Jason Frost - The Warlord

Suddenly she was totally exhausted, as if someone had punctured her energy bag and all her strength came whooshing out. She wanted to sit down, take a nap. But she knew if she complained to Eric he'd probably leave her there. She didn't blame him. In fact, what wouldn't she give for someone to love her as much as he loved his family.

They were back where they started now. Eric was handing her a toppled bicycle. "Can you ride?"

"Sure, but not in this skirt."

"Then take it off."

"I'd rather not."

He bent over in front of her, grabbed the bottom of her skirt where the fashionable eight-inch slit was, and yanked. The skirt ripped up to her crotch, revealing the sheer pantyhose underneath and the fact that she wore no panties with them. Eric didn't seem to notice. He grabbed another bike from the pile that had been tossed and shaken into a heap, and flipped it over. He looked around, found a large rock, and with two expertly placed blows, sprang the cheap bicycle lock.

"Just follow me," he said, climbing onto the bike and speeding away.

Tracy wobbled after him, at first conscious that each movement of her leg was exposing her. But when she saw Eric pulling way ahead, she forgot about her modesty and pumped as hard as she could

It was like a trip through hell, she thought. They passed a small shopping center in flames, bodies scattered about, people running, crying, screaming the names of loved ones as they ran from corpse to corpse. Even in the residential neighborhoods, many of the houses had collapsed, the sidewalks and streets had buckled as if some terrible underground monster had tried to break through. The streets were clogged with honking cars loaded with goods and people trying to escape, anxious to drive… anywhere. But there were too many cars, too many people, not enough travelable streets. In the distance, she could see the flashing lights of half a dozen ambulances on the San Diego Freeway. Then she noticed why. An overhead ramp choked with cars had collapsed. Huge chunks of concrete and twisted metal bars were being shoved to the side of the road by pickup trucks.

If Eric saw any of this, he gave no indication. His eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, and when the road was too torn up to travel, he cut across lawns and driveways. She followed, almost ramming a group of mailboxes once.

Finally they turned onto another cozy middle-class street filled with milling people staring at their sunken homes. She could tell by the way Eric suddenly lurched ahead with new strength that this was his street.

"It's no earthquake," she heard one man say to his wife as they pedaled by. "It's those fucking Russians. First Strike."

Eric was leaping off his bike before it had even stopped, running up to a beautiful woman with long, thick hair down past her waist. Next to her were two kids, a boy and a girl. Tracy braked her bike and watched Eric gather them all up in his arms and crush them together in an enormous hug of relief. She felt tears slipping down her cheeks as she stared.

After a minute, he turned and waved her toward them. She walked with the bike next to her, uncertain what else to do with it. "Hi," she said.

"This is Tracy Ammes," Eric said. "And this is Annie, Jennifer and Timmy."

"Don't worry about a thing," Annie said, shaking Tracy's hand. "You can stay with us until things settle down."

"Thanks," Tracy said, liking Annie immediately and feeling a little ashamed as she remembered why she came down here in the first place.

"You play chess?" Timmy asked.

"Huh?"

"Never mind, Timmy," Eric said, looking at the remains of their home. Half of it had crumbled as if a giant fist had punched it in the side. "Gas off?"

"Right," Annie said, slipping her arm through his. "But it might not matter in a while. None of the houses on this block are burning, but I heard that all of the homes on Windsong are."

"What about the fire department?"

"We hear the sirens but haven't seen any engines."

"There just aren't enough to go around. We'll have to do what we can."

"Do what, Daddy?" Jennifer asked, choking back the tears.

He looked at her, hugged her next to him. "Whatever it takes, honey. Whatever it takes."

Then the ground moved again. Only worse this time. Much worse.

"Daddy!" Jennifer cried as she was flung face forward, her knees and elbows scraping against the rough sidewalk. Timmy tumbled backwards flat onto his back, the air knocked out of him, a sharp pain in his side. Tracy and Annie were thrown together into a heap of legs and arms. Eric managed to maintain balance for an extra few seconds before being tossed onto his knees like a reluctant worshipper.

The loud rumbling sounded unlike anything they'd ever heard before, half machinelike, half roar. It almost drowned out the screams of their terrified neighbors watching what was left of their homes crumble, their children catapulted through the air.

Eric tried to climb back to his feet, but the sidewalk suddenly split in half, slamming him back to his knees.

They all lay together and watched helplessly as the world changed forever.

"Whoa," Leo Roth whispered, lightly tugging the reins. His horse ignored him, continuing to plod grudgingly along through the dense San Linder woods.

"Whoa already," Leo said again, but still not loud enough to offend the horse, an expensive appaloosa, which Leo knew could throw him any time it wanted and would probably take great delight in trampling the hell out of him. People from the Bronx were not meant to ride horses, especially Jews from the Bronx. It was against all natural laws. It defied physics. There should have been an Eleventh Commandment: Don't ride anything that can shit and walk at the same time.

Despite the fact that Leo had owned horses for several years, ever since the enormous success of his TV sitcom An Apple a Day, he'd never actually ridden any of them before. Once, a couple of years ago, at the insistence of his wife Cynthia, he'd struggled clumsily into the saddle atop one of these monsters. But that was just for the photograph for their personalized family Christmas/Hanukkah cards. They always had two batches printed up. One batch read "Merry Christmas from the Roths" above the photo of all of them astride bored horses at their Malibu home. Under the photo was an elaborate big Christmas tree. These were sent out to business associates, sponsors, employees, actors, writers, directors, agents. The other batch of cards read "Happy Hanukkah from the Rothsteins" above the photo, but under it was a big Menorah. Those were sent to his wife's family.

Not that he had anything to prove to anybody. Leo Roth had a reputation in Hollywood. You want funny, get Leo Roth. You want laughs, people clutching their sides, throwing up with laughter? Get Roth. At twenty, he'd dropped out of CCNY and sold his Datsun to raise plane fare, landed in L.A. fifteen hours after kissing his crying mother on the cheek and shaking his disappointed father's hand, and sold his first joke within the week. Phyllis Diller. Within the year he was adding jokes to troubled movie scripts, and within two years he was working on his own show. The rest, his mother liked to say, was show business history. At forty-one, still Mediterranean handsome and in good shape, a crown of black, curly hair clenched atop his tan face, only the slightest ring of flab hinting at his waist, he had been producer/writer of the highest rated show of the season.

Until the earthquakes cancelled the season.

Cancelled television. Cancelled Hollywood. Cancelled most of the audience. That was three months ago. Malibu was underwater, so was most of Los Angeles. So were most of their friends. Now all they had was the family: Leo, Cynthia, and their sixteen-year-old twin daughters, Cheryl and Sarah. And the damn horses.