"I can't remember all that."
"You'd better try. If you want to eat."
"Okay, okay, I'll take a stab at it." Season sighed, I looked up into the sky in concentration, began reciting like a bored schoolchild. "First, dig for the roots of trees and shrubs. Peel off the root bark for soft, edible inner tissue. How's that?"
"Fine," Rydell said. "Molly?"
"Next, try aboveground parts, such as the flowers or shoots. Young tender leaves are better than old ones. The thicker and fleshier the better. And no obscene comments, thank you very much."
Rydell laughed. They were sitting around waiting for Eric to return from scouting. Since they only had another day's food left from what they'd brought from University Camp, they'd soon have to start eating whatever they could find. Eric didn't know how good the hunting would be, and didn't want to spend too much time finding out, so he'd spent the whole night lecturing them while they hiked on what to look for in local plants.
Now, following Eric's instructions before he'd left, Rydell was quizzing them on what they'd learned.
"You know," Tag said, "each time he goes out scouting, I realize just how vulnerable we are without him. He knows so damn much about this survival stuff."
No one replied, but their looks showed strong agreement.
Tag continued. "I used to see him around the library, history books tucked under his arm, students always tugging on his sleeve. He looked like such a typical professor, the elbow patches on the tweed jacket." He shook his head with admiration. "But until the Fallows trial a few months back, I had no idea of all he'd been through before. When I read the papers I was shocked."
"Yeah," Season nodded. "I didn't know him at school, history and I never got along. But I remember reading some of the stuff about that Vietnam massacre. I can still remember some of the nasty things my friends and I said about him, sitting around sipping beers and making fun of the dumb grunt. We were so goddamned, you know, smug."
"And now you thank God he's here, right?" Tracy said.
"Well, I'm not much on God, but I've got a lot of faith in Eric."
"C'mon," Rydell said, "let's finish up the drill before he gets back."
"Teacher's pet," Molly grinned.
Rydell tossed a pebble at her, which she easily ducked. "Okay, Tracy, how do you test plants to see if they're edible?"
"Well, first, make sure it doesn't have milky juice, or-"
A rustle of brush and Eric was standing in front of them. "Lesson is over. Let's move out."
Obediently, everyone jumped to their feet and swung their packs onto their backs
"What'd you find?" Tracy asked.
"I followed their tracks a mile or so. They've got some horses with them, three I'd say by the different imprints. But even without them, they're moving at a pretty brisk pace. Those men are in damn good shape. They can probably run all day and night. We're going to have to pick it up a bit just to keep up."
"Why do I suddenly feel guilty because I'm not a horse?" Molly said.
''This way," Eric waved.
"That's not the way the tracks lead," Rydell said.
"No, this is the way to something we haven't seen in a while."
"What?" Tracy asked.
"People."
"I hate to ask the obvious," Molly said, "but as Rocky the flying squirrel always asked Bullwinkle, 'Are they friendly spirits?' "
Eric shrugged. "Let's hope so. I saw them taking water from a well, and that could save us a lot of time and trouble."
"What if they don't want to give us water?" Rydell asked.
Eric turned and started walking. "Let's go."
"All right. Who's got something white."
Everyone thought a moment.
"I do," Molly said, remembering. She rooted through her backpack, pulled out a rolled-up T-shirt, When she tossed it to Eric, it unfurled, revealing a drawing of a very young Ricky Nelson with the logo "The Irrepressible Ricky" printed under it. Molly smiled. "I was wearing it the day of the quake. Until then it had been my good luck shirt."
Eric handed it to Rydell, "They're right through there, beyond the mesquite trees. You can't miss them, half a dozen handmade cabins. Chickens running around."
"Chickens?" Season said, licking her lips.
"A wash line hanging out. They've got two guards that I could see, one of them with a double-barreled shotgun, the other with a homemade bow. That's all."
'That's enough," Rydell said.
"Now, you're going to walk right up to them, waving this white T-shirt. Keep your bow slung over your shoulder. No matter what, don't reach for it."
"Why send me first? Why don't we all go in at once?"
"Because if they kill you, we'll know it's not safe for the rest of us."
"You're serious, aren't you?" Tracy asked.
"Yes."
"Isn't that a little like asking him to walk across a mine field to see where the mines are hidden?"
"Good analogy."
She shook her head with shock. "What if they kill him?"
"Then we'll kill them. But one way or the other, we're going to get some of their water."
