"What can I do to help?" Annie asked.
Eric pointed with his screwdriver. "Hand me that piece of rubber hose over there."
Annie followed the line of the screwdriver, picked up the short length of hose from the bed, and dropped it on the small oak desk where Eric was tinkering. "Hey, look," she said, snatching up one of the items scattered across the desk. "You know what this looks like?"
"A sardine key," Eric said.
"Yeah. Just like a sardine key."
'That's because it is a sardine key. We picked up a couple dozen of them last week when we toured the Dead Zone."
Annie frowned, tossed the key back on the desk. "You mean eight of you risked your lives sneaking through that godforsaken Dead Zone just for a handful of sardine keys?"
"Of course not," Eric grinned. "We also got a bunch of these nifty mousetraps."
"Swell."
Eric gestured with his chin. "Slide over that spool of monofilament fishline, would you?"
Annie nudged the spool over, picked up an orange flare, hefted it. "What're you making, some kind of gun?"
"Trip flares. We hide these all around the perimeters of University Camp and hopefully anybody trying to sneak up on us will set one off. Then we know right where to look for them."
"Hmmm. Clever little devil." She stood behind Eric and kissed the top of his head, nuzzling her nose in his hair. "You smell funny."
He continued fastening the mousetrap to the wooden stake, tightening the screws. "Gee, I can't understand why. We just washed this shirt two weeks ago and I've only worn it ten times since."
"It's not just you. It's me, you, the kids. Everybody. And it's not a bad smell. It's just, you know," she shrugged, "funny."
"You mean earthy."
"I prefer 'natural.' It sounds cleaner."
Eric chuckled. "Well, whatever you call it, better get used to it. Considering the water shortage and our changed diet, we're all going to be smelling a lot more 'natural.' "
"I kind of like it. It's certainly a hell of a lot better than that sterile sanitized way we all used to smell. Yesterday I was working in the garden with Gertie Potts when she dug up half a bottle of Ralph Lauren cologne. She sprayed some on faster than a starving man will eat a stew. It smelled so sweet I thought I'd puke."
"Ah ha," Eric nodded. "That explains it."
"Explains what?"
"Why you smelled that way last night."
"What smell? That was just my natural scent."
"Yeah, you and Ralph Lauren."
Annie grabbed a single strand of hair from atop Eric's head and yanked it out.
"Owww!" Eric dropped the screwdriver and rubbed his head.
"That should teach you not to make fun of me when your hands are full."
Eric scraped his chair back and jumped to his feet. "Now you've had it. I warned you." He spun around, hands out, fingers wiggling in the air.
"Oh Jesus, no," Annie pleaded, backing away. "No tickling, Eric. Please. I'm sorry."
"Too late for that now." He came toward her, herding her across the tiny room into a corner.
"It was an accident, Eric. I swear. Here," she held out the strand of his hair like a flower. "We'll put it back."
He stepped closer, his arms outstretched to prevent her breaking for the door.
"Stop it, Eric, this is childish." She straightened herself, adopting her stern parental expression. "I will not permit you to bully me."
Eric wiggled his fingers.
Annie collapsed in the corner, her arms pressed to her sides, her hands covering her hips, her most ticklish spot. "Please, I didn't mean it. I forgot."
Eric leapt forward, dropping to his knees and bundling her up in his arms. He pressed his lips against hers. She kissed back, touching her tongue to his. When they broke, he lifted her to her feet. "Let that be a warning, young lady. There's plenty more where that came from."
"Yeah? Then I might just have to pluck you bald."
He laughed, wiggled his fingers at her.
"Use those itchy fingers for something more productive," she grinned, pointing at the desk. "After all, you're the Security Chief of the whole University Camp. You have responsibilities, duties, a calling."
He gave her a look. "You're asking for it. Have fingers, will tickle."
She giggled.
Eric pulled up his chair and hunched over the desk – again, twisting eye screws into the base of the mousetrap. "Can you give me more light, honey?"
Annie walked over to the single window and slid another 2x4 board out of its brackets. Yellowish-orange light stabbed into the tiny room. It was the only kind of light they got anymore, a hazy amber so popular in motel paintings of sunsets. Through the gap, she could see the clear plastic cover over the swimming pool glazed with orange light like a slab of Jell-0. She leaned the board against the wall and returned to the mattress, where she was cutting a vinyl seat cover into "feathers" to be glued onto wooden shafts, eventually becoming arrows for long bows or bolts for crossbows. When she finished another dozen shafts, she and Eric would go over to the basement of the library, which was now the hospital, to see how Jennifer was doing. She'd picked up some kind of summer cold last week, but the doctor wanted to keep her isolated, just to be safe. With their limited medical supplies, they had to be careful about epidemics. There was too much to do, too many walls to defend against the Dead Zone.
The Dead Zone.
It had gotten its name from Jennifer, who'd read a Stephen King novel of the same name. All the kids at school had been reading those spooky novels, the ones with children threatened by vampires, ghouls, zombies. Annie sometimes wondered if that's how they saw adults, as sinister monsters terrorizing them. It made her want to hug her kids more, everybody's kids. In King's novel, the Dead Zone referred to a psychic state, a place in the recesses of the mind. But here their Dead Zone was literal. It meant every place outside University Camp.
At first it had been called Dead Zone because of the mass burnings of dead bodies that took place to prevent disease. But later, as the survivors began establishing their own groups, their own laws, it became a threatening description. Wandering through the Dead Zone could mean death-or worse-from a hundred different tribes or individuals that prowled the ruins. Some of the other camps out there were like University Camp, generally benevolent. But others were less enlightened. They existed only to prey on others. To take what they wanted and destroy the rest.
Annie glanced around the room, smiled. It was hard to believe this same tiny room that had served as Coach Ryder's office for eighteen years now housed the entire Ravensmith family. Coach Ryder used to sit behind that same scarred desk where Eric was making trip flares, smoke his Dutch Masters cigars, and watch his water polo team practice, practice, practice. "I want you guys in the water until you grow fins on your ass," he'd tell them, then retreat to this room and watch as Jim McDonald, his assistant coach, put them through the drills. They were on their way to their fourth consecutive state championship when the quake hit. Coach Ryder had been taking the shortcut around the pool to the locker room to borrow twenty bucks from Jim McDonald to take the women's volleyball coach out for a drink. Then the world started shaking. The lifeguard stand toppled over, knocking him unconscious and into the pool. He drowned very quickly.
During the Reorganization, when University Camp was established, Eric had claimed this room for his family. It allowed him to keep an eye on the pool, which had been drained, repaired, and finally filled with fresh water. Anyone caught stealing from the pool was banished from University Camp into the Dead Zone. Annie had scrubbed the room the best she could without using water, but still that faint stale odor of Coach Ryder's cigars lingered.
The furnishings were simple. Against either wall were two beaten mattresses Eric had carried from a smouldering house around the corner. At night when Annie's face lay against the mattress, she could still smell the fire that had destroyed the home. Even without the mattress, the air was laced with a charcoal bitterness from the old fires and the new ones no one bothered to put out. The only time she could escape that smell was at night, when she cuddled next to Eric and buried her nose against his naked chest.
Someone knocked on the door with a familiar rhythm: shave-and-a-haircut, two bits.
"Hey, open up in there. You've got company."
Eric picked up the crossbow leaning next to his desk, cocked the bowstring, slid a bolt into the groove, and pointed it at the door. He nodded at Annie, who quickly unlatched the series of bolts and locks on the door, and pulled it open.
Tracy Ammes stepped in, her hands in the air. "Friend."
Annie peeked out the door to both sides, then closed and locked it again. Eric removed the arrow, released the bow, returning both to within easy reach.
"Hi, Tracy," Eric said.
"I don't know about your other guests, but I get the willies every time I know I'm coming over. You never know when that thing might accidentally go off."
Annie and Tracy hugged.
"Eric doesn't believe in accidents,'' Annie laughed. "Just ask him."
"Is that right? You don't believe in accidents?"
"That's right," Eric said without looking up from his project. "Cause and effect. Everything is somebody's fault."
"What about last week when Bob Lindwall broke his foot when it crashed through the floor he was repairing?"
"Carelessness."
"What about Susan Nordahl being thrown from her bike yesterday when the tire blew?"
"Inexperience."
