Running felt good. Useful. Eric hated the feeling of helplessness and confusion an alarm always gave. A shortness of breath, a squeeze at the bladder. At least now, as his feet bounced soundlessly across the gravel, he was burning the rush of adrenalin that sizzled through his stomach like a lit fuse. Around him people responded quickly to the alarm, scattering in the dark to their posts as they snatched arrows from their homemade quivers or hefted crude spears. Just as they had done during the drills Eric had put them through three times a week since the founding of University Camp. Only now it was for real.
Eric sucked air deeply as he ran, the sharp charcoal tinge stinging his nostrils. He wondered if they'd all eventually get used to that smell, as they had to the gray-pink night and yellow-orange day like a Peter Max painting. When they got back to the mainland, would they appreciate the brisk fresh air again, or would that too smell "funny"?
When they got back.
Christ, now he was doing it. Hoping. He shook the thought out of his head as he ran, concentrating on scanning the grounds for the intruders. The roofs, the barbed-wire fences, the walls of office furniture and useless machinery they'd piled as a barrier against the hostile world. The Great Wall of Orange County, Annie had called it. Inside lived Civilization. Outside, the Dead Zone.
Eric's eyes stabbed at every movement, every shadow. But he saw no intruders, no attackers. The only movement came from his own people scuttling to their posts, clinging desperately to their weapons like a dying priest to his rosary.
Then the noise stopped. The bell and drum were silent.
Eric hurdled an overturned bicycle, dodged another citizen fumbling clumsily with his Coleman lantern, spanked off the side of the gym, and bolted full-speed for the bookstore, the source of the alarm. He could hear men and women mumbling nervously to each other as he passed them, wondering where the attackers were. Fingering their weapons, anxious to kill anything that seemed threatening. Eric had to discover what was going on before they began accidentally firing on each other.
As he cut around the corner of the bookstore, he saw Philip Marcus standing in front of the huge kettle drum they'd moved here from the Music Department. He had the drum mallet in one hand, his long bow in the other. Standing next to him was Season Deely, a slim blonde in a blue Nike running suit clutching the hammer she'd used to ring the bell. She was leaning against the wooden post from which the ten-inch iron bell hung, a memento from Professor Ernesto Alvarez's tour through Mexico last summer with a rowdy group of his Spanish students. The bell was a replica of the one that had hung at the Franciscan Mission of San Antonio de Valero, later known as the Alamo because of a nearby grove of alamo, or cottonwood, trees. Eric had appreciated the irony of using this particular bell for their alarm, though militarily University Camp was far more defendable than the Alamo had been.
"What in hell's going on?" Eric barked at Season and Philip.
Season shrugged, pointed her hammer at the entrance of the bookstore.
"Orders," Philip said.
Eric marched through the open doors and down the aisles of dusty calendars and university bumper stickers into the back section. The door of the conference room was open and the carpet was squishy under his feet with dark puddles of blood.
Trevor Graumann lay crumpled next to the long oak table. His chair was overturned, his papers scattered all about the room. The brass coatrack was overturned with Dr. Dreiser's white lab jacket tangled around it.
"Is he dead?" Eric asked.
Susan Connors, an RN who ran the hospital with Dr. Dreiser, was kneeling beside Trevor, tugging at his eyelids. "No, he's just unconscious. Doesn't seem too serious. No bleeding, anyway."
"Then whose blood are we all wading through?"
Susan Connors gestured toward the conference table where Dr. Epson, Griff Durham and Toni Tyler stood whispering. "Ask them. They called this meeting. Won't tell me jackshit." She looked up, her eyes moist but hard. "While you're at it, ask them where Dr. Dreiser is."
Two men rushed into the room carrying a stretcher.
"About time, fellas," Susan Connors sighed, twirling her stethoscope absently. "Let's get him over to the hospital. And careful with his head. He may have a concussion."
"What's the fucking story?" one of them asked, looking around the room. "The alarm made my three-year-old wet the bed. And the little bastard sleeps between my wife and me."
"I've seen your kid, Roy," Susan said. "And pissing on you is the least he could do for giving him your looks. Now get Councilman Graumann onto your stretcher and out of here. Our leaders need privacy," She didn't bother keeping the sarcasm out of her voice.
Eric turned to the three members of the Council. The muscles in his face were tight, stretching the skin tautly across his face like a plastic death mask. His voice was crisp as dried leaves. "Explain."
They all looked at him, avoided his eyes. Dr. Epson nodded toward Susan Connors and the men hefting Trevor Graumann onto the stretcher. "Let's wait until we're alone, Eric."
"Let's not," Eric said quietly.
"It's okay," Susan said. "We're all done here. We wouldn't want to be responsible for hindering the Council's brilliant strategies." She started to follow the stretcher out of the room, turned, twirled her stethoscope. "But if we're not under attack, I'd sound the fucking bell, I don't want to be up all night treating arrow wounds from people shooting each other."
"Tell Season to sound the Yellow Alert," Eric said. "That should relax things until I figure out what's going on."
Susan smiled, pointed her stethoscope at Eric. "You got it."
When she left, Eric waited until he heard Season hammering put the Yellow Alert pattern on the bell before speaking. "Where's Dr. Dreiser?"
Dr. Epson swallowed, glanced at the others. He removed his glasses and sagged into a chair like a deflated doll. "Gone."
"Gone?"
"Kidnapped."
Eric's face remained expressionless as he turned and walked to the door, avoiding the soggy patches of blood. He leaned out the door and called, "Philip! On the double."