"Jesus, Eric-"
"No," Rydell interrupted. "He's right. Makes perfect strategic sense." He held the T-shirt in front of him, gave Molly a wink. "I hope Ricky will remain irrepressible."
He took a deep breath and started walking.
Eric led the others to a vantage position where they could watch Rydell as he walked cautiously toward the cluster of cabins, waving the T-shirt over his head. When he was within a couple hundred yards of the homes, two men popped up from behind dirt embankments where they'd been hiding. From a distance, the dirt embank-ments had seemed like nothing more than little bumps in the terrain. Fortunately, Eric had investigated earlier.
The two men pointed their weapons at Rydell, gesturing and shouting, though Eric couldn't hear the words. Rydell immediately dropped the T-shirt and clasped his hands on top of his head. Four other men and two women came running out of various cabins, each armed with a weapon of some kind. Axe, spear, revolver, pitchfork. They circled Rydell, their weapons raised.
"They're going to kill him," Molly said frantically, scrambling to her feet. "We've got to help him."
Eric snagged her shirt and yanked her back. "Wait."
Her face was red, the tiny, slivered eyes smaller yet. "Wait for what? First blood?"
"Look," Tag pointed.
Rydell was talking animatedly, his hands churning and pointing toward Eric and the others. As he talked, those surrounding him slowly lowered their weapons, looked in the direction Rydell had pointed. One of them, a rugged-looking man about forty with an axe balanced against his shoulder, was talking to Rydell. Rydell nodded vigorously.
The man scratched his head, spoke to the others. There was a minute of conversation among the group. One of the men stalked off to his cabin, dragging one of the younger women with him, and slammed the door behind him. The man with the axe said something to Rydell. Rydell turned to Eric's direction and waved for them all to come down.
"Do we go?" Season asked.
"Tracy and Molly and I will go. You and Tag keep watch, and I mean careful watch. We'll fill your canteens."
"But what if it's a trap?"
Eric stepped through the brush, fastening Tag and Season's canteens to his belt. "We'll take the chance."
"Water," the man with the axe said, "makes strange bedfellows."
"I thought it was politics that did that," Molly said.
"These days water is politics." Joseph Baldwin hung his axe from the wooden pegs next to the cabin door. "You know how much water each person used to use before the quake? I mean daily."
They all shook their heads.
"Guess." Joseph Baldwin grinned slyly, enjoying this.
"Ten or twenty gallons, I guess," Tracy said.
"No," Molly said. "That's what I use to wash my hair."
"Ha! Not even close. Mr. Grimme?"
"Fifty?"
"Better, but not close enough. How about you, Mr. Ravensmith?"
"Maybe a hundred gallons a day."
Joseph Baldwin seemed pleased with that answer. "Very close. The average was 110 gallons. Can you imagine? And that was just for personal use. That doesn't count what manufacturers used, or farmers. And remember, Southern California is really desert, so most of the water had to be brought in here via three aqueducts. Colorado River Aqueduct, 242 miles long through the Mojave Desert; California Aqueduct, bringing water 450 miles from the Sacramento/San Joaquin Delta; and the Los Angeles Aqueduct, spitting water 338 miles from the Sierra Nevada." He shook his head in amazement as he pulled up a chair, sitting at the table between Eric and Tracy and across from Rydell and Molly. He smiled a full set of white teeth. "I probably sound like some old village coot to you, rattling on about water. All that's missing is me chewing tobacco and whittling on a sharp stick. That's what happens when you're isolated like this. Hard to believe I used to be a successful corporate lawyer in San Diego. Important comer in the Democratic party. A Big Brother. My wife and I even sponsored two South American kids through one of those charity organizations. You know the ads, a photograph of some dirty, naked kid with ribs like a xylophone and a caption that reads, 'Juan never has a good day.' " He stared at his hands a while, thick with calluses, as if noticing them for the first time. "You know whose hands these are? My father's. He worked as a farmer all his life in Iowa. Still there. I remember one May, I was about twelve, and he was wrapping Mom's Mother's Day gift. How clumsy those hands were. He could hardly fold the paper at the ends. Finally he asked me to do it because he kept tearing the paper. I'll never forget that. The wrapping paper was left over from Christmas, with little angels all over it." He looked at his hands again, shook his head. "Help yourself to as much water as you need. We've got plenty."
