Jason Frost - Warlord 04 - Prisonland by Jason Frost - Warlord 04 Read Free Book Online Page B

slingshot, not a nuclear reactor. Let me see how you’re holding that thing.” He came out from the protection of the tree and walked up to her.
    She held out her hand, the slingshot dangling. A plump round stone nestled in the leather shoe tongue. Either end of the tongue was tied to the rawhide shoelaces, one lace knotted and pinched between her first two fingers, the other end slipped over her thumb.
    “Looks right,” he said. “Now all you’ve got to do is cock your arm and thrust your hand past your ear, as if you were chucking a spear.”
    “I did that. A hundred times.”
    “Do it again.”
    “Maybe it would help if I twirled it over my head first, like in those Biblical movies. You know, David and Goliath.”
    “Try hitting that tree first. Then we’ll talk about twirling.”
    “You’re no fun.”
    Eric shook his head and walked back to the tree.
    “No fun!” she hollered after him, tilting her sunglasses up to see him.
    “Throw.”
    D.B. cocked her arm back, her tongue lodged in the corner of her mouth for concentration while she aimed at the tree about fifteen yards in front of her. Eric ducked behind the tree that was twenty yards behind her. She rocked slightly on her feet, then fired the rock with a snap of her arm. The stone flew up over the tree and out of sight.
    “I think you may have released too early,” Eric said.
    “Big deal.”
    “Try again.”
    She bent down, loaded another stone into the pouch. Only this time she began twirling it over her head, the slingshot swooshing overhead like a helicopter propellor. She giggled as she twirled. “This is more like it, eh R.R.?”
    Ever since she woke up that morning she’d started calling Eric R.R., short for Rock ’n Roll Man. Sometimes she’d just call him Rock or the R & R Man, or any number of combinations. She never said why. Eric didn’t ask.
    “Don’t twirl!” Eric warned.
    She released one end of the slingshot and the stone whizzed through the air like a runaway buzzsaw, finally colliding into the tree behind her, barely missing Eric’s head. Chips of bark sprayed Eric’s face.
    “Jeez, you all right?” D.B. ran to Eric.
    Eric brushed the splinters of wood from his shirt. “Fine.”
    “God, I didn’t mean it. You sure you’re okay?”
    “I’m sure.”
    She ran her fingers over the deep gouge the stone had cut into the tree trunk. “Wow. Powerful sucker, huh?”
    “Let’s try again.”
    “Yeah, right.” She walked back to the clearing. “I’m really sorry though, Doc Rock. Really.”
    “Maybe we should try something else,” he suggested. “Something easier.”
    “A gun?” she said hopefully.
    “This.” He reached into his pocket and removed the other weapon he’d made last night. He’d filled three small squares of hide with wet sand, tied the ends tight, and let the sun dry them until they were hard as rocks. Then he’d tied each to a section of shoelace, knotting the three ends together. The three hard sacks dangled, bumping each other.
    “What is it?” D.B. frowned. “It looks obscene.”
    “Bolas,” Eric explained. “The Chocktaw and Seminole Indians used them a lot. Throw them around somebody’s legs and it brings them right down. It’s also good for hunting waterfowl or small animals.”
    She shrugged. “Okay. Let’s try it. Bring on the waterfowl.”
    Eric gave her some instruction, showing her the proper method. “Throw it overhand in confined areas, sidearm when you’re in the open. For sidearm, keep the shoulders square and snap the wrist without following through. Got it?”
    “Simple.”
    An hour later she threw the bolas against the ground and jumped up and down on them. She begged Eric for the shotgun so she could shoot them.
    He handed her a stick about the size of a baseball club. “Here. This is your only hope.”
    “Oh yeah? Gimme your knife, Mr. Wilderness. Mr. Hickory Nuts. I’ll make my own damn weapon.”
    Eric handed her the Boy Scout knife with the broken tip