The Warlord w-1

by Jason Frost

Timmy nodded sternly, imitating an adult, wagging a warning finger. "Next it'll be sex and drugs. Kids today have no respect for traditional values."

  Eric mussed Timmy's hair. "How'd you get to be such a smartass at twelve? Not from my side of the family. I was a sweet shy kid at your age."

  "Ha! That's not what Grandma said." Timmy stopped abruptly, looking up at his father. He knew mentioning Grandma Maggie still made both his parents sad, and now he might have ruined all the fun they were having.

  But Eric grinned and hugged Timmy to his hip. "Well, there were one or two times that Grandma had to teach me some respect."

  "Hmmm," Annie said, "probably involving young girls in the neighborhood."

  "We did play a lot of doctor when I was a kid. I was Ben Casey, brash but brilliant young surgeon. Little Debbie Morganslicht always wanted me to take her appendix out."

  "And of course she had to disrobe."

  Eric shrugged. "After all, it was major surgery. I must have removed that sucker a hundred times that summer. Until Mom caught me giving a post-op exam in the garage."

  "That must've put a dent in your medical career."

  "Well, I never did figure out why she looked so different than I did. It wasn't until a couple years later that Debbie and I finally discovered the answers."

  "Hey, you guys," Timmy jumped in. "You shouldn't be talking that way in front of a kid like me."

  "A kid like you? If I'd been as smart as you when I was your age, I'd have run for president instead of the garage." Eric hugged Timmy again, tickling him in the ribs. Timmy laughed and squirmed. Eric leaned over and kissed Annie on the lips. "Thanks, guys."

  Annie held up her hands. "As much as I'd like to take credit here, I'm afraid I had nothing to do with this. It was all Timmy and Jennifer. They did everything."

  "Mostly Jenny," Timmy said, knowing his dad would be pleased with his modesty. "She found the tape recorder in the library under one of the study tables. It had headphones attached but they were busted." Eric laughed. "Another student studying hard."

  "It wasn't working right, so she got Rydell Grimme to fix it. I think she's got a crush on him. But don't worry, she's still very naive about relationships."

  Eric and Annie exchanged glances. "Thanks for the reassurance," Eric said.

  "That's okay. Anyway, Rydell fixed it. In the meantime I traded my last pack of Carefree peppermint gum for a couple Duracell batteries from Troy's bike light. Well, the details don't count, but Rydell managed to use the library taping equipment and the batteries to record the only Beatles album that the library still had."

  "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band."

  "Right. And there was still enough juice in the batteries to run the recorder, but probably not for long, so better save it for when you really need a shot of Beatles."

  Eric stared at the recorder, watching the tape in the cassette spin. The words drifted in from a distance. "Follow her down to a bridge by a fountain/'Where rocking horse people eat marshmallow pies." He felt Annie's arm sliding around his waist. She was smiling, the way she always did when something Family was going on. The thing was, Eric knew he was smiling the same way. He looked down at Timmy. "Thanks, kid. Best present I ever got."

  "Ever?"

  "Ever."

  Timmy grinned a wide, cheek-bursting grin.

  "In fact," Eric announced. "I think we should go over to see Jennifer right now and tell her so."

  Annie hesitated. "It's a bit late, Eric. They might not let us in at the hospital."

  "Nonsense. Nothing like a little music to cheer up the sick. Besides, we'll only stay a couple minutes. Long enough for me to kiss her thanks, anyway." He leaned over her ear. "And maybe find a babysitter for Timmy."

  "I heard that," Timmy said. "Aren't you guys a little old to still be thinking about sex?"

  "Your mom is, but sometimes she remembers her youth. Vaguely."

  Annie laughed. "Men!"

  Annie looked into Eric's eyes, could see what no one else could in those reddish-brown circles. Most people saw the raw power there, the strength and intelligence. Some even saw the steely edge of anger, a burning rim of hate. But Annie could also see the compassion, the tenderness. She saw emotions that Eric had spent years suppressing in order to survive and as a result had atrophied, gone numb. In their years together she had revived that dead half. No matter what she ever might accomplish in her lifetime, what great triumphs, nothing would ever compare with that feat. Not even giving birth. She had brought a man back to life.