"Thanks," Eric said. "Didn't look like everybody here was as generous as you."
"Oh, you saw Foster stomping off, huh? Don't pay any attention to him. He's afraid someone's going to steal his woman."
"I see."
"Do you?" Joseph asked, his voice suddenly very bitter. He raked his callused hands through his dusty, black hair. "Jim Foster lost his wife in the quake. Burned or drowned in downtown San Diego, he's not sure which. The woman he's living with is his younger sister, and they've been living as husband and wife ever since."
"My God," Tracy said.
"That shock you, young lady? It shouldn't. She can't have any kids, so we don't have to worry about that problem. They love and care for each other. And they aren't likely to find anybody else, not anymore. So what's the harm? You see how a little shift in the land can suddenly make incest okay?" He laughed. "Hell, my wife and I were planning a divorce when this whole thing happened. Now we're closer than we've ever been. Why is that? Is it because disaster brings out the best in people? No, she and I had been through two miscarriages together. In some ways they were worse disasters than the quakes." He looked around the table at each of them as if he were suddenly very tired. "Maybe you'd better just get your water and be leaving."
Eric stood up, the others followed. "We appreciate your hospitality, Mr. Baldwin."
"Sure," he nodded, distracted. "Sorry I bent your ear. But there's only a handful of us living here and we've heard everything about each other so much, we're a little starved for variety. We don't have much in common, except water. My wife and I were driving back from Vegas when the quake hit. We'd been visiting her father, deals blackjack at the MGM Grand. Our car was flipped a couple times, but we were okay. We wandered a bit until we found this cabin and the well. The old man who'd owned it was dead, heart attack I think. Soon Jim Foster and his sister stumbled in here, and then the others. Like I said, water makes strange bedfellows."
"Anyone else come this way recently?" Eric asked.
"Not for a month. That's when Evans Pierce and his son joined us. He used to be a rich contractor in San Diego, building fancy homes and apartment complexes. For the past month he's been helping us get these cabins right. They don't look like much, made out of scrap metal and wood and whatever else we can haul in here. But it's home." He smiled. "Home is where the water is, right?"
Eric nodded.
"Don't worry, Mr. Ravensmith, no more trivia about the amazing aqueduct system of California, or should I say former system. Actually, I memorized all that stuff from a magazine I found here in the old man's cabin. One of about a dozen magazines. Everybody here's read them all a couple times each, just for something to do. Too bad he didn't read books."
"Aren't there any other camps around here like yours?" Rydell asked.
"A couple," He pointed toward the east. "A bunch of Vietnamese live about ten miles that way. We trade with them sometimes. Eggs for nails. Milk for water. They're fair enough people, but pretty clannish."
"Have you thought about asking them to join your group?" Molly said,
Joseph shrugged. "Incest is one thing, but some attitudes don't change. Half of the people here are afraid of them, afraid they'll get their throats slit in the night. Gil Clyne lost his son in Vietnam and he's convinced the others not to risk it. So we'll go on like this until we're so bored we'll take the chance."
"Any other settlements?" Eric asked.
"Well, there's one we heard about from a couple men passing through about six weeks ago. Place called Savvytown."
"Savvytown," Tracy laughed.
"Yeah, I know. But that's what they called it."
"What do you know about it?" Eric asked.
"Not much. Just that if you're smart, you'll stay away from it." Abruptly, Joseph pushed his chair back from the table and started toward the door. "Sorry we can't give you any food, but we're a little short there ourselves. Let's get those canteens filled."
Foxworth nudged Toomey. "What do you think?"
"I think there are more of them than there are of us."
Foxworth thought about that. "Yeah. I thought Ravensmith was supposed to be alone."
"Well he isn't," Toomey snapped.
"What's eating you?"
"Nothing. Nothing." But, of course, something was. At thirty-six, Scott Toomey was at least fifteen years older than Foxworth. He was a Vietnam veteran, though he'd never seen any actual combat there, and had always felt a bit ashamed of that fact. When he'd returned from his tour, friends and family were always asking him what it had been like. He'd give them all the same response, a distant look and a mumbled, "I'd rather not talk about it." They would all nod, sympathizing with his tortured memories.
Actually, he had no experiences to tell them, except how many paper cuts he got from filing all day long in Saigon. It was the worst humiliation of Scott Toomey's life, to have gone off to war and yet never seen a single battle. When he'd heard a few months before the quake that Colonel Fallows was recruiting some men, he'd thought it was for some mercenary action somewhere in Africa. Finally, combat! He'd tossed in the apron with Toomey's Hardware stitched in red across the pocket and left his father's store for the last time. He'd never had a moment's regret, especially since the quakes. He'd done his share of killing, raping, looting. And it was everything he always hoped it would be. If he did have any regret it was that now that he finally had some real war stories to tell, all of his friends were back in New Jersey.
Now he was crouching here with some punk kid who smelled of dog all the time. He still didn't know why he'd volunteered, he'd been around long enough to know better. But there was something about the way Fallows had looked at him… Well, it was done. This would be just another story to tell them back in Trenton.
"I make out six of them. Two on guard over there, and four down getting water from that camp."
Foxworth nodded. "Yeah, I get the same."
Toomey snorted.
"Well, what's our plan? There are six of them and two of us."
"Yeah, but they don't know we're here. So we take 'em out one at a time. Hit and run. Starting with those two." He pointed toward Tag and Season.
"Look at them tits, man. If we got the time, can I fuck her?"
"Before or after we kill her?"
Foxworth shrugged. "It don't matter."
"Are we ever going to make it, you think?" Season asked.
"Sure," Tag said. "We'll probably catch up to them in-"
"I don't mean that kind of make it. I mean make it, as in make love. You and me."
"Oh, well, I don't, uh, know. I hadn't really-"
"You hadn't thought about it? Thanks a lot."
"That's not what I meant. Sure, I've thought of it, but… Christ, what brought this up?"
Season slipped her bandanna off her head, wadded it, wiped the sweat from her face and neck, and tied it back on. "Let's be realistic. We're human beings, regardless of how Eric treats us, and we have certain, you know, needs. Companionship, love, sex."
"Right now our needs are limited to food and water."
"Yeah, but we've been okay there. Hell, look at Molly and Rydell. They've been playing a little slap-and-tickle at night. They haven't actually done the dirty deed yet, but first time they've got five minutes alone they will." She smiled. "It's kind of nice. Romantic."
"What's that have to do with us?"
"Well, besides you, the only other available man for me right now, unless Rydell and Molly have a spat, is Eric. And that's not likely. Not that I wouldn't be interested, but he's too possessed right now. Too many demons in his head. Besides, Tracy's got her eye on him. Not that I couldn't give her a run for her money."
Tag shook his head. "Tracy? You're nuts. She hasn't said a thing, done anything to suggest what you're implying."
"Trust me, Tag," she said, patting his arm. "A woman can tell. Not that she'd do anything about it; she's got too much class for that. She's-"
Tag held up his hand for silence. "Hear that?"
Season tightened the grip on her bow, her fingers tugging slightly on the string. She hunched forward, swiveling her head to listen. Tag saw the intensity on her face, was reminded of African tribeswomen smeared with stripes of colored mud as they hunted, spear in hand. He felt a rush of desire flame down his chest, stomach, flickering through his groin.
They stood without moving or breathing for a full minute, eyes darting through the desert brush, noses unconsciously sniffing for the smell of men. Finally, they looked at each other, shrugged, relaxed a hit.
Tag pointed down at Eric and the others filling their canteens. "Looks like they were successful. That's the first oasis I've ever seen outside a movie. Somehow it doesn't look as real as in the movies."
"It's got water. That's real enough."
"I guess it's a good thing we've been traveling mostly at night. Rydell told me that we each need a gallon of water a day to survive in the desert, but that at night we can cover twice as much mileage on that gallon as during the day. Twenty miles as opposed to ten."
"Yeah, I saw Beau Geste too. Only trouble is, so did Fallows, and he's been covering the same ground. More, because his men are in better shape."
Tag nodded, fell silent. He tried to catch a glimpse of Season out of the corner of his eye, see if she was still looking at him. He'd never had much trouble finding girls, but this one overwhelmed him. All the qualities he had to push himself to have-courage, humor, forth-rightness-she displayed easily. "You know, Season, uh, about what you said before-"
"You understand the Dewey Decimal System?"
"Huh?"
"All those ridiculous numbers. You understand them?"
"Yeah. It's based on a classification formulated by W.T. Harris for the St. Louis Public Library. Melvil Dewey devised it in 1873 for the Amherst College Library. In it, all knowledge is divided into ten groups, with each group assigned a hundred numbers. Then-"
"Okay, okay. I didn't understand it before and you're not making it any easier. I just figure we should get to know each other a bit better since we're kind of like the last two people at a singles bar. Eventually we're going to go home together, so we might as well enjoy each other's company. Make sense?"
