The Warlord w-1

by Jason Frost

  "Help. God help!" he cried, the blood from Tina's crushed chest smeared all over his face and hands.

  Eric ran back, tugged him to his feet and shoved him after the others. "Move it, damn you, or it'll be your blood next."

  The kid stumbled ahead leaping smashed furniture as he followed the others out the fire exit. The dust had become thick in the room, and Eric could smell faint traces of smoke.

  "Betty?" he shouted. "Betty?"

  "Professor Ravensmith?" a faint voice whispered.

  "Yeah. Let's get out of here. It must be time for your break."

  She coughed out a laugh as she crawled out from under her desk, the fallen stapler in one hand and the tape dispenser in the other. She looked around at the mess on her desk, tears slicing through the dust on her face. "What will we do? What will we do?"

  "Survive," Eric said, grabbing her hand and pulling her after him.

  Outside was even worse.

  People were screaming and running and trampling each other in their rush to get anywhere but here. Cars. were overturned on the lawn, the heavy equipment used to shore up the buildings had toppled, and severed electrical lines sparked and hissed along the ground near the parking lot. One dead co-ed still clung to her car door, which she'd been trying to open when the snaking wire had whipped around and touched her Pinto's roof, sending twenty thousand volts burning through her body. The air was thick with black, sour smoke puffing out of the shattered windows of the Biochemistry Building. Fires were licking the ivy-covered walls of half a dozen buildings.

  The ground itself seemed to sway and buckle, like an elaborate Disneyland ride. People had trouble keeping their balance as they stumbled, clawed back to their feet, and kept running. Some had exhausted themselves already, and lay in panting heaps here and there.

  The rumbling sound continued like a stampede of horses, and for a moment Eric had an image of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse galloping across the earth on wild, snorting steeds.

  And then it was gone.

  The rumbling faded like a disappearing train. People stopped for a moment, looked around, shook their heads as if suddenly waking from a terrible nightmare.

  But the nightmare continued.

  Fires raged. The wounded lay moaning and bleeding amid the rubble of the ancient Administration Building. Sirens whined everywhere as fire trucks, ambulances and police cars rushed in all directions. From where he stood, Eric could see at least three car wrecks from the quake. Two were minor, but in the third the driver, an elderly woman who served food in the school cafeteria, had rammed her old Fury into a telephone pole. The impact had hurled her half through the windshield, where she now lay, her eyes wide and confused in death.

  Eric looked around, saw the three students he'd led out of the building as they ran across the quad. Betty wandered off toward the parking lot mumbling, the tape dispenser and stapler still clutched stubbornly in each hand.

  "Eric!"

  He turned around. Tracy Ammes was running toward him, her shoes gone, her stockings shredded. A couple buttons were missing from her dirty blouse, and her sheer pink bra peeked through the opening. There was blood on her knees. "Jesus. Jesus." She bent over and gasped for air next to him. She started to say something else, shrugged, and just said, "Horrible."

  "Yeah."

  She raised her voice to be heard over the constant din of sirens and alarms. "I'd decided to get an iced tea over at your snack stand for the long drive home. Then everything went crazy. Like The Poseidon Adventure or something." She took a deep breath. "What now?"

  "Now I look for my mother. Then I get home and take care of my family."

  Tracy's voice was quiet. "Of course."

  Eric looked down at her. "If you're free this evening, perhaps you'd care to join my family for dinner?"

  She nodded, too relieved to speak.

  Although it was early afternoon, the sky was almost black; the smoke from fires all over the city and the nearby hills.

  Eric checked his watch but the crystal was shattered. "What time do you have?"

  "Twelve-forty."

  "Okay. Mom has Archaeology 101 from noon to one over in Sprockett Hall. Let's swing by there first."

  "Check."

  He took off at a quick jog, always half a dozen steps ahead of her. They passed various hysterical or wounded people, but Eric didn't stop, so neither did she. As she struggled not to drop any further behind him, Tracy was astounded at how quickly she was able to adapt to an emergency situation. There would be no getting back to Santa Monica today, maybe even for a couple days while highways were cleared for traffic. Surely by then the authorities would have restored order.

