Jason Frost - The Warlord

"You know," Tag said, "each time he goes out scouting, I realize just how vulnerable we are without him. He knows so damn much about this survival stuff."

No one replied, but their looks showed strong agreement.

Tag continued. "I used to see him around the library, history books tucked under his arm, students always tugging on his sleeve. He looked like such a typical professor, the elbow patches on the tweed jacket." He shook his head with admiration. "But until the Fallows trial a few months back, I had no idea of all he'd been through before. When I read the papers I was shocked."

"Yeah," Season nodded. "I didn't know him at school, history and I never got along. But I remember reading some of the stuff about that Vietnam massacre. I can still remember some of the nasty things my friends and I said about him, sitting around sipping beers and making fun of the dumb grunt. We were so goddamned, you know, smug."

"And now you thank God he's here, right?" Tracy said.

"Well, I'm not much on God, but I've got a lot of faith in Eric."

"C'mon," Rydell said, "let's finish up the drill before he gets back."

"Teacher's pet," Molly grinned.

Rydell tossed a pebble at her, which she easily ducked. "Okay, Tracy, how do you test plants to see if they're edible?"

"Well, first, make sure it doesn't have milky juice, or-"

A rustle of brush and Eric was standing in front of them. "Lesson is over. Let's move out."

Obediently, everyone jumped to their feet and swung their packs onto their backs

"What'd you find?" Tracy asked.

"I followed their tracks a mile or so. They've got some horses with them, three I'd say by the different imprints. But even without them, they're moving at a pretty brisk pace. Those men are in damn good shape. They can probably run all day and night. We're going to have to pick it up a bit just to keep up."

"Why do I suddenly feel guilty because I'm not a horse?" Molly said.

''This way," Eric waved.

"That's not the way the tracks lead," Rydell said.

"No, this is the way to something we haven't seen in a while."

"What?" Tracy asked.

"People."

"I hate to ask the obvious," Molly said, "but as Rocky the flying squirrel always asked Bullwinkle, 'Are they friendly spirits?' "

Eric shrugged. "Let's hope so. I saw them taking water from a well, and that could save us a lot of time and trouble."

"What if they don't want to give us water?" Rydell asked.

Eric turned and started walking. "Let's go."

"All right. Who's got something white."

Everyone thought a moment.

"I do," Molly said, remembering. She rooted through her backpack, pulled out a rolled-up T-shirt, When she tossed it to Eric, it unfurled, revealing a drawing of a very young Ricky Nelson with the logo "The Irrepressible Ricky" printed under it. Molly smiled. "I was wearing it the day of the quake. Until then it had been my good luck shirt."

Eric handed it to Rydell, "They're right through there, beyond the mesquite trees. You can't miss them, half a dozen handmade cabins. Chickens running around."

"Chickens?" Season said, licking her lips.

"A wash line hanging out. They've got two guards that I could see, one of them with a double-barreled shotgun, the other with a homemade bow. That's all."

'That's enough," Rydell said.

"Now, you're going to walk right up to them, waving this white T-shirt. Keep your bow slung over your shoulder. No matter what, don't reach for it."

"Why send me first? Why don't we all go in at once?"

"Because if they kill you, we'll know it's not safe for the rest of us."

"You're serious, aren't you?" Tracy asked.

"Yes."

"Isn't that a little like asking him to walk across a mine field to see where the mines are hidden?"

"Good analogy."

She shook her head with shock. "What if they kill him?"

"Then we'll kill them. But one way or the other, we're going to get some of their water."

"Jesus, Eric-"

"No," Rydell interrupted. "He's right. Makes perfect strategic sense." He held the T-shirt in front of him, gave Molly a wink. "I hope Ricky will remain irrepressible."

He took a deep breath and started walking.

