Jason Frost - The Warlord

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 flames, 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.

"It's suicide, son," Trevor called after him. "What's done can't be undone. Not with the earthquakes, not with Jennifer. Not even with Annie and Timothy. There are too many of them, Eric. We need you here."

Eric kept walking, ignoring Trevor's words. Their logic assaulted him, tried to wedge themselves into his brain. What's done can't be undone. That's life.

Not anymore.

"Eric! Wait up." Rydell Grimme's voice carried crisply through the night. He was running across the quad with the rest of them, Season, Molly, and Tag. Within seconds they were standing in front of him. Rydell's face was flush with excitement. "You're going, aren't you? I mean, after Fallows."

"After my wife and son."

"Right. That's what I mean."

Eric stared at him silently.

"I want to go with you. To help."

Season jumped in suddenly. "Me too. I want to help too."

Molly frowned with surprise. "When did you decide that?" she asked Season.

"Just now, I guess."

Eric looked at Molly and Tag.

"Don't look at me," Molly said. "I like it right here. Food and water and occasional sex."

Tag nodded, embarrassed. "Sorry, I don't think it's for me."

"Good," Eric said finally, "at least there are two of you with some brains. What in hell makes you think I'd take a couple amateurs with me? Did you think you were doing me a favor? More than likely you'd end up getting me killed. And yourselves. So forget it. Stay here and live."

Rydell stepped forward, shaking with anger. "Maybe we aren't hot shots like you, Ravensmith. Experts at everything from bug mating to killing with an eyelash, but we were willing to go. We aren't children and we aren't stupid. We know the risks. We're willing to take them. Not for you. But for your wife and child. They deserve the chance your daughter didn't get."

"You done?" Eric asked.

"Yeah, I'm done."

He turned to Season. "Anything you want to add?"

"Yeah, I want to add that you're a son of a bitch."

"There may be hope for you yet, lady." He walked away, stopped after half a dozen steps. Without turning around he spoke. "We leave at first light. Bring your weapons, canteens, food, and the usual survival gear you've all been instructed on." He turned and faced them. "One other thing we should get straight up front. The only reason I'm taking you is because I might be able to use you. And I mean use. I don't care about your lives, only how they might help me save my family. If it means sacrificing one or both of you, I'll do it. I'll treat you like any other piece of expendable equipment." He paused. "See the two of you at 0500. If you decide not to show up, you've got more brains than I give you credit for."

"See you then," Tag Hallahan said.

"Don't look at me," Molly said. "I don't go in for mass hysteria. I'll be sleeping at 0500, 0600 and all the 0-hundreds I can manage."

"Smart girl," Eric said and walked away.

Trevor Graumann stood in the dim morning light in a heavy cardigan sweater, his pipe stem clattering between his teeth. The sky was already laced with the first bright tendrils of morning, and he found the orange color oddly cheering.

He yawned, almost dropping his pipe. He'd been, up until only a few hours ago, trying to talk some sense into Eric. Failing that he argued with the three others who were going with him. Only the pretty little Chinese girl, Molly Sing, had taken his side and tried to talk them out of it. But to no avail. They were filled with the stubbornness of youth, giddy with the idea of an adventure, a quest, a search for the Holy Grail.