The Warlord w-1

by Jason Frost

  Annie pushed her coffee away. "Then how come you're still here? Why haven't you moved back east like a lot of others?"

  "Where to? Another university? I've taught here for more than thirty years. I have no family and all my friends are here, so why should I fight the floods, tornadoes, blizzards and hurricanes that the rest of the country faces. Besides, even if a really major quake hit, one bigger than the San Francisco disaster, chances are I'd still live. I've done everything to my house that can be done within my modest means, and I've stored food and water to last for several months. I hope you've done the same."

  "Food, water, clothing. The works."

  "And a weapon, my boy," Trevor warned with his pipe stem. "People can get very ugly under pressure. Very ugly indeed."

  "Yes," Eric nodded. "So I've heard."

  9.

  "Professor Ravensmith's office?" she asked.

  The History Department Secretary looked up, smiled with her recently capped teeth, then studied the woman's reaction for any sign of recognition that the teeth were capped. When there wasn't any, she lifted the brush from the Liquid Paper she'd been applying to the typos on Dr. Dees' application for sabbatical leave, and pointed it down the corridor. "Make a left at the end of the hall. He's three doors down, right next to the drinking fountain."

  "Thanks," Tracy Ammes said, chewing nervously on the unsharpened end of a Staedtler Mars-Lumograph 3H pencil as she searched. When she spotted the drinking fountain with several wads of variously colored gum huddled around the drain, she took a deep breath and tugged on her jacket. "What the hell are you doing here, Tracy?" she asked herself for the fifth time since parking her car.

  The door to his office was closed, but there was a narrow strip of glass along one side of the doorway, so she strolled casually by and glanced in. He was sitting behind his desk, talking to a young girl. Tracy ducked past the glass before he saw her. Okay, Trace, get a grip now. You're not some pimply teenager. You're a goddamn grown-up, making a living, voting the straight Democratic ticket, with your own Visa card and gynecologist and everything. Now act like it.

  She hurried past the glass strip, stopping in front of his door. A lanky boy ambled by with a briefcase in one hand and a Frisbee in the other, gave her an appreciative look, took a drink out of the fountain. Then, still staring at Tracy, he picked up one of the wads of gum near the drain and popped it into his mouth. "My girlfriend's," he explained. "She leaves it here every day for me. Like a token, you know."

  Tracy smiled weakly and nodded. He bounced off down the hall chewing vigorously.

  She tapped the pencil against her teeth, glanced at her watch. How much longer? She leaned her head over and peeked through the glass quickly before pulling back. They were laughing. The young girl had red-and-white-striped athletic shorts on that were slit on the side so the frilly edge of her pink panties was visible. She also had a tight T-shirt on, though Tracy didn't know what she was advertising since only the back was visible from here. But her goddamn blond hair was permed, that was certain. Big billowy Farrah-Fawcett curls. Didn't the little twerp know they were out of style? Tracy bit down hard on her pencil and felt her teeth sink into the soft German wood. She plucked the pencil from her mouth, but tasted the flecks of blue paint on her tongue. "Shit!" she said, just as the office door was jerked open and Eric was standing six inches from her. She froze, her tongue still hanging out as she tried to scrape the paint chips off.

  "Hello," he said.

  "Ahlo," she replied, her tongue still out. Then she recovered, pulled it back in, tugged her suit jacket and skirt, and offered her hand. "Hello, Mr. Ravensmith," she said in as formal a tone as she could muster. "You probably don't remember me-"

  "Of course I do, Ms. Ammes," he smiled. "Are you here to see me?"

  Careful, Trace. "Well, I was in the area anyway, but I did have some business to discuss."

  "Business? That's mysterious." He opened the door further and waved her in as he spoke to the young student. "See you Thursday, Serena. And I want that paper rewritten by then. No excuses."

  Serena smiled, revealing a blue wad of gum clamped between her perfect teeth. "Okay, Mr. R."

  Tracy watched her walk out, her long trim legs unconsciously gorgeous. Not a ripple or dent or stretch mark in sight. Tracy hated her.