  She helped Timmy on with his sweater, handed him his bow, which he started to slip over his head and shoulder.

  "No," Eric said. "Carry it in your hand, the string resting against your forearm. Keep it ready, Timmy. By the time you pulled it over your head in an emergency, it might be too late. Okay?"

  "Okay."

  "There, that's more like it. Now you look like a proper warrior."

  "Really?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Mom?"

  Annie looked at her little boy, the bow clutched in one hand, the arrows resting in their plastic quiver on his belt, expectancy in his voice. He was waiting for her approval. She tried to imagine him actually shooting an arrow at someone, killing him. Or worse, being shot at, an arrow piercing his small chest, his body flopping lifeless into the dirt. When they'd first married, she and Eric had agreed to teach the children how to do as many things as possible as they grew, including shooting guns and bows. But they had also agreed not to encourage them along any particular line. No social or sexual stereotypes. Let them decide for themselves what they wanted, who they were. As a result, Jennifer had always been as athletic as Timmy. Both had had their share of fights, with each other and other kids, but neither had developed into a bully. Neither had a cruel streak. Eric and Annie had been careful, conscientious parents, participating in the selection of TV programs and movies, encouraging reading. Trying to raise two well-adjusted children in a maladjusted world. Now that veneer of civilization was being slowly peeled away. Her twelve-year-old son was waiting for his mother to approve of him being called a warrior. But what choice did she have? If he was to survive in this new world, he would have to be harder than before. Tougher. Like Eric, who could shed that veneer as easily as a snake his skin. Sometimes that ability made her envious, sometimes scared.

  "You look fine," she smiled weakly. "Fine."

  Timmy seemed pleased as he handed Annie her bow.

  Eric grabbed his crossbow and the tape recorder and gestured toward the door. "Stay close and move along the walls. Right?"

  "Right," Annie and Timmy agreed. It was the usual procedure for walking at night.

  Eric unbolted the door and checked outside. The sky was its usual gray-pink, something like what twilight used to look like. Except the sky remained this color all night. "Okay, let's go. The Ravensmiths on parade." They started out the door.

  Suddenly an explosion of sound.

  A bell clanging.

  A drum booming.

  The sounds of Emergency Red Alert. They were under attack.

  Eric shoved Annie and Timmy back inside. "Lock it!" he yelled as he fixed a bolt in his crossbow and sprinted across the campus toward the bookstore.

  14.

  Running felt good. Useful. Eric hated the feeling of helplessness and confusion an alarm always gave. A shortness of breath, a squeeze at the bladder. At least now, as his feet bounced soundlessly across the gravel, he was burning the rush of adrenalin that sizzled through his stomach like a lit fuse. Around him people responded quickly to the alarm, scattering in the dark to their posts as they snatched arrows from their homemade quivers or hefted crude spears. Just as they had done during the drills Eric had put them through three times a week since the founding of University Camp. Only now it was for real.

  Eric sucked air deeply as he ran, the sharp charcoal tinge stinging his nostrils. He wondered if they'd all eventually get used to that smell, as they had to the gray-pink night and yel
low-orange day like a Peter Max painting. When they got back to the mainland, would they appreciate the brisk fresh air again, or would that too smell "funny"?

  When they got back.

  Christ, now he was doing it. Hoping. He shook the thought out of his head as he ran, concentrating on scanning the grounds for the intruders. The roofs, the barbed-wire fences, the walls of office furniture and useless machinery they'd piled as a barrier against the hostile world. The Great Wall of Orange County, Annie had called it. Inside lived Civilization. Outside, the Dead Zone.

  Eric's eyes stabbed at every movement, every shadow. But he saw no intruders, no attackers. The only movement came from his own people scuttling to their posts, clinging desperately to their weapons like a dying priest to his rosary.

  Then the noise stopped. The bell and drum were silent.

  Eric hurdled an overturned bicycle, dodged another citizen fumbling clumsily with his Coleman lantern, spanked off the side of the gym, and bolted full-speed for the bookstore, the source of the alarm. He could hear men and women mumbling nervously to each other as he passed them, wondering where the attackers were. Fingering their weapons, anxious to kill anything that seemed threatening. Eric had to discover what was going on before they began accidentally firing on each other.

  As he cut around the corner of the bookstore, he saw Philip Marcus standing in front of the huge kettle drum they'd moved here from the Music Department. He had the drum mallet in one hand, his long bow in the other. Standing next to him was Season Deely, a slim blonde in a blue Nike running suit clutching the hammer she'd used to ring the bell. She was leaning against the wooden post from which the ten-inch iron bell hung, a memento from Professor Ernesto Alvarez's tour through Mexico last summer with a rowdy group of his Spanish students. The bell was a replica of the one that had hung at the Franciscan Mission of San Antonio de Valero, later known as the Alamo because of a nearby grove of alamo, or cottonwood, trees. Eric had appreciated the irony of using this particular bell for their alarm, though militarily University Camp was far more defendable than the Alamo had been.

  "What in hell's going on?" Eric barked at Season and Philip.

  Season shrugged, pointed her hammer at the entrance of the bookstore.

  "Orders," Philip said.

  Eric marched through the open doors and down the aisles of dusty calendars and university bumper stickers into the back section. The door of the conference room was open and the carpet was squishy under his feet with dark puddles of blood.

  Trevor Graumann lay crumpled next to the long oak table. His chair was overturned, his papers scattered all about the room. The brass coatrack was overturned with Dr. Dreiser's white lab jacket tangled around it.

  "Is he dead?" Eric asked.

  Susan Connors, an RN who ran the hospital with Dr. Dreiser, was kneeling beside Trevor, tugging at his eyelids. "No, he's just unconscious. Doesn't seem too serious. No bleeding, anyway."

  "Then whose blood are we all wading through?"

  Susan Connors gestured toward the conference table where Dr. Epson, Griff Durham and Toni Tyler stood whispering. "Ask them. They called this meeting. Won't tell me jackshit." She looked up, her eyes moist but hard. "While you're at it, ask them where Dr. Dreiser is."

  Two men rushed into the room carrying a stretcher.

  "About time, fellas," Susan Connors sighed, twirling her stethoscope absently. "Let's get him over to the hospital. And careful with his head. He may have a concussion."

  "What's the fucking story?" one of them asked, looking around the room. "The alarm made my three-year-old wet the bed. And the little bastard sleeps between my wife and me."

  "I've seen your kid, Roy," Susan said. "And pissing on you is the least he could do for giving him your looks. Now get Councilman Graumann onto your stretcher and out of here. Our leaders need privacy," She didn't bother keeping the sarcasm out of her voice.

  Eric turned to the three members of the Council. The muscles in his face were tight, stretching the skin tautly across his face like a plastic death mask. His voice was crisp as dried leaves. "Explain."

  They all looked at him, avoided his eyes. Dr. Epson nodded toward Susan Connors and the men hefting Trevor Graumann onto the stretcher. "Let's wait until we're alone, Eric."

  "Let's not," Eric said quietly.

  "It's okay," Susan said. "We're all done here. We wouldn't want to be responsible for hindering the Council's brilliant strategies." She started to follow the stretcher out of the room, turned, twirled her stethoscope. "But if we're not under attack, I'd sound the fucking bell, I don't want to be up all night treating arrow wounds from people shooting each other."

  "Tell Season to sound the Yellow Alert," Eric said. "That should relax things until I figure out what's going on."

  Susan smiled, pointed her stethoscope at Eric. "You got it."

  When she left, Eric waited until he heard Season hammering put the Yellow Alert pattern on the bell before speaking. "Where's Dr. Dreiser?"

  Dr. Epson swallowed, glanced at the others. He removed his glasses and sagged into a chair like a deflated doll. "Gone."

  "Gone?"

  "Kidnapped."

  Eric's face remained expressionless as he turned and walked to the door, avoiding the soggy patches of blood. He leaned out the door and called, "Philip! On the double."

  They heard the slapping echoes of running, then saw Philip Marcus burst into the room. His bow was at the ready, his cheeks flushed even in the warm summer evening. Eric noticed that lately the boy walked with a straighter, more confident posture, the kind he used to have only inside the classroom. "Yes, Dr. Ravensmith?" He didn't even look at the others.

  "I want you to gather a group of volunteers. No marrieds unless you have to. They should be fairly athletic. Use your own judgment."

  "What should I tell them they're volunteering for? In case they ask."

  Eric stared at him, said nothing.

  "Right," Philip nodded, turned and jogged out of the room.

  Eric set his crossbow gently on the table and pulled up a chair. He slowly sat down, like the master of ceremonies at a formal dinner. His hands lay flat on the table top, as if he were willing them to stay there rather than do whatever it was they wanted to do. Something violent. The scar on his cheek and neck bulged like an engorged vein on a weight lifter as he spoke, the voice so flat and dead it frightened even Griff Durham.

  "What happened exactly? Details."

  Toni Tyler and Griff Durham also sat down, one on each side of Dr. Epson. In the flickering light of the Coleman lanterns they looked particularly old and sexless.

  "After you left we kicked around a few more ideas," Dr. Epson said. "Three of us tried to persuade Joan and Trevor to, well…"

  Eric managed a grim smile. "Replace me?"

  "Well, yes. It was an idea. They both refused to discuss it. Even though we had a majority vote, we knew we couldn't make it stick with the residents here unless we were unanimous. You're too damn popular around here. They'd be more likely to replace the three of us than you." He smiled weakly at Eric as if expecting him to acknowledge the compliment. When Eric said nothing, Dr. Epson continued. "Anyway, the three of us left. Joan and Trevor stayed behind to talk, I don't know about what. About twenty minutes ago there's a pounding on my door. Davey Easton stood there talking so fast I could hardly understand him."

  Eric interrupted. "Easton was supposed to be on guard duty near the cafeteria."

  "He was. Only when he was relieved, he went over to see Kyle Moore who was standing watch on the other side of the cafeteria. They're buddies. But when he got there he found Kyle unconscious."

  "How badly?"

  "Lump as big as a grapefruit on top of his head, but otherwise okay."

  Eric shifted in his chair. "Why did Easton come to you? He knows the routine. Any problems he sees me or sounds the alarm."

  "Hell, Eric," Griff Durham said. "Easton's only a kid. He panicked when he saw his buddy lying there."

  "
Besides," Dr. Epson added, "my room in the library is closer. Actually, I think he was more interested in getting Dr. Dreiser for Kyle than anything else. I just happened to be on his way to her. I sent a couple men over to take Kyle's place while we searched for Joan. Since she wasn't in the hospital, I thought she might still be here with Trevor. When I got here, this is what I found. I sent for the rest of the Council and we decided to sound the Red Alert."

  Eric's eyes narrowed. "You sent for the Council before me? If we've been penetrated, you should have notified me immediately. Whatever clues there were have probably been trampled by now. Jesus!" His hands curled to fists.

  Dr. Epson looked nervous. "It was a judgment call, Eric. I wanted to avoid a panic, if possible. I've never had to deal with a situation like this before." He rubbed the pink rawness on his nose where his glasses had rested.

  Toni Tyler began straightening the scattered papers on the table. "We did the best we could, Eric. Under the circumstances."

  "Did Kyle see anything before they knocked him out?"

  Dr. Epson shrugged. "He's still unconscious. But Davey Easton saw some biood near where he found Kyle. It wasn't Kyle's."

  "Well, if that wasn't Kyle's blood and this isn't Trevor's blood, it must be from one of our intruders. Maybe he cut himself on the barbed wire or something." Eric paused, fell silent for a few moments, then turned back to Dr. Epson. "What else have you got? About the kidnapping."

  Dr. Epson pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket, straightening his tie before passing the paper to Eric.

  Eric unfolded it and read: "WE'VE TAKEN OUT A LITTLE INSURANCE TO MAKE SURE OUR SWAP GOES THROUGH AS PLANNED. YOU'LL GET THE DOCTOR BACK AFTER THE TRADE IS COMPLETED. ONLY NOW WE WANT A DOZEN BOWS TO GO WITH THE BOOKS. A GESTURE OF GOOD FAITH. NEW MEETING PLACE: JACK IN THE BOX ON CORNER OF BASIL AND THYME. MIDNIGHT."

  He laid the paper flat on the table, smoothed it with both hands. The message was all large block letters, written with a thick, red-felt marker.

  "They must've figured we wouldn't go through with the trade," Griff Durham said.

  "A safe bet," Eric said. "Anyway, now they want more than books. They want our weapons."