The Warlord w-1

by Jason Frost

  "I'm not saying they will expel him, just that they might. After all, we don't have the facilities or manpower to care for him."

  "God, you can be cold," Molly said.

  "Uh oh," Season grinned. "Trouble in paradise. Your first spat."

  "Knock it off, Season," Molly said angrily.

  Season was stunned by the hostility in Molly's usually placid voice. "Sorry," she mumbled, meaning it.

  A heavy silence.

  Season broke it with nervous chatter. "You guys given any thought to what you're going to do now?"

  "What do you mean?" Molly asked.

  "I mean around here. Things definitely aren't going to be the same anymore. Not after tonight. They counted twenty-three dead of ours." No one was ghoulish enough to ask for names. The community was small enough that everyone knew everyone else, so it didn't really matter who was killed. It would be someone they knew, probably liked.

  "Anyway, this is a good chance for us to run for council. After braving the dangers of the Dead Zone, we've built pretty good reputations. And we obviously didn't have anything to do with the massacre tonight. If we get Eric to endorse us, I bet we could get the votes. We'd all be on the council together, really get this place rolling."

  "Rydell's thinking of going with Eric," Molly said suddenly, an edge to her voice.

  "What?" she asked incredulously. "Go with him? Where?"

  "After his wife and kid."

  "Right, his wife and kid. But do you know who has them? Col. Dirk Fallows. You ever hear of him, follow the trial in the papers?"

  "Yeah, I know all about him."

  "And did you hear the descriptions of his second in command, what's his name?…"

  "Cruz," Molly offered.

  "Yeah, Cruz. He's the bastard that slit Jenny Ravensmith's throat. Supposed to be seven feet of pure mean. That's who you'll be up against. Just you and Captain Bligh."

  "Let me worry about that."

  "Men," Season sighed, shaking her head. "They all think they have to wear their balls on their sleeve. I'll tell you one thing about Eric, if he were you he wouldn't go. You don't have any experience, any training."

  With a sudden flick of his arm, Rydell tossed his throwing knife across the room. It stuck in the center board covering the window. "Yes I do," he said quietly.

  Season and Molly exchanged looks.

  "Where'd you learn to do that?" Molly asked. "Boy Scouts?"

  He laughed, trying to lighten the conversation, but neither woman smiled back. "My father taught me. His campaign to make me a man was ceaseless. Did I mention he was a SWAT commander in Atlanta?"

  "No," Molly answered stiffly. "You didn't."

  "Yeah, well, it's not something that comes up often in normal conversation. 'What's your father do for a living, young man?' 'Well, sir, he's a SWAT commander.' Tends to dampen polite conversation. Anyway, he taught me everything his own troops learned, and then some. Knife throwing, marksmanship, climbing, just about everything a young boy needs to know at a public school in Atlanta." He pointed at his bow. "Except archery, unfortunately. College was to be a necessary evil, then right into the police department as a rookie, and finally a member of his own crack corps."

  "What happened?"

  "It was his dream, not mine. Is this where the dramatic music comes in?"

  Molly nodded. "Strings usually."

  "Well pretend. Anyway, he wanted me to study-criminal justice, I wanted to study philosophy and theology."

  "Theology?" Molly said, shocked.

  "Yeah. I wanted to become a minister."

  "Jesus, forget what I said earlier, okay? I didn't mean anything."

  "I said minister, Molly, not eunuch. My dad and I used to have some real screaming matches at home about that. Well, I was always very good in science and math, so my mother's compromise was physics. That's what I got my degree in."

  Season tilted her head at him. "You've got a degree in physics? I thought you worked at the university as a janitor or something."

  "Maintenance, if you please. After graduation I let my father talk me into at least trying out for the force, giving it a chance."

  "And?" Molly asked.

  "I gave it a chance. I didn't like it, so I quit. He hasn't spoken to me since."

  "And your ministry?"

  He shrugged. "Lost interest in that by my sophomore year."

  "That leaves physics."

  "I wanted to take a few years off, see if I was still interested in that enough to pursue it any further."

  "And? Christ, why do I have to pull every word out of you?"

