Jason Frost - The Warlord

"Thanks," Eric said. "Didn't look like everybody here was as generous as you."

"Oh, you saw Foster stomping off, huh? Don't pay any attention to him. He's afraid someone's going to steal his woman."

"I see."

"Do you?" Joseph asked, his voice suddenly very bitter. He raked his callused hands through his dusty, black hair. "Jim Foster lost his wife in the quake. Burned or drowned in downtown San Diego, he's not sure which. The woman he's living with is his younger sister, and they've been living as husband and wife ever since."

"My God," Tracy said.

"That shock you, young lady? It shouldn't. She can't have any kids, so we don't have to worry about that problem. They love and care for each other. And they aren't likely to find anybody else, not anymore. So what's the harm? You see how a little shift in the land can suddenly make incest okay?" He laughed. "Hell, my wife and I were planning a divorce when this whole thing happened. Now we're closer than we've ever been. Why is that? Is it because disaster brings out the best in people? No, she and I had been through two miscarriages together. In some ways they were worse disasters than the quakes." He looked around the table at each of them as if he were suddenly very tired. "Maybe you'd better just get your water and be leaving."

Eric stood up, the others followed. "We appreciate your hospitality, Mr. Baldwin."

"Sure," he nodded, distracted. "Sorry I bent your ear. But there's only a handful of us living here and we've heard everything about each other so much, we're a little starved for variety. We don't have much in common, except water. My wife and I were driving back from Vegas when the quake hit. We'd been visiting her father, deals blackjack at the MGM Grand. Our car was flipped a couple times, but we were okay. We wandered a bit until we found this cabin and the well. The old man who'd owned it was dead, heart attack I think. Soon Jim Foster and his sister stumbled in here, and then the others. Like I said, water makes strange bedfellows."

"Anyone else come this way recently?" Eric asked.

"Not for a month. That's when Evans Pierce and his son joined us. He used to be a rich contractor in San Diego, building fancy homes and apartment complexes. For the past month he's been helping us get these cabins right. They don't look like much, made out of scrap metal and wood and whatever else we can haul in here. But it's home." He smiled. "Home is where the water is, right?"

Eric nodded.

"Don't worry, Mr. Ravensmith, no more trivia about the amazing aqueduct system of California, or should I say former system. Actually, I memorized all that stuff from a magazine I found here in the old man's cabin. One of about a dozen magazines. Everybody here's read them all a couple times each, just for something to do. Too bad he didn't read books."

"Aren't there any other camps around here like yours?" Rydell asked.

"A couple," He pointed toward the east. "A bunch of Vietnamese live about ten miles that way. We trade with them sometimes. Eggs for nails. Milk for water. They're fair enough people, but pretty clannish."

"Have you thought about asking them to join your group?" Molly said,

Joseph shrugged. "Incest is one thing, but some attitudes don't change. Half of the people here are afraid of them, afraid they'll get their throats slit in the night. Gil Clyne lost his son in Vietnam and he's convinced the others not to risk it. So we'll go on like this until we're so bored we'll take the chance."

"Any other settlements?" Eric asked.

"Well, there's one we heard about from a couple men passing through about six weeks ago. Place called Savvytown."

"Savvytown," Tracy laughed.

"Yeah, I know. But that's what they called it."

"What do you know about it?" Eric asked.

"Not much. Just that if you're smart, you'll stay away from it." Abruptly, Joseph pushed his chair back from the table and started toward the door. "Sorry we can't give you any food, but we're a little short there ourselves. Let's get those canteens filled."

Foxworth nudged Toomey. "What do you think?"

"I think there are more of them than there are of us."

Foxworth thought about that. "Yeah. I thought Ravensmith was supposed to be alone."

"Well he isn't," Toomey snapped.

"What's eating you?"

"Nothing. Nothing." But, of course, something was. At thirty-six, Scott Toomey was at least fifteen years older than Foxworth. He was a Vietnam veteran, though he'd never seen any actual combat there, and had always felt a bit ashamed of that fact. When he'd returned from his tour, friends and family were always asking him what it had been like. He'd give them all the same response, a distant look and a mumbled, "I'd rather not talk about it." They would all nod, sympathizing with his tortured memories.

Actually, he had no experiences to tell them, except how many paper cuts he got from filing all day long in Saigon. It was the worst humiliation of Scott Toomey's life, to have gone off to war and yet never seen a single battle. When he'd heard a few months before the quake that Colonel Fallows was recruiting some men, he'd thought it was for some mercenary action somewhere in Africa. Finally, combat! He'd tossed in the apron with Toomey's Hardware stitched in red across the pocket and left his father's store for the last time. He'd never had a moment's regret, especially since the quakes. He'd done his share of killing, raping, looting. And it was everything he always hoped it would be. If he did have any regret it was that now that he finally had some real war stories to tell, all of his friends were back in New Jersey.

Now he was crouching here with some punk kid who smelled of dog all the time. He still didn't know why he'd volunteered, he'd been around long enough to know better. But there was something about the way Fallows had looked at him… Well, it was done. This would be just another story to tell them back in Trenton.

"I make out six of them. Two on guard over there, and four down getting water from that camp."

Foxworth nodded. "Yeah, I get the same."

Toomey snorted.

"Well, what's our plan? There are six of them and two of us."

"Yeah, but they don't know we're here. So we take 'em out one at a time. Hit and run. Starting with those two." He pointed toward Tag and Season.

"Look at them tits, man. If we got the time, can I fuck her?"

"Before or after we kill her?"

Foxworth shrugged. "It don't matter."

"Are we ever going to make it, you think?" Season asked.

"Sure," Tag said. "We'll probably catch up to them in-"

"I don't mean that kind of make it. I mean make it, as in make love. You and me."

"Oh, well, I don't, uh, know. I hadn't really-"

"You hadn't thought about it? Thanks a lot."

"That's not what I meant. Sure, I've thought of it, but… Christ, what brought this up?"

Season slipped her bandanna off her head, wadded it, wiped the sweat from her face and neck, and tied it back on. "Let's be realistic. We're human beings, regardless of how Eric treats us, and we have certain, you know, needs. Companionship, love, sex."

"Right now our needs are limited to food and water."

"Yeah, but we've been okay there. Hell, look at Molly and Rydell. They've been playing a little slap-and-tickle at night. They haven't actually done the dirty deed yet, but first time they've got five minutes alone they will." She smiled. "It's kind of nice. Romantic."

"What's that have to do with us?"

"Well, besides you, the only other available man for me right now, unless Rydell and Molly have a spat, is Eric. And that's not likely. Not that I wouldn't be interested, but he's too possessed right now. Too many demons in his head. Besides, Tracy's got her eye on him. Not that I couldn't give her a run for her money."