Jason Frost - Warlord 05 - Terminal Island

Book One: The Graverobbers
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2
3
4
5
6
7

Book Two: The Zookeepers
8
9
10
11
12
13
14

Book Three: War Buddies
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16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
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25

GRAVES FOR THE LIVING

Eric stumbled over the gravestone, crashed to the ground, and saw the crossbow skitter out of his hands and disappear over the edge of the open grave. In the moonless night the grave was black, like a gaping mouth. Eric felt an involuntary chill climb his spine as he reached into the hole, groping blindly for his weapon.

He touched only black fetid air.

Flattening his body against the ground he plunged his arm further in the hole. His hand touched cold metal — and with relief he wrapped his fingers around the crossbow’s stock. The crossbow was still cocked, ready for action.

Suddenly, from within the grave, a hand closed around Eric’s wrist. Another hand grabbed his forearm, long ragged nails digging into his skin. A third hand clutched his crossbow. Then all three hands yanked at once and Eric tumbled backward into the dark grave. . . .

THE WARLORD

By Jason Frost

THE WARLORD (1189, $3.50)

The world’s gone mad with disruption. Isolated from help, the survivors face a state in which law is a memory and violence is the rule. Only one man is fit to lead the people, a man raised among the Indians and trained by the Marines. He is Erik Ravensmith, THE WARLORD — a deadly adversary and a hero of our times.

#2: THE CUTTHROAT (1308, $2.50)

Though death sails the Sea of Los Angeles, there is only one man who will fight to save what is left of California’s ravaged paradise. His name is THE WARLORD — and he won’t stop until the job is done!

#3:BADLAND (1437, $2.50)

His son has been kidnapped by his worst enemy and THE WARLORD must fight a pack of killers to free him. Getting close enough to grab the boy will be nearly impossible — but then so is living in this tortured world!

#4: PRISONLAND (1506, $2.50)

Former inmates of San Quentin rule the ruins of San Francisco! When a small group of courageous women on the island fortress of Alcatraz makes a stand against the brutal reign of terror, there’s only one man brave enough to lead them — THE WARLORD!

Available wherever paperbacks are sold, or order direct from the Publisher. Send cover price plus
$.50
per copy for mailing and handling to Zebra Books, Dept. 1697, 475 Park Avenue South, New York, N. Y 10016. DO NOT SEND CASH
.

To Michael and Barbara Frost, friends before there ever was a Warlord.

ZEBRA BOOKS

are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.

475 Park Avenue South

New York, NY 10016

Copyright © 1985 by Raymond Obstfeld

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

First printing: November 1985

Printed in the United States of America

Where lies the final harbor, whence we unmoor no more
?

Herman Melville

The cemetery was dark. Moonless. They groped blindly among the broken and overturned tombstones. Around the open graves.

“Whose idea was this?” D.B. asked, her voice pinched with fear.

“We’re almost through it,” Eric Ravensmith assured her. “It’s the safest way through this part of the city.”

“What city? There’s nothing left but some hobo shacks, a Howard Johnson’s motel, and two collapsed gas stations. Everything else is ashes.”

“Except for this cemetery.”

“Didn’t I thank you for the tour?”

He watched her carefully. Even at only eighteen she didn’t frighten easily. But she was frightened now. Graveyards did that to people.

Eric’s foot bumped something hard. A lifesize statue of an angel half-buried in the dirt. Her head and one wing were broken off. Someone had spray-painted a red target where her crotch was and red splotches for nipples. Eric stepped over her. “There were campfires at those other places. That means people. We’re trying to avoid people, remember? The kind of people who would do this.” He nudged the broken angel with his foot.

“I know, I know. You’re right. I’m not superstitious or anything but this place is spooky. When I was a kid, even Casper the Friendly Ghost used to scare me. That big bald head of his reminded me of Telly Savalas.” She jumped over another open grave. “You have any idea where we are?”

“Sure,” Eric said. “Lost.”

She stopped, grabbed his arm. “You’re joking, right?”

“Yes, I’m joking. Calm down, will you? We’re fine.” Eric heard her fidget with the thick metal choke collar around her neck. The one they’d made her wear as a slave back when he’d first seen her, when they’d paraded her around on a dog leash. He’d tried to talk her into throwing it away, but she insisted on keeping it as a reminder of what she’d been through before Eric had rescued her. That the horror could easily happen again. Her “reality rosary” she called it.

“You know what this place reminds me of?” D.B. asked.

“What?”

“That video of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller.’ The one with the dancing ghouls and stuff. You ever see that?”

“Once or twice,” Eric said. He kept moving, trying to fight the memory. No use. Like all the memories of his past it came to him with almost physical pain, as if it were clawing out through his chest. Chewing through his heart and ribs and flesh. And like the others memories, it was so damn vivid. He could feel the warmth of their breath, see the glistening of their eyes, smell the sweet shampoo in their hair. He saw them all in the living room watching MTV. His wife Annie dragging the kids, Jenny and Tim, to their feet and dancing with them, clumsily imitating Michael Jackson’s smooth twirling steps. The three of them hopping around Eric’s chair, making vampire faces and collapsing in a laughing heap on top of him. Annie nipping at his neck, whispering huskily, “Bet you can’t eat just one.” Jenny pointing at the TV, saying, “I hate it when a boy’s prettier than me.” Timmy responding with, “Then you must hate all the boys.” Jenny, sticking her finger out at him like a gun and burping. They had all laughed.