  Rydell laughed. "And I applied to several graduate schools and was accepted by all of them. I'd decided to go back in the fall. But the best laid plans of mice and men…"

  "Tell me about it," Season said. "At least you had some choices. My parents had me acting since I was eight months old. They thought it was so cute to stick me in their films, kinda like Alfred Hitchcock, which is who I looked like as a baby. When the rest of my friends were trying to figure out which end of a tampon you inserted, I was in my own sitcom."

  "Friends of the Family," Molly said.

  "Yeah, right. I was pretty horrible, huh?"

  Molly shrugged.

  "I know. I didn't know how to act, still don't. But I had the right look, and the right name. We ran for four seasons. When I decided to go to college, my parents thought it was a great idea. Until I told them I was going to major in physical education. They thought only dykes liked that."

  "Your parents read Reader's Digest, too," Rydell said.

  "I don't know what they read, except Variety. Anyway, I ended up doing a lot of sports, and you know what? I loved it. And you know what else? My folks thought it was great too. They came to every event I competed in whenever they were in Los Angeles."

  "Happy ending," Molly said.

  "I guess so. I was pretty happy, everything just as I wanted it. Except for one little problem. Guys."

  "You're kidding?" Molly said, surprised.

  "I wish. It seemed that every guy I went out with thought he had to compete with the image of my father in movies. They were always trying to be so cool, you know, staring with sophisticated indifference. Acting cynical. In bed they were so concerned about their performance you'd think they were auditioning for Francis Ford Coppola. Jesus, what a mess. I think if-"

  "Hey, Molly!" Tag Hallahan's voice shouted above his running feet. He burst into the room, looked surprised to see all of them, but recovered quickly. He was panting as he spoke. "It's Jennifer Ravensmith," he said urgently. "She's missing. Her body's gone."

  20.

  The moon might have been full, it was hard to tell. The shimmering haze of the Long Beach Halo hung like a thick cloudy veil between heaven and earth making the moon look like a spilled blotch of phosphorescent milk. Still, it provided enough diffuse lighting for Eric to see what he was doing.

  He stood atop the roof of the library and scanned the ravaged world around him. Far off into the distance were dozens of scattered campfires like fallen stars. He imagined the many people huddled around them, desperate for warmth, jumping at every sound in the night. Good people like the ones here, anxious not only for survival, but to preserve the dignity of civilization. But there were also evil people to whom survival was the only end, and that justified any crime. People like Fallows and his henchman, Cruz. And among them, Annie and Timmy. Frightened, alone. Waiting for deliverance.

  Eric knew what he'd done wrong. He understood his mistake.

  He thought about this as he stood balanced on the edge of the roof, constantly adjusting his balance to the ever-shifting wind that nudged him. He looked down, felt the grinding in the pit of his stomach that heights gave him. He smiled and began removing his clothing. All of it. He knew his fatal error now and was going to do something about it. Now.

  At last he was naked, balanced with his back facing the edge of the roof. The breeze swirled gently around him, ruffling the hair on his body,
tensing his genitals. Eric felt the movement, but was otherwise numb to the sensations. The wind was neither warm nor cold, heavy nor light. It only existed.

  "Ritual," Big Bill Tenderwolf had lectured him. "Ritual provides answers when we are not yet certain of the questions."

  "Sounds like you've been reading too many fortune cookies," Eric had replied with a youthful smirk.

  Big Bill had laughed. "Perhaps. But even the ritual of fortune cookies has its function. Ceremonies have no intrinsic meaning, I'm sure a clever boy like you has figured that out already, right? Every time you see a funeral you shake your head at the hypocrisy. After all, the person's dead, right again?"

  Eric said nothing, amazed and a little ashamed that his thoughts had been so transparent.

  Big Bill had clapped a meaty hand on Eric's shoulder. "Those are perfectly natural conclusions. For the young. But the adult needs more. During especially emotional times, whether happy or sad, the prescribed ritual is a comfort. It gives strength. It forces order where there is emotional chaos. Sometimes it forces a person to face himself." He tapped a finger against his temple. "Maybe it is all a state of mind, but it is formidable. Like self-hypnosis. And sometimes it can release powers in a person they didn't know they had. Ritual is nothing to be mocked, boy."