  "Over there," Eric shouted over his shoulder and dashed off toward an old brick building. It was four stories high, with clouds of smoke haloing the building like the rings of Saturn. The air was much more acrid here and Tracy tried to take shallow breaths to avoid the stinging in her throat.

  Eric saw her immediately. The short, compact woman with steel-gray hair. She was dragging an unconscious boy out the smoky doorway and across the sidewalk to safety. The boy must have weighed close to two hundred pounds, but Maggie Ravensmith handled him as easily as she had the wheelbarrow loads of rock she had helped her husband haul away every night.

  Eric's feet slapped concrete as he sprinted down the walkway toward Sprockett Hall.

  Maggie glanced up, saw her son approaching, and pointed him toward the unconscious boy at her feet. She was panting for air. "Smoke inhalation. Not breathing."

  Eric dropped to his knees, tilted the boy's head back slightly, and put his ear near his mouth, listening for the sound of breathing. At the same time he watched the chest for any movement. There was neither. Quickly he reached over and ripped open the top of the boy's black polo shirt. Then, hunching over the boy's face, he placed his hand on the forehead, holding it back while he used his fingers to pinch the nose shut. He slid his other hand under the kid's neck, lifting slightly to create an open airway.

  "How is he?" Tracy asked as she came running up.

  "Don't know yet," Maggie answered.

  "Will he make it?"

  Maggie shrugged.

  Eric sucked in a deep breath, ignoring the burning smoke-tinged air. Bending further over, he placed his mouth over the boy's and exhaled until he saw the chest swell. He pulled back a moment, watched the chest for falling movement, listening for escaping air. He heard it.

  "One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, one thousand four, one thousand five." He bent over and repeated the process, breathing air into the boy, counting, breathing, counting. Finally he sat back. The boy's breathing resumed. "Okay, Mom, looks like you saved another student to bore with your lectures. Mom?" He turned around and looked for her.

  "She went back in," Tracy said, pointing at the smoking building, the flames flickering in windows like Halloween jack-o'-lanterns.

  "Jesus." He sprang to his feet, grabbed Tracy by the shoulders. "Keep an eye on this kid. Try to flag one of the ambulances down when they get here. If his breathing stops or lessens significantly, just do what I did. Can you do it?"

  "I think so."

  He didn't say anything else, just took off for the doorway of Sprockett Hall. He felt the great waves of heat wash over him at least ten feet before he reached the door, but he just squinted his eyes and plunged through.

  He walked around the wide-eyed body of one co-ed, stepped over the mangled body of Dr. Bernie Concord from the Comparative Literature department. The smoke was so thick it was impossible to see more than five feet in front of you.

  "Mom?" he shouted. "Where the hell are you?"

  His mother's voice shot back, slicing through the dense air. "In my classroom. Where else?"

  "Come on. The sprinklers aren't working, the water lines must be ruptured. This place is going down without a fight." He picked his way past the rubble, thankful that it was a Friday, when most of the students and faculty weren't around campus any
way. "Let's go, Mom!"

  He saw her emerging from her classroom at the end of the hall. The white haze outlined her small body as she dragged one semi-conscious girl under one arm and her stack of lecture notes under the other.

  "Forget the fucking notes, Mom," Eric yelled as he charged toward her, hopping piles of furniture and collapsed walls. "Nobody can understand them anyway."

  "Like hell," Maggie snapped, struggling with her double load for a moment, then sighing. "You're probably right." She let the stack of notes fall to the floor, wrapped both arms around the staggering girl, and hauled her down the hall toward Eric. "I'm putting this one on a diet tomorrow."

  Eric was less than eight feet away when the ceiling over his mother collapsed, dropping pink insulation and a couple of metal bookcases filled with Spanish textbooks and back issues of the Publication of the Modern Language Association. Eric even saw Tony Garrison's coffee mug with the kissing hippos sitting on one of the shelves as they plowed into his mother and her helpless student. There was a sudden cry of surprise, then a sharp cracking sound as all the bones in her chest were crushed under the weight. The student never made a sound; her head was split open from the forehead to the chin.

  "Mom!" Eric hollered, pulling the heavy bookcases off, tossing them aside like foam toys. When he finally uncovered her, he stooped down, grabbed her shattered wrist for a pulse, already knowing what he'd find. He put his head near her mouth, but all he could hear was the gurgling of blood bubbling out of her cracked chest.