He nodded. "Sure, I guess."
"Great!" she smiled and pecked him on the cheek. "At least now it's out in the open. We don't have to kid each other."
Tag turned to say something to her, he wasn't sure what exactly, just something nice. He hoped the words would, for once, spring naturally and unarmored from his mouth. "I-"
He heard a funny sound. A zipper closing too fast. Where had he heard that sound before? There was a nudge at his chest, the distant sound of screaming. Season's.
"Jesus God, no!"
Lazily he followed her eyes to his chest, saw the green stick of wood, the yellow feathers bunched like a bouquet at one end. The shaft was wedged into his chest. How'd that get there? he wondered, started to reach for it to pluck it out. But his arms wouldn't move. His hand uncurled from the bow, it dropped on his foot. He didn't feel it. Slowly, so slowly, he felt his legs melting under him.
Like a vivid dream, it all seemed to take hours to Tag. But for Season, from the time she saw him hit to the time he dropped to the ground was a matter of a second or two.
She'd screamed from shock, but had recovered quickly, dropping to one knee and firing off an arrow in the direction the crossbow bolt had come from. The arrow rustled through the brush, but didn't hit anything solid. She flipped another arrow from quiver to bow and drew. The bow's system of pulleys allowed her to keep it drawn without arm fatigue as she swept it in a fanning motion from brush to brush.
Zzziipp.
Another bolt sizzled by her, embedded itself in Tag's exposed back. She pivoted in the direction it had come from, fired her arrow. It too was swallowed by the brush. She reached for another arrow.
Zzziipp.
The bolt's razor-edged tip punctured her right forearm, slicing through flesh and muscle like a ship's prow through water. Instantly it poked through the back of her forearm dripping blood onto her fine wheat-colored hairs.
Zzziipp.
Zzziipp.
Two more bolts flashed toward her, one whooshing over her right shoulder, the other chipping a splinter from her bow before being deflected to the ground.
Unable to either see the enemy or fire her bow with her injured arm, Season dropped the bow and did what her body was trained to do best. She ran.
Eric gave the cap of the canteen an extra twist. "That about does it. Again, thanks for the help."
Joseph Baldwin smiled, shook Eric's hand. "No problem. It's the least I could do after bending all your ears so much. Hope you find whoever you're tracking."
Eric's face hardened.
"No, don't worry, none of you let anything slip. You forget, I was a lawyer. Had a stint as a public defender for a couple years. I know the look." He gave them a grim smile. "But from judging the kind of people you seem to be, I'd say whoever it is has it coming."
'Thanks for the water," Eric said again, nodding to the others to move out,
"Jesus God, no!" Season's scream cracked the air like a gunshot.
Eric led them as they scrambled up the sandy incline. They ran clumsily through the shifting sand, their feet slogging as if buried in mud. Only Eric seemed to move easily, his feet slapping ahead of the others as if he were on pavement. His crossbow was cocked, the bolt snug against the string, waiting for that 150 pounds of tension to snap it through the air.
Season was running toward him now, her legs and arms pumping, fighting the sand's pull as it sucked at her feet. The bloody arrow through her forearm looked like some child's prank, a toy bought at a cheap magic shop to scare her parents. Once it banged against her thigh as she ran. Her howl of pain was sudden, reflexive. Then she gulped it back and ran even harder.
"Drop to the ground!" Eric yelled. "Drop!"
She shook her head as she ran toward him. Another bolt flew out from the clump of brush behind her, whizzed within a few inches of her back before shooting past her.
Eric flopped to his stomach, lifted the crossbow to his shoulder, and calculated the backward trajectory of the bolt that had just missed Season. It was like playing the film of the arrow's flight in reverse. Then he freeze-framed the film on the exact spot where the bolt had emerged from the brush, aimed the crossbow, and squeezed the trigger.
The short arrow spat from the bow like an angry torpedo headed for an enemy U-boat.
A surprised grunt of sudden unendurable agony burst from the brush, followed by a body in combat fatigues pitching forward, grasping madly at the bolt blooming like a deadly flower from his stomach. But the shaft was too slippery with blood for him to get a firm grasp. His fingers slid helplessly off the arrow. Then he died.
