The Warlord w-1

by Jason Frost

  The Dead Zone.

  It had gotten its name from Jennifer, who'd read a Stephen King novel of the same name. All the kids at school had been reading those spooky novels, the ones with children threatened by vampires, ghouls, zombies. Annie sometimes wondered if that's how they saw adults, as sinister monsters terrorizing them. It made her want to hug her kids more, everybody's kids. In King's novel, the Dead Zone referred to a psychic state, a place in the recesses of the mind. But here their Dead Zone was literal. It meant every place outside University Camp.

  At first it had been called Dead Zone because of the mass burnings of dead bodies that took place to prevent disease. But later, as the survivors began establishing their own groups, their own laws, it became a threatening description. Wandering through the Dead Zone could mean death-or worse-from a hundred different tribes or individuals that prowled the ruins. Some of the other camps out there were like University Camp, generally benevolent. But others were less enlightened. They existed only to prey on others. To take what they wanted and destroy the rest.

  Annie glanced around the room, smiled. It was hard to believe this same tiny room that had served as Coach Ryder's office for eighteen years now housed the entire Ravensmith family. Coach Ryder used to sit behind that same scarred desk where Eric was making trip flares, smoke his Dutch Masters cigars, and watch his water polo team practice, practice, practice. "I want you guys in the water until you grow fins on your ass," he'd tell them, then retreat to this room and watch as Jim McDonald, his assistant coach, put them through the drills. They were on their way to their fourth consecutive state championship when the quake hit. Coach Ryder had been taking the shortcut around the pool to the locker room to borrow twenty bucks from Jim McDonald to take the women's volleyball coach out for a drink. Then the world started shaking. The lifeguard stand toppled over, knocking him unconscious and into the pool. He drowned very quickly.

  During the Reorganization, when University Camp was established, Eric had claimed this room for his family. It allowed him to keep an eye on the pool, which had been drained, repaired, and finally filled with fresh water. Anyone caught stealing from the pool was banished from University Camp into the Dead Zone. Annie had scrubbed the room the best she could without using water, but still that faint stale odor of Coach Ryder's cigars lingered.

  The furnishings were simple. Against either wall were two beaten mattresses Eric had carried from a smouldering house around the corner. At night when Annie's face lay against the mattress, she could still smell the fire that had destroyed the home. Even without the mattress, the air was laced with a charcoal bitterness from the old fires and the new ones no one bothered to put out. The only time she could escape that smell was at night, when she cuddled next to Eric and buried her nose against his naked chest.

  Someone knocked on the door with a familiar rhythm: shave-and-a-haircut, two bits.

  "Hey, open up in there. You've got company."

  Eric picked up the crossbow leaning next to his desk, cocked the bowstring, slid a bolt into the groove, and pointed it at the door. He nodded at Annie, who quickly unlatched the series of bolts and locks on the door, and pulled it open.

  Tracy Ammes stepped in, her hands in the air. "Friend."

  Annie peeked out the door to both sides, then closed and locked it again. Eric removed the arrow, released the bow, returning both to within easy reach.

  "Hi, Tracy," Eric said.

  "I don't know about your other guests, but I get the willies every time I know I'm coming over. You never know when that thing might accidentally go off."

  Annie and Tracy hugged.

  "Eric doesn't believe in accidents,'' Annie laughed. "Just ask him."

  "Is that right? You don't believe in accidents?"

  "That's right," Eric said without looking up from his project. "Cause and effect. Everything is somebody's fault."

  "What about last week when Bob Lindwall broke his foot when it crashed through the floor he was repairing?"

  "Carelessness."

  "What about Susan Nordahl being thrown from her bike yesterday when the tire blew?"

  "Inexperience."

  Annie winked at Tracy. "What about the time last summer you were showing off doing high dives at the pool and your bathing trunks came off?"

  "That was different," Eric said, "that was an-"

  "Accident," Annie and Tracy chorused with him.

  He looked up and smiled. "That's right."