  Farther down the hall, another section of ceiling collapsed, dropping flaming pieces of furniture onto the floor. The ratty old couch from Bob Lender's office, on which Bob had first seduced teaching assistant Linda Dekke, who was now Mrs. Lender. An old Royal typewriter missing the letter H. Bob Lender, neck broken, tweed jacket flaming like a cape as he thudded onto the floor, bouncing once. The fire continued down his jacket onto his pants, casually burning like a campfire.

  Eric stood up, tried to swallow, couldn't, turned and retraced his steps out of the building.

  Tracy was kneeling by the husky boy, whose eyes were now half open, grateful. "Look, Eric," she said excitedly, "I did it. Just as you showed me. And he's awake, conscious!"

  He nodded at her. "Good job."

  She saw the look on his face, felt a cold stab in her stomach. "Where's your mother?"

  He didn't answer her, just started walking away. "Let's go."

  "What about him?" Tracy asked.

  Eric didn't look back. "He'll be okay."

  Tracy was confused. She didn't think it was right to just leave the kid lying there, even if he was conscious. On the other hand, she didn't want to be separated from the only person she knew. She trotted angrily after Eric.

  "I'm sorry about your mother. I truly am. But we can't just leave people lying helpless."

  He didn't answer, just picked up his pace.

  "I mean, don't we have a certain responsibility to others in a time like this?" She was half-running now.

  Eric didn't slow down, didn't look at her. His voice was eerily calm as he spoke. "We saved that kid's life. That's all we owe him. In the meantime, I have a wife and kids to take care of. I'm willing to take you with me as long as you don't get in the way of my helping them. Once you do, you're on your own."

  Tracy started to say something, thought better of it. She needed him, he didn't need her. As she looked around at the extent of the damage, she had a sickening feeling that things might never again be the way they were. She thought of Los Angeles, imagined some sci-fi movie version of what it might look like destroyed. Even Barry, smelling of glue, helped build one once. What had destroyed L.A. in that film? A volcano? Tidal wave? Meteorite? She couldn't remember. And what about Barry? Was he okay? He'd be at the studio now. She tried to picture him. Two images crowded into her mind. In the first, he was standing outside the burning studio building, chatting with his co-workers about how to recreate these effects for a movie. In the second, he was pinned to the floor under a heavy model of a Rasdan space cruiser, coughing and struggling as the smoke and fire filled the room.

  Suddenly she was totally exhausted, as if someone had punctured her energy bag and all her strength came whooshing out. She wanted to sit down, take a nap. But she knew if she complained to Eric he'd probably leave her there. She didn't blame him. In fact, what wouldn't she give for someone to love her as much as he loved his family.

  They were back where they started now. Eric was handing her a toppled bicycle. "Can you ride?"

  "Sure, but not in this skirt."

  "Then take it off."

  "I'd rather not."

  He bent over in front of her, grabbed the bottom of her skirt where the fashionable eight-inch slit was, and yanked. The skirt ripped up to her crotch, revealing the sheer pantyhose underneath and the fact that she wore no panties with them. Eric didn't seem to notice. He grabbed another bike from the pile that had been tossed and shaken into a heap, and flipped it over. He looked around, found a large rock, and with two expertly placed blows, sprang the cheap bicycle lock.

  "Just follow me," he said, climbing onto the bike and speeding away.

  Tracy wobbled after him, at first conscious that each movement of her leg was exposing her. But when she saw Eric pulling way ahead, she forgot about her modesty and pumped as hard as she could

  It was like a trip through hell, she thought. They passed a small shopping center in flames, bodies scattered about, people running, crying, screaming the names of loved ones as they ran from corpse to corpse. Even in the residential neighborhoods, many of the houses had collapsed, the sidewalks and streets had buckled as if some terrible underground monster had tried to break through. The streets were clogged with honking cars loaded with goods and people trying to escape, anxious to drive… anywhere. But there were too many cars, too many people, not enough travelable streets. In the distance, she could see the flashing lights of half a dozen ambulances on the San Diego Freeway. Then she noticed why. An overhead ramp choked with cars had collapsed. Huge chunks of concrete and twisted metal bars were being shoved to the side of the road by pickup trucks.

