Jason Frost - The Warlord

"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.

They walked in hunched, jerky steps, clinging to the sides of cars and searching the dark for movement. Eric kept an eye to the rooftops and upper story windows, perfect sniper nests. His body seemed to automatically remember the old moves as he led the pack, dodging ahead to secure a position, then waving for the others to follow, one at a time.

They were hunkered behind a rusty Dodge van with four flat tires and a siphoning tube still dangling out of its gas tank. There were no more cars between here and the Woodbridge Medical Building, just open space. On the other side of the building and down the street two blocks was the Jack in the Box. Thirty-five yards separated the van from the building. Thirty-five exposed yards.

"Okay," Eric whispered to the others. "Same as before. Wait for me to reach the wall. Don't move until I wave. Each person waits their turn, running only when signaled. The rest keep their bows ready to cover the others. Especially the roofs and windows. Questions?"

"Let's do it," Season said, the edge of fear in her voice unmistakable.

Eric nodded, turned and dashed toward the building, zigzagging the thirty-five yards like a scorpion on a hot skillet. When he safely reached the side of the building, he kneeled, snapped his crossbow to his shoulder, and swept the area around him. Not seeing any movement, he waved for the next runner.

Season Deely didn't hesitate. She sprinted like the track star that she was, not bothering with any zig or zag. Just a straight line toward Eric, her feet slapping pavement in a frenetic beat.

When she reached him, she pressed her back against the wall and readied her bow.

"You okay?"

She started to speak, choked on the word, swallowed. "Fine," she said. "Fine."

Eric waved again.

Rydell Grimme imitated Eric's pattern with perfect precision. He lacked Season's blistering speed, but made up for it with cunning. He slammed into the wall next to Season, raised his how. "Better than miniature golf." he panted.

Eric waved again. Molly Sing, slow but steady, followed, joined the others. Then Tag Hallahan. He jolted out from behind the van, churned mightily for ten yards, then tripped over a break in the pavement and sprawled head first for another five yards. Without pause, Rydell and Molly dashed out, yanked him to his feet, and dragged him back against the building.

"You okay, Tag?" Eric asked.

"Sure, I just tripped, that's all. No big deal." He took a deep breath, blew the fear out. "Sorry. I'm fine. Thanks for the help." He brushed the rips in the knees of his pants, winced from the stinging. Some blood smeared onto his palms.

Eric waved to Philip. Saw a glimpse of white teeth as Philip smiled, waved back.

Then the rumbling echo of metal grating against metal, like the roar of a monster at the bottom of a well.

Suddenly, Eric saw Philip running toward him, saw the short man leaping out of the sliding side door of the Dodge van. Saw Philip glance over his shoulder, the expression of terror when he looked back again, his arms and legs churning desperately. Saw the short man's arm flinging something. Philip twisting in midrun, tumbling sideways, his hands clutching the knife sticking out of his throat. In the hazy darkness, the blood pumping out of his throat looked like spraying oil.

Another man jumped from the van, then another. Their clothes were dirty and tattered, their hair long and wild. One had a spear made from a broom handle with a steak knife lashed to one end with wire. The other had a compound bow with the distinctive green tape wrapped barber pole fashion along the upper limb. It was the same bow that Matt Southern had been carrying the day he'd led his group out of University Camp for the last time.

The first man was running toward Philip's body to retrieve his knife. Eric followed him through the sights of his crossbow for a few yards, then squeezed the trigger. The sound was like a zipper being closed too fast, then the dull thud as the short bolt punched into the man's chest, spun him around into a comic pirouette, and dumped him onto the pavement.

The other two let out eerie howls, like coyotes baying at the moon. The one with the spear ran forward a few steps and hurled his weapon. It lofted high into the air, arced smoothly, then clanged into the wall five feet above Eric.

The man with the bow was tugging his arrow back with a bead on Eric. But he never made it. Five arrows snapped at him almost simultaneously, though only two actually. hit him. One caught him in the chest, the other chipped a hunk of flesh off a rib. Two of the arrows bounced off the van while the third disappeared into the darkness of the parking lot, skidding along pavement.

The man with the bow crumpled. His fingers released the half-pulled string, catapulting the arrow ten feet ahead. He fell backwards, knocking his head against the van's bumper.

The spearman, now without a spear and too frightened to grab for the bow, took off behind the van, vanishing into the same thick darkness that had swallowed the arrow. They could hear the thwacking of his feet for a few more seconds. Then silence.