Twelve yards to the left, young Foxworth swallowed a bubble of panic as he watched Toomey's eyes stare unblinking into the orange sky. Tiny grains of sand coated Toomey's bloody fingers like breading and Foxworth suddenly thought of Kentucky Fried Chicken, the one thing he missed most since the quakes. He wanted to laugh, to cry, to vomit, to piss his pants. All at once.
Through the crisp skeletal twigs of the brush, he could see Ravensmith and the others crawling cautiously toward him. He calculated his chances of running away.
Slim to none. Ravensmith would put an arrow in his back before he got ten yards away. He squirmed, wringing his sweaty hands around the crossbow. Damn thing. Why hadn't Colonel Fallows given them guns. Then he remembered the feeling he'd got when he'd fired into that guy's body. Sure, Toomey had already brought him down, but Foxworth had put another arrow into him anyway. To see how it felt. It felt good. The way the body twitched and jerked as the bolt thumped into it. It was, well, satisfying. Almost as good as fucking those twins and their mother, though he was the last in line and by then they'd all been so abused they were hardly conscious enough to notice him doing anything. He did it anyway.
Foxworth cocked his crossbow, slid a bolt into the groove, took aim on Ravensmith. Maybe if I dropped him…
Eric inched along the ground, the sand's heat seeping through his clothes. Sweat dripped into his eyes and he blinked it away. He scanned the horizon at the top of the incline, trying to decide how many were out there. Not many, he decided, or they would have attacked when they were all together. Probably thought they could pick Season and Tag off, then do the same to the rest later.
One thing was certain, Fallows wasn't one of them. If he had been, they'd all be dead by now. He'd never have tried such a lame ploy as this. He was too smart, no one realized just how smart.
"Rydell," Eric called over his shoulder. Rydell bellied over the sand next to Eric. "How's Season?"
"Tracy's got the arrow out. Don't know how good that arm's going to be, but she'll live."
Molly edged closer. "What about those guys in the cabins? Are they going to help us?"
Eric looked back to the cabins behind them. Everyone had gone inside. "Don't count on it."
"Maybe they'll lend us that shotgun," Rydell said.
"I wouldn't. It's not their fight."
"What about Tag? Maybe I should make a run for him. See how he's doing."
Eric shook his head. "He's dead."
"How do you know? Maybe he's just unconscious."
Eric gave him a look, turned back to study the terrain ahead. A few mesquite trees to the left, their pods a bright lemon yellow, ready to eat. A clump of stinging nettle bushes to the right, their green shoots used as flavoring for soups. All that information stored up in his brain along with song lyrics to "When I'm Sixty-four" and Magic Johnson's free throw percentages for the last three seasons. "There's only a couple places up there with enough cover to hide. If we pepper them with a few arrows, we should get a reaction. Ready?"
The movement was so slight, Eric couldn't be sure it was real. Maybe it was just a chuckwalla lizard. When frightened they blow themselves up like balloons and wedge themselves into crevices of rocks. Whatever it was, Eric flipped his crossbow toward it without hesitation and squeezed the trigger.
The bolt punched through the saltbush, severing a few dull green flowers before whistling by Foxworth's dirty ear. The shock of having Ravensmith fire at him just as he was aiming at Ravensmith, jolted Foxworth off balance.
Fucking spooky. He tipped backwards, tumbling into the sand, his finger tightening reflexively around the trigger. The bow twanged and hurled its bolt harmlessly into the orange sky.
'There!" he heard Ravensmith shout, saw him pointing toward Foxworth,
Foxworth knew he was only seconds from a volley of arrows aimed in his direction. He thought of the excruciating pain, the sharp point of an arrow clefting skin, tissue, slicing muscle, puncturing organs. Or, God no, his face! The shaft burrowing into his brain, gnawing through the soft jelly of his eye. He felt warm urine soaking his pants leg. Suddenly he leaped to his feet, tossed the heavy crossbow over the top of the saltbush, threw his hands into the air. "Enough! Enough!"
Eric smiled. "Are you scared?"
"M-Maybe. A little."
"Sure, a little. That's good."
"What do you mean?"
"Respect for pain is a good thing. Especially now."
"I don't get you."
"I'm about to fill you with a lot of respect."
Foxworth swallowed. "Whataya gonna do?"
Eric ran his finger lightly along his scar.
