Free Jason Frost - Warlord 05 - Terminal Island by Jason Frost - Warlord 05 Page B

to be so clean, you know, the way you always see them picking fleas outta each other’s fur.”
    Frustrated, Eric stood up and kicked at the feeding door, which brought nothing more than another enthusiastic clamor from their neighbors and a searing jolt of pain along Eric’s tender ribs. He sighed and sat down next to D.B. “They’re not picking fleas, they’re grooming. Big difference.”
    “Grooming, huh? Like one of them is a hairdresser or something? They all call him Mr. Chimp?”
    Eric laughed. “Something like that. It’s partially hygiene, but mostly socializing. Sometimes they do it just to soothe each other, like massages. Sometimes it’s a matter of social status. Depending on your rank in the group, you mostly either give or get. Females have it worse. They groom the male for about ten minutes, he gives them back an obligatory 30 seconds, then they give him another ten minutes.”
    “The usual male bullshit,” she teased.
    “Just remember that it’s a woman who’s got us locked up in here.”
    D.B. reached over and gently placed her hand on Eric’s sore ribs. “How they holding up? You took some heavy tenderizing from that ape.”
    “At least I showed him who was higher on the evolutionary scale.”
    “Yeah,” she laughed. “It was clever the way you let him tire himself out crushing you.”
    Eric took a deep breath, felt the sharp sting as his lungs expanded against his battered ribcage. He could still feel those hard bristly arms coiled around his body. He was sure that if he lifted his shirt he would discover the perfect imprints of thick primate muscles on his bruised skin, every sinew perfectly embedded as if in wet sand.
    “When’s feeding time around here?” D.B. asked. “I’m hungry.”
    “You think she’ll waste precious food on us?”
    “Tarzana? Sure, she’ll feed us. Why starve us to death? She could’ve shot us last night, or let her ape do the mashed potato on our heads.”
    Eric looked at her and smiled. “Tarzana?”
    “That’s what I call her. Like Queen of the Apes. Maybe she was with a circus or something. An animal trainer.”
    “Not likely. She used American Sign Language with the ape. That takes years of working with the same animal. Very specialized. She was probably with the zoo. Research maybe.”
    D.B. had already lost interest in that topic. She fidgeted with her choke collar. “You think she’s a looker?”
    Eric shrugged. “A little hairy, maybe, but sure.”
    “I mean Tarzana. I’m no smart-ass history prof, but even I could tell that ape was a male.” She nudged Eric. “C’mon. Answer me.”
    Eric could see she was serious. Sometimes it was hard to remember that even here in the violent world under the Halo, kids still had the same growing pains as those outside. “Yes. She is attractive.”
    D.B. nodded wisely. “Guys always go for those Oriental types.”
    “I’m not going for anything, except your throat if you don’t knock it off. Let’s concentrate on getting out of here.”
    “Sure. Got any ideas?” She smiled at him. “We could use my head for a battering ram.”
    Eric reached over and mussed her hair. “What wall would stand a chance?” He stood up, pressed his face against the wire, looked both ways. “I don’t see her anywhere. Let’s try kicking on that feeding door together.”
    They lay on their backs next to each other, their knees tucked up to their chins.
    Eric counted. “One, two, three . . .” On three, they both stomped their feet straight ahead, whacking the door with all four feet. But to no effect. The door remained locked.
    They tried again. And again.
    Nothing.
    D.B. rolled away, hugging her sore feet. “I’ll never polka again.”
    Eric kicked the door a few more times by himself. He knew it was no use, but he had to try something. The monkeys next door were screeching and wailing like irate neighbors in an apartment building.
    “Uh oh,” D.B. said. “Guess who’s coming to dinner.”
    Eric