Jason Frost - The Warlord

Someone was in the house.

Eric Ravensmith opened his eyes and sat up, wide awake. He glanced at the Sony digital on the bedside table, the glowing blue numbers the only thing visible in the dark room. 3:18 A.M.

Annie stirred next to him, scooting her naked backside under the covers until she touched his hip. Then she settled with a comforted sigh, still asleep. She often claimed that unless some part of her was touching him, she couldn't sleep. That's why she insisted they always sleep naked, no matter how cold it got. Skin touching skin, she said, that's what's important. But sometimes Eric suspected her real reason for wanting such close contact was so she could monitor his nightmares which, for some unexplainable reason, were lately coming with greater frequency. Yet, whenever he bolted awake from one, his skin cold and clammy, his mouth panting wildly, she'd be next to him, making soothing noises and wiping the sweat from his forehead with the corner of the sheet.

For a moment, Eric wondered if this was just another of his nightmares.

He remained motionless, his eyes adjusting to the dark, his ears straining for another sound. Anything that would determine whether someone was really in the house, or if he'd just slipped out of a groggy dream.

There it was again!

A faint creak on the stairs. A heavy shoe brushing plush carpet.

Eric's heart banged against hard ribs. An icy gush of adrenalin spurted through his stomach like a burst waterline. The sudden rush of energy made him nauseous. It had been too many years since he'd slept with one eye open, his ear suctioned to the ground, his hand clutching a.45 automatic with the safety latch permanently filed off. Those were the things he'd been trying to forget.

He lifted the electric blanket, the first item they'd charged at Sears immediately after they were married. Annie had insisted a joint credit card was more binding than any wedding vows. A gust of cool night air swept against his legs, rustling the dark hair on his body. Annie murmured a sleepy protest, wiggled her backside, but didn't wake. Eric slid his legs over the edge of the bed and onto the floor. Carefully he eased himself to his feet, not wanting to awaken Annie. Or alert the intruder.

Maybe it's just one of the kids, he reasoned. Timmy stealing some Sara Lee cheesecake and Hawaiian Punch, which Eric bought for the kids over Annie's nutritional protests. Or maybe it was Jennifer, hunting quietly through the cupboards and closets, anxiously searching for the birthday present Eric had hidden for her party next week. He always bought two: one she could eventually find, and a second with which to surprise her. A father-daughter game that he looked forward to each year, almost more than she did.

But no. It wasn't the kids. He recognized the type of movement, the sinister intent. He should. He'd used it often enough himself, taught how many others to do the same thing. The way Hopi chief Big Bill Tenderwolf had taught him. Cat dancing, Big Bill had called it with his great booming laugh. That's what Eric remembered most about his years with the Hopis, how much they laughed, how little they had to laugh about.

Somebody was coming closer and closer, trying hard not to be heard. Ordinarily he wouldn't have been. The distant creak wouldn't have been noticed, or would have been shrugged off as the house settling. A soft brush of shoe against carpet? Only the wind sifting through eucalyptus trees. All quite innocent.

Except Eric was expecting them. He hadn't realized that until just this moment. But, yes, he'd been expecting them for quite some time now. For twelve years, since the court-martial. It was inevitable. Like nightmares.

Eric slipped over to the window, looked down to see if there was a backup squad outside. The full moon glinted off his long thin scar, made it look like a lightning bolt flashing down his cheek and neck. He ducked back into the shadows, studied his unkempt yard for movement. It was the only lawn in the neighborhood that always needed cutting, because Eric was the only one in the neighborhood who refused to either hire a gardener or buy a mower. Gary Thompson, the dentist next door, had pleaded to send his own gardener over at no cost, but Eric had refused, claiming that long grass kept the dogs from shitting in his yard. "Long grass tickles their ass," he'd recite deadpan. Whenever Eric thought the lawn was out of hand, he packed up Annie and the kids and took them away for the weekend. When they came back, their lawn was always clipped, the bushes trimmed, the weeds pulled.

He couldn't see anyone down there, but that didn't mean anything. Dirk Fallows could have hidden a dozen fully equipped men in a single tree for a week and no one would have seen them.

Another creak on the stairs. Barely audible. Like a grasshopper being snapped in half. The intruder was halfway up now, taking it slowly, carefully. A few more moments and he'd be on the second floor. But would he go for the children's room first, or would Fallows be satisfied just killing Eric?

A weapon. Eric glanced furiously around the room, evaluating and dismissing various objects, studying each for its potential to cripple or kill. The old instincts rushing back. Certainly whoever was creeping up the stairs this moment had a weapon, something sophisticated. That was Fallows' style. Only the best would do. And he could get it too, from any where in the world. The newest, the deadliest.

But Eric had long ago made a house rule, a command really, that no weapons would be brought into his home. He didn't mind the kids playing cowboys or cops or Robin Hood with their toy guns and bows, but no real weapons. He didn't like the tension they caused, the constant feeling of being under siege their mere presence evoked. He'd lived with that feeling long enough. He wanted to trust for a change. Trust his neighborhood, his town, his community. He'd destroyed his own guns, the relics of his past life. The knives, daggers, bayonets, throwing stars, garrotes, razor-edged belt buckles-all melted down. The holsters and military webbing he'd given to his brother-in-law, who handled costumes for the local community playhouse. The last time he'd seen his precious.45 holster, it was inappropriately strapped to a sailor in their production of Mister Roberts.

Only his longbow survived, a sentimental gift from Big Bill Tenderwolf. He'd had it for almost twenty years now, though it had been at least two since he'd actually shot it. He didn't even think of it as a weapon anymore. It was more. Much more. But it was hanging in the garage, right next to the fishing rods and tennis racquets and ping-pong paddles.

Now he had nothing. Not even a pocket knife.

He glanced at the doorknob. Watched it slowly turning. Turning.

Ten seconds from death.

That's how long Eric figured it would take the intruder to finish quietly turning the knob. Once open he would lift gently on the knob, tilting the door upwards to avoid any squeaks from the hinges, then ease himself into the bedroom. The gun, probably a small automatic fitted with a sound suppressor, would suddenly swing around and start spraying the bed with a hailstorm of silenced bullets. They'd make light popping sounds, like a dropped soap bar echoing in a shower stall. Annie's body would jerk and flop as the bullets punched out hunks of soft flesh, still smelling of Oil of Olay, her nightly ritual to ward off this year's big crisis: her thirty-fifth birthday. The mattress, which they'd been talking about replacing for months, would be shredded, and the sheets, factory seconds bought at the local swap meet, would be splattered with warm blood, bits of sticky organs still twitching. Afterwards, the gunman would probably pay a similar visit to the children's room before slipping out again to report everything to Dirk Fallows. Subjects neutralized. Mission completed. And Fallows would slap the man on the back, run a hand through his prematurely white hair, and grin like a new buzz saw hungry for more wood.