  Eric hadn't understood that until much later, maybe not even until this very moment. Still, Big Bill Tenderwolf had taken him into his home in the Hopi village of Shongopovi and taught him the many rituals, customs and folklore of the Hopis. How the Hopis had emerged from a horrible underworld when the earth was not yet fully formed; how they migrated south looking for a sacred spot, some for the exact center of the Earth; how they were led by the Twins, also called the Little War Gods, who helped stabilize the surface of the Earth and taught them how to survive, as well as ceremonies. How these gods, sensing their people's weariness, would come and dance for them, until they poked fun at their peculiar faces. But before returning broken-hearted to the underworld, they permitted ceremonial masks to be made resembling their faces. And ever since then, Hopis have donned these katcina masks to perform the dances necessary to stimulate harvest, bring rain, and promote warfare.

  Big Bill Tenderwolf had taught him the katcina dances, the peculiar warbles, the pulsating rhythm, the seemingly arbitrary pauses called t'a. Eric had been reluctant at first, embarrassed at his ignorance more than anything else.

  "I'll tell you what I'll do," Big Bill had grinned, his eyes twinkling. "If you can do this simple rain dance, which is stationary for Christ's sake, by the end of the week, I'll set you up with Lilith Twopenny."

  Lilith Twopenny was easily the most desirable girl Eric had ever seen and a cousin of Big Bill. Many times Eric had wanted to ask her out, but hadn't had the courage. This seemed like an easier way. "Deal," he'd agreed. Hours and days of practice later, Eric performed the ritual rain dance to perfection. Big Bill applauded, appropriately impressed.

  "So what about my date with Lilith?"

  He put his arm around Eric and said. "Never forget this lesson. There is no date with Lilith. It would be wrong of you to expect a reward to exceed the deed. However, you can almost always count on the punishment to be greater than the crime." He shrugged and roared with laughter. "We Hopis have a saying in such cases: That's life."

  However, that evening Lilith Twopenny came over for dinner, the beginning of a romance that lasted until she left for UC Berkeley two years later. The last he'd heard she was married, had three daughters, and designed computer games for Atari.

  Eric stepped away from the edge of the roof. He had no katcina mask now, had long ago forgotten the rain dance, the basket dance, the corn dance. But he knew what he must do now.

  Slowly he walked to the center of the roof. His lantern flickered there like an insolent reminder. Next to the lantern were three objects, each lined up meticulously next to the other. His gold wedding band, the only piece of jewelry he'd ever worn. The cassette player given to him earlier that evening by his children. And the body of Jennifer.

  He kneeled beside them, staring at each.

  Down below, people were shouting his name, calling for him, but he didn't hear them. He was leaving this world, entering one where none of them could ever follow. He closed his eyes now and chanted softly a single word.

  With each chant he entered another darkened cavern. He was naked and hungry, without torch or weapon, but still he pushed ahead. In the back of the deepest cave he could see the unblinking eyes glowing. Still he chanted.

  It was clear to him now. His mistake. What scholars of tragedy would call his fatal flaw.

  Only it had been fatal to others, not him.

  Until now.

  He entered yet another dark cave, saw the eyes glowing brighter. Like truth.

  Eric chanted the word over and over, its two syllables tripping mechanically from his tongue.

  His mistake: to try and live in two worlds at once. He had tried to be the father, husband, teacher of the civilized world, and at the same time he'd tried to be the warrior, soldier, protector against the savage world. He had failed in both worlds. His instincts had been dimmed, his senses dulled, he had been operating on the memory of what he used to be. This had resulted in disaster. He should have recognized the council's ploy right away, but he was drunk with trust. He should have been wary of a van with closed doors, avoided it. But he had his eyes on the roofs, the windows. Now Jennifer and Philip were dead, Annie and Timmy kidnapped. And it was Eric Ravensmith's fault.

  So if there was any chance of getting Annie and Timmy back, Eric Ravensmith must die.

