Free Jason Frost - Warlord 04 - Prisonland by Jason Frost - Warlord 04 Page A

head.
    “Fuck, man,” Hanks said. “Why didn’t you just give her to us. You’d have gotten in and your shots, no sweat.”
    “I need her to trade for stuff once I’m inside.”
    “Yeah, man,” Grub said, giving Eric an appreciative nod, “You’ll fit right in around here. Welcome to Asgard. City of the gods.”

----

EIGHT
     
    “How much you want for her?” Eric considered. “Make me an offer.” The fat man was naturally bald on top, but the sides and back he’d shaved himself. Black stubble dotted his head like pencil points. Curving down the shiny bald pate was a tattooed shark, its mouth open wide, its rows of teeth dipping down onto the forehead. The fat man’s own teeth were scattered haphazardly in his mouth, separated by wide expanses of toothless gum. That and the scars on the lips indicated something hard had once smashed his mouth. “I got a dog,” the fat man said. “Doberman. Good watchdog when you’re outside.” The man gave a leering wink. “And it’s a female, in case you get lonely.”
    Eric gave D.B.’s chain a jerk. “Hell, she keeps pretty good watch too. And she’s no dog.”
    “Yeah, but if you get hungry you can cook the dog and eat it.”
    Eric shrugged. “I can do the same with her.”
    The fat man made a face at Eric. The shark on his head wrinkled in the furrows of his brow. “Jesus, man.”
    “You know a guy named Dodd?” Eric asked, describing him.
    “Sounds like a lot of guys around here. What about my dog?”
    “You two make a nice couple.” Eric walked on, leading D.B. beside him. He’d had several offers for D.B. since strolling through Asgard, some of them fairly generous. But still no word on Dodd’s whereabouts.
    They saw only a few women among the hundreds of men, and even those were sickly or maimed. Occasionally, they’d see a child, but only boys, and even then they were at least fifteen. There were no old people at all, no one over sixty.
    “Where are all the women?” D.B. whispered as they strolled through Ghiradelli Square.
    “I don’t know. Same place as the kids and old folks, I guess.”
    “Spooky, huh?”
    Eric didn’t answer. He scanned the crowds for Dodd.
    Men milled about the lower level of the square, drifting from one location to another, but not with much purpose. There were booths set up, people selling objects or services. Tattoo artists. Used jeans. One booth with nothing but cans of Campbell’s soups. Eric overheard someone say the tough-looking guy in the booth had found a truckload of the soup but that two families had built shacks around the trailer and had been living off the soups for months. He had killed both families and brought the soup here to sell.
    The whole place resembled those giant swap meets Eric had been to at fairgrounds and drive-ins. He’d seen several camps like this in his travels. New California’s version of a shopping mall.
    “Just what was that stuff you gave those goons to get us in here?” D.B. asked.
    “You watched me gather it.”
    “Not exactly. You made me scrub off in the river while you did the gathering. Remember? You figured I’d be worth more if I were presentable.”
    “I was right. Almost got me a Doberman.”
    “C’mon, what was that stuff?”
    “Jimsonweed.”
    “Sounds familiar. What is it?”
    “It’s from the potato family.”
    She laughed. “You got those guys high smoking potatoes?”
    Eric gave her chain a light jerk. “No laughing. People are watching. We’re on our way to get inoculated.”
    “Tell me about it,” she shivered. “After seeing all those sick people and dead bodies, I can’t wait. I feel kinda crummy though, knowing we can get the shots but all those people outside can’t. Makes me feel guilty.”
    “Good. As long as you still can feel guilt, you won’t become like these people.” Not like me, he thought, realizing for this first time that he hadn’t really given any thought to those poor wretches they’d passed on their way here.