a move. They didn't know what to do. They'd all heard about tough sergeants before, especially Sergeant Cruz. But that was part of the game, wasn't it? Surely the sergeant would stop soon, having taught the black kid a lesson.
Cruz continued. "Then there's the palm of the hand…" He drove his palm into Eddie's mouth, just enough to loosen all the front teeth so they'd all have to come out within the week. "And fingers…" He V-ed his two fingers and jabbed them into Eddie's sinus cavities. Mucus mixed with blood streamed out of Eddie's nose. His eyes swam in lakes of tears.
"Please, Sarge," he begged, crying. "Please God, Sarge."
Cruz ignored him. "And, of course, the flat edge of your hand…" He raised his stiffened hand over Eddie's exposed throat, watched the boy's eyes widen with horror, his mouth too dry to choke out a plea, then brought it slicing through the air at a hundred miles an hour.
At the last instant, he stopped.
The edge of his hand rested on Eddie's protruding Adam's apple. But no damage was done. No physical damage.
Eddie's eyes fluttered open. When he realized he was still alive, he panted hysterically, blood bubbles foaming at his nostrils. He emptied his bowels in his pants. His body shook from his sobs.
Cruz stood up, his face expressionless, as if he were watching a bug writhing on a pin.
One of the recruits finally summoned enough courage to speak. "Shouldn't we get him over to the infirmary, Sergeant Cruz?"
Cruz grinned. "Nah. Let him get used to his own shit and piss for a while. We got work to do. Everybody out on the field."
And they left him there, pants soaked with waste, blood streaming out of his nose, ribs splintered, a ringing in his ears. Anyone looking at the shattered heap squirming on the gymnasium floor would know that he'd never again dream about becoming the champion of the world.
Actually, he'd never dream of anything again. When Cruz brought the recruits back into the gym half an hour later, Eddie Hooks was unconscious. Doctors operated for two hours, removed the blood clot in his brain that had formed when one of the blood vessels had burst. He stayed on life-support systems for nine days before finally dying.
Eddie Hooks had been a popular home-town boy in Philadelphia and the local newspapers knew they had a good story here. And they pursued it every day with lurid detail. The Army, in an effort to avoid yet another accusation of racism, fed them Cruz. Eighteen years for involuntary manslaughter.
By the time Dirk Fallows had arrived, Cruz had done six of those years. A couple inmates confided to Fallows that Cruz had killed at least two other prisoners in those six years. One had been overheard making fun of Cruz's size. He was found drowned in a toilet bowl he'd just finished using, his pants still wound about his ankles. The second had winked suggestively at Cruz. He'd been found with an eight-inch nail driven through his eye and into his brain. Cruz had been questioned, but never charged.
That was one of the odd things about Cruz, Fallows had realized. He seemed to have no interest in sex, with women or men. Not even with himself. In a prison, there is no privacy, and secrets are hard to keep. But no one had ever seen Cruz do anything. Even the soldiers who knew him before his imprisonment had never seen him with a woman. With anything.
Not that it mattered to Fallows. All he cared about was that Cruz had the ruthlessness to do what was necessary, and the skill to succeed. That's why Fallows had helped Cruz get out legally. The Army was happy to get rid of him, let the civilian world worry about him for a while. Then he'd made Cruz his second in command.
The men were afraid of both of them. Of Fallows because they couldn't understand him. He was brilliant, mysterious. Of Cruz because they understood him too well. He was brutal, indifferent. Fallows planned, Cruz executed the plan. Sometimes with more enthusiasm than necessary.
Dirk Fallows focused the binoculars on the man riding ahead. Thin, late thirties. Uncomfortable riding a horse. Nervously glancing around. A cheap slingshot in his hand.
He swung the binoculars back to the waiting women, studying each from head to toe. Only one was old enough to be called a woman. She was a few pounds overweight, but not bad. Marketable. When he looked at the two girls he was momentarily confused, thinking he'd made a mistake, then realizing they were twins. Young, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Pretty. The men would be pleased tonight. After him.
He shifted the binoculars back to the man as he rode deeper into the woods, scouting ahead. A few more yards and he'd be there. Fallows could almost imagine Cruz hulking in some tree, crouching patiently, his giant hands open and waiting. Fallows grinned. It was an image to frighten any man, even himself.
Damn!
The man on horseback stopped. Leaned forward in the saddle, peered into the woods. Waited.
