The moon might have been full, it was hard to tell. The shimmering haze of the Long Beach Halo hung like a thick cloudy veil between heaven and earth making the moon look like a spilled blotch of phosphorescent milk. Still, it provided enough diffuse lighting for Eric to see what he was doing.
He stood atop the roof of the library and scanned the ravaged world around him. Far off into the distance were dozens of scattered campfires like fallen stars. He imagined the many people huddled around them, desperate for warmth, jumping at every sound in the night. Good people like the ones here, anxious not only for survival, but to preserve the dignity of civilization. But there were also evil people to whom survival was the only end, and that justified any crime. People like Fallows and his henchman, Cruz. And among them, Annie and Timmy. Frightened, alone. Waiting for deliverance.
Eric knew what he'd done wrong. He understood his mistake.
He thought about this as he stood balanced on the edge of the roof, constantly adjusting his balance to the ever-shifting wind that nudged him. He looked down, felt the grinding in the pit of his stomach that heights gave him. He smiled and began removing his clothing. All of it. He knew his fatal error now and was going to do something about it. Now.
At last he was naked, balanced with his back facing the edge of the roof. The breeze swirled gently around him, ruffling the hair on his body, tensing his genitals. Eric felt the movement, but was otherwise numb to the sensations. The wind was neither warm nor cold, heavy nor light. It only existed.
"Ritual," Big Bill Tenderwolf had lectured him. "Ritual provides answers when we are not yet certain of the questions."
"Sounds like you've been reading too many fortune cookies," Eric had replied with a youthful smirk.
Big Bill had laughed. "Perhaps. But even the ritual of fortune cookies has its function. Ceremonies have no intrinsic meaning, I'm sure a clever boy like you has figured that out already, right? Every time you see a funeral you shake your head at the hypocrisy. After all, the person's dead, right again?"
Eric said nothing, amazed and a little ashamed that his thoughts had been so transparent.
Big Bill had clapped a meaty hand on Eric's shoulder. "Those are perfectly natural conclusions. For the young. But the adult needs more. During especially emotional times, whether happy or sad, the prescribed ritual is a comfort. It gives strength. It forces order where there is emotional chaos. Sometimes it forces a person to face himself." He tapped a finger against his temple. "Maybe it is all a state of mind, but it is formidable. Like self-hypnosis. And sometimes it can release powers in a person they didn't know they had. Ritual is nothing to be mocked, boy."
Eric hadn't understood that until much later, maybe not even until this very moment. Still, Big Bill Tenderwolf had taken him into his home in the Hopi village of Shongopovi and taught him the many rituals, customs and folklore of the Hopis. How the Hopis had emerged from a horrible underworld when the earth was not yet fully formed; how they migrated south looking for a sacred spot, some for the exact center of the Earth; how they were led by the Twins, also called the Little War Gods, who helped stabilize the surface of the Earth and taught them how to survive, as well as ceremonies. How these gods, sensing their people's weariness, would come and dance for them, until they poked fun at their peculiar faces. But before returning broken-hearted to the underworld, they permitted ceremonial masks to be made resembling their faces. And ever since then, Hopis have donned these katcina masks to perform the dances necessary to stimulate harvest, bring rain, and promote warfare.
Big Bill Tenderwolf had taught him the katcina dances, the peculiar warbles, the pulsating rhythm, the seemingly arbitrary pauses called t'a. Eric had been reluctant at first, embarrassed at his ignorance more than anything else.
"I'll tell you what I'll do," Big Bill had grinned, his eyes twinkling. "If you can do this simple rain dance, which is stationary for Christ's sake, by the end of the week, I'll set you up with Lilith Twopenny."
Lilith Twopenny was easily the most desirable girl Eric had ever seen and a cousin of Big Bill. Many times Eric had wanted to ask her out, but hadn't had the courage. This seemed like an easier way. "Deal," he'd agreed. Hours and days of practice later, Eric performed the ritual rain dance to perfection. Big Bill applauded, appropriately impressed.
"So what about my date with Lilith?"
He put his arm around Eric and said. "Never forget this lesson. There is no date with Lilith. It would be wrong of you to expect a reward to exceed the deed. However, you can almost always count on the punishment to be greater than the crime." He shrugged and roared with laughter. "We Hopis have a saying in such cases: That's life."
However, that evening Lilith Twopenny came over for dinner, the beginning of a romance that lasted until she left for UC Berkeley two years later. The last he'd heard she was married, had three daughters, and designed computer games for Atari.
