equipment, medicine. That sort of thing. We've got plenty of books on that stuff in the library and here in the bookstore from various classes.'
'So we make the swap?' Griff Durham asked.
Eric ignored him, spoke to Toni. 'Get the books loaded right away. There's still plenty of backpacks on the shelves in the bookstore.'
'What about the bows?'
Eric looked at his watch. 'Betty hurry. We've only got two hours.'
Toni rushed her bulky body out of the room, almost knocking over Philip Marcus as he hurried in.
'Volunteers outside, Professor.'
'How many?'
Philip looked embarrassed. 'Four. Five including me.'
'That's plenty. Good job, Philip.'
'Thanks, Dr. Ravensmith.'
'And for the last time, call me Eric. I'm not just saying that to be pals. I'm saying it because if you ever need to warn me or call for help, by the time you said my title and last name, one of us could be dead. Eric. Got it?'
'Right… Eric.'
Dr. Epson came around the table. 'What are you going to do with these volunteers, Eric?'
Eric tapped Philip on the shoulder, crooked a finger for him to follow. They walked briskly through the bookstore and out the front door, Dr. Epson and Griff Durham in tow.
The four volunteers leaned against the wall or sat on the ground. Eric knew them all: Rydell Grimme, Molly Sing, Tag Hallahan, and Season Deely. All young and athletic. But that wouldn't be enough for what he had in mind. Not nearly enough.
'So,' Rydell Grimme asked, leaning on his bow and plucking the string as if he were playing a bass, 'just what have we volunteered for?'
'A trip,' Eric said.
They stirred uneasily, suddenly knowing what he would say next.
'A night in the Dead Zone.'
15.
'Shit!' Rydell grinned. 'Why didn't you tell us up front it was a suicide mission? I'd have worn my kamikaze underwear with the plastic lining.'
Season Deely snorted. 'It'd have been nice if you'd worn any underwear.'
'That's not funny,' Tag Hallahan said, jumping angrily to his feet. 'This isn't a joke, Ravensmith. We should've been told about the Dead Zone. I thought you only wanted some extra guards or something. Nothing like this.'
Eric smiled in a friendly way, patting Tag on the shoulder. 'No need to stay. Tag. We've got enough without you. Providing no one else backs out.' Eric dropped his smile and hand, and turned his back on Tag, facing the others.
'I didn't say I was backing out,' Tag mumbled quickly, 'We just should've been told, that's all.'
Season Deely, tough, cocky, barely twenty-two, a perpetual bored expression on her face, laughed. It sounded like the crack of a pistol. 'What's the difference? We'd have to go out there sooner or later, might as well be now. Hell, it'll be a kick after this boring place.'
Eric took two steps, stood directly in front of her, smiled, then reached out and grabbed her by the throat with one hand, his icy fingers clamping her windpipe closed. She gurgled for air, clawed furrows of skin from his hand. Blood welled between his knuckles, but his fingers tightened until she swooned slightly, started to go limp. Then his fingers sprang open. Rydell grabbed Season as she sagged toward the ground.
'What the fuck-!' Rydell snarled, holding Season as she gasped for air, rubbed the raw, bruised skin at her throat, coughed convulsively. 'Are you crazy, man?'
Eric nodded. 'We're all crazy or we wouldn't be going out there. But we're not so crazy that we don't want to make it back again. And to do that we need people at our side that we can count on. If not, what she just got is just one of the 'kicks' you can expect. If not from whoever's out there, then from me.' He looked over at Molly Sing, her round, Chinese face placid as she leaned against the bookstore. 'You're the only one who hasn't said their piece. Anything to add?'
Molly shrugged. 'When do we leave?'
'Soon. I'll fill you in on the details when I get back. Philip, make sure everybody's armed to the teeth. Knives, darts, throwing stars, whatever you can dig up at the armory. And plenty of arrows.'
'Canteens?'
'We won't be gone that long. And if we are, it'll be too late for water.' He turned and walked into the bookstore, heard Season choke out 'Son of a bitch!' behind his back. He kept walking. She was right.
And if the others didn't agree with her by now, they soon would.
'Eric?' He heard Griff Durham and Dr. Epson trotting after him. Eric ignored them, instead using the time to review his team as he headed toward the conference room. It was a simple process, mentally picking and poking at each one, probing for their strengths and weaknesses like a man dismantling a time bomb. Being wrong held the same dangers once they were out on the battlefield.
There were files on everybody in University Camp, compiled at Eric's suggestion several months ago. Each resident had completed his own file, then undergone a debriefing interview to see what important information might have been overlooked. The files contained medical histories, crude and incomplete, patched together from scraps of memory. It also contained a list of skills, educational background, hobbies, jobs-anything that might prove useful to the group. Men who'd once made stools and bookshelves in their garages were now reinforcing buildings. Professor Grippo from the Agriculture Department led a group of former Sunday gardeners as they now grew and harvested food for the whole community. Betty Forbes, who once managed her husband's fried chicken restaurant before they'd divorced, was in charge of the cafeteria. Everyone had a skill, a usefulness. To some it seemed like the first time in their lives they had a worth.
Eric had read each file several times, studied them completely. He could scan them in his mind as clearly as if they were in front of him. With each step toward the conference room, he flipped through them, picturing the various handwriting, the occasional typed one from the few manual typewriters they'd salvaged. One of them had a broken 'o' which sometimes looked like a 'c.' That's what he visualized as he recalled Rydell Grimme's file.
Rydell Grimme, 26, was the strongest of the five in terms of sheer physical power. He cleared six feet with a couple inches to spare, his muscles solidly stacked but not exaggerated. He still jogged ten miles a day, even though it was only around the camp perimeters. But Rydell was a lot more than just physically strong, he was exceptionally bright. He'd worked at the university for the past four years in the Maintenance Department, first as a janitor washing blackboards and scraping dried gum from desks, then on the grounds mowing grass, pulling weeds. Finally, they discovered what a whiz he was with machines and promoted him to repairing overhead projectors and air conditioners. But there was no way they could know how sharp he really was; he'd neglected to mention on his job application his degree in physics from MIT.
Eric didn't know why Rydell had kept it a secret, or why he went from MIT to peeling wads of gum from desks. Was he hiding from someone or something? Eric hadn't asked and Rydell hadn't offered. One thing Eric was certain of, it wasn't fear that changed Rydell's career goals. He had seen enough of Rydell to know he was cool, arrogant, and quite brave. Perhaps too brave.
He remembered Molly Sing's file, the tight precise handwriting like some ancient lace embroidery. She had worked for her father, an acupuncturist from Taiwan who owned many condominiums and houses in the affluent neighborhoods surrounding the university. Molly managed his real estate holdings while Dr. Sing twisted long, thin needles into the sore backs of local executives. Molly's mother had gone back to Taiwan to visit family five years ago and decided not to come back.
Molly was short, barely 5'2', but she was athletic from her daily hundred laps in her father's pool. Her hair, bobbed in a modified Prince Valiant cut, was so black it seemed purple at times. She was only twenty-four now, but moved sullenly with a fatalism others misinterpreted as Oriental calm. Eric saw it as something else, though he