  Tracy flopped down on the mattress next to Annie and began helping her cut the vinyl. "I just dropped by to ask if Timmy could stay another half hour at the Day Care School. He's in the middle of a hot chess game with Sheena Brill and it looks like she might just take him."

  Annie glanced at her watch. "Fine. We'll pick him up on the way to visit Jennifer. How do you like working there?"

  "It's okay," Tracy shrugged. "We try to teach them, as much as we can, but the kids are different ages and abilities, and there aren't enough of any one group that we can afford to use one teacher on them."

  "Sounds like the old fashioned one-room schoolhouse."

  "Exactly. And to think I used to be nostalgic for those good ole days. I was hoping to teach some art, but the Council's decided art isn't necessary for our present condition, so the closest I get is fingerpainting with five-year-olds." She sighed. "So much for Enlightenment."

  "At least things couldn't get worse."

  "Think so? Try keeping Councilman Epson from pawing you to death every time he gets within range. He's starting to wear the material through on the seat of my pants." Tracy glanced around the room. "Looks different in here."

  "Yeah, I finally pulled up that tacky carpet. Some rain got in before Eric fixed the roof. It took me a couple weeks to decide whether I preferred the smell of mildew to that of smoke. I opted for the more romantic scent of ashes."

  Tracy laughed. "At least you have a private room. After three months of sleeping on wrestling mats with a hundred other women, I'd kill for something like this."

  "Council laws, my dear. Only married couples get the private rooms."

  "How provincial. I overheard Derek Yancey and Kerne Nash talking about getting married just so they can get a room. Apparently the guys don't like their half of the gym any better than we like ours."

  Annie shook her head. "Council won't approve. I helped draft the wording of the law just to prevent those kinds of marriages. We just don't have the room."

  "What about pregnancies?"

  "We haven't worked the details out yet on that, but the sentiment of the Council seems to be in favor of forced abortion of anyone who's become pregnant since the quake. For another couple months anyway."

  "My God, Annie. I thought Epson was morally opposed to abortions."

  Annie nodded. "Times have changed. It's less of a medical risk right now to have an abortion than to carry the baby and give birth."

  "Well, there goes my other plan for getting a room." Tracy shifted Annie's wrist to look at her watch. "Gotta get back to the school. My turn to do nightwatch with the orphans."

  Eric twisted around in his chair as Annie unfastened the locks. "Where's your bow?"

  "I gave it back," Tracy said. "They were short on bows and I never really got the hang of it anyway."

  "What weapon are you using?"

  "They gave me a hunting knife."

  'Then wear it. Always."

  "Christ, Eric, what's the point? I don't think I could use it if I had to."

  "If you had to, believe me, you could."

  Annie squeezed her shoulder. "It's not just the outside you have to worry about, Tracy. You know that."

  Tracy nodded. She remembered two instances so far where members of the camp had gone berserk. Steve Conrad had raped and strangled his wife before Eric had fired an arrow through his chest. Tom Flannigan had stolen food from the cafeteria, then threatened to jump off the library roof. Eric had talked him down, then convinced the Council to expel him from University Camp.
Tom's wife and children had chosen to stay behind.

  "Okay," she said, "next time you see me I'll be packing my blade, baby." She hugged Annie and waved at Eric, closing the door behind her.

  "She's got a crush on you," Annie said as she relocked the door.

  "Come off it."

  "It's true, super stud."

  Eric looked up and shook his head. "You women think you know what everybody's feeling."

  "Relax, I'm not accusing either one of you of anything. I'm just stating a fact. I find it kind of flattering."

  "To me?"

  "No, to me. My good taste."

  Eric snorted, returned to tying the fishline to the flare.

  "She's very attractive," Annie continued, settling in with her scissors and vinyl. "And she's smart as hell. Not to mention talented."

  "I thought you two were friends."

  "We are. I know she would never make a play for you. She's too loyal, too sensitive."

  "You've convinced me. I love her."

  "I'm serious. She's got things pretty tough. Stuck in a gym at night with a hundred other women, working with kids all day. She's pretty lonely."

  "She tell you this?"