They heard the slapping echoes of running, then saw Philip Marcus burst into the room. His bow was at the ready, his cheeks flushed even in the warm summer evening. Eric noticed that lately the boy walked with a straighter, more confident posture, the kind he used to have only inside the classroom. "Yes, Dr. Ravensmith?" He didn't even look at the others.
"I want you to gather a group of volunteers. No marrieds unless you have to. They should be fairly athletic. Use your own judgment."
"What should I tell them they're volunteering for? In case they ask."
Eric stared at him, said nothing.
"Right," Philip nodded, turned and jogged out of the room.
Eric set his crossbow gently on the table and pulled up a chair. He slowly sat down, like the master of ceremonies at a formal dinner. His hands lay flat on the table top, as if he were willing them to stay there rather than do whatever it was they wanted to do. Something violent. The scar on his cheek and neck bulged like an engorged vein on a weight lifter as he spoke, the voice so flat and dead it frightened even Griff Durham.
"What happened exactly? Details."
Toni Tyler and Griff Durham also sat down, one on each side of Dr. Epson. In the flickering light of the Coleman lanterns they looked particularly old and sexless.
"After you left we kicked around a few more ideas," Dr. Epson said. "Three of us tried to persuade Joan and Trevor to, well…"
Eric managed a grim smile. "Replace me?"
"Well, yes. It was an idea. They both refused to discuss it. Even though we had a majority vote, we knew we couldn't make it stick with the residents here unless we were unanimous. You're too damn popular around here. They'd be more likely to replace the three of us than you." He smiled weakly at Eric as if expecting him to acknowledge the compliment. When Eric said nothing, Dr. Epson continued. "Anyway, the three of us left. Joan and Trevor stayed behind to talk, I don't know about what. About twenty minutes ago there's a pounding on my door. Davey Easton stood there talking so fast I could hardly understand him."
Eric interrupted. "Easton was supposed to be on guard duty near the cafeteria."
"He was. Only when he was relieved, he went over to see Kyle Moore who was standing watch on the other side of the cafeteria. They're buddies. But when he got there he found Kyle unconscious."
"How badly?"
"Lump as big as a grapefruit on top of his head, but otherwise okay."
Eric shifted in his chair. "Why did Easton come to you? He knows the routine. Any problems he sees me or sounds the alarm."
"Hell, Eric," Griff Durham said. "Easton's only a kid. He panicked when he saw his buddy lying there."
"Besides," Dr. Epson added, "my room in the library is closer. Actually, I think he was more interested in getting Dr. Dreiser for Kyle than anything else. I just happened to be on his way to her. I sent a couple men over to take Kyle's place while we searched for Joan. Since she wasn't in the hospital, I thought she might still be here with Trevor. When I got here, this is what I found. I sent for the rest of the Council and we decided to sound the Red Alert."
Eric's eyes narrowed. "You sent for the Council before me? If we've been penetrated, you should have notified me immediately. Whatever clues there were have probably been trampled by now. Jesus!" His hands curled to fists.
Dr. Epson looked nervous. "It was a judgment call, Eric. I wanted to avoid a panic, if possible. I've never had to deal with a situation like this before." He rubbed the pink rawness on his nose where his glasses had rested.
Toni Tyler began straightening the scattered papers on the table. "We did the best we could, Eric. Under the circumstances."
"Did Kyle see anything before they knocked him out?"
Dr. Epson shrugged. "He's still unconscious. But Davey Easton saw some biood near where he found Kyle. It wasn't Kyle's."
"Well, if that wasn't Kyle's blood and this isn't Trevor's blood, it must be from one of our intruders. Maybe he cut himself on the barbed wire or something." Eric paused, fell silent for a few moments, then turned back to Dr. Epson. "What else have you got? About the kidnapping."
Dr. Epson pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket, straightening his tie before passing the paper to Eric.
Eric unfolded it and read: "WE'VE TAKEN OUT A LITTLE INSURANCE TO MAKE SURE OUR SWAP GOES THROUGH AS PLANNED. YOU'LL GET THE DOCTOR BACK AFTER THE TRADE IS COMPLETED. ONLY NOW WE WANT A DOZEN BOWS TO GO WITH THE BOOKS. A GESTURE OF GOOD FAITH. NEW MEETING PLACE: JACK IN THE BOX ON CORNER OF BASIL AND THYME. MIDNIGHT."
He laid the paper flat on the table, smoothed it with both hands. The message was all large block letters, written with a thick, red-felt marker.
"They must've figured we wouldn't go through with the trade," Griff Durham said.
"A safe bet," Eric said. "Anyway, now they want more than books. They want our weapons."
"What do we do?" Toni asked Eric. She stopped shuffling papers to listen.
"You're the Council. It's your decision."
"What do you advise, Eric?"
Eric thought of little Jennifer lying sick in the hospital, her phlegmy coughing, watery eyes and clammy skin. And the others lying in long rows like an army barracks. The broken bones, sores, bleeding ulcers, burst appendixes. And Dr. Joan Dreiser the only medical doctor in the camp. But he had to be honest with himself, he cared less about the others than about Jennifer. And what if Timmy or Annie got sick, needed an operation. Annie's appendix was still intact; Timmy had a cyst removed from his elbow last year, it might grow back. If for no other reason than protecting his own family, he would have to get Dr. Dreiser back.
"Do you have a list of the books they asked for the first time?"
Toni nodded. "No specific titles. Some basic survival texts on purifying water, gardening, carpentry, electrical 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."