  Eric was in the last cave now, the deepest one. The creature's eyes were fierce and red. He could hear its fetid breathing, smell its corrupt breath, the scent of rotting flesh.

  He opened his eyes, still chanting silently the single word, the two syllables. Lifting the bell glass from the lantern, he puffed out the tiny flame. Then he opened the fuel latch and began pouring the oil over Jennifer's body. Some splashed on her face, running down her cheek and neck, sizzling when it touched the dried blood of her wound.

  Eric Ravensmith, family man and teacher, had to be destroyed. Only then could Eric Ravensmith, warlord, be fully born.

  He laid the cassette recorder on Jennifer's chest, closed her soft but stiffening hands around his wedding ring.

  The old Eric who made so many mistakes would never be able to save Annie and Timmy. The old Eric was too emotional, too human. The Eric who would save them had to be tougher, crueler, much less human. The Eric who would kill Dirk Fallows had to be just like Dirk Fallows.

  Still he chanted that word over and over, the two syllables growing louder in his mind though no sound escaped his lips.

  Fal-lows.

  Fell-lows.

  Fal-lows!

  He picked up the knife from beside the empty lantern. Slowly, methodically, he unscrewed the pommel to reveal a hollow handle. The pommel doubled as a compass. Inside the handle were matches, a fishing line and hook, and a wire saw. He removed a single match, flicked the head with his thumbnail. With a flash the match hissed into flames.

  He looked down into his daughter's face. Everything that meant something to that other Eric was here. Everything that connected him to other people. The wedding ring, a sentimental hunk of metal. The cassette recorder with the scratchy Beatles tape, cheap plastic and wires playing adolescent fantasies. And Jennifer, merely the decaying carcass of someone he once knew. Once they were all destroyed, there'd be nothing to keep him here, nothing to hold him back. No memories, no graves to visit. Nothing.

  He dropped the match on her white nightshirt. The flames leaped with a whoosh, crawled up and down her body like a ravenous beast.

  The bitter smell of burning flesh mixed with the acrid sting of burning plastic. But Eric didn't move away. Less than a foot separated him from the pyre. His own skin was red from the heat, the hairs on his legs and arms began to singe slightly. Still he sat immobile, his scar reflecting the macabre f
lames, running along his jaw like molten lava.

  When the flames were sated and waning, he rose, dressed, waxed his crossbow string, and started for the door.

  The old Eric Ravensmith was dead.

  The Eric Ravensmith descending the stairs now was more ruthless, cunning, deadly. More like Dirk Fallows than Dirk Fallows.

  The sight of him startled everyone.

  They didn't know what to expect, but what they saw was not it.

  Eric was smiling.

  It was a grim smile, to be sure, with no trace of humor. Still, considering the circumstances, any kind of smile seemed grotesquely out of place.

  "Are you all right, Eric?" Trevor Graumann asked, his hand on Eric's shoulder in a fatherly manner. He noticed Eric stiffen at the touch.

  "Fine, thanks, Trevor," Eric nodded, then shrugged subtly but firmly away from Trevor's hand.

  Trevor was hurt by this, but said nothing. Finally when he spoke, he noticed a formal tone to his voice that had never been there before. "Eric, I must talk to you about Jennifer."

  "I buried her, Trevor. Don't worry."

  "You what?"

  "I buried her. She was my daughter."

  "Granted, Eric. But where did you bury her? We have rules about that here, sanitation rules you established to protect the rest of us."

  "Don't worry."

  "But no one saw you bury her. We've been looking all over the camp for you."

  Eric shrugged. "I guess you didn't look hard enough."

  Trevor stared at Eric, shocked by the almost insolent tone. "Are you sure you're all right, Eric. I mean, the shock and all. Perfectly understandable if you'd like to lie down or something."

  "I'm fine, Trevor," he said. "So let's drop it, huh?"

  Trevor started to respond, but merely shook his head instead.

  Eric started toward the cafeteria.

  "Where are you going, Eric?"

  "Supplies. I'm going after them, Trevor." He looked at his old friend, felt the old Eric's sentimentality rising, pushed him back like a child into a well. "Supplies," he repeated, and walked on.