Eric stepped away from the edge of the roof. He had no katcina mask now, had long ago forgotten the rain dance, the basket dance, the corn dance. But he knew what he must do now.
Slowly he walked to the center of the roof. His lantern flickered there like an insolent reminder. Next to the lantern were three objects, each lined up meticulously next to the other. His gold wedding band, the only piece of jewelry he'd ever worn. The cassette player given to him earlier that evening by his children. And the body of Jennifer.
He kneeled beside them, staring at each.
Down below, people were shouting his name, calling for him, but he didn't hear them. He was leaving this world, entering one where none of them could ever follow. He closed his eyes now and chanted softly a single word.
With each chant he entered another darkened cavern. He was naked and hungry, without torch or weapon, but still he pushed ahead. In the back of the deepest cave he could see the unblinking eyes glowing. Still he chanted.
It was clear to him now. His mistake. What scholars of tragedy would call his fatal flaw.
Only it had been fatal to others, not him.
Until now.
He entered yet another dark cave, saw the eyes glowing brighter. Like truth.
Eric chanted the word over and over, its two syllables tripping mechanically from his tongue.
His mistake: to try and live in two worlds at once. He had tried to be the father, husband, teacher of the civilized world, and at the same time he'd tried to be the warrior, soldier, protector against the savage world. He had failed in both worlds. His instincts had been dimmed, his senses dulled, he had been operating on the memory of what he used to be. This had resulted in disaster. He should have recognized the council's ploy right away, but he was drunk with trust. He should have been wary of a van with closed doors, avoided it. But he had his eyes on the roofs, the windows. Now Jennifer and Philip were dead, Annie and Timmy kidnapped. And it was Eric Ravensmith's fault.
So if there was any chance of getting Annie and Timmy back, Eric Ravensmith must die.
Eric was in the last cave now, the deepest one. The creature's eyes were fierce and red. He could hear its fetid breathing, smell its corrupt breath, the scent of rotting flesh.
He opened his eyes, still chanting silently the single word, the two syllables. Lifting the bell glass from the lantern, he puffed out the tiny flame. Then he opened the fuel latch and began pouring the oil over Jennifer's body. Some splashed on her face, running down her cheek and neck, sizzling when it touched the dried blood of her wound.
Eric Ravensmith, family man and teacher, had to be destroyed. Only then could Eric Ravensmith, warlord, be fully born.
He laid the cassette recorder on Jennifer's chest, closed her soft but stiffening hands around his wedding ring.
The old Eric who made so many mistakes would never be able to save Annie and Timmy. The old Eric was too emotional, too human. The Eric who would save them had to be tougher, crueler, much less human. The Eric who would kill Dirk Fallows had to be just like Dirk Fallows.
Still he chanted that word over and over, the two syllables growing louder in his mind though no sound escaped his lips.
Fal-lows.
Fell-lows.
Fal-lows!
He picked up the knife from beside the empty lantern. Slowly, methodically, he unscrewed the pommel to reveal a hollow handle. The pommel doubled as a compass. Inside the handle were matches, a fishing line and hook, and a wire saw. He removed a single match, flicked the head with his thumbnail. With a flash the match hissed into flames.
He looked down into his daughter's face. Everything that meant something to that other Eric was here. Everything that connected him to other people. The wedding ring, a sentimental hunk of metal. The cassette recorder with the scratchy Beatles tape, cheap plastic and wires playing adolescent fantasies. And Jennifer, merely the decaying carcass of someone he once knew. Once they were all destroyed, there'd be nothing to keep him here, nothing to hold him back. No memories, no graves to visit. Nothing.
He dropped the match on her white nightshirt. The flames leaped with a whoosh, crawled up and down her body like a ravenous beast.
The bitter smell of burning flesh mixed with the acrid sting of burning plastic. But Eric didn't move away. Less than a foot separated him from the pyre. His own skin was red from the heat, the hairs on his legs and arms began to singe slightly. Still he sat immobile, his scar reflecting the macabre flames, running along his jaw like molten lava.
When the flames were sated and waning, he rose, dressed, waxed his crossbow string, and started for the door.
The old Eric Ravensmith was dead.
The Eric Ravensmith descending the stairs now was more ruthless, cunning, deadly. More like Dirk Fallows than Dirk Fallows.
The sight of him startled everyone.
They didn't know what to expect, but what they saw was not it.
Eric was smiling.
It was a grim smile, to be sure, with no trace of humor. Still, considering the circumstances, any kind of smile seemed grotesquely out of place.
