hadn't decided on what yet.
Tag Hallahan was the oldest of the troop, having edged into thirty a couple months ago with no notice from anybody except Eric, who'd wished him a happy birthday in passing. Tag had looked surprised, slightly embarrassed, mumbled 'Thanks' and hurried away. His history had been simple: attended the university, received his bachelor's and master's degrees in library science, then immediately went to work for the university as a librarian. He'd spent the last twelve years of his life at the university, his eyesight growing worse, his shoulders becoming more stooped. But his file showed another aspect of him that would have shocked his co-workers at the library. His hobbies were many and diverse, all involving physical danger: hang gliding, mountain climbing, scuba diving, dirt bike racing. Eric had interviewed Tag personally after reading the file, checking to see if these were real experiences or just some fantasy daydream. Tag had sat across the desk from Eric polishing his glasses and answering technical questions about each sport until Eric was satisfied he really had done all those things.
Not that he didn't look physically capable. He must have been at least as tall as Rydell Grimme, though he lacked about twenty-five of Rydell's muscular pounds. He was lanky, almost bony, with thick black-rimmed glasses that reminded Eric of Buddy Holly, Still, he was handsome, not in Rydell's dark, rugged way, but in a softer, somber way. He had shaggy, red hair that flopped over the top of his glasses and a sparse, red moustache that would never fill out. The only thing that bothered Eric about Tag Hallahan was a certain nervous energy he seemed to generate. That combined with his unusual hobbies tended to make Eric think Tag had something to prove. A dangerous motivator.
Season Deely, 22. Eric shook his head in exasperation at the thought of her. Oh, she was beautiful enough to be a major topic whenever two or more men in the camp congregated. Speculative guffaws, watery-eyed leers, mournful sighs. She could be a poster queen for the typical California blonde. Curvy, but muscular from years on the university track team, ballet since she was five, gymnastics since she was seven, and volleyball on the beach at her father's Newport Beach home. Her parents were internationally famous, he the sexy macho actor whose films always featured a role for his less-talented wife. They'd been in Spain filming when the quakes shook their daughter loose from their safe world.
Eric had first noticed Season when he'd caught her stealing marijuana from the camp gardens. They grew enough to use for the hospital in place of sedatives no longer available. He'd let her go with a warning. The second time he caught her, she'd spit in his face and punched him in the stomach. Eric did not hold with hitting anyone smaller or weaker. Unless they hit first. He'd slugged her in the stomach, watched her crumple to the ground, hugging herself and wheezing curses, then dragged her by the heels to her mat in the gym. Since that incident, she was even more belligerent, rude and insulting, but Eric noticed she also spent more time around him than necessary. First volunteering to be on call to sound the alarm, now this. There could be a lot of reasons for this, all of them demanding he keep an especially sharp eye on her.
And Philip was Philip. Anxious to emulate Eric, please him. The ancient student/mentor relationship that predated even Plato and his teacher Socrates. He was smart and capable, gentle and modest. Not the most agile physically, but not afraid to try whatever was necessary. Eric had a soft spot for Philip, his enthusiasm, his loyalty.
In a perfect world, none of them would be called on to do what Eric had in mind. Sure, technically they were volunteers, but that was bullshit and Eric knew it. He had manipulated them into it. It was a classic maneuver, executed just as he'd learned it from Dirk Fallows-his mentor. Eric could hear Fallows' harsh voice now. 'First, Eric, withhold information about the mission until you get them committed; there're always a few greenhorns who don't know any better than to volunteer, always a few with something to hide or prove. If they balk when they hear the mission, be generous, let them go, but be sure they feel worse now than they would if they stayed. Clap them on the shoulder. Use the right terms, 'back out' or 'stay safe.' Then, and this is crucial, turn your back on them, face the others. Makes them feel like slime, and keeps the others from wanting the same treatment. Works every time with the kids. After that, they'll go through hell for you.'