  If Eric saw any of this, he gave no indication. His eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, and when the road was too torn up to travel, he cut across lawns and driveways. She followed, almost ramming a group of mailboxes once.

  Finally they turned onto another cozy middle-class street filled with milling people staring at their sunken homes. She could tell by the way Eric suddenly lurched ahead with new strength that this was his street.

  "It's no earthquake," she heard one man say to his wife as they pedaled by. "It's those fucking Russians. First Strike."

  Eric was leaping off his bike before it had even stopped, running up to a beautiful woman with long, thick hair down past her waist. Next to her were two kids, a boy and a girl. Tracy braked her bike and watched Eric gather them all up in his arms and crush them together in an enormous hug of relief. She felt tears slipping down her cheeks as she stared.

  After a minute, he turned and waved her toward them. She walked with the bike next to her, uncertain what else to do with it. "Hi," she said.

  "This is Tracy Ammes," Eric said. "And this is Annie, Jennifer and Timmy."

  "Don't worry about a thing," Annie said, shaking Tracy's hand. "You can stay with us until things settle down."

  "Thanks," Tracy said, liking Annie immediately and feeling a little ashamed as she remembered why she came down here in the first place.

  "You play chess?" Timmy asked.

  "Huh?"

  "Never mind, Timmy," Eric said, looking at the remains of their home. Half of it had crumbled as if a giant fist had punched it in the side. "Gas off?"

  "Right," Annie said, slipping her arm through his. "But it might not matter in a while. None of the houses on this block are burning, but I heard that all of the homes on Windsong are."

  "What about the fire department?"

  "We hear the sirens but haven't seen
any engines."

  "There just aren't enough to go around. We'll have to do what we can."

  "Do what, Daddy?" Jennifer asked, choking back the tears.

  He looked at her, hugged her next to him. "Whatever it takes, honey. Whatever it takes."

  Then the ground moved again. Only worse this time. Much worse.

  "Daddy!" Jennifer cried as she was flung face forward, her knees and elbows scraping against the rough sidewalk. Timmy tumbled backwards flat onto his back, the air knocked out of him, a sharp pain in his side. Tracy and Annie were thrown together into a heap of legs and arms. Eric managed to maintain balance for an extra few seconds before being tossed onto his knees like a reluctant worshipper.

  The loud rumbling sounded unlike anything they'd ever heard before, half machinelike, half roar. It almost drowned out the screams of their terrified neighbors watching what was left of their homes crumble, their children catapulted through the air.

  Eric tried to climb back to his feet, but the sidewalk suddenly split in half, slamming him back to his knees.

  They all lay together and watched helplessly as the world changed forever.

  Book Two: Purgatory

  O human race, born to fly upward, Wherefore at a little wind dost thou so fall?

  -Dante

  10.

  "Whoa," Leo Roth whispered, lightly tugging the reins. His horse ignored him, continuing to plod grudgingly along through the dense San Linder woods.

  "Whoa already," Leo said again, but still not loud enough to offend the horse, an expensive appaloosa, which Leo knew could throw him any time it wanted and would probably take great delight in trampling the hell out of him. People from the Bronx were not meant to ride horses, especially Jews from the Bronx. It was against all natural laws. It defied physics. There should have been an Eleventh Commandment: Don't ride anything that can shit and walk at the same time.

  Despite the fact that Leo had owned horses for several years, ever since the enormous success of his TV sitcom An Apple a Day, he'd never actually ridden any of them before. Once, a couple of years ago, at the insistence of his wife Cynthia, he'd struggled clumsily into the saddle atop one of these monsters. But that was just for the photograph for their personalized family Christmas/Hanukkah cards. They always had two batches printed up. One batch read "Merry Christmas from the Roths" above the photo of all of them astride bored horses at their Malibu home. Under the photo was an elaborate big Christmas tree. These were sent out to business associates, sponsors, employees, actors, writers, directors, agents. The other batch of cards read "Happy Hanukkah from the Rothsteins" above the photo, but under it was a big Menorah. Those were sent to his wife's family.