The Warlord w-1

by Jason Frost

  "Yes," Dr. Epson said. "We understand."

  "Good." Eric pivoted back around and stalked out of the bookstore.

  Philip was handing out various weapons he'd picked up from the armory. In the early weeks of scavenging, before the Dead Zone became too dangerous, they'd managed to gather a fair number of weapons: darts from sporting goods stores, toy stores and dens of private homes; knives from kitchens; swords and daggers from the prop room at the Theatre Department; throwing stars and nunchakus from a nearby Kung Fu school. There were even a few boomerangs discovered in the university's student Lost and Found, though no one knew how to use them effectively.

  "How's it going?" Eric asked.

  "Well, Coach," Rydell grinned, "I think we're ready for the big game. I know we can beat those bums from Roosevelt High and make our school number one again. Right team?" He tucked a few throwing knives into his belt; Eric wondered if he knew how to use them.

  "Blow it out your ass, Grimme," Season Deely said. She stood with hands on hips. She still wore her blue Nike running suit with matching Nike running shoes, both a bit stained and worn, as was everyone's clothing. A red bandanna was knotted around her forehead, keeping her long, blond hair out of her eyes. She carried a fancy compound bow, whose pulley system allowed the archer to hold the bow steady longer. Attached to the handle was a green plastic arrow holder and six aluminum hunting arrows.

  "That looks like Scott Sherman's rig," Eric said.

  "It is. He's lending it to me." She shifted a hip and sneered to indicate the loan didn't come without certain payment.

  "That's a seventy-five pound draw. Can you handle it?"

  "Sure. I'm a hell of a shot and you know it."

  Eric had seen her on the practice range a few times and he knew she really was a good shot. But that was with a forty-pound draw. At a mattress.

  "That all you're taking then?"

  She gave him a cocky look. "It's all I need."

  "Unless you've got some armor in 38C," Rydell said.

  Season spun toward him. "Just 'cause someone wrote Tiny on your jockstrap, don't get on my case."

  Rydell laughed. "That's pretty good."

  "Thanks," she said sarcastically, "now I can finally die at peace."

  Rydell laughed again, pulled up his pant leg, and taped a flat throwing knife to his hairy calf with masking tape. He noticed Eric watching him, looked up with a grin. "Saw this in a movie once."

  Eric doubted that, not with the skillful way he was taping it. But he didn't say anything. Not yet.

  "Let me know if you need a volunteer to pull the tape," Season said. "I'd like to make your leg as bald as your brain."

  Rydell laughed again, but Eric could tell he was staring at him.

  "How you doing, Molly?" Eric asked.

  Molly Sing stood in her plaid flannel shirt and bib overalls buckling a cartridge belt over one shoulder like a bandito. But instead of cartridges, each leather strap held a dart. Brass, wood, tungsten, plastic-all kinds and sizes of darts. Fortunately the belt was wide enough to separate Molly's chest from the points of the darts.

  "You know how to use those?"

  "Yeah. We had a board in the den. Used to clean out all my friends of their allowance when I was in high school."

  "Well-" Eric began.

  "I know," Molly interrupted. "This ain't high school. Right?"

  Eric smiled, nodded. "Don't forget your bow, too."

  "Check, boss."

  Tag Hallahan was tightening the strap of his quiver, which he wore on his back the same as Rydell and Season. Molly and Philip wore theirs on their waists.

  Eric gave the strap a tug. "Good fit."

  'Thanks." Tag seemed pleased, then embarrassed and looked away.

  "Yet set, Philip?" Eric asked.

  "Ready," Philip said. He was smiling eagerly, his bow polished, his arrows neatly arranged in his quiver. "Thought this might help," he said, pulling a black knit cap over his head.

  "It might."

  Across the quad, Toni Tyler was leading four others, each carrying a brand new backpack with the university's buccaneer logo, complete with eyepatch and dagger between blackened teeth. Toni's overweight body didn't take to running well, and she stopped a couple dozen yards away to walk the rest of the distance.