'Doesn't it bother your conscience?' Eric had asked him once. Fallows had barked out a reptilian laugh, scraping jungle mud from his boot with his bayonet as he quoted, ' 'Conscience is but a word that cowards use/Devised at first to keep the strong in awe.' Richard III, Act IV, scene iii, line 310. Think about that, Eric me lad.' And he'd laughed again, wiping his muddy bayonet on the neck of Warren Hoagan's mutilated corpse. Warren, 19, whom Dirk had coaxed into volunteering for a mission everybody but Warren had known was impossible, had been captured and tortured. Which had been Fallows' plan. The time it took Charley to torture Warren gave the rest of the Night Shift a chance to sneak up on them. Warren had been used as a stalking horse.
But was Eric any better? Taking five inexperienced civilians into a war zone where their only chance of survival was doing exactly what he told them. Without question. Without remorse. And if anything happened to him, the rest were automatically dead. He'd manipulated them into taking a mission none of them really wanted, and chances for survival weren't good. But neither was the alternative: a camp of 256 people with no doctor.
Or was that bullshit too? A 'noble quest' meant to excuse him from being just like Dirk Fallows. Because with each cruel day, Eric was having trouble remembering what those differences separating them were.
'Eric, damn it, wait for us.' Griff Durham's voice growled over his shoulder.
Eric didn't slow down. He walked into the conference room, held the door open for Durham and Dr. Epson, slammed it shut behind them. They both jumped at the sound.
'The plan is simple, gentlemen. We're going out there with the books to meet this bunch.'
'What about their additional demand,' Dr. Epson asked. 'The dozen bows?'
'They'll have to do without.'
'They'll kill Joan.'
'Maybe. I'm hoping they'll listen to reason and realize they're better off with the books in hand than arguing about it.'
'And if they aren't so reasonable?'
'Then we try to persuade them.'
Dr. Epson shook his head. 'You could get her killed!'
'What makes you think she's still alive?'
'Well, they… they said she would be. Besides, they must know you'd want to see her before you'd trade with them.'
'True. If they were going to trade. I don't think we've seen the kind of good faith from these people that inspires trust.'
Durham spoke up. 'So you plan to jump them. Kill them.'
'If we have to.'
'Good God, man,' Dr. Epson sighed, 'I hope you know what you're doing. What you're risking. Not just your lives, but Dr. Dreiser's, and thereby all the rest of ours. Over what? A lousy dozen bows. I say pay it and be done.'
Eric raised his crossbow, still cocked and loaded with a bolt. He pushed it into Dr. Epson's pudgy stomach and slowly released the safety. His finger tightened around the trigger.
'See here, Eric,' Dr. Epson rasped, flattening himself against the wall. 'Have you gone insane?'
Out of the corner of his eye, Eric caught Durham's slight movement. 'Don't reach for your gun, Griff. I'd hate to pin him to the wall like a bug.' Durham's hand dropped to his side. 'That's better. Now ask yourself, Dr. Epson, why I'm able to make you do anything I want right now. Why one man can control two.' Eric leaned the bow deeper into Dr. Epson's stomach. 'Time's up. Never mind, I can see you're having a little trouble catching your breath, so I'll answer. Because I've got a weapon pointed at your belly button. If you had the weapon, I'd do what you wanted. Simple mathematical equation. Now, given the extent of hostility outside University Camp, and the probability that it will keep getting worse, weapons are more valuable than the doctor. Without them, we won't survive long enough to need a doctor.' Eric held the crossbow for a few extra seconds, then reset the safety and lowered the bow.
Dr. Epson started breathing again, peeling himself from the wall with a shiver.
Eric continued, 'Now, once we leave here, you lock this place up as tight as it will go. Maintain a Yellow Alert until we get back. Passphrase will be, uh…' He tightened lips into a razor smile. 'Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.'
'Hmmm, Hamlet,' Dr. Epson nodded approvingly, the teacher momentarily rising above the administrator.