  "She didn't have to. I've got eyes."

  "Not to mention a long nose to butt into other people's business."

  "What are friends for?"

  "I'm beginning to wonder."

  "Cynic."

  "Is there a point to the description of Tracy's emotional life?"

  "No. Just wanted you to know I think she's pretty terrific. Too young, of course, lacking my maturity and sophistication. But still…" Her voice trailed off.

  Eric put the flare down and turned in his chair. "Just what are you suggesting?"

  "Nothing."

  "Bullshit. I know you. I'm being set up." He dropped to his knees and shuffled over next to Annie, squeezing her hands in his. "Nothing's going to happen to you. Not while I'm around."

  Annie smiled lightly, but a tear rolled down her cheek. "I know that. But accidents can happen. Disease. That damn haze in the sky. Something you can't control. I just want you happy. You and the kids."

  "So you're doing some preliminary matchmaking."

  She shrugged, wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "My last horoscope told me to be organized."

  Eric leaned forward and hugged her tightly, crushing her next to him. She felt thinner than three months ago, but then who wasn't? He felt a tear slide down his cheek and he wasn't sure if it was from his eye or hers. It didn't matter. He hugged her closer.

  Urgent knocking on the door. "Dr. Ravensmith! Dr Ravensmith!"

  Eric lifted Annie to her feet, rearmed the crossbow while she unlocked the door.

  Philip Marcus rushed in, holding his bow in one hand, grasping his aching side with the other. "Gotta hurry, Dr. Ravensmith. They want you right away."

  "Who, Philip?" Eric asked, lowering his bow.

  Philip struggled to catch his breath. "The Council. Emergency session. They sent me after you."

  "What's it about?"

  He shook his head, gulped air. "Don't know. Except, they want you to go into Dead Zone." He looked at Annie, then at his feet.

  "Okay, Philip, you run ahead. Tell them I'll be right there."

  "But they told me to bring you right back. Stay with you all the way."

  Eric's expression didn't change, but there was a chill in his voice. "Run ahead, Philip."

  "Yes, sir," Philip said, turned, and fled.

  Eric pulled a black turtleneck sweater over his head, started strapping his quiver and knife on. "I'll just see what they want. Don't worry."

  Annie nodded, looked around the tiny room. Two mattresses. A Coleman lamp. Four cardboard boxes, one for each of them to keep their clothes. A flashlight for night trips to the latrine. Four long bows, three small, green fiberglass models that had been liberated from the university's athletic department for Annie and the kids, and Eric's thicker Bear bow, the gift from Big Bill Tenderwolf. A wooden desk, the only thing left over from Coach Ryder except the cigar smell. And a box of equipment for making arrows that Eric had brought back in the early days of scavenging, when most people weren't sure what they needed. How often had Annie and Eric seen people darting about with TV sets? Cameras? Jewelry?

  But Eric had known what to do. Had brought them back to the university, helped them establish University Gimp, set up the hospital, saved the food that had been stored in the cafeteria. Planned the water supply. Decided which buildings were worth defending, strung the barbed wire fence surrounding the camp. Had refused a seat on the Council, but reluctantly accepted-temporarily-the job of Security Chief.

  At night he'd walk the perimeter, checking the guards. Annie had seen him staring off, eyes searching the hazy horizon, looking for a familiar face. In their room he slept lightly, startled by every noise, a loaded crossbow within easy reach. He was waiting, she knew. Waiting for Dirk Fallows.

  "Maybe Fallows is dead," she said suddenly as he buckled his utility belt. "Or wasn't even in the state when it happened."

  "Maybe."

  "Or maybe he's too busy surviving to worry about some dumb macho grudge."

  Eric stuffed his quiver full with bolts. "Maybe."

  Annie sighed heavily. "He's out there, right?"

  He turned to face her. The orange light from the window streaked down his face, making his scar look like an open wound, bleeding. "Right."

  She took his face in her hands, stood on her toes and kissed him lightly on the lips, her eyes pressed closed. As if she could force out the memory of Matt Southern, who'd taken three men into the Dead Zone last month in search of generator parts. None had returned.