"Shit, man, no need for any of that. I'll tell you what you wanna know. Just fucking ask, okay? Just ask?"
"But how will we know it's the truth? You might be lying. No, I'm afraid that won't do. You see, the Hopis have a saying. A tongue in pain always speaks the truth."
"I swear, Mr. Ravensmith. Honest to God, I'll tell you the truth. Tell you first time. Really. Ask me. Go ahead."
Rydell trudged wearily up the hill. Joseph Baldwin was beside him. Both carried shovels.
"We buried them both," Rydell said. "I hated to put them both in the same hole."
"Won't matter to either of them," Joseph Baldwin said, clapping Rydell on the shoulder. "Couple weeks and they'll both be grown over with a patch of Mormon tea."
Season adjusted the red bandanna Tracy had taken from her head and wrapped around the wound. She winced slightly from the pain, but made no sound. No tears.
Molly and Tracy stood on either side of Eric, each with a crossbow aimed at Foxworth, who sat trembling on the ground. His legs were folded under him and he kept wiping the sweat from his palms onto the thighs of his pants.
"What's your name again?" Eric asked, cupping his hand to his ear.
"Foxworth."
"What's your first name?"
Foxworth hesitated. He hated his first name as much as he hated tall niggers or raw fish. He looked down, mumbled.
"What?"
"Ariel. My old lady's idea." He didn't add that the rest of the guys used to call him Airedale because he skinned the dogs and usually smelled like one.
"Well, Ariel. You can stand up and take off all your clothes."
"Yes, sir," he said, jumping to his feet and unbuttoning and removing his shirt. He stripped off his pants, leaving on his boots and underpants.
"You can leave the boots, but not the pants."
"Jeez, Mr. Ravensmith. Can't you just ask me what you want to know, man to man. Do they have to be here?" He nodded at the women.
"You've got something against women, Ariel?"
"Well, shit, all this isn't gonna change my answers any. I swear."
"The underpants."
Foxworth squared his shoulders, summoning some defiance. "At least send her away," he said, pointing at Molly. "I don't want no goddamn gook staring at my naked ass."
Rydell crossed the space between them in two steps, his face glowering with rage, then swung the shovel into Foxworth's jaw. The jaw shifted like a slammed drawer and Foxworth fell moaning to the ground, clutching his face. Rydell raised the shovel over his head as if to hit him again, but Tracy's hand at his arm stopped him.
"You damn fool," Eric snapped. "If you had to hit him, why not in the kneecap so he couldn't walk. Not the jaw which he needs to talk."
Rydell held the shovel in both hands like an axe, stared down at Foxworth as if noticing him for the first time. He looked over his shoulder at Eric. "Sorry, I… Sorry."
"Actually," Molly said. "I kind of preferred the jaw."
"Help him up," Eric nodded to Molly.
Molly shifted the bow to one hand, wedged a hand behind Foxworth's back, and pushed him to a sitting position. "Don't mind us gooks."
Foxworth's jaw hung at an odd angle, obviously broken. He cradled it gently between his hands like a baby bird fallen from its nest.
"Now, Foxworth," Eric said, his smile gone, his eyes narrowing. "Maybe now you're ready to tell the truth."
Foxworth nodded enthusiastically.
"Does Fallows have my wife and son?"
"Yes." Speech made him wince.
"Has he hurt them at all?"
Foxworth shook his head.
Eric leaned over, his face inches away. "Hasn't touched them or abused them?"
"No."
Eric grabbed Foxworth by the shattered jaw and yanked it back and forth twice. Foxworth howled and cried. "Again. They haven't been abused or touched?"
"Just the colonel. He's… been… with her. In his tent. No one else was allowed. The kid hasn't been touched. I swear to God."
"Where's Fallows heading now?"
"North, Me and Toomey were supposed to meet up with him near Santa Barbara. Depending."
"Depending on what?"
"On where the new coastline is."
Eric stepped back, his face slightly ashen. His fingers tapped along the scar on his cheek, as if they were playing a tune. "North, huh?" he mused, staring off in that direction.
"Yes, sir. Santa Barbara."
Eric nodded slowly, turned to the others. "Let's get the gear together. We're moving out in a few minutes."
"Maybe we should wait a little longer," Tracy said. "Give Season a chance to rest. Recover from her wound."
"If she wants to rest she can stay here. Try to catch up with us later."
Tracy glared at him. "Christ, Eric. Why are you acting so damn hard-core?"