"Shit!" he spat. "The son of a bitch is turning around."
The kid at the firepit stopped peeling the flesh of the German Shepherd and looked up. He started to speak, felt the tickle of black shepherd hair on his lips, spit it out. "Christ."
Fallows studied the scene with intensity. The man had turned around and ridden back to his family. They were talking. He refocused the binoculars, trying to read the man's lips, but the man's horse turned slightly and all Fallows could see now was the back of his head.
Fallows sighed. Well, if they were deciding to ride the other way, that would be that. They'd be gone, free and clear. But if they were deciding to push ahead, they'd be in Cruz's hands soon. There was nothing to do but wait and see.
Fallows smiled. Wait and see.
"Goddamn it, horse, stay still." Leo Roth sat helplessly gripping the saddle horn with both hands as his horse moved to the right to nibble some grass. Leo tried to tug the horse back around, felt bad about taking it away from food, threw up his hands. "You just relax," he told the horse. "Bon appetit. I'll just twist around here in the saddle until my spine cracks. Don't bother yourself."
"Leo, stop fooling with the damn horse," Cynthia Roth complained.
Leo looked off into the woods at an imaginary audience. "She thinks I'm fooling with the horse. As if I have any choice here."
"What'd you see, Dad?" Sarah asked.
"Nothing really," he shrugged. "Just a feeling"/'
Cynthia frowned. "Feeling? What kind of feeling? Like a sick feeling, or what?"
"A feeling, that's all. Nothing specific."
Suddenly Leo's horse lifted his head and tail at the same time, shivered slightly. Large, greenish droppings plopped to the ground.
Cynthia frantically waved the air in front of her face. "For God's sake, Leo."
"What do you mean Leo? It's the damn horse doing it, not me."
"Couldn't you have moved him first or something?"
"He and I have grown apart. He doesn't confide in me anymore."
The horse finished, swished his tail back and forth a few times, then dipped his head back to eat more grass.
"Would you look at that?" Leo pointed. "He doesn't even wait a respectable time. Just eats and shits. What the hell kind of animal is this?"
Cheryl shook her head with disgust, as she always did over her parents' antics. In high school they'd been a constant source of embarrassment, her father always cracking corny jokes with her friends, trying to be one of the guys. Christ. Sarah never seemed to mind, but then Sarah didn't have that many friends. Not the ones that counted anyway.
Leo Roth looked at his family. He knew he was acting the fool, but he was scared and he didn't know why. He didn't want them to see how frightened he really was. He had to be the strong one, keep them all together. He'd even accept Cheryl's obvious contempt now; it was better than having her as terrified as he was.
"So what are we going to do, Dad?" Sarah asked. "It'll be dark soon."
"We could make camp here," Cheryl suggested. "We passed a stream half a mile back."
Leo nodded, considering.
"Why don't we just keep going another hour," Cynthia said. "That'll bring us a few more miles closer to getting off these creatures for good. I'll break out the can of plums as a treat."
"Sounds great, Mom," Sarah said.
"I'm in," Cheryl agreed.
Leo looked over his shoulder, back into the woods. Nothing moved. A couple birds warbled at each other, but other than that everything was peaceful. Still, something nagged at the back of his neck, some kind of chill. Silly. Maybe. Aw hell, what did he know about the woods. He was just acting like a dumb city boy, jumping at every toad.
"Sweetheart?" Cynthia said.
Leo jerked his horse around, pointed it ahead. "We go on."
"One more hour?" Cheryl pleaded.
"Promise. Just one more." Leo smiled. "Wagons ho-oh."
They rode on.
Cynthia concentrated on keeping her horse next to Leo's, though for some reason every time she caught up, his horse would surge ahead a couple steps. "Leo, don't you want me next to you?"
"Yes, but this stupid horse doesn't."
"It's Mom's horse he doesn't want," Sarah explained. "He wants to be the lead horse. You've got to rein him in more if you want Mom riding next to you."
He turned around and winked at the girls. "I don't know, I might have a good thing here." The girls laughed. Cynthia pretended to be mad, but laughed too.
"A clown I married, A real joker."
"It was in the cards, dear."
The girls groaned.
"Even Rodney Dangerfield wouldn't use that one," Cheryl said.
Leo laughed. "Where do you think I stole it?"