  He offered her the seat next to his desk as he sank into his own desk chair and swiveled toward her. He checked the big clock on the wall behind her.

  "Am I keeping you from something?" she asked. "I should've phoned for an appointment, I know, but this was just a spur of the moment thing-"

  "No, no. No rush. I have to drive into L.A. today to, uh, purchase some equipment. But there's still plenty of time."

  ''Good. I mean, as long as I'm not keeping you."

  He smiled. "So what brings you down to the hinterlands of Orange County? Another trial?"

  "No. They just announced this morning that it'll be another two weeks before they repair the courthouse enough to start trials again. But that's not all I do."

  "Oh?"

  She looked at him, those reddish-brown eyes kind of coppery this morning, like the bottoms of her Revere-ware pans. He had a little smile on his lips that made her even more nervous. Was he laughing at her? Did he know that she'd been thinking about him since their last meeting? That she'd been searching for an excuse to see him again for almost a month? Maybe he was smiling because he didn't find her attractive. She wasn't his type. Didn't like red hair, green eyes. Maybe her tweed suit was too severe, too dykish. He probably liked them soft and pliable. No, she'd done her research on him at the news station, and on his wife, Annie. She was beautiful and tough, smart as they come, but with a no-bull approach. Hell, the two of them would probably be great pals. Under different circumstances.

  But why even think such thoughts? She hadn't come down here to steal a husband away, or even start an affair. She had her own boyfriend-there's that awkward high school word again-lover back in Santa Monica. And they were pretty damn happy together. All things considered. She'd just wanted to, well, see Eric Ravensmith again, if for no other reason but to get him out of her mind.

  He was leaning forward now, his hand reaching out for her face. My God, Trace, my God. What to do? She hadn't expected anything to happen. Her heart swelled in her chest like an inflatable raft trapped in a cupboard.

  "Hold still," he said, his fingertips touching her lips. "Got it!" He pulled his fingers back and showed her a fleck of blue paint from her gnarled pencil. "Bad habit, chewing pencils," he laughed. "I used to suck on pens in high school until I got a mouth full of ink one day." He flicked the paint chip from his finger.

  Just great! Now he was comparing her to a high school kid. Terrific. Change the subject, quickly. "That's quite a nice stereo system you've got here. Aren't you afraid someone will steal it? I hear thefts on college campuses are way up. I think we did a special report on that last month at the station."

  Eric shrugged. "I keep the office locked when I'm not here. But I'm not worried. Besides, I do a lot of my grading here and I need some music to help get me through their turgid prose."

  She nodded at the cassettes scattered on the desk. "Mozart, I bet. Vivaldi, Beethoven, and the rest."

  "I didn't know I was so transparent."

  "You college professors are all alike," she said, getting her confidence back. "Classics or nothing."

  "Well, you're partially right." He swiveled around and popped the top cassette into the player. The small speakers on the bookshelves came alive with music.

  "Please remember how I feel about you," the Beatles sang, "I could never really live without you/So come on back to me…"

  "The classics," Eric said.

  Tracy reddened. "What about the other tapes?"

  "More Beatles. That's all I ever play, except occasionally the Supremes. And don't ask me why. I'm purposely avoiding analyzing it in case I don't like the answer."

  She laughed, her nervousness forgotten. "I don't bl
ame you. Sounds serious."

  "Latent rock 'n' roller probably." He turned the volume down a little, stealing a glance at his watch. He still had to get to L.A. and back before the rush hour traffic. And buy those guns. "So, what's this mysterious business you mentioned, Ms. Ammes?"

  "Tracy. Well, I only work part time at Channel 7, but in the past six years I've covered quite a few sensational trials for them, sketching everyone from the Hillside Strangler to the Magic Mountain Maniac. Anyway, some New York publisher was in town during the Dirk Fallows trial, saw my stuff on TV, and contacted me about publishing a book of my trial sketches."

  "Ah, fame and fortune."

  "I wish. The money's so-so and as for fame, I don't think Andrew Wyeth need worry just yet. But it's a start."

  "What can I do for you?"

  "I wanted to use some drawings of you in the book so I came down to get your permission." She started rooting through her purse. "I've got a release slip here somewhere if you don't mind signing."

