Jason Frost - The Warlord

Eric snatched up his briefcase, slapped the light switch as he passed by, and locked the classroom door behind him. His was the last class that day. All evening classes had been canceled since the quake. Maneuvering at night through the debris was too dangerous.

He hurried down the hall and out the front door of the building. A burst of hot California sun washed over him and suddenly it was hard to believe anything bad could happen here, under such a benevolent sun. But he had only to look around to know differently. Large machines were grinding away everywhere, reinforcing some buildings, blocking off others. Hauling away the wreckage. Students wandered about like convalescing patients, books clutched protectively to their chests, walking gingerly, yet in a hurry. Nervous. Jittery. Expectant.

There'd been a faculty meeting to discuss the situation with the administration. The question had been simple, whether to close down the school for the few remaining weeks of the spring semester, or continue on with classes. There'd been the usual amount of shouting and name-calling that accompanied any faculty issue, but the final decision, spearheaded by Eric's mother, had been to stay. "We've got to keep going," she'd said, adjusting those skinny bifocals that always slid down her nose.

The opposition had been forceful. "Keep going? Like imbeciles, as if nothing had happened?" Dr. Everett had blustered.

"No, Bill," she'd replied. "Not as if nothing had happened, but despite what has happened."

Eric smiled. The old lady sure could handle a crowd. And if he didn't hurry home she and Annie would be handling him.

"Professor Ravensmith."

Eric knew the voice without looking. "Hi, Philip."

"Hi." Philip Marcus hurried to catch up. He was a thin, bookish student, who seemed most comfortable in a classroom. Outside a school building he somehow hunched his shoulders more, looked smaller. Once Eric had seen him off campus at a movie theater and he'd seemed almost shrivelled. But in the classroom he sat tall and confident. At twenty, he was in his Last year of undergraduate work as a history major. He'd already been accepted into UC Berkeley's graduate program in history. As Philip's academic advisor, Eric had spent a lot of time with him, more than with most students. He knew that Philip had developed some kind of hero worship for him; he had tried to discourage it, but still it was there, And so was Philip, almost every time he turned a corner on campus.

"What's up, Phil?"

"Nothing. Heading for the library to bone up on 1547. I could kick myself for picking it. If I'd known what you were going to do, I'd have picked something in the seventeenth century. More romantic."

"Not to the people who lived it."

"Yeah, that's true."

Eric waited. He knew something was on the boy's mind.

"Uh, Professor Ravensmith?"

"Yes?"

"What are you going to do about this earthquake business?"

Eric laughed. "I appreciate the confidence, Phil, but there's not much a history teacher can do about an earthquake/'

"That's not what I mean. I mean, are you going to pack your family up and move back east like a lot of others are doing?"

"I doubt it. My wife and I talked it over, decided we'd see it through. And hope the worst of it is over."

Philip smiled. "Good. I mean, my folks are talking about moving back to Pittsburgh. They want me to go with them, go to school at Penn State or someplace. I told them I was staying."

"Well, don't make that decision too hastily, Phil. There's something to be said for playing it safe. And Penn State is a fine school."

"Yeah, but Pennsylvania? I'd rather be buried in an earthquake."

Eric smiled, patted him on the back, "See you next week."

"Right." Philip jogged off, somehow happier than before.

Eric walked around the building to the bicycle racks, trying to locate his old three-speed among the dozens of sleek new ten-speeds. Since the quake, many of the roads had been closed for sewer repair or repaving. Damage to several refineries threatened the gasoline supply, so many people had gone back to riding bicycles or mopeds. Bike accidents were becoming a major source of conversation.

Eric's bike was a rusty old hunk with chipped blue paint, a torn leather seat, and no kickstand. He spotted it leaning against the wall. When he walked closer, he stopped, his mouth tightened, his stomach clenched.

A note was pinned to the seat.

He approached the bike slowly, glancing around quickly for a suspect. He dropped his briefcase, circled the bike, studying it everywhere for a boobytrap. Nothing was out of place, no hidden grenades. Of course, there were other possibilities. Certain fatal poisons smeared on the handles to be absorbed through the skin. But that wasn't Dirk Fallows' style. At least not in this case. For Eric he'd want something more dramatic. More painful.

Eric flicked away the straight pin and grabbed the note, unfolding it roughly as if it were Fallows himself. His eyes lingered on each word. "The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers," Henry VI, Part II, IV, u, 86. Yours for justice, Luther Nichols.

One of them had a 12-gauge shotgun. Remington 870.

The other an M3A1.45 submachine gun.

They were standing at Eric's front door talking to Annie and his mother when he rounded Blue Lake Drive. Immediately Eric jerked the handlebars, hopping the curb with a jolt. He pedaled furiously down the sidewalk, his legs pumping like steam pistons as he cut across his neighbor's immaculately manicured lawn, slicing a thin brown rut through the grass.

"Hey, buddy!" a harsh voice barked. "Hold up there."

Eric glanced over his shoulder, saw the two cars parked at the curb. A police patrol car and an army jeep. Three young soldiers were climbing out of the jeep, swinging their M-l6s in his direction. A uniformed cop leaning against the patrol car spit out his gum and unsnapped his holster.

The two armed men at his front door turned but made no move with their weapons. Eric could see Annie explaining to them who he was, her hands waving urgently. The man with the shotgun, also in police uniform, waved an okay to his partner by the patrol car. The man with the submachine gun, dressed in army khaki with a sergeant's stripes on his arm, nodded at his men by the jeep and they relaxed their weapons.

Eric squeezed the hand brakes, forgetting that the front ones were frozen with rust. The back brakes gripped the tire firmly, sending it skidding sideways in the grass. Eric climbed off the bike and let it drop onto the lawn. He left his briefcase stuffed in the bike's rear basket, leaving his hands free.

"What's going on?" he said pleasantly, but his eyes were dark, studying the men, the situation.

"Nothing," Annie jumped in quickly. She recognized Eric's calculating look, his measured walk. "This is Officer Perkins of the Irvine police and Sergeant Sutton of the army."

The uniformed men nodded politely. No one offered to shake hands.

"Are you Eric Ravensmith?" Officer Perkins asked.

"Yes."

Officer Perkins read from a wrinkled card in his hand. "We are authorized to search your house for any firearms," he recited with a bored monotone, "This is not to be construed as an accusation of any crime. Duly appointed officers are presently conducting house-to-house searches throughout the state in an effort to protect the health and welfare of all its citizens in this time of crisis. We appreciate your cooperation in this emergency." He tucked the card into his shirt pocket. "Questions?"

"You have a warrant? Something giving you the authority?"

"Yes, sir, we do." He nodded at Eric's mother who was peering through her bifocals at a piece of paper.

"Looks pretty goddamn official, Eric," she sighed, handing the paper to Eric.