"No, really," Season said, "I'm fine. Fine. Besides, I haven't been to Santa Barbara in years. Since Daddy filmed that spy flick there."
"We're not going to Santa Barbara," Eric said, swinging his pack onto his shoulders. "We're going south."
"What?" Rydell said.
Tracy pointed at Foxworth. "But he just said-"
"I know what he said. But it's not the truth."
Foxworth twitched nervously, panic twisting up his throat like a fat snake. "It's the truth. I ain't lying. I swear. North. That's what he told us. Santa Barbara."
"That's what he told you, Ariel. But that's not where he's going. You see, you weren't meant to join them later. In fact, you weren't even meant to kill me."
Molly sat on the ground. "I need a drink."
"I'd settle for an explanation," Tracy said.
"It's simple, really, if you know Fallows. He sent these two clowns to be caught."
"Why?" Rydell asked.
"To tell us he was going north. In the meantime, he heads south."
"I don't know. That's quite a stretch to make in logic."
"Not really. If Fallows had wanted me dead, he would have sent a couple guys with more experience. He's got them. And he would have given them guns. He's got them too. Instead he sent a couple amateurs who he knew I'd kill, or capture and torture. You have to know one thing about Fallows, he wants to kill me himself."
"Jesus," Tracy said. "All this just to shake you off his trail."
Eric shook his head. "That's the clever part. He knows I wouldn't fall for this. We used the same device in Nam a couple times. Rattles the nerves. He just doesn't want it to be too easy for me."
Joseph Baldwin cleared his throat, leaned on his shovel. "I don't know who this Fallows is, but he sounds damn dangerous. And smart as the devil."
"Maybe smarter," Eric said. "Okay, everybody, grab your gear and let's go."
"What about him?" Rydell nodded at Foxworth.
"Kill him."
"No, Mr. Ravensmith," Foxworth pleaded. "I told you what I knew. It's not my fault Colonel Fallows didn't tell me the truth. I told the truth."
Eric ignored him, spoke to Rydell. "We don't want him warning Fallows, and we don't want him following us. So kill him. Use a knife or your bow."
"Please! I won't follow you. And I swear I won't warn the colonel. Why should I? The son of a bitch hung me out here to die."
Rydell stared at Foxworth. "I-I don't think I can. Not like this."
"Why not?" Eric said angrily. "He killed your friend. He murdered Tag Hallahan, remember him? He's the guy you were joking with about his red hair a few hours ago. The same guy you just buried a few minutes ago. The one with two arrows sticking in his body. This guy fired one or both of them."
"No! No, I missed," Foxworth said. "I couldn't shoot him like that. I missed on purpose. I swear to you."
"I know, Eric," Rydell said. "And I want to do it, I want to kill him. I thought I could. But I guess I can't. Not in cold blood."
"He's not like you yet," Tracy said, her eyes blazing at Eric. "He's still too human."
"Unfortunately that's not a valuable quality against Fallows. Not if we want to get Annie and Timmy back." He cocked his crossbow, snatched a barbed hunting bolt from his quiver, and nestled it in the groove. Then he aimed it at Foxworth's heart. "One of your own arrows, Ariel."
"Jesus, mister. Jesus." Foxworth blubbered through the tears, his broken jaw slack and quivering. "Please, I…" But his sobbing prevented his continuing.
When Tracy spoke to Eric, her voice was quiet, yet with a stainless steel edge. "What makes you think Annie will want you the way you are now? You aren't the man she married. You're Dirk Fallows. In that way he's already killed you."
Eric glared at her a minute. Then he spun back to face Foxworth, lifted the crossbow to his shoulder, aimed down the sight, released the safety, and pulled the trigger.
Foxworth began screaming even before the trigger was pulled, and he continued screaming once the arrow drilled through his right kneecap, boring out the back of the leg and embedding itself in the back of the calf that had been folded under him.
"I can't move it! Help me!" Foxworth whined, trying to unfold his leg, but unable to because of the barbs dug into his flesh.
Eric turned his back on all of them and marched off toward the south.
"Come on," Tracy gestured, and they all scrambled after him.
Joseph Baldwin looked at Foxworth writhing on the ground, then at Eric and the others as they trekked grimly through the mesquite trees. He shook his head. "That's one hard man," he said, balancing the shovel on his shoulder as he walked back down to the cabins, whistling.