  "Here," she panted. "The books. Agriculture, mechanics, medical. Everything they asked for." She dropped her backpack on the ground at Eric's feet, then gestured for the others to also do so.

  "Thanks, Toni," Eric said. He waved his team closer. "Okay, guys and girls, take the next fifteen minutes to check your weapons, go to the latrine, drink some water and/or say your prayers. When I get back, we leave." He set his crossbow down on the ground and jogged off into the dark.

  "Where are you going?" Dr. Epson asked.

  Eric didn't answer. They didn't have to know everything.

  Annie was sitting on Timmy's mattress in the corner, hugging her knees to her chest.

  "You forgot to bolt the door," Eric said as he closed the door behind him.

  "No, I saw you coming through the window."

  He leaned over and peered through the cracks between the boards covering the window. "It's too dark to see out there, even with this Disneyland sky."

  "I saw you," she repeated.

  He let it drop. Not that he doubted her, he'd just been making small talk to avoid telling her what he was about to do. He went over to her, kneeled beside her and took her face in his hands. He saw her eyes were red, as if she'd been crying, but there was no trace of tears now. She looked up into his eyes and her pupils reflected the flames from the Coleman lamp next to her.

  "Where's Timmy?"

  "With Tracy for awhile."

  Eric nodded, not asking for an explanation. He opened his mouth to talk, to explain, to soothe her worries. But suddenly she was pressing her lips against his and the words tumbled back into his throat like a wolf buried in an avalanche. She was tugging at his clothes now, her fingers insistent, desperate. He tried to pull away, to explain, but she covered his mouth with her hand.

  "Fuck me," she whispered.

  He didn't hesitate. It was clear she'd already guessed what he was going to tell her, the words so familiar they were tasteless, odorless, colorless. She didn't need assurances now; she needed passion, an explosion of movement.

  They removed each other's clothes with rare efficiency, tossing them in separate heaps next to the mattress. There was no need or desire for tender foreplay. Annie flopped onto her back and opened her legs. The moist pubic hairs caught the light's flame and glistened with mock fire. She reached up, her fingers trailing coolly along his scar, down his powerful chest, hard stomach, into the thatch of rough hair.

  Eric hovered over her a moment, studying her thick, long hair as it twisted carelessly around one shining breast and completely veiled the other. Her beauty was almost too much and he felt his leg muscles lapse slightly. He took a deep breath and lowered himself on top of her, his straining penis sliding into her body so easily, so effortlessly, like piercing a cloud. He felt the rippling of her vaginal muscles clamping around him, then the violent thrashing as they bounced atop the thin mattress in something that was more than love. Almost religion.

  His head was nestled next to hers, his lips pressed against her smooth shoulders. He could taste her sweat, hear the strained gasps as she bucked under him. Eric lifted his head and looked into her open eyes. They stared at each other as they felt the pressure mounting, the locomotive climbing their spines, blasting its steam from all sides.

  She came seconds before he did, her eyes narrowing but still gazing at him. Her mouth was wide with concentration, and once again he delighted in the wrinkles around her eyes and brackets at the corners of her lips. They'd earned each and every one of them, he thought, and the pleasure of that thought pushed him past all control into his own orgasm, his hands clutching her buttocks as he lifted her off the mattress, grinding further into her.

  Afterwards they kis
sed, eyes closed, lips almost painfully mashed together.

  "That's enough," Annie said, pushing him away. "You'll be late."

  Eric didn't ask her how she knew. He'd learned long ago how transparent he was to her. To others he was an enigma, a conundrum as complex as a Chinese box, a half-faced Sphinx. To Annie he was as simple as a tear.

  Annie did not get dressed. She sat cross-legged on the mattress, naked and smiling, watching as Eric tucked his shirt into his pants.

  "I want to go with you," she said, the smile suddenly gone.

  Eric said nothing, slipped into his quiver.

  She shrugged. "That's what I thought you'd say."

  "You know why. The kids."

  "I know. Maybe you're going to think I'm a terrible mother or something, but I love you more than I love the kids. Rotten, huh?"

  Eric smiled. "No. Because I feel the same way about you. But it's going to be distracting enough out there taking care of these kids. I don't want to worry about you too. Understand?"

  Annie stood up, her hair hanging to her hips. "I've got a present for you."

  "More Beatles tapes?"

  "Nope."

  "What is it?"

  She lifted the corner of the mattress they'd just made love on and pulled out a samurai sword. Lifting it delicately with both hands, she presented it to Eric with a ceremonial bow.

  Eric took the sword from her, hefting it a couple times before pulling the blade out a few inches. "It's magnificent," he said. "Where'd you get it?"

  "I bought it."

  "Oh, you've been out shopping again."

  "Sort of. After what the kids got you, I couldn't be outdone. Well, as you know, Joyce Harvey's been seeing a lot of Gordon Petrie-"

  "Right. As we all know."

  "Don't get superior. You love gossip as much as I do. Anyway, Joyce told me all about Gordon's fascination with weapons. How he used to make swords, knives, spears, all that stuff as a hobby."

  "He told us all that," Eric said. "That's why he's making them for University Camp now."

  "Uh huh. But you didn't know that he brought a few of his former creations with him, which he's kept buried-"

  "Where?"

  "Forget it. I promised Joyce I wouldn't squeal. Besides, that's not important. What is important is that this is an exact replica of the kind of swords ninjas used to carry in 17th century Japan. It's sharp as your tongue and almost as long. The guard here is oversized to be used to pull the owner over walls or obstacles. The scabbard's tip is removable so you can use it as a hearing aid, a megaphone, or an underwater breathing tube. And this cord here lets you tie it across your back like the guys in those Kurasawa movies. Pretty damn clever, huh?"

  "Remarkable." Eric had been taught how to use such a weapon as a member of the Night Shift because some assassination assignments demanded complete silence. They weren't even permitted to carry guns then. But for most of the time in Nam, it was not a very practical weapon, not in a world of Uzi submachine guns and grenade launchers. But now, it was more than practical. He looked at Annie. "What'd you buy it with?"

  Annie laughed. "What kind of gentleman would ask a lady such a question?"

  "Seriously."

  "Hmmm. I think I've been insulted."

  "You know better. It's just that this is quite a work of craftsmanship. Not something to be given up lightly, especially after carrying it through an earthquake."

  She kissed him lightly. "Okay. Joyce and Gordon want the use of our little home here one day a week for two months."

  "That's all?"

  She shook her head. "Men. How quickly they forget once they've had their lust satisfied. Try to remember how difficult it is around here for a couple to have any privacy."

  "Yeah. Still seems like a small price." He tied the sword across his back, fastening his quiver to his waist. He was anxious to get going now, get it all over with and come back home to Annie.

  Sensing his restlessness, Annie pecked him on the cheek and pushed him playfully toward the door. "Thanks for the roll in the hay. Jocko. Let's try it again sometime."

  He didn't know what to say, nothing seeming enough. Finally he settled for "Bye" and a kiss.

  "Don't be too late," she said.

  "No, I won't." He heard the door close behind him, the locks sliding into place. It was a cold, metallic sound that sent a chill of loneliness across his neck.

  Within three minutes he was leading his combat team to the makeshift gate through the barbed wire and into the Dead Zone.

  Season Deely looked around at the eerie darkness, the vague glow of distant campfires, and shivered. "It's worse than I imagined."

  They moved on.

  16.

  "What was that?" Tag asked, stopping to listen.

  "What?" Philip asked.

  "That noise. Like a whistling." He crouched down, tightening his fingers on the bowstring.

  Season gave him a scornful frown. "It's just the wind, Tag."

  "I don't know," Philip said. "It sounds different than the wind. Not as steady."

  "He's right," Rydell said. "It's spooky like… my God, what's happening to me?" He stiffened his fingers into claws and bared his teeth like fangs. Hissing like a steam iron, he leaned over Season's neck and bit her lightly. "I vun to trink your bloot."

  "Big tough men," Season said disgustedly, pushing Rydell away. "At least Molly and I aren't afraid."

  "Speak for yourself, Season," Molly said. "I've been scared since we left camp."

  "Jesus Christ. Our fearless leader tells us to wait here for him while he scouts around, and we all turn into the Hardy Boys in Transylvania."

  Rydell looked around, the playfulness gone from his face. He silently signalled the others to get ready. Arrows were firmly inserted into bows, bows gripped in left hands, three fingers hooked over the string. They pressed their backs together, each facing outward in a different direction. Each scanned his own horizon, studying the hazy night for threatening figures. They stood in the middle of a parking lot, surrounded by abandoned cars, most of which sat like squat toads with doors open and interiors gutted.

  Rydell stooped a few inches, bringing his head down behind the roof of the Camaro in front of him. The others did the same, making themselves smaller targets.

  "Do you see something?" Tag asked Rydell.

  "No, but somebody's there."

  "Hey," Philip said. "The whistling stopped."

  Rydell nodded. "And the wind's still blowing, so there goes that theory."

  They stood there for five or ten minutes, no one was certain how long. No one spoke or moved. They were fixed mannequins coiled as tense as steel traps.

  Finally, Philip broke the silence. "Eric should have been back by now."

  Rydelt wiped the sweat from his lips with his wrist. "Yeah. What's keeping him?"

  "Well, somebody's got to say it. Maybe he's not coming back."

  "Shut up, Hallahan!" Philip snapped. "He'll be back."

  "Fuck your hero worship, Philip." Season turned to face them. "Tag may be right. We have to consider that possibility."

  "Yeah, we do," Rydell agreed. "But you better hope Tag's wrong, because without Ravensmith, we might as well shoot each other right now and save whoever's out there the trouble."

  "A bit melodramatic, but basically correct." Eric's voice sounded muffled.

  They al! looked frantically around. Saw nothing.

  "Down here," Eric said, and rolled out from under the Camaro. He stood up, brushed his hands against his pants, and shook his head sadly at the others, "Too damn easy."

  "What the hell's going on?" Tag asked.

  Rydell stared at Eric. "A test, classmates. And we failed."

  "Not failed," Eric said. "D-. At least you noticed something was wrong, though I had to whistle to get your attention. Of course, you'd probably have been dead shortly afterwards."

  Season leaned against the Camaro. "I thought we were out here to get Dr. Dreiser back. Not to play stupid games."

/>   "You're right, Season. Believe me, this was no game. We've only been gone from camp for twenty minutes; we're less than three blocks away. And already you would all have been dead. It's no game, not to the people who live out here. I sneaked up on the five of you as easily as if you were asleep. Out here, that's fatal."

  "So, what did you expect? We're not professional mercenaries, just regular people. We were never paid to kill women and children." She let the accusation hang like a thick fog.

  "Knock it off, Season," Philip said. "I'm getting a little tired of your mouth."

  "I'm afraid I have to go along with Philip," Rydell said. "We needed this lesson. And I for one am glad we got it and can still walk away."

  Eric held up his hands. "Personally, I don't care what any of you think. We do things my way and anyone who doesn't like that is free to leave. Now." He waited, looked at each in turn. No one moved. "Fine. Grab your backpacks and let's go. We've got to see a man about a doc."

  They hoisted their packs back onto their backs and followed closely on Eric's heels. Eric pretended to ignore them, but he could see they were much more alert now, much more frightened. It was a cheap trick, but it had worked. They wouldn't relax again until they were back inside University Camp.

  Movement was painfully slow as they picked their way across the parking lot of the Woodbridge Medical Building. Each step had to be seized, fought for, captured. Then the next step. It wasn't the shortest route to the Jack in the Box, but it was the safest. Eric would have preferred the original meeting place, the Bank of America. The route there would have been easier, with plenty of cover. But that was in the opposite direction. With luck, they'd still arrive more than an hour early. Plenty of time to stalk their quarry, determine what the others had in mind.

  And, if necessary, kill them all.