He was feeling a little better now, safer. There was nothing like the laughter of your own family to make the rest of the world shrink away. Everything would be just fine, he was sure. He felt silly now for still gripping the slingshot in his left hand.
"Do you think things are as bad at Aunt Paula's as they are around here?" Sarah asked.
"I don't know," Leo said. "It all depends on the-"
Cheryl screamed. "Daaddyyyy!"
Men were swarming all around them, dropping out of trees, jumping up from under piles of leaves. They brandished weapons, machetes, bayonets, spears, a couple guns.
"Hold your fire!" someone barked. "Don't waste the bullets."
Two men grabbed Cheryl, yanking her roughly off her horse. Leo heard her clothes being ripped, her cries, a loud slap.
His horse was prancing wildly from side to side, but he tightened his grip on the reins and swung the horse around in a tight arc. Digging his heels into its ribs, he urged the horse into the two men who were attacking Cheryl, knocking both to the ground. Cheryl scrambled to her feet, her blouse torn down the front, her pants bunched halfway down her hips. She dashed for her horse, but another man grabbed her around the waist and swept her off the ground.
Leo saw Sarah kick one bearded attacker in the face, watched him slam back into a tree. He glanced over his shoulder as three men leaped at his wife. One clutched a handful of her hair and jerked her out of the saddle. She screamed, but kept fighting, her arms and legs flailing at all of them at once.
Leo hunched low, gigged his horse again, and plowed into two of the men. As before, they tumbled to the ground. While Cynthia clawed at the third man's face, Leo lifted his slingshot, nestled a small metal ball into the leather pocket, stretched the rubber tubing back to his chin, and let it fly. The metal ball whistled through the air, punched through his wife's attacker's cheek, and shattered the bone. The man fell to the ground clutching his bleeding face.
Leo dropped another ball into the leather pocket, swung around toward his daughters to protect them. But just as he did, he caught a glimpse of a giant bear of a man crashing through the brush toward him, a raised machete in his hand. The man's eyes were fixed on Leo, glistening black pearls behind slits of flesh. He had to be at least seven feet tall, but he ran with remarkable speed, dodging low-hanging branches with ease. His face was strangely calm, like a jogger just hitting his stride. The machete reflected spears of lights as it came closer.
Leo felt as if he were trapped in a vat of honey, moving with dreamlike slowness as he raised his slingshot, aimed it at the charging giant, began tugging the rubber tubing back.
But too late.
The machete winked in the light, then sizzled in a wide arc toward his arm. He felt a tug at his left sleeve, saw his hand fly off into the woods, land five feel away in a nest of leaves, still clutching the slingshot.
He looked at his arm with confusion, saw the blood pouring from the stump. It looked like something from a bad horror movie. Unreal. Fake blood. He started to laugh, held up the bloody stump for everyone to see, as if it were a practical joke. Looked into the giant's face, saw him smiling. He understood the joke. Then watched as the smiling giant swung the machete toward his throat. The blade seemed to move so slowly, Leo knew all he had to do was move and it would miss him altogether. So simple. Just move.
Suddenly he felt a solid blow at his throat, a sharp stinging, then nothing. He heard a gurgling, saw the ground rushing at him. Thought about how stupid horses were. Died before he finished the thought.
"Perfect!"
"Sir?"
Dirk Fallows lowered the binoculars, a satisfied grin cracking his rugged face like a rocky chasm. "Here, Foxworth, take a look." He offered the kid the binoculars.
"Thank you, sir," Foxworth said, quickly wiping the dog blood from his hands onto the thighs of his fatigues. He took the binoculars and peered down into the woods.
"Over there," Fallows said, nudging the glasses a couple inches to the left.
Foxworth studied the scene for a few seconds and whistled. "Holy shit!"
"Don't worry, Foxworth, they'll save you some."
Foxworth lowered the glasses and leered. "I hope so, sir. Them twins is mighty nice looking. So young and all."
"By morning they'll be a lot older."
"Yes, sir," Foxworth chuckled, looking through the binoculars again. "Boy, Sergeant Cruz sure whooped the shit outta that guy. Jesus."
