Jason Frost - The Warlord

"Move in there, cunt," Flex said, booting Season in the buttocks. She lurched forward into Rydell, who caught her as she fell.

"Eric!" Tracy's voice was a mixture of relief to see him, despair at his situation.

Rydell looked sheepish. "Guess you were right, Coach. A sucker play."

"Shut up, asshole!" Flex said. "Move over to the sofa."

As they squeezed past him toward the sofa, Flex tilted his gun at the roof to make room. That's when Eric moved.

The knife was poised waist-high as he dove between Molly and Rydell, elbowing both roughly aside. Flex caught the movement immediately, but his reflexes got the better of his thoughts. Because Eric was almost on top of him, it was a more economical motion to use the gun as a club rather than shoot it. With a loud crack, the barrel smacked into Eric's wrist, knocking the knife out of his hand.

Eric grabbed Flex's gun with both hands, twisting it counterclockwise until it broke free from Flex's fingers and bounced off the wall. Flex snapped his knee toward Eric's groin, missed, tried again, caught him in the hip.

Behind them, Savvy was reaching around the desk for Eric's crossbow. But Season and Rydell were on him too quickly. Season bent his arm behind his back while Rydell wrapped his hands around his throat and squeezed.

Tracy had been knocked to the floor by a punch Flex had thrown at Eric but missed. Molly was scrambling on the floor for the gun, but it had fallen behind Flex and she couldn't reach it.

"The knife, Molly!" Tracy yelled.

Eric found it more difficult to fight with so many people inhibiting his movement. A missed kick or punch might kill Molly or Tracy. He felt Flex's stale breath in his face, the stubby thumbs digging at his eyes.

Then Flex's eyes widened with surprise. His fingers went limp. He staggered backwards, stepped on the gun, tripped, fell against the wall. Blood pumped from the hole in his stomach, soaking through the thick, curly body hair, matting it even more. He put one hand over the hole to stop it. When that didn't work he changed hands, as if there was some fault with the first one.

He looked down at the wound again, then at Molly's hands. They were empty. Slowly they turned to Tracy's hands. Both her hands trembled as they clutched Eric's bloody knife.

"You killed me," Flex said as he sagged to the floor, his hands no longer bothering to dam the flowing blood. "You cunt." Then he died.

"I guess he told you," Molly said, her voice toneless, like a telephone company recording.

Eric turned to Rydell. "What about Savvy."

"Passed out."

"Okay, grab your weapons from over there. We won't have time to find your packs. We've got to get out of here fast."

They scrambled to the wall next to the sofa where Fallows had dumped all their weapons. Molly slipped into her dart belts, tossed Rydell his quiver.

"What about him?" Season asked, nodding at Savvy,

"What do you think we ought to do?"

"Kill him," Rydell said simply.

"Now you're learning." Eric walked over to Savvy, frowned, felt the carotid artery for a pulse at the neck. "Except he's already dead."

"What?"

"Dead. You killed him."

"I thought he'd just passed out."

"Yeah, out of this life into the next. Which is where we'll be if we don't move. You did the right thing, now live with it the way we all do."

"How?"

Tracy answered, handing Eric his knife. "With regrets."

Eric nodded at her, then abruptly turned to the others. "Fallows and Cruz are only forty minutes ahead of us. We can catch them this time."

Eric opened the door a crack, waited until the road was clear, then hustled them all into the dark. They ducked behind the trailer.

"We'll take the east road out of town, then cut south. There's too much activity at the south end of town."

They nodded agreement and followed him around one trailer and onto the road, quickly jogging past another trailer where a crap game was in full swing, and another where someone was loudly demanding to examine the cards. When they finally made it to the edge of town, Tracy gasped suddenly and fell to her knees.

"What's wrong?" Eric asked, kneeling beside her.

"My God, Eric," she sobbed, hugging her stomach. "God, no!" Her hand shook as she pointed at the trailer across the road.

Eric looked to where she pointed, felt an explosion in his stomach as powerful as if he'd swallowed a grenade.

Pinned to the door was a long mane of dark hair, gathered into a pony tail and swaying in the warm evening breeze.

Annie's.

"Don't argue. Just do it!"

"But, Eric-" Tracy pleaded.

He grabbed her arm, his iron grip numbing her skin. "I mean it. All of you. I don't want your help here. I want the four of you to follow Fallows and Cruz. They're so close, I don't want to lose them. They may still have Timmy."

"Okay, Eric," Tracy said.

He loosened his grip, sighed. "Sorry. Just go. And don't lose them. And for God's sake, don't try anything with them. Wait for me."

"We won't," Rydell said.

"Good luck," Molly said.

Season pecked his cheek. "Me, too."

And they were gone. Eric waited a few minutes before moving. There was a light inside, but a pink pillowcase covered the window. He circled the trailer once, then again, but there was no sound. Maybe he'd been mistaken? But no, as he passed the front door, saw the long, black hair, he knew it was hers. Stringy and dirty now, but Annie's.

So Fallows had traded her to Savvy after all. That didn't surprise Eric. It was Timmy who Fallows really wanted, because he had never believed that the love between a man and a woman was very binding. Parents' love for children he could understand, "the ego of flesh" he'd called it in Nam. But man and woman? Temporary. "Disposable as toilet paper," he'd laughed.

Eric readied his crossbow, lifting it to his shoulder with his right hand while his left hand reached for the doorknob. He glanced over his shoulder up and down the road. No one.

Slowly he turned the knob and he was reminded of the night it all started. The intruder in the house. Eric watching the bedroom door opening. Annie, naked, trying to throw the electric blanket over his head.

When the handle was turned all the way, he slammed his shoulder into it, somersaulted into the room, and rolled to one knee, the crossbow sweeping the room.

"Welcome, Lieutenant," Col. Dirk Fallows said.

"Eric," Annie choked out, her voice raspy and weak.

He forced himself not to wince at the sight of her. The shaved head so pale like the underbelly of a frog. The sunken eyes, dark with strain. The hollowed cheeks. She sat on a wooden barstool, wrapped in a blue bathrobe.

Next to her stood a giant Eric figured was Cruz. The short hair, heavy face, lizard's measuring eyes. Always measuring for death. He carried no gun, no bow, though he had a machete strapped to his belt. His arms were folded in a bored, contemptuous stare. Measuring.

Across the room, Timmy sat tied to a plastic kitchen chair. His little finger was wrapped in a splint and bandaged. His clothes and body were clean, in shocking contrast to his mother. "Dad?" he said. It was a question. But asking what?

Next to Timmy, leaning arrogantly against the wall, was Dirk Fallows, a black beret tilted rakishly on his head. A P-38 rested loosely in his hand.

"So." Fallows smiled. "All the players finally assembled in one room. That would suggest the play's almost done. Curtains, as they say." He motioned with his gun. "Lower the bow to the floor, Lieutenant. Those things go off so easily."

Eric eased the crossbow to the floor.

"Hup, hup, hup."

Eric pushed it away with his foot.

"Better. Much better."

"Are you all right, Annie?"

She laughed and cried together and Eric could hear the Annie he loved, see her in the twinkling eyes. "Sure. A little soap, a little water. Some eyeliner. Good as new." The speech took a lot of effort and she sagged a little in the chair trying to regain her strength. She winked at Eric.