Annie winked at Tracy. "What about the time last summer you were showing off doing high dives at the pool and your bathing trunks came off?"
"That was different," Eric said, "that was an-"
"Accident," Annie and Tracy chorused with him.
He looked up and smiled. "That's right."
Tracy flopped down on the mattress next to Annie and began helping her cut the vinyl. "I just dropped by to ask if Timmy could stay another half hour at the Day Care School. He's in the middle of a hot chess game with Sheena Brill and it looks like she might just take him."
Annie glanced at her watch. "Fine. We'll pick him up on the way to visit Jennifer. How do you like working there?"
"It's okay," Tracy shrugged. "We try to teach them, as much as we can, but the kids are different ages and abilities, and there aren't enough of any one group that we can afford to use one teacher on them."
"Sounds like the old fashioned one-room schoolhouse."
"Exactly. And to think I used to be nostalgic for those good ole days. I was hoping to teach some art, but the Council's decided art isn't necessary for our present condition, so the closest I get is fingerpainting with five-year-olds." She sighed. "So much for Enlightenment."
"At least things couldn't get worse."
"Think so? Try keeping Councilman Epson from pawing you to death every time he gets within range. He's starting to wear the material through on the seat of my pants." Tracy glanced around the room. "Looks different in here."
"Yeah, I finally pulled up that tacky carpet. Some rain got in before Eric fixed the roof. It took me a couple weeks to decide whether I preferred the smell of mildew to that of smoke. I opted for the more romantic scent of ashes."
Tracy laughed. "At least you have a private room. After three months of sleeping on wrestling mats with a hundred other women, I'd kill for something like this."
"Council laws, my dear. Only married couples get the private rooms."
"How provincial. I overheard Derek Yancey and Kerne Nash talking about getting married just so they can get a room. Apparently the guys don't like their half of the gym any better than we like ours."
Annie shook her head. "Council won't approve. I helped draft the wording of the law just to prevent those kinds of marriages. We just don't have the room."
"What about pregnancies?"
"We haven't worked the details out yet on that, but the sentiment of the Council seems to be in favor of forced abortion of anyone who's become pregnant since the quake. For another couple months anyway."
"My God, Annie. I thought Epson was morally opposed to abortions."
Annie nodded. "Times have changed. It's less of a medical risk right now to have an abortion than to carry the baby and give birth."
"Well, there goes my other plan for getting a room." Tracy shifted Annie's wrist to look at her watch. "Gotta get back to the school. My turn to do nightwatch with the orphans."
Eric twisted around in his chair as Annie unfastened the locks. "Where's your bow?"
"I gave it back," Tracy said. "They were short on bows and I never really got the hang of it anyway."
"What weapon are you using?"
"They gave me a hunting knife."
'Then wear it. Always."
"Christ, Eric, what's the point? I don't think I could use it if I had to."
"If you had to, believe me, you could."
Annie squeezed her shoulder. "It's not just the outside you have to worry about, Tracy. You know that."
Tracy nodded. She remembered two instances so far where members of the camp had gone berserk. Steve Conrad had raped and strangled his wife before Eric had fired an arrow through his chest. Tom Flannigan had stolen food from the cafeteria, then threatened to jump off the library roof. Eric had talked him down, then convinced the Council to expel him from University Camp. Tom's wife and children had chosen to stay behind.
"Okay," she said, "next time you see me I'll be packing my blade, baby." She hugged Annie and waved at Eric, closing the door behind her.
"She's got a crush on you," Annie said as she relocked the door.
"Come off it."
"It's true, super stud."
Eric looked up and shook his head. "You women think you know what everybody's feeling."
"Relax, I'm not accusing either one of you of anything. I'm just stating a fact. I find it kind of flattering."
"To me?"
"No, to me. My good taste."
Eric snorted, returned to tying the fishline to the flare.
"She's very attractive," Annie continued, settling in with her scissors and vinyl. "And she's smart as hell. Not to mention talented."
"I thought you two were friends."
"We are. I know she would never make a play for you. She's too loyal, too sensitive."
"You've convinced me. I love her."
"I'm serious. She's got things pretty tough. Stuck in a gym at night with a hundred other women, working with kids all day. She's pretty lonely."
"She tell you this?"
"She didn't have to. I've got eyes."