  "Sure, no problem. But I thought that since it was a public trial you didn't need our permission."

  She reddened again. Shot down your big excuse, Trace. "Yes, that's true. But the publisher just wanted to cover all the bases. You know how nervous they get about lawsuits and such." She plucked the folded paper from her purse, smoothed it on the top of his desk and slid it across to him.

  She watched him read it, his finger, the one that touched her lips, sliding absently along his scar. When his head was tilted just so, it caught the fluorescent light and seemed to almost flash. He grabbed a pen from his drawer and, with a sudden flourish, signed the form. He was smiling as he handed it back to her. "Good luck."

  "Thanks," she said. Then added, just so he wouldn't mistake the innocence of her motives, "My boyfriend thinks he can get me a job doing storyboards on this movie he's working on."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes, he builds special effects models." And smells like glue a lot. "He's worked on most of the major sci-fi films of the past three years."

  "Great. Is that what you want to do?"

  "When I grow up, you mean?" she said sharply. "I'm twenty-eight."

  "No, I just meant is that the direction you want your career to move in? Movies?"

  Tracy shrugged. 'The money's good." She saw him glance at the clock again and stood up. "Well, I guess I'd better get back on the freeway. Thanks for your time and for your permission. I didn't mean to snap at you before. It's just that I get a little sensitive about why I'm twenty-eight and still hustling for a career."

  "Twenty-eight is still young. You've got plenty of time."

  She laughed. "Somehow I knew you'd say that."

  "I'm still so transparent, huh?"

  "Oh no, I'm not falling into that trap again. Forget I said anything." She held out her hand. He took it in his and shook. It was a friendly shake, nothing more. No extra squeeze or lingering touch. But somehow she wasn't disappointed anymore. She liked him, and under the right circumstances might even fall out-of-her-mind in love with him. But for now, she was pleased with herself for having the guts to come down and see him just because she'd felt the urge. Now she could go back to Barry and his glue and settle in for another few months. Maybe she'd even make Barry his favorite dinner tonight. Stir-fried eggplant.

  "I'll look for your book," Eric said as he held the door open for her.

  "I'll send you a copy."

  "Autographed?"

  "You bet."

  "Bye."

  He watched her walk down the hall, her athletic body twitching under the tight skirt. What his dad would have called a looker. Almost as beautiful as Annie. But not quite. No one ever was. He thought of Annie now, her long, thick hair always in their way when they kissed, getting in their mouths. He smiled, felt a longing ignite in his thighs, spread up along his groin. Shook it off.

  First things first.

  He snatched up his briefcase, turned off the cassette player, flicked the light switch, and locked his office door. If he hurried, he'd still make his meeting in L.A. on time. It had taken a few calls to set up, but finally an old army buddy he'd known before his Night Shift duty came through with a dealer. A couple cops who were responsible for transporting guns were pilfering a few and selling them on the side. The price was outrageous, the morality dubious, but none of that mattered to Eric. All he cared about now was protecting his family.

  He half-jogged down the hall, nodding to familiar students that drifted through. Three graduate students were grouped around the bulletin board looking at the meager teaching job announcements. None of them were smiling.

  He passed the open office door of George Donato, one of the best teachers Eric had ever seen. George always left his door open so he could flag down the pretty girls. His reputation as a scholar was almost equal to his reputation as a womanizer. He was a good friend to both Eric and Annie, despite Annie's attempts to fix him up with her friends.

  "Hey, Eric," George called as Eric zipped by.

  "Gotta run, George. Talk to you later."

  "What about poker next week? You and Annie available? I need the money."

  "Sure, where's the game?"

  "Your place."

  "Of course. See you later." Eric stopped at Betty's desk in time to get flashed a mouthful of capped teeth. "Betty, I'll be out for the rest of the day. If any of my young scholars come looking for me, set them up with an appointment for tomorrow, okay?"

  "Sure thing, Dr. Ravensmith."

  He'd given up trying to get her to call him Eric. She seemed to like the titles, as if she were the head nurse in a hospital full of doctors.

  "Thanks. See you tomorrow."

  "Fine. See you to-"

  And it began.

  The building trembled slightly, as if shivering against a great wind. Betty hunched over the papers on her desk, trying to keep them from being shaken to the floor. A stapler tipped over the edge, bounced onto the carpet. "My, my," she said. "Oh, my."

  The students who'd been walking the halls or reading the bulletin boards looked around at each other, up at the ceiling, then down at the floor. One young girl flung her books down in panic and screamed.

  "Under a table!" Eric shouted at them. "In a doorway! Move!"

  "Oh, my," Betty repeated as the tape dispenser scooted across the desk and plunged to the floor.

  The trembling became shaking now, as if the building were a salt shaker clutched in the first of an angry giant. Eric was tossed off his feet, his briefcase flying across the room as he fell. There was a loud rumbling sound, a groaning really, and suddenly the building began to lean.

  George Donate came charging out of his office shouting, "What the hell is happening?" But before anyone could answer, the ceiling above him collapsed, dropping Dr. Luskin's antique rolltop desk and oak filing cabinet onto George's head. There was an agonizing scream of pain, then silence.

  Eric looked over at Betty, who was huddled under her desk. Back down the hall, two boys and a girl were hugging the wall, their faces contorted with terror.

  "Get in the doorway!" Eric yelled at them, motioning with his hand. But they were paralyzed with fear and horror as they stared at George Donato's mashed body, the lifeless arms sticking out from under the desk. Eric scrambled to his feet and bolted down the hall, scooping them all by their waists and shoving them in to the nearby supply room. Against the wall was a long wooden table that held the ditto machine. He drove them under the table, throwing himself after them. There was another loud crash out in the hall as more of the ceiling caved in. The building leaned even more as the ground vibrated under it.

  "We're going to die," the girl cried, tears splashing out of her eyes, mucus dripping from her nose. "Please, God, not now. Please God."

  Eric spoke slowly and calmly. "What's your name?"

  "My name?" she said, confused.

  "Her name's Melinda," the skinny boy said. "Melinda Oulette."

  "What about you guys?"

  "Jim Tolan," the skinny k
id said.

  The other boy, short but brawny, a thick weightlifter's neck, mumbled, "Robin Thomas."

  "Fine. I'm Eric Ravensmith. And I'm going to get us all out of here alive. But you're going to do everything I tell you to do as soon as I tell you, or I'm going to leave you here to die. Understand?" He waited. "Answer me!"

  "Yes," they chorused.

  Eric looked around the room. There were cracks up the side of the concrete wall, some of them from the last quake, but several new ones. Big deep ones. The building was listing to the left, not enough to tip over, but enough to cause structural damage that would probably result in a collapse. Besides, they had to worry about fire. More people were killed by fire in earthquakes than for any other reason.

  Yeah, they'd have to get out of this building. And to do that they'd have to be calm enough to think straight. Under the circumstances, the only way to calm them down was to make them more afraid of him than they were of the quake.

  "Okay. We're going to dash down the hallway and out the south fire exit. Then we run down the stairs-and you'd better hold onto the handrails considering the building's shaking-and out the side door." He pointed at her high-heel pumps. "Take those off. You'll have to run barefoot. Let's go."

  "Shouldn't we just wait here?" the girl sniffed. "I mean, I read where you're supposed to stay put."

  Eric nodded. "So stay." He climbed out from under the table, stood up, and started for the door. The three of them immediately followed.

  The hallway was a mess. Debris cluttered every step. Papers, supplies, books, shattered furniture. Several sections of the ceiling had collapsed, so most of the debris came from the Sociology Department upstairs. Eric noticed George's body and the puddle of blood seeping around the shattered legs where sharp splinters of bone poked through torn pants. He turned away, waved the kids to follow him. Running down the hall was like running on the back of a rickety old flatcar as it rattles down the railroad tracks at a hundred miles an hour. They bounced off walls as they ran, trying to keep their balance. The weightlifter tripped, diving face first into the mushy corpse of Tina Porte, the Sociology secretary, who'd apparently dropped through the floor with her desk.