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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
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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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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