  "Take care," she said.

  "Count on it," he smiled and dashed out the door, the crossbow clutched in one hand, the arrows rattling against each other as he ran.

  She closed the door, fastened each lock in turn, started gluing strips of vinyl seat covers to wooden shafts.

  12.

  "This is not a request, Eric," Dr. Donald Epson said angrily. "It's a direct order from the Council."

  "And if I refuse?"

  "Are you refusing?"

  Eric leaned his crossbow against the wall, hung the quiver of bolts over the metal stock. The five members of the Council sat at a long table in the conference room at the back of the bookstore where Billy Mendoza, who once ran the bookstore, used to hold weekly poker games with a few faculty and administrators. Billy used his winnings to send his Cuban mistress to Florida once a year to visit her mother. Eric had sat in on a couple of those games, personally contributing to her Florida fund both times. It had been Eric's idea to include the bookstore as part of University Camp because it had been built last year under strict earthquake-endurance guidelines. And, as with the library, because the books were valuable commodities, though only Eric had seen why at the time.

  "I'm waiting for your answer, Eric," Dr. Epson said sternly, brushing his thick gray moustache from his lips. He was Council chairperson and always sat tinkering with a rubber mallet which he used as a gavel. He was a short, compact man who had managed to salvage a couple neckties and a sports jacket from his home, and wore them now like a badge of authority. Before the quake he'd been Dean of Instruction at the university, a competent but not well-liked man who the faculty prayed would take an early retirement. His wife had been visiting relatives in New Jersey during the quake, which was not unusual -since she had a lot of relatives and spent most of the year traveling to visit them. "Well, Eric? Let's hear it."

  "Take it easy, Donald," Trevor Graumann said. "Eric doesn't need to be lectured by you."

  Eric glanced up at Trevor and smiled. As the old man had predicted that night at dinner, he'd survived the earthquake with plenty of supplies to see him through. And if he'd stayed in his house with his hidden shotgun, he'd have been fine for months. But some feelings are stronger than survival, and he'd gone out looking for Eric's mother. When he finally returned, his home had been rans
acked and all his goods stolen. Not that it mattered; Maggie's death had taken the life out of him. He stayed holed up in his ravaged house until Eric caught up with him, made him his family's adopted uncle, and nominated him onto the Council in his own place.

  The three other Council members were Griff Durham, once the biggest real estate broker in the county and the leading Republican fund raiser; Dr. Joan Dreiser, their only medical doctor, whose pre-quake practice had been limited to dermatology; and Toni Tyler, a state representative who'd come home for her daughter's wedding the day before the quake hit. The daughter and groom were both killed.

  "Well, Eric," Dr. Epson persisted. "We don't have time for your little waiting games. We explained the situation to you and expect you to fulfill your obligation to this Council and the community."

  Eric laughed.

  "For God's sake, Don," Dr. Joan Dreiser sighed. "Let's keep it friendly. This isn't the Inquisition, and you're not, uh…"

  "Torquemada," Eric offered.

  "Right. That's the son of a bitch. So put your silly little gavel down and let's get to business, I've still got rounds to make at the hospital." She brushed her gray-black hair from her forehead and leaned back in her chair. Her white lab coat, hopelessly stained with old and new blood, torn here and there from wear, was hanging on a brass coatrack in the corner. Her left foot was up on an empty chair to relieve the swelling in her ankles. She was fifty-five but still put in eighteen-hour days, seven days a week.

  Toni Tyler, slightly overweight from being dined by Sacramento lobbyists aware of her weakness for pasta, tapped her pencil on the table. "Perhaps Eric can tell us exactly why he refuses this assignment?"

  Dr. Epson shrugged, dropped his mallet loudly on the table, and sat down, giving the knot in his tie a little tug. "Fine. Let's hear it then."

  Eric walked across the room, pulled out a chair and sat directly across from Epson. Their knees brushed, and Epson jerked backwards as if jolted with electricity. The close proximity made Epson squirm a bit, as Eric knew it would.