The Warlord w-1

by Jason Frost

  "What do we do?" Toni asked Eric. She stopped shuffling papers to listen.

  "You're the Council. It's your decision."

  "What do you advise, Eric?"

  Eric thought of little Jennifer lying sick in the hospital, her phlegmy coughing, watery eyes and clammy skin. And the others lying in long rows like an army barracks. The broken bones, sores, bleeding ulcers, burst appendixes. And Dr. Joan Dreiser the only medical doctor in the camp. But he had to be honest with himself, he cared less about the others than about Jennifer. And what if Timmy or Annie got sick, needed an operation. Annie's appendix was still intact; Timmy had a cyst removed from his elbow last year, it might grow back. If for no other reason than protecting his own family, he would have to get Dr. Dreiser back.

  "Do you have a list of the books they asked for the first time?"

  Toni nodded. "No specific titles. Some basic survival texts on purifying water, gardening, carpentry, electrical equipment, medicine. That sort of thing. We've got plenty of books on that stuff in the library and here in the bookstore from various classes."

  "So we make the swap?" Griff Durham asked.

  Eric ignored him, spoke to Toni. "Get the books loaded right away. There's still plenty of backpacks on the shelves in the bookstore."

  "What about the bows?"

  Eric looked at his watch. "Betty hurry. We've only got two hours."

  Toni rushed her bulky body out of the room, almost knocking over Philip Marcus as he hurried in.

  "Volunteers outside, Professor."

  "How many?"

  Philip looked embarrassed. "Four. Five including me."

  "That's plenty. Good job, Philip."

  "Thanks, Dr. Ravensmith."

  "And for the last time, call me Eric. I'm not just saying that to be pals. I'm saying it because if you ever need to warn me or call for help, by the time you said my title and last name, one of us could be dead. Eric. Got it?"

  "Right… Eric."

  Dr. Epson came around the table. "What are you going to do with these volunteers, Eric?"

  Eric tapped Philip on the shoulder, crooked a finger for him to follow. They walked briskly through the bookstore and out the front door, Dr. Epson and Griff Durham in tow.

  The four volunteers leaned against the wall or sat on the ground. Eric knew them all: Rydell Grimme, Molly Sing, Tag Hallahan, and Season Deely. All young and athletic. But that wouldn't be enough for what he had in mind. Not nearly enough.

  "So," Rydell Grimme asked, leaning on his bow and plucking the string as if he were playing a bass, "just what have we volunteered for?"

  "A trip," Eric said.

  They stirred uneasily, suddenly knowing what he would say next.

  "A night in the Dead Zone."

  15.

  "Shit!" Rydell grinned. "Why didn't you tell us up front it was a suicide mission? I'd have worn my kamikaze underwear with the plastic lining."

  Season Deely snorted. "It'd have been nice if you'd worn any underwear."

  "That's not funny," Tag Hallahan said, jumping angrily to his feet. "This isn't a joke, Ravensmith. We should've been told about the Dead Zone. I thought you only wanted some extra guards or something. Nothing like this."

  Eric smiled in a friendly way, patting Tag on the shoulder. "No need to stay. Tag. We've got enough without you. Providing no one else backs out." Eric dropped his smile and hand, and turned his back on Tag, facing the others.

  "I didn't say I was backing out," Tag mumbled quickly, "We just should've been told, that's all."

  Season Deely, tough, cocky, barely twenty-two, a perpetual bored expression on her face, laughed. It sounded like the crack of a pistol. "What's the difference? We'd have to go out there sooner or later, might as well be now. Hell, it'll be a kick after this boring place."

  Eric took two steps, stood directly in front of her, smiled, then reached out and grabbed her by the throat with one hand, his icy fingers clamping her windpipe closed. She gurgled for air, clawed furrows of skin from his hand. Blood welled between his knuckles, but his fingers tightened until she swooned slightly, started to go limp. Then his fingers sprang open. Rydell grabbed Season as she sagged toward the ground.

  "What the fuck-!" Rydell snarled, holding Season as she gasped for air, rubbed the raw, bruised skin at her throat, coughed convulsively. "Are you crazy, man?"

  Eric nodded. "We're all crazy or we wouldn't be going out there. But we're not so crazy that we don't want to make it back again. And to do that we need people at our side that we can count on. If not, what she just got is just one of the 'kicks' you can expect. If not from whoever's out there, then from me." He looked over at Molly Sing, her round, Chinese face placid as she leaned against the bookstore. "You're the only one who hasn't said their piece. Anything to add?"

  Molly shrugged. "When do we leave?"

  "Soon. I'll fill you in on the details when I get back. Philip, make sure everybody's armed to the teeth. Knives, darts, throwing stars, whatever you can dig up at the armory. And plenty of arrows."

  "Canteens?"

  "We won't be gone that long. And if we are, it'll be too late for water." He turned and walked into the bookstore, heard Season choke out "Son of a bitch!" behind his back. He kept walking. She was right.

  And if the others didn't agree with her by now, they soon would.

  "Eric?" He heard Griff Durham and Dr. Epson trotting after him. Eric ignored them, instead using the time to review his team as he headed toward the conference room. It was a simple process, mentally picking and poking at each one, probing for their strengths and weaknesses like a man dismantling a time bomb. Being wrong held the same dangers once they were out on the battlefield.

  There were files on everybody in University Camp, compiled at Eric's suggestion several months ago. Each resident had completed his own file, then undergone a debriefing interview to see what important information might have been overlooked. The files contained medical histories, crude and incomplete, patched together from scraps of memory. It also contained a list of skills, educational background, hobbies, jobs-anything that might prove useful to the group. Men who'd once made stools and bookshelves in their garages were now reinforcing buildings. Professor Grippo from the Agriculture Department led a group of former Sunday gardeners as they now grew and harvested food for the whole community. Betty Forbes, who once managed her husband's fried chicken restaurant before they'd divorced, was in charge of the cafeteria. Everyone had a skill, a usefulness. To some it seemed like the first time in their lives they had a worth.

  Eric had read each file several times, studied them completely. He could scan them in his mind as clearly as if they were in front of him. With each step toward the conference room, he flipped through them, picturing the various handwriting, the occasional typed one from the few manual typewriters they'd salvaged. One of them had a broken "o" which sometimes looked like a "c." That's what he visualized as he recalled Rydell Grimme's file.

  Rydell Grimme, 26, was the strongest of the five in terms of sheer physical power. He cleared six feet with a couple inches to spare, his muscles solidly stacked but not exaggerated. He still jogged ten miles a day, even though it was only around the camp perimeters. But Rydell was a lot more than just physically strong, he was exceptionally bright. He'd worked at the university for the past four years in the Maintenance Department, first as a janitor washing blackboards and scraping dried gum from desks, then on the grounds mowing grass, pulling weeds. Finally, they discovered what a whiz he was with machines and promoted him to repairing overhead projectors and air conditioners. But there was no way they could know how sharp he really was; he'd neglected to mention on his job application his degree in physics from MIT.

  Eric didn't know why Rydell had kept it a secret, or why he went from MIT to peeling wads of gum from desks. Was he hiding from someone or something? Eric hadn't asked and Rydell hadn't offered. One thing Eric was certain of, it wasn't fear that changed Rydell's career goals. He had seen enough of Ryde
ll to know he was cool, arrogant, and quite brave. Perhaps too brave.

  He remembered Molly Sing's file, the tight precise handwriting like some ancient lace embroidery. She had worked for her father, an acupuncturist from Taiwan who owned many condominiums and houses in the affluent neighborhoods surrounding the university. Molly managed his real estate holdings while Dr. Sing twisted long, thin needles into the sore backs of local executives. Molly's mother had gone back to Taiwan to visit family five years ago and decided not to come back.

  Molly was short, barely 5'2", but she was athletic from her daily hundred laps in her father's pool. Her hair, bobbed in a modified Prince Valiant cut, was so black it seemed purple at times. She was only twenty-four now, but moved sullenly with a fatalism others misinterpreted as Oriental calm. Eric saw it as something else, though he hadn't decided on what yet.

  Tag Hallahan was the oldest of the troop, having edged into thirty a couple months ago with no notice from anybody except Eric, who'd wished him a happy birthday in passing. Tag had looked surprised, slightly embarrassed, mumbled "Thanks" and hurried away. His history had been simple: attended the university, received his bachelor's and master's degrees in library science, then immediately went to work for the university as a librarian. He'd spent the last twelve years of his life at the university, his eyesight growing worse, his shoulders becoming more stooped. But his file showed another aspect of him that would have shocked his co-workers at the library. His hobbies were many and diverse, all involving physical danger: hang gliding, mountain climbing, scuba diving, dirt bike racing. Eric had interviewed Tag personally after reading the file, checking to see if these were real experiences or just some fantasy daydream. Tag had sat across the desk from Eric polishing his glasses and answering technical questions about each sport until Eric was satisfied he really had done all those things.

  Not that he didn't look physically capable. He must have been at least as tall as Rydell Grimme, though he lacked about twenty-five of Rydell's muscular pounds. He was lanky, almost bony, with thick black-rimmed glasses that reminded Eric of Buddy Holly, Still, he was handsome, not in Rydell's dark, rugged way, but in a softer, somber way. He had shaggy, red hair that flopped over the top of his glasses and a sparse, red moustache that would never fill out. The only thing that bothered Eric about Tag Hallahan was a certain nervous energy he seemed to generate. That combined with his unusual hobbies tended to make Eric think Tag had something to prove. A dangerous motivator.

  Season Deely, 22. Eric shook his head in exasperation at the thought of her. Oh, she was beautiful enough to be a major topic whenever two or more men in the camp congregated. Speculative guffaws, watery-eyed leers, mournful sighs. She could be a poster queen for the typical California blonde. Curvy, but muscular from years on the university track team, ballet since she was five, gymnastics since she was seven, and volleyball on the beach at her father's Newport Beach home. Her parents were internationally famous, he the sexy macho actor whose films always featured a role for his less-talented wife. They'd been in Spain filming when the quakes shook their daughter loose from their safe world.

  Eric had first noticed Season when he'd caught her stealing marijuana from the camp gardens. They grew enough to use for the hospital in place of sedatives no longer available. He'd let her go with a warning. The second time he caught her, she'd spit in his face and punched him in the stomach. Eric did not hold with hitting anyone smaller or weaker. Unless they hit first. He'd slugged her in the stomach, watched her crumple to the ground, hugging herself and wheezing curses, then dragged her by the heels to her mat in the gym. Since that incident, she was even more belligerent, rude and insulting, but Eric noticed she also spent more time around him than necessary. First volunteering to be on call to sound the alarm, now this. There could be a lot of reasons for this, all of them demanding he keep an especially sharp eye on her.

  And Philip was Philip. Anxious to emulate Eric, please him. The ancient student/mentor relationship that predated even Plato and his teacher Socrates. He was smart and capable, gentle and modest. Not the most agile physically, but not afraid to try whatever was necessary. Eric had a soft spot for Philip, his enthusiasm, his loyalty.

  In a perfect world, none of them would be called on to do what Eric had in mind. Sure, technically they were volunteers, but that was bullshit and Eric knew it. He had manipulated them into it. It was a classic maneuver, executed just as he'd learned it from Dirk Fallows-his mentor. Eric could hear Fallows' harsh voice now. "First, Eric, withhold information about the mission until you get them committed; there're always a few greenhorns who don't know any better than to volunteer, always a few with something to hide or prove. If they balk when they hear the mission, be generous, let them go, but be sure they feel worse now than they would if they stayed. Clap them on the shoulder. Use the right terms, 'back out' or 'stay safe.' Then, and this is crucial, turn your back on them, face the others. Makes them feel like slime, and keeps the others from wanting the same treatment. Works every time with the kids. After that, they'll go through hell for you."

  "Doesn't it bother your conscience?" Eric had asked him once. Fallows had barked out a reptilian laugh, scraping jungle mud from his boot with his bayonet as he quoted, " 'Conscience is but a word that cowards use/Devised at first to keep the strong in awe.' Richard III, Act IV, scene iii, line 310. Think about that, Eric me lad." And he'd laughed again, wiping his muddy bayonet on the neck of Warren Hoagan's mutilated corpse. Warren, 19, whom Dirk had coaxed into volunteering for a mission everybody but Warren had known was impossible, had been captured and tortured. Which had been Fallows' plan. The time it took Charley to torture Warren gave the rest of the Night Shift a chance to sneak up on them. Warren had been used as a stalking horse.

  But was Eric any better? Taking five inexperienced civilians into a war zone where their only chance of survival was doing exactly what he told them. Without question. Without remorse. And if anything happened to him, the rest were automatically dead. He'd manipulated them into taking a mission none of them really wanted, and chances for survival weren't good. But neither was the alternative: a camp of 256 people with no doctor.

  Or was that bullshit too? A "noble quest" meant to excuse him from being just like Dirk Fallows. Because with each cruel day, Eric was having trouble remembering what those differences separating them were.

  "Eric, damn it, wait for us." Griff Durham's voice growled over his shoulder.

  Eric didn't slow down. He walked into the conference room, held the door open for Durham and Dr. Epson, slammed it shut behind them. They both jumped at the sound.

  "The plan is simple, gentlemen. We're going out there with the books to meet this bunch."

  "What about their additional demand," Dr. Epson asked. "The dozen bows?"

  "They'll have to do without."

  "They'll kill Joan."

  "Maybe. I'm hoping they'll listen to reason and realize they're better off with the books in hand than arguing about it."

  "And if they aren't so reasonable?"

  "Then we try to persuade them."

  Dr. Epson shook his head. "You could get her killed!"

  "What makes you think she's still alive?"

  "Well, they… they said she would be. Besides, they must know you'd want to see her before you'd trade with them."

  'True. If they were going to trade. I don't think we've seen the kind of good faith from these people that inspires trust."

  Durham spoke up. "So you plan to jump them. Kill them."

  "If we have to."

  "Good God, man," Dr. Epson sighed, "I hope you know what you're doing. What you're risking. Not just your lives, but Dr. Dreiser's, and thereby all the rest of ours. Over what? A lousy dozen bows. I say pay it and be done."

  Eric raised his crossbow, still cocked and loaded with a bolt. He pushed it into Dr. Epson's pudgy stomach and slowly released the safety. His finger tightened around the trigger.

  "See here, Eric," Dr. Epson rasped, flattening
himself against the wall. "Have you gone insane?"

  Out of the corner of his eye, Eric caught Durham's slight movement. "Don't reach for your gun, Griff. I'd hate to pin him to the wall like a bug." Durham's hand dropped to his side. "That's better. Now ask yourself, Dr. Epson, why I'm able to make you do anything I want right now. Why one man can control two." Eric leaned the bow deeper into Dr. Epson's stomach. "Time's up. Never mind, I can see you're having a little trouble catching your breath, so I'll answer. Because I've got a weapon pointed at your belly button. If you had the weapon, I'd do what you wanted. Simple mathematical equation. Now, given the extent of hostility outside University Camp, and the probability that it will keep getting worse, weapons are more valuable than the doctor. Without them, we won't survive long enough to need a doctor." Eric held the crossbow for a few extra seconds, then reset the safety and lowered the bow.

  Dr. Epson started breathing again, peeling himself from the wall with a shiver.

  Eric continued, "Now, once we leave here, you lock this place up as tight as it will go. Maintain a Yellow Alert until we get back. Passphrase will be, uh…" He tightened lips into a razor smile. "Thus conscience does make cowards of us all."

  "Hmmm, Hamlet," Dr. Epson nodded approvingly, the teacher momentarily rising above the administrator.

  "Hell," Durham grumbled. "This isn't a spy ring, damn it. Something simple like 'Air Force One' or 'Sachmo' would be easier to remember."

  Eric didn't argue the point. He opened the door and headed back toward his troops. Maybe Durham was right, but Eric didn't mind indulging in a little irony now and then. Besides, all the guards would have to memorize the phrase, and any passphrase that included the word coward usually made the guards very conscious of not acting like one. Another lesson from Dirk Fallows.

  Durham and Dr. Epson followed after Eric, unable to match his own brisk stride. He spoke to them over his shoulder as he marched. "If we aren't back by dawn, then we aren't coming back. Under no circumstances send any more people after us. And don't let anyone in, even if they've got one of us with them, no matter what story we tell you. The only people who get back in here are those that left. No one else." He stopped suddenly, spun around to face them. Durham and Dr. Epson, avoiding getting too close to Eric, collided into each other. Eric resisted smiling. "Do you both understand?"