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.
