Rydell Grimme peered into the dark room, squinting in the dim light from his lantern. "That you, Molly?"
Molly Sing was sitting on the floor leaning against the wall, her face slack with exhaustion. "Anybody found him yet?"
"Nope. Son of a bitch seems to have disappeared."
"It would be just like Eric," she nodded with a mixture of admiration and annoyance. "Do you think he's left the camp?"
Rydell shrugged. "Maybe. But I doubt it."
"I don't. We've had a dozen people searching for him for almost an hour and nobody's seen any trace of him. To me that suggests he's not here."
"You can't tell with Eric," Rydell said, entering the room, his lantern held in front of him. Molly winced slightly at the light. "He could be sitting right next to us and there's a good chance we wouldn't notice. Some kind of Zen trick."
Molly glanced around the semi-dark room. "If you're here, Eric, don't show yourself until I've had another five minutes rest, okay. My feet are ready to bark."
"Mine too," Rydell agreed, walking slowly around the room, holding out his lantern here and there to examine something. "So this is where he lived?"
"Yup, the four of them. Not exactly Jim and Betty Anderson."
"Huh?"
"You know, Father Knows Best. Did you ever notice how all those TV families had two-story houses? Ward and June Cleaver, The Brady Bunch, even Archie Bunker."
"I don't know. We didn't have a TV when I was a kid."
"Oh. Moral or financial?"
"What?"
"How come you didn't have a TV? Moral or financial grounds? Your parents didn't want their child corrupted by the tube, or they couldn't afford one?"
"A little of both, I guess. My mother didn't want me to learn about sex until I was too old to use it. And my father didn't want to take the money away from his drinking fund."
"Oh, it was like that, huh?"
"Yeah." Rydell poked around on Eric's desk. "Did you see these?"
Molly clicked on her flashlight, shined it at the desk. "Yeah, what are they?"
"Trip flares. He was building trip flares." Rydell shook his head and grinned. "Clever son of a bitch."
"I don't think a man should be referred to as a son of a bitch in his own home. Especially by uninvited guests."
"Right. The loss of manners is the first step of our descent into savagery. Stiff upper lip, that's the ticket, what?"
"It's possible, but I don't think I've ever heard a worse British accent in my life."
Rydell slipped out of his quiver and plopped down next to Molly. The lantern sat at their feet, casting a flickering light onto their faces. "Reminds me of Boy Scout camp."
"You were a Boy Scout?"
"A Boy Scout, a Cub Scout, every kind of scout there was to keep me on the right track."
"The right track?"
"The manly track. Masculine, macho manhood. My father had read an article in Reader's Digest about the ten warning signs of homosexuality in children and he was determined that I never show one of those signs."
"Did it work?"
He looked at her, her eyes twinkling mischievously, a half grin curling her lips. He took a deep breath and smelled her distinctive odor. That was one of the pleasant side effects of this new lifestyle they'd all been forced into, each person had a very distinctive scent. He understood now why dogs sniffed each other when meeting. Molly's scent was delicate, yet hearty, like stir-fried vegetables. He felt his mouth watering as he leaned over and kissed her.
She accepted the kiss without moving, either to encourage or protest. Her arms bung limply at her sides, but her lips parted to allow his tongue to enter her mouth. She sucked on it a little, then pushed him away.
"Don't you have the wrong girl, pal? I'm the short oriental with the Chinese doll haircut. I think you've mistaken me for the gorgeous blonde with the big tits." She smoothed the bib of her overalls against her chest. "See, no tits."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Reality, man. You're a pretty decent hunk of guy considering the depressed market lately. Okay, let's be honest. You're a knockout in any market. But me? Well, I've been around enough to know that guys like you always end up with Gidget. It's in the script, man."
Rydell laughed. "Relax, the doctor will be right here. I think you're going through a severe case of TV withdrawal."
Molly's laugh tinkled like wind chimes. "Maybe. My father used to have the thing on day and night, trying to learn English and American customs."
"My God, what a distorted view of us he must have gotten. To say nothing of his children."
"Child."
"Still, it's warped."
Molly shrugged. "Maybe."
He reached out, smoothed her hair lightly with his fingertips.
"I told Tag I was going to rest here, so he should be picking me up soon." She stared into Rydell's eyes. "That doesn't really give us enough time for a quick boff, does it?"
Angrily, he jerked his hand away from her hair. "Jesus, is that what you think this is all about?"
"Isn't it?"
He hesitated, sighed. "Yeah, okay, partially. It's such a rare occurrence around this camp to be alone in a room with a woman, well, you know."
"Yeah, we're just as horny as you guys. It's not much fun catching a quickie behind buildings at night. The draft is murder."
Even in the dim light, Molly could see Rydell was blushing. She laughed. "Don't look so shocked, man. What do you think the women talk about at night on their side of the gym? When and where the best places in camp are to do it. The sixteen-year-olds are the worst. Half of the time it's hard to sleep because of all the women masturbating themselves or each other. It's a little like a prison. Hell, a lot like a prison."
Rydell nodded. "Yeah, well, men aren't quite so open. Most of them don't talk about it, but you can see they think about it a lot. As for masturbation, never in the open." He chuckled. "I think that was one of the ten warning signs for homosexuality in that article my father read. Apparently everybody's father read the same article."
"What about the gays?"
"Whatever they do they do in private, just like the rest of the guys. I think men are embarrassed by wanting sex."
There was a couple minutes silence as each drifted into his own thoughts.
"Rydell?"
"Yeah?"
"If we'd had the time. You know."
"Sure."
"It's just that I wouldn't want Tag or Season walking in on us."
He looked at her. "Do you think I do?"
"Maybe. You look like a bit of an exhibitionist."
"Thanks."
Another pause.
"I'll do it with my hand, if you want. Easier to hide if we're caught. Or if you want to do it to yourself while I watch, that'd be okay. Some guys get off on that."
"Can we change the subject, please?"
"Sure, I didn't mean to embarrass you."
"Like hell you didn't."
She laughed. "Okay, maybe I did. A little."
Rydell leaned over and kissed her again. This time her arms were around him, crushing him to her. He was surprised by the strength in her arms. She nibbled his lip lightly like a hamster and they giggled into each other's mouth.
"You think they found him yet?" she asked, nuzzling against his neck.
"Nope. They won't find him until he's ready to be found."
"What do you think he's doing right now?"
"Grieving."
She leaned back against the wall and frowned. "What are we going to do now?"
"God, I wish I knew. It looks like Trevor Graumann is going to be Chairperson of the Council. New members will have to be elected."
"Eric?"
He shook his head. "I doubt it. He's going after his wife and son."
"Alone?"
"Maybe."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing."
"Uh oh. You want to go too, right? I think I see the ugly macho head of Daddy Grimme rearing."
His voice crackled with bitterness. "Who taught you psychology? Dr. Joyce Brothers? Or Ozzie and Harriet?"
"Bob Newhart." She touched his arm. "I didn't mean anything, you know. Just shooting my big mouth off without checking to see if it's loaded."
He nodded sullenly.
"Hell, we were better off talking about sex."
He looked into her face. "You're not the kind who tries to joke people out of bad moods, are you?"
She shrugged helplessly. "Afraid so. Mary Tyler Moore with slanted eyes."
The sound of footsteps outside the door interrupted them. Rydell nodded to Molly to stay put. She picked up her bow and eased an arrow out of the quiver. Rydell plucked a throwing knife from his belt, poised it over his shoulder.
"Hey, anybody in there?" Season called before popping her head into the doorway.
"It's only you," Rydell said impatiently.
Season jerked a thumb at him and spoke to Molly. "Get him. Bah, humbug to you too." She slipped her quiver over head, laid it on the floor next to her bow, and sat down on the mattress next to Molly where Rydell had been sitting. "Oh my God. Oh, that feels good. I never thought I'd get to sit again."
"Any sign of Eric?" Molly asked.
"Nope. Wherever he is, he doesn't want to be found yet. We've combed, teased, and blow-dried this camp three times already. Still no sign. Tag told me you were hiding out here so I thought I'd join you." She raised her eyebrows suggestively. "I didn't realize you had company of the male persuasion. I can keep watch outside the door if you guys want some privacy," Neither of them answered her, so she just shrugged and closed her eyes. "Suit yourself."
"Anything new out there?" Rydell asked to change the subject.
Season rolled her head toward him, half-opened her eyes. "Same old same old. People are still in shock about what the council did. They're scared now that we don't have a doctor. Susan was a surgical nurse, but you know people, they like professionals with titles, little letters after their names. She's doing a hell of a job at the hospital, but people are still asking her what would Dr. Dreiser do."
"What about Trevor Graumann?"
"He's organizing people, keeping them busy. The old guy really knows what he's doing. And since he's the only one who didn't have anything to do with this disaster, people are starting to listen to him. In the meantime, Dr. Epson is locked in a room in the hospital until they figure out what to do with him."
"What can they do?" Molly asked.
Season laughed sharply. "If most people get their way, they'll lynch him."
"They wouldn't," Molly said.
"Probably not," Rydell said. "But I wouldn't be surprised if they expel him from University Camp."
"Expel him? They might as well lynch him. You saw what it's like out there. He wouldn't last an hour, especially in his present condition."
"I'm not saying they will expel him, just that they might. After all, we don't have the facilities or manpower to care for him."
"God, you can be cold," Molly said.
"Uh oh," Season grinned. "Trouble in paradise. Your first spat."
"Knock it off, Season," Molly said angrily.
Season was stunned by the hostility in Molly's usually placid voice. "Sorry," she mumbled, meaning it.
A heavy silence.
Season broke it with nervous chatter. "You guys given any thought to what you're going to do now?"
"What do you mean?" Molly asked.
"I mean around here. Things definitely aren't going to be the same anymore. Not after tonight. They counted twenty-three dead of ours." No one was ghoulish enough to ask for names. The community was small enough that everyone knew everyone else, so it didn't really matter who was killed. It would be someone they knew, probably liked.
"Anyway, this is a good chance for us to run for council. After braving the dangers of the Dead Zone, we've built pretty good reputations. And we obviously didn't have anything to do with the massacre tonight. If we get Eric to endorse us, I bet we could get the votes. We'd all be on the council together, really get this place rolling."
"Rydell's thinking of going with Eric," Molly said suddenly, an edge to her voice.
"What?" she asked incredulously. "Go with him? Where?"
"After his wife and kid."
"Right, his wife and kid. But do you know who has them? Col. Dirk Fallows. You ever hear of him, follow the trial in the papers?"
"Yeah, I know all about him."
"And did you hear the descriptions of his second in command, what's his name?…"
"Cruz," Molly offered.
"Yeah, Cruz. He's the bastard that slit Jenny Ravensmith's throat. Supposed to be seven feet of pure mean. That's who you'll be up against. Just you and Captain Bligh."
"Let me worry about that."
"Men," Season sighed, shaking her head. "They all think they have to wear their balls on their sleeve. I'll tell you one thing about Eric, if he were you he wouldn't go. You don't have any experience, any training."
With a sudden flick of his arm, Rydell tossed his throwing knife across the room. It stuck in the center board covering the window. "Yes I do," he said quietly.
Season and Molly exchanged looks.
"Where'd you learn to do that?" Molly asked. "Boy Scouts?"
He laughed, trying to lighten the conversation, but neither woman smiled back. "My father taught me. His campaign to make me a man was ceaseless. Did I mention he was a SWAT commander in Atlanta?"
"No," Molly answered stiffly. "You didn't."
"Yeah, well, it's not something that comes up often in normal conversation. 'What's your father do for a living, young man?' 'Well, sir, he's a SWAT commander.' Tends to dampen polite conversation. Anyway, he taught me everything his own troops learned, and then some. Knife throwing, marksmanