The Warlord's Physician Ch. 07

There were old days, before Warcry's time, when hunting was for fun and sport rather than necessity. Snake reveled in those old days, recalling that he could hold his boy like a football. He'd head into the forest for a couple days with nothing but a gun and his boys, and they'd survive off only what they could kill. It was not terribly different than what he did regularly, which involved drugs, guns, and dead gangsters. Maybe he just liked practicing on something that could not fight back.

"Hunting is like sex," Snake once explained, back when wounds from the war were fresh in his boy's memory. "It's violent. There's blood. People die."

That was the first time Snake actually told his son about sex in any meaningful way, though he would later piece the other details together for himself.

And sex was what Snake had on his mind the morning of his great hunting trip. He woke up, as he often did, with a handful of women around him. Three or four, so nothing too drastic. Delilah was one of them, and they were all caked in the dry sweat of the night before. They were free of chains, but knew escape would not be possible. And although they would never admit it to themselves, they did not wish to be free. Not truly. The wasteland was a cruel, painful place and the Overdogs provided protection. And the only price they had to pay was incredible sex.

"Sleep well?" asked the warlord. He addressed the dark-skinned girl lying on his chest. Her hair covered his stomach and stray strands wandered onto the bed.

"Like a baby, sir," she said with a smile, and not a false one. As all of his slaves eventually learned, Snake was a generous lover. It was a rare evening when the ladies did not get to finish.

The word "baby" sent a smile across Snake's face, a smile, that the women had come to love. His teeth were jagged and a little yellow, but the smile was genuine. "I need a baby," he said. As well as Warcry performed last night, the Overdogs needed to be filled with children. Never once had he seen a baby born after the war ended, and he was committed to spreading his seed across the wasteland.

She placed a gentle hand on his cheek as the other women snored gently. "Then I guess I better give you one," she said with a kiss on his lips.

He smiled as they kissed. "I'd stay if I could, but my boy needs me. Besides, you had more than enough fun last night." With any luck, one of them would be pregnant. But that luck didn't exist, and he'd prayed for it for years and it only ended with disappointment and misery. Women collected from all over the wasteland, but not a single conception. Was this the end of the human race? Was this the fate they'd been led to? A slow, ignominious death by radiation poisoning and infertility. The thought was one of the few things that terrified him, though he would never let anyone see the way he got chills down his spine. Not even the women.

"Fine," she said, drawing out the word for far too long.

Snake left them to rest in his oversized bed in the low light of his dirt-stained room. The wallpaper was filthy and peeling and its flowers had curdled and turned grey. A large window loomed over the courtyard below, and the dawn sunlight revealed highwaymen distrusting water, reminding him of how parched and dry his tongue was. Slaves carried buckets of water to their masters in dilapidated shacks across the village, those poor bastards without working plumbing. And the factory loomed in the background. Black columns already rose up high. The word day had begun and the slaves toiled for the glory of labor, the honor of supporting the brave highwaymen who protected them.

Warcry was already waiting for him downstairs, chatting casually with his new slave. They seemed comfortable enough. The physician was carrying a back, certainly carrying weapons and water and other supplies for the great hunt. Slaves filled the armored pickup with gas and some highwaymen examined the engine, just in case some righteous bastard had tried to tamper with it overnight.

When Snake was in his armor, befitting a warlord of the wasteland, he met the morning sun with pride in his eyes. That dumb boy, unfit for life in the wastes, was finally going to make something of himself.

While Warcry could never admit to such a thing, he had brought Needle along for the sole purpose of showing off. All he wanted to do was impress the chained boy, a boy who clearly looked to him with some kind of awe. A knot rested in Warcry's stomach, thick and heavy as a ball of lead, and just as poisonous.

"I'll drive," Snake said, as if there was a possibility that the dead-leg was going to somehow work the gas pedal. "Slave, in the cargo."

"Yes, sir," Needle said, enthused by his full belly and his moist tongue and the company he kept. His eyes widened whenever he looked at Warcry, with that ridiculous ponytail and thin face, and even the crutch he hobbled on.

Needle climbed in the back of the cargo, careful not to cut himself on any of the rusty nails or spikes. Last he checked, he didn't have a tetanus shot, and plenty of highwaymen died from that sort of nonsense.

His chains jangled loudly as the engine hummed, and he stared off as the palace and the factory and the whole fortified town fell into the distance. It was a wicked place where people came to suffer or to make others suffer. And yet, it had been a happy place for him, if only in the most bittersweet of ways, and only in the presence of his new owner.

And Warcry couldn't help but feel the same way, and detest the way his stomach turned with only the thin window of the truck separating them. It was a curious longing, the way someone in the old days might have developed an instant attachment to a cute classmate, and then that classmate didn't attend class. It was an odd emptiness, but they were scarcrely a few inches apart, sitting back to back with glass and Warcry's seat between them.

"We need some tunes," Snake said, banging a balled fist on the truck's dash.

Like most things in the world, the radio was broken. It buzzed as static flowed through, slowly at first and then in pieces. The CD inside the drive was whirring as it strained to play. Then the song came through, harsh and strong, and not too distant from the buzzing static. There were no instruments that Warcry could recognize, and the sounds were interrupted by screams and unintelligible lyrics.

Warcry recognized this as the sort of music his father listened to before a raid. It got him in a certain mood, the kind that involved blood and violence. Testosterone and adrenaline flooded his system. Most highwaymen found a similar effect by indulging in crack or even meth before a battle, but Snake didn't need those chemical enhancements. He was perfect just the way he is.

They traveled far enough to pass by an outpost. The highwaymen there cheered as they passed. The outpost was once a gas station. Now it had a fencing around it and wooden guard towers and snipers on top. Slaves and goods being transported would often stop at similar outposts, and travelers under Overdog protection would be permitted a meal and a night's sleep at them. Most had huge gas supplies underneath, and were where mobile agents of the Overdogs went to get maintenance and meals. They were also where raiding parties operated out of, when they had to harass a village or some other gang.

This particular outpost was now the home of Chef. It had taken a great deal of care to move his entire operation to this outpost, and only after Snake failed to convince him to take shelter in the factory fortress. So, in addition to slaves and supplies, cocaine was being distributed from this particular outpost. The network of outposts that Overdog Enterprises had tireless engineered allowed for this product to be distributed all across the region with relative ease and safety.

"Any reason in particular you brought the slave?" Snake asked, lowering the raucous music a bit.

"You tend to get shot when you leave the compound."

"That's not true. Not even slightly. I'm offended," he replied, mentally trying to figure out if the accusation was true.

"Really? What about that time you parlayed with the Mayas?" Warcry asked.

"They all died. I remember because I was the one who killed them."

"Yeah, but not before they shot you," Warcry added. "And how about that farm raid last month? The Bronze Bullets were waiting. Not to mention getting Chef. They almost killed you then."

"Okay, anyone can nitpick. The Canyon Crazies trade went off without a hitch."

"Yeah, but the Bronze Bullets sent an attack chopper after you. Look, you might be the badass of the wasteland but that isn't going to make you a lot of friends. You go into the wasteland, people try to shoot your ass. You look at the wasteland, people try to shoot your ass. You even think about the wasteland, guess what happens? People try to shoot your ass."

"Look, I appreciate that you're looking out for me," Snake interrupted before he could let his temper get the better of him. "You're a very caring boy and that's great. I just thought this was going to be father-son sort of trip, you know?"

"I don't see how the slave affects that. He's a silent worker here to make sure you don't die. God, you're the one who taught me that slaves are better left ignored anyway." Warcry did not like having to defend his decision to bring Needle, but he had rehearsed his defense a few times during the night. He obviously could not admit his desire to impress the slave, but he could use his father's rhetoric against him.

"You're right, you're right," Snake conceded, turning over his son's words in his mind. He could never admit it aloud, but he really did regret the distance between him and his son. Sure, they joked about all the times he almost died and bonded lightly over gifted slaves, but there was nothing really materiel there. They hadn't had a meaningful conversation in years. The hunting trip was just another attempt to fix that. "We're almost there."

The farther east they traveled, the more hills they saw beside the ruinous grey highway. Roads split off the highway, marked with signs now too rusty to read. They either went to farming towns owned by the Overdogs or to ruins looted long ago. Warcry didn't leave the palace often enough to know where they were headed, but he knew his father well enough to trust that he would be safe.

They got off where the land rose and curled their way up a hilly path. Needle had to hold onto the side of the truck, not easy while in chains, so he didn't slide all over the cargo. While the hill may once have green lush and green and covered in trees, it was now grey and dusty and all the trees had rotted bone-white. Even in the sunlight, it was ominous and chilly.

There was a ridge long the hill where a metal guardrail prevented cars from toppling over the edge. It had failed in its duty and was now broken in two, rusted and worn out. Snake parked along the side of it and got out. Warcry followed, hobbling on his crutch.

The view was not particularly breathtaking, so Warcry snuck a look at Needle, who was struggling to carry the heavy duffel filled with weaponry. Snake hadn't specified how long the trip would be, so the slaves filled the bag with plenty of ammo and rations for a few days. It was too heavy for the scrawny slave, so he huffed and struggled as his arms burned.

"Put it down here, boy," Snake said, standing behind the guard rail.

It was nothing but desert all around, with a few discolorations which might have been distant villages and outposts. Dark scars cut across the grey, connecting them in an intricate pattern. Nearest to them than any of the villages or the roads was what seemed to be a trailer, rusted and set on cinder blocks, but once a mobile home.

Snake wordlessly opened the duffel and removed the disassembled piece of the gun, a heavy sniper rifle. They clicked together with oily ease, and bullets rattled below, beside canteens of water and wrapped loaves of bread. Once the scope clicked on, he handed it to Warcry.

Warcry took the rifle with a feigned confidence, knowing that Needle was silently watching and silently judging. But he held it so gingerly, like he might accidentally blow his own head off if he didn't show it the proper deference.

"One of Chef's workers is holed up in the mobile home down the way," Snake explained. "The dick ran off when the merger went through. He wasn't very excited to be a part of Overdog Enterprises. We're here to show him the error of his ways."

Warcry nodded as the pieces of the puzzle assembled themselves. The sun was setting behind them, over the hill, which meant that they would be basically invisible, even if the escapee had a scope himself. It was clever on Snake's part to plan the attack in such a way, and Warcry recalled the Biblical hero Gideon who won a battle with the very same tactic.

It was a sink or swim moment for Warcry, and he knew the warlord was judging him. "Back up," he said to Snake.

Snake had acquired many gunmasters, either as slaves or as highwaymen, to teach his poor disabled son over the years. He was pained to see his son so weak because of a silly leg injury and he desperately needed his only child to be worthy of the Overdogs. And yet, he had never seen the boy kill anything.

So, he was a little surprised when Warcry threw his crutch to the ground and leaned against the car. Using a high caliber rifle like that, having two legs was pretty much essential. But he had discovered a way to work around that problem. He fell against the car, lucky to avoid the rusted spikes, and shouldered the rifle. Safety off, he peered through the scope and surveyed the area. He recalled the lessons of his gunmasters, about keeping his finger off the trigger until the target was in sight, about exhaling when he fired, how to squeeze the trigger gently instead of pulling down. A strange calm came over him when he was behind the scope, and the judgment of his father and his slave suddenly ceased to exist.

The trailer was rusted and distant, but the scope allowed him to see each brown speck of decay. He leaned on his one good leg, shifting so that the dead one was just for balance, and examined the target. The windows shone with light and there appeared to be some movement inside, as told by the shifting shadows. There only seemed to be on door, and it was facing them, so there was no chance of escape. Unfortunately, there was no way to tell how many people might be inside.

Snake looked at his boy with a mystified sense of pride. There the kid was, silently aiming a rifle like a man. He didn't even reach for his inhaler. A few months ago, this might have been impossible. The fumes from the car would have choked him and he'd be too frightened of the gun to even hold it. The physician might not be able to fix his leg, but having one so close seemed to alleviate some of the fears that had plagued him. If only Snake knew the truth of where this confidence came from. His pride would turn to shame in an atomic flash. His world would end for the second time in recent history.

Warcry saw a shape move in the dirty window, a black form that must have been a head, contrasting with the electric yellow light. He'd never killed before because he didn't consider himself to be a psychopath, but surely psychopathy ran in his blood. So, he made his father proud and squeezed the trigger. Blood splattered across the shattered window.

Needle watched Snake's chest swell with pride as a deafening crack! ripped across the sky. The slave couldn't help but feel a little pride, and something strange stirring in his stomach. He knew that he should not be so attracted to a killer, and yet he was.

Warcry's ears rang like radio static and his shoulder burned from where the butt of the rifle pushed back. A cool sweat ran against his skin and blood pumped in his ears. A wild smile crossed his face as he realized the force of the blow had been so powerful that he'd gotten hard.

His father was smiling, and so was his slave, and he finally felt the pride that other boys certainly felt when their parents and crush had been happy at the same time. It was almost a normal feeling, if normalcy included extreme violence and wasteland warfare.

Then cars appeared and panic set in. His eyes bulged out, his hand trembled, and a worried thought from the back of his head told him that he'd chosen wrong. Headlights appeared from behind the trailer and highwaymen cried out in rage, and a poisoned knot bored its way into his stomach. all he could say, as the rusted horde emerged from the desert, was, "Shit."

"You said it," Snake remarked, looking out at the threat but still unable to shake his pride in the boy. "Now's the part where we run."