Eric led the others to a vantage position where they could watch Rydell as he walked cautiously toward the cluster of cabins, waving the T-shirt over his head. When he was within a couple hundred yards of the homes, two men popped up from behind dirt embankments where they'd been hiding. From a distance, the dirt embank-ments had seemed like nothing more than little bumps in the terrain. Fortunately, Eric had investigated earlier.

The two men pointed their weapons at Rydell, gesturing and shouting, though Eric couldn't hear the words. Rydell immediately dropped the T-shirt and clasped his hands on top of his head. Four other men and two women came running out of various cabins, each armed with a weapon of some kind. Axe, spear, revolver, pitchfork. They circled Rydell, their weapons raised.

"They're going to kill him," Molly said frantically, scrambling to her feet. "We've got to help him."

Eric snagged her shirt and yanked her back. "Wait."

Her face was red, the tiny, slivered eyes smaller yet. "Wait for what? First blood?"

"Look," Tag pointed.

Rydell was talking animatedly, his hands churning and pointing toward Eric and the others. As he talked, those surrounding him slowly lowered their weapons, looked in the direction Rydell had pointed. One of them, a rugged-looking man about forty with an axe balanced against his shoulder, was talking to Rydell. Rydell nodded vigorously.

The man scratched his head, spoke to the others. There was a minute of conversation among the group. One of the men stalked off to his cabin, dragging one of the younger women with him, and slammed the door behind him. The man with the axe said something to Rydell. Rydell turned to Eric's direction and waved for them all to come down.

"Do we go?" Season asked.

"Tracy and Molly and I will go. You and Tag keep watch, and I mean careful watch. We'll fill your canteens."

"But what if it's a trap?"

Eric stepped through the brush, fastening Tag and Season's canteens to his belt. "We'll take the chance."

"Water," the man with the axe said, "makes strange bedfellows."

"I thought it was politics that did that," Molly said.

"These days water is politics." Joseph Baldwin hung his axe from the wooden pegs next to the cabin door. "You know how much water each person used to use before the quake? I mean daily."

They all shook their heads.

"Guess." Joseph Baldwin grinned slyly, enjoying this.

"Ten or twenty gallons, I guess," Tracy said.

"No," Molly said. "That's what I use to wash my hair."

"Ha! Not even close. Mr. Grimme?"

"Fifty?"

"Better, but not close enough. How about you, Mr. Ravensmith?"

"Maybe a hundred gallons a day."

Joseph Baldwin seemed pleased with that answer. "Very close. The average was 110 gallons. Can you imagine? And that was just for personal use. That doesn't count what manufacturers used, or farmers. And remember, Southern California is really desert, so most of the water had to be brought in here via three aqueducts. Colorado River Aqueduct, 242 miles long through the Mojave Desert; California Aqueduct, bringing water 450 miles from the Sacramento/San Joaquin Delta; and the Los Angeles Aqueduct, spitting water 338 miles from the Sierra Nevada." He shook his head in amazement as he pulled up a chair, sitting at the table between Eric and Tracy and across from Rydell and Molly. He smiled a full set of white teeth. "I probably sound like some old village coot to you, rattling on about water. All that's missing is me chewing tobacco and whittling on a sharp stick. That's what happens when you're isolated like this. Hard to believe I used to be a successful corporate lawyer in San Diego. Important comer in the Democratic party. A Big Brother. My wife and I even sponsored two South American kids through one of those charity organizations. You know the ads, a photograph of some dirty, naked kid with ribs like a xylophone and a caption that reads, 'Juan never has a good day.' " He stared at his hands a while, thick with calluses, as if noticing them for the first time. "You know whose hands these are? My father's. He worked as a farmer all his life in Iowa. Still there. I remember one May, I was about twelve, and he was wrapping Mom's Mother's Day gift. How clumsy those hands were. He could hardly fold the paper at the ends. Finally he asked me to do it because he kept tearing the paper. I'll never forget that. The wrapping paper was left over from Christmas, with little angels all over it." He looked at his hands again, shook his head. "Help yourself to as much water as you need. We've got plenty."