"Not to mention a long nose to butt into other people's business."
"What are friends for?"
"I'm beginning to wonder."
"Cynic."
"Is there a point to the description of Tracy's emotional life?"
"No. Just wanted you to know I think she's pretty terrific. Too young, of course, lacking my maturity and sophistication. But still…" Her voice trailed off.
Eric put the flare down and turned in his chair. "Just what are you suggesting?"
"Nothing."
"Bullshit. I know you. I'm being set up." He dropped to his knees and shuffled over next to Annie, squeezing her hands in his. "Nothing's going to happen to you. Not while I'm around."
Annie smiled lightly, but a tear rolled down her cheek. "I know that. But accidents can happen. Disease. That damn haze in the sky. Something you can't control. I just want you happy. You and the kids."
"So you're doing some preliminary matchmaking."
She shrugged, wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "My last horoscope told me to be organized."
Eric leaned forward and hugged her tightly, crushing her next to him. She felt thinner than three months ago, but then who wasn't? He felt a tear slide down his cheek and he wasn't sure if it was from his eye or hers. It didn't matter. He hugged her closer.
Urgent knocking on the door. "Dr. Ravensmith! Dr Ravensmith!"
Eric lifted Annie to her feet, rearmed the crossbow while she unlocked the door.
Philip Marcus rushed in, holding his bow in one hand, grasping his aching side with the other. "Gotta hurry, Dr. Ravensmith. They want you right away."
"Who, Philip?" Eric asked, lowering his bow.
Philip struggled to catch his breath. "The Council. Emergency session. They sent me after you."
"What's it about?"
He shook his head, gulped air. "Don't know. Except, they want you to go into Dead Zone." He looked at Annie, then at his feet.
"Okay, Philip, you run ahead. Tell them I'll be right there."
"But they told me to bring you right back. Stay with you all the way."
Eric's expression didn't change, but there was a chill in his voice. "Run ahead, Philip."
"Yes, sir," Philip said, turned, and fled.
Eric pulled a black turtleneck sweater over his head, started strapping his quiver and knife on. "I'll just see what they want. Don't worry."
Annie nodded, looked around the tiny room. Two mattresses. A Coleman lamp. Four cardboard boxes, one for each of them to keep their clothes. A flashlight for night trips to the latrine. Four long bows, three small, green fiberglass models that had been liberated from the university's athletic department for Annie and the kids, and Eric's thicker Bear bow, the gift from Big Bill Tenderwolf. A wooden desk, the only thing left over from Coach Ryder except the cigar smell. And a box of equipment for making arrows that Eric had brought back in the early days of scavenging, when most people weren't sure what they needed. How often had Annie and Eric seen people darting about with TV sets? Cameras? Jewelry?
But Eric had known what to do. Had brought them back to the university, helped them establish University Gimp, set up the hospital, saved the food that had been stored in the cafeteria. Planned the water supply. Decided which buildings were worth defending, strung the barbed wire fence surrounding the camp. Had refused a seat on the Council, but reluctantly accepted-temporarily-the job of Security Chief.
At night he'd walk the perimeter, checking the guards. Annie had seen him staring off, eyes searching the hazy horizon, looking for a familiar face. In their room he slept lightly, startled by every noise, a loaded crossbow within easy reach. He was waiting, she knew. Waiting for Dirk Fallows.
"Maybe Fallows is dead," she said suddenly as he buckled his utility belt. "Or wasn't even in the state when it happened."
"Maybe."
"Or maybe he's too busy surviving to worry about some dumb macho grudge."
Eric stuffed his quiver full with bolts. "Maybe."
Annie sighed heavily. "He's out there, right?"
He turned to face her. The orange light from the window streaked down his face, making his scar look like an open wound, bleeding. "Right."
She took his face in her hands, stood on her toes and kissed him lightly on the lips, her eyes pressed closed. As if she could force out the memory of Matt Southern, who'd taken three men into the Dead Zone last month in search of generator parts. None had returned.
"Take care," she said.
"Count on it," he smiled and dashed out the door, the crossbow clutched in one hand, the arrows rattling against each other as he ran.
She closed the door, fastened each lock in turn, started gluing strips of vinyl seat covers to wooden shafts.