'Hell,' Durham grumbled. 'This isn't a spy ring, damn it. Something simple like 'Air Force One' or 'Sachmo' would be easier to remember.'
Eric didn't argue the point. He opened the door and headed back toward his troops. Maybe Durham was right, but Eric didn't mind indulging in a little irony now and then. Besides, all the guards would have to memorize the phrase, and any passphrase that included the word coward usually made the guards very conscious of not acting like one. Another lesson from Dirk Fallows.
Durham and Dr. Epson followed after Eric, unable to match his own brisk stride. He spoke to them over his shoulder as he marched. 'If we aren't back by dawn, then we aren't coming back. Under no circumstances send any more people after us. And don't let anyone in, even if they've got one of us with them, no matter what story we tell you. The only people who get back in here are those that left. No one else.' He stopped suddenly, spun around to face them. Durham and Dr. Epson, avoiding getting too close to Eric, collided into each other. Eric resisted smiling. 'Do you both understand?'
'Yes,' Dr. Epson said. 'We understand.'
'Good.' Eric pivoted back around and stalked out of the bookstore.
Philip was handing out various weapons he'd picked up from the armory. In the early weeks of scavenging, before the Dead Zone became too dangerous, they'd managed to gather a fair number of weapons: darts from sporting goods stores, toy stores and dens of private homes; knives from kitchens; swords and daggers from the prop room at the Theatre Department; throwing stars and nunchakus from a nearby Kung Fu school. There were even a few boomerangs discovered in the university's student Lost and Found, though no one knew how to use them effectively.
'How's it going?' Eric asked.
'Well, Coach,' Rydell grinned, 'I think we're ready for the big game. I know we can beat those bums from Roosevelt High and make our school number one again. Right team?' He tucked a few throwing knives into his belt; Eric wondered if he knew how to use them.
'Blow it out your ass, Grimme,' Season Deely said. She stood with hands on hips. She still wore her blue Nike running suit with matching Nike running shoes, both a bit stained and worn, as was everyone's clothing. A red bandanna was knotted around her forehead, keeping her long, blond hair out of her eyes. She carried a fancy compound bow, whose pulley system allowed the archer to hold the bow steady longer. Attached to the handle was a green plastic arrow holder and six aluminum hunting arrows.
'That looks like Scott Sherman's rig,' Eric said.
'It is. He's lending it to me.' She shifted a hip and sneered to indicate the loan didn't come without certain payment.
'That's a seventy-five pound draw. Can you handle it?'
'Sure. I'm a hell of a shot and you know it.'
Eric had seen her on the practice range a few times and he knew she really was a good shot. But that was with a forty-pound draw. At a mattress.
'That all you're taking then?'
She gave him a cocky look. 'It's all I need.'
'Unless you've got some armor in 38C,' Rydell said.
Season spun toward him. 'Just 'cause someone wrote Tiny on your jockstrap, don't get on my case.'
Rydell laughed. 'That's pretty good.'
'Thanks,' she said sarcastically, 'now I can finally die at peace.'
Rydell laughed again, pulled up his pant leg, and taped a flat throwing knife to his hairy calf with masking tape. He noticed Eric watching him, looked up with a grin. 'Saw this in a movie once.'
Eric doubted that, not with the skillful way he was taping it. But he didn't say anything. Not yet.
'Let me know if you need a volunteer to pull the tape,' Season said. 'I'd like to make your leg as bald as your brain.'
Rydell laughed again, but Eric could tell he was staring at him.
'How you doing, Molly?' Eric asked.
Molly Sing stood in her plaid flannel shirt and bib overalls buckling a cartridge belt over one shoulder like a bandito. But instead of cartridges, each leather strap held a dart. Brass, wood, tungsten, plastic-all kinds and sizes of darts. Fortunately the belt was wide enough to separate Molly's chest from the points of the darts.
'You know how to use those?'
'Yeah. We had a board in the den. Used to clean out all my friends of their allowance when I was in high school.'
'Well-' Eric began.
'I know,' Molly interrupted. 'This ain't high school. Right?'
Eric smiled, nodded. 'Don't forget your bow, too.'
'Check, boss.'
Tag Hallahan was tightening the strap of his quiver, which he wore on his back the same as Rydell and Season. Molly and Philip wore theirs on their waists.
Eric gave the strap a tug. 'Good fit.'
'Thanks.' Tag seemed pleased, then embarrassed and looked away.
'Yet set, Philip?' Eric asked.
'Ready,' Philip said. He was smiling eagerly, his bow polished, his arrows neatly arranged in his quiver. 'Thought this might help,' he said, pulling a black knit cap over his head.
'It might.'
Across the quad, Toni Tyler was leading four others, each carrying a brand new backpack with the university's buccaneer logo, complete with eyepatch and dagger between blackened teeth. Toni's overweight body didn't take to running well, and she stopped a couple dozen yards away to walk the rest of the distance.
'Here,' she panted. 'The books. Agriculture, mechanics, medical. Everything they asked for.' She dropped her backpack on the ground at Eric's feet, then gestured for the others to also do so.
'Thanks, Toni,' Eric said. He waved his team closer. 'Okay, guys and girls, take the next fifteen minutes to check your weapons, go to the latrine, drink some water and/or say your prayers. When I get back, we leave.' He set his crossbow down on the ground and jogged off into the dark.
'Where are you going?' Dr. Epson asked.
Eric didn't answer. They didn't have to know everything.
Annie was sitting on Timmy's mattress in the corner, hugging her knees to her chest.
'You forgot to bolt the door,' Eric said as he closed the door behind him.
'No, I saw you coming through the window.'
He leaned over and peered through the cracks between the boards covering the window. 'It's too dark to see out there, even with this Disneyland sky.'
'I saw you,' she repeated.
He let it drop. Not that he doubted her, he'd just been making small talk to avoid telling her what he was about to do. He went over to her, kneeled beside her and took her face in his hands. He saw her eyes were red, as if she'd been crying, but there was no trace of tears now. She looked up into his eyes and her pupils reflected the flames from the Coleman lamp next to her.
'Where's Timmy?'
'With Tracy for awhile.'
Eric nodded, not asking for an explanation. He opened his mouth to talk, to explain, to soothe her worries. But suddenly she was pressing her lips against his and the words tumbled back into his throat like a wolf buried in an avalanche. She was tugging at his clothes now, her fingers insistent, desperate. He tried to pull away, to explain, but she covered his mouth with her hand.
'Fuck me,' she whispered.
He didn't hesitate. It was clear she'd already guessed what he was going to tell her, the words so familiar they were tasteless, odorless, colorless. She didn't need assurances now; she needed passion, an explosion of movement.
They removed each other's clothes with rare efficiency, tossing them in separate heaps next to the mattress. There was no need or desire for tender foreplay. Annie flopped onto her back and opened her legs. The moist