"Are you all right, Eric?" Trevor Graumann asked, his hand on Eric's shoulder in a fatherly manner. He noticed Eric stiffen at the touch.
"Fine, thanks, Trevor," Eric nodded, then shrugged subtly but firmly away from Trevor's hand.
Trevor was hurt by this, but said nothing. Finally when he spoke, he noticed a formal tone to his voice that had never been there before. "Eric, I must talk to you about Jennifer."
"I buried her, Trevor. Don't worry."
"You what?"
"I buried her. She was my daughter."
"Granted, Eric. But where did you bury her? We have rules about that here, sanitation rules you established to protect the rest of us."
"Don't worry."
"But no one saw you bury her. We've been looking all over the camp for you."
Eric shrugged. "I guess you didn't look hard enough."
Trevor stared at Eric, shocked by the almost insolent tone. "Are you sure you're all right, Eric. I mean, the shock and all. Perfectly understandable if you'd like to lie down or something."
"I'm fine, Trevor," he said. "So let's drop it, huh?"
Trevor started to respond, but merely shook his head instead.
Eric started toward the cafeteria.
"Where are you going, Eric?"
"Supplies. I'm going after them, Trevor." He looked at his old friend, felt the old Eric's sentimentality rising, pushed him back like a child into a well. "Supplies," he repeated, and walked on.
"It's suicide, son," Trevor called after him. "What's done can't be undone. Not with the earthquakes, not with Jennifer. Not even with Annie and Timothy. There are too many of them, Eric. We need you here."
Eric kept walking, ignoring Trevor's words. Their logic assaulted him, tried to wedge themselves into his brain. What's done can't be undone. That's life.
Not anymore.
"Eric! Wait up." Rydell Grimme's voice carried crisply through the night. He was running across the quad with the rest of them, Season, Molly, and Tag. Within seconds they were standing in front of him. Rydell's face was flush with excitement. "You're going, aren't you? I mean, after Fallows."
"After my wife and son."
"Right. That's what I mean."
Eric stared at him silently.
"I want to go with you. To help."
Season jumped in suddenly. "Me too. I want to help too."
Molly frowned with surprise. "When did you decide that?" she asked Season.
"Just now, I guess."
Eric looked at Molly and Tag.
"Don't look at me," Molly said. "I like it right here. Food and water and occasional sex."
Tag nodded, embarrassed. "Sorry, I don't think it's for me."
"Good," Eric said finally, "at least there are two of you with some brains. What in hell makes you think I'd take a couple amateurs with me? Did you think you were doing me a favor? More than likely you'd end up getting me killed. And yourselves. So forget it. Stay here and live."
Rydell stepped forward, shaking with anger. "Maybe we aren't hot shots like you, Ravensmith. Experts at everything from bug mating to killing with an eyelash, but we were willing to go. We aren't children and we aren't stupid. We know the risks. We're willing to take them. Not for you. But for your wife and child. They deserve the chance your daughter didn't get."
"You done?" Eric asked.
"Yeah, I'm done."
He turned to Season. "Anything you want to add?"
"Yeah, I want to add that you're a son of a bitch."
"There may be hope for you yet, lady." He walked away, stopped after half a dozen steps. Without turning around he spoke. "We leave at first light. Bring your weapons, canteens, food, and the usual survival gear you've all been instructed on." He turned and faced them. "One other thing we should get straight up front. The only reason I'm taking you is because I might be able to use you. And I mean use. I don't care about your lives, only how they might help me save my family. If it means sacrificing one or both of you, I'll do it. I'll treat you like any other piece of expendable equipment." He paused. "See the two of you at 0500. If you decide not to show up, you've got more brains than I give you credit for."
"See you then," Tag Hallahan said.
"Don't look at me," Molly said. "I don't go in for mass hysteria. I'll be sleeping at 0500, 0600 and all the 0-hundreds I can manage."
"Smart girl," Eric said and walked away.
Trevor Graumann stood in the dim morning light in a heavy cardigan sweater, his pipe stem clattering between his teeth. The sky was already laced with the first bright tendrils of morning, and he found the orange color oddly cheering.
He yawned, almost dropping his pipe. He'd been, up until only a few hours ago, trying to talk some sense into Eric. Failing that he argued with the three others who were going with him. Only the pretty little Chinese girl, Molly Sing, had taken his side and tried to talk them out of it. But to no avail. They were filled with the stubbornness of youth, giddy with the idea of an adventure, a quest, a search for the Holy Grail.
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.