Jason Frost - The Warlord

The worst part was that somewhere, deep down inside, Trevor Graumann wished he were going too.

He had not seen Jennifer, but he'd heard the gory description of what had happened. He knew Eric had no choice, being the kind of man he was. But he also recognized the hardening of soul he'd put himself through to be able to do it. This too was dangerous. To become the very thing you hate is easier than returning again.

He shook his old head, rubbed his stubbled chin. He had other worries now, the elections, defense. Without Joan and Eric, things would be much more difficult here. But they would manage somehow. The way people have always managed. With a little courage and a lot of luck.

He looked at his watch. Almost five o'clock.

Trevor saw Eric strolling toward the gate now and for a moment he considered forcing Eric to stay, turning the guards on him. But that idea passed quickly. None of the guards was any match for Eric. Especially now. He even walked differently than before, his step more purposeful, his gait determined. Somehow he even looked bigger.

From the gymnasium came the other three, Rydell leading them. Season and Tag flanking him. Their pace was brisk, excited, practically twitching.

They all converged on him at once.

"I won't insult you with any more appeals to logic," Trevor said, "because it wouldn't do any good. Would it?"

"No, sir," Rydell said.

Eric looked out through the gate. His voice was solemn. "Let's go."

Trevor stood in front of Eric, held out his hand. Eric looked confused a moment, then took the hand in his to shake. Eric hadn't realized how cold his own hand was until he'd felt Trevor's warm flesh.

Suddenly Trevor pulled Eric close to him with a hug. "Like a son," he mumbled. "Like a son."

Eric resisted the contact for a moment, then responded with a hug of his own. Only to get it over with, he told himself, to get the old man aside. But he felt a tug at his heart as he looked at Trevor's kind face. Then it was gone. The ice formed over his skin again, his heart numbed.

"We're going through," Eric called to the two guards posted near the gate. Both nodded, waved encouragement.

"Wait, damn it," Molly's voice hollered as she pattered toward them, shifting her bow and holding her jiggling arrows. "It isn't easy looking this good so early, you know." She glanced at Rydell who was smiling broadly, then at Eric, whose face showed a faint flicker of pleasure. "Okay, okay," she said to him. "I'm not as smart as either of us thought."

"Then that's something we all have in common," Eric nodded. "Let's go."

One at a time they hunched through the narrow opening in the barbed wire and continued single file down the street. None of them dared look back.

Dirk Fallows sat on the edge of the cot tapping his knife against his thigh, a thin smile creasing his face. "You're not going to like what happens next."

Annie and Timmy stood on the other side of the tent holding hands. Cruz blocked the closed flap with his body, his arms crossed over his chest like an Arabian genie.

"We've been painfully courteous to the both of you for the past three days. Gave you water. Food. Bedding. No one's touched either one of you, and believe me there has been some grumbling about that." He continued to tap the knife blade against his thigh in a slow, lazy beat. "But all that's about to change, I'm afraid."

He saw fear wrinkle their faces and was pleased. He stood up and paced in front of them. "I'm forty-four years old. Forty-five next month. Do you think that's old?" When there was no response he smiled and continued. "Well, never mind, I think it's old, or at least getting close. Not that I'm feeling old, mind you. Still as fit as ever." He slapped his stomach a couple times. "Hard as oak. Nothing like Cruz there, but then what human is?" His laugh sounded like a truck grinding gears. Cruz stared ahead without expression. "I'm told by some lady friends that I look a lot like Kirk Douglas but without the dimple. Same rocky facial structure, 'rough hewn' I think they call it. I guess that means my face looks like something a sculptor might have started in an angry mood, then abandoned once he saw what he was doing. Still, it pleases some women."

"And some men, no doubt," Annie snapped.

Fallows laughed. "I am not a homosexual, Ms. Ravensmith. But neither am I homophobic, so I don't become enraged at any insult to my manhood. Still, if I were in your position, I wouldn't take the chance of enraging me. The next few minutes are going to be difficult enough for you."

"What do you mean?" Annie asked. "What are you going to do?"

He put a finger to his lips. "Patience."

"Can't we leave my son out of this? For God's sake, he hasn't done anything."

"Well, technically neither have you. But guilt or innocence is irrelevant here. You are merely surrogates for your husband, whipping boys, if you will," Fallows placed a hand on Timmy's head and playfully mussed his hair. "No, I'm afraid Timmy is an important element of my little drama."

"Drama?" Annie said incredulously. "You killed dozens of people that night. You call that drama?"

"Don't forget, I lost a man myself. But yes, it's drama. High drama. Sometimes melodrama. But always good theatre."

Annie felt an involuntary shiver shake her as she realized how coldly evil this man really was. She had listened to Eric describe him many times, but not until this moment did she truly understand how demonic he was. She closed her eyes and thanked good luck that Jennifer still had been in the hospital when she and Timmy were kidnapped. At least Jennifer was safe and unharmed. She hugged Timmy against her now.

"I'm going to tell you something that I never even told Eric. Nor any of my followers. Not even Cruz, whose appreciation of good irony is legend." He chuckled, but Cruz simply stared ahead like someone watching a boring TV documentary. "You'll be the first to hear The Truth About Dirk Fallows." He raised his eyebrows. "Hmmm, not a bad title. I'm sure Eric has told you what he knows, all of it early MGM. Rich father buys son out of trouble, purchases college degree, and so on. He thought the longer he could keep me in college, the longer I'd stay away from home. And you have to give him credit, it worked. At first I was your typical know-it-all smartass. Got A's in all my classes without once cracking a book. So much for the challenge of education. Once I discovered how simple it was, I lost interest in even attending classes. My grades fell faster than man from grace. I bounced around a couple more universities until I took a course because it was the only one open at that time period and therefore wouldn't interfere with my sleep. It was Introduction to Acting. Yeah, that's right, theatre. Within a month I was playing Iago in Othello."

"How appropriate," Annie sneered.

"A very misunderstood character, Ms. Ravensmith. Nevertheless, it was exhilarating. Even more so as a director, staging my own productions the way a general prepares for battle. That was how I envisioned it, like a battle. But it had one drawback."

Annie nodded. "No real corpses."

"In a way. No real risk. The worst that could happen was an actor blows his line, a costume tears. That's not risk, merely inconvenience. I'd learned the techniques of manipulation, now I wanted the action. I guess it's true that some people are born soldiers, I was lucky enough to discover it in myself. My parents were scandalized when I enlisted. Practically wore black arm bands." He waved a dismissing hand. "No matter. I had what I wanted. And I loved it. I was the best. Still am."

He sat back on the cot, began tapping the knife against his thigh again, the evil smile slicing across his face. "But having picked my lifestyle, I had to abandon certain other things. The possibility of a wife, family."