Fallows stood up. Cruz had certainly done the job down there, but in an eerie way. Fallows had had the binoculars focused on Cruz's face as soon as he'd shown himself. Yet, Cruz had remained so expressionless, even as he hacked that guy's hand off and nearly sliced his head from the shoulders. There was a thin smile, but not one of pleasure or disgust. More like a twitch than any display of emotion. Fallows couldn't figure the guy out. Sadists he understood, at least they enjoyed what they did. But Cruz seemed to neither enjoy it nor dislike it. It was more as if he simply was compelled to do it, like a robot programmed to destroy. It could make him difficult to control in the future. Fallows would have to keep an eye on Cruz.
Foxworth stood up, handed the binoculars back to Fallows. "What's next, Colonel?"
"Next?"
"Yes, sir. You said as soon as we'd made a couple more hits and collected some tradeable goods, we'd be off on a major campaign."
Fallows brushed his close-cropped white hair with one hand as he stared at the kid. "You anxious to fight, Foxworth?"
"Yes, sir. I'm ready."
"You wouldn't think so if you knew the target as well as I do."
The kid squared his shoulders. "I'm not afraid of nobody, sir."
Fallows laughed. "That's because you're a stupid asshole, Foxworth, who doesn't know which end speaks and which end farts."
Foxworth frowned, lowered his eyes. "Yes, sir."
"Now get back to skinning that dog. I want you used to the smell of blood, because soon that smell is going to fill the air."
"Yes, sir." Foxworth trotted back to the dog carcass and continued his work.
Col. Dirk Fallows tucked the binoculars back into their leather case, snapping it shut. He'd had a couple months to work out the plan and was sure of its success. Every detail had been considered. Every option. Tonight, after his men had enjoyed themselves with their captives, he would tell them the rest of the plan. Not all of it, of course, but enough.
He heard his troops tramping up the hill and turned to watch. The women's screams had been reduced to dim whimpers of resignation. Cruz marched ten feet ahead of the others, who leered and pawed anxiously at the females. Cruz stared straight ahead, Fallows noticed with a grin, as if indifferent to their prize. Well, he'd already gotten his kicks.
Suddenly Cruz stopped, spun back on the men, grabbed Dennis Grover by the hair, and dragged him across the campgrounds toward the firepit.
"Hey! Shit, what the-" he protested, his feet scrambling for footing, his arms snatching at air.
The others stopped and stared, the women terrified, the men relieved that it hadn't been them that Cruz held.
Fallows watched silently, allowing Cruz to continue, knowing there was a reason behind Cruz's brutality.
"Fuck, Sarge!" Grover pleaded. "What'd I do?"
Cruz flung him face forward into the dirt next to Foxworth's feet. "You're the one that made the noise. Almost scared them away. I taught you better."
"It wasn't me, Sarge. I swear it!" Grover was a combat-hardened veteran, tough gritty. But confronted with Cruz's wrath, even rocks whimpered.
Cruz stared at him with disgust. "It was you."
He reached down, wrapped his thick fingers around Grover's neck and forced his face forward into the pile of guts Foxworth had scraped out of the dead German Shepherd. "Eat, you stupid bastard."
The men squirmed with sick expressions. Fallows smiled.
"Oh, God, Sarge," Grover begged. "Give me a chance. Please."
Cruz pulled his bloody machete out of its sheath and held it over Grover's head. "Here's your chance, pal."
Grover's face was pale, slightly green as he looked at the slimy heap of dog innards glistening eight inches away.
"C'mon, Grover. Let's see. Start with the intestines. They look nutritious."
Grover took a deep breath, scooped up a handful of steaming intestines and took a bite. It squished against his teeth like a fat worm. He chewed slowly, meticulously, holding his breath against the randy taste.
"Swallow," Cruz said, nudging Grover's neck with the machete.
Grover swallowed hard, but it wouldn't seem to go down. He kept swallowing until it did.
"Try the heart next. You need all you can get."
Grover lifted it with one hand like a precious jewel, brought it to his mouth. Suddenly his stomach heaved and pitched, spewing vomit. Chunks of dog intestine shot out of his mouth.
Cruz booted Grover in the middle of the back, sending him face down into the vomit and organs.
"Other than that, you did well, men." Fallows raised his hands in a welcoming benediction. He smiled, his pale colorless eyes twinkling like melting ice as they approached. "And for that you will be amply rewarded."
The men sent up a roaring cheer for their leader, hats flying in the air, arms waving merrily.
Fallows kept his smile in place, but he was thinking. Thinking about tomorrow. Tomorrow would be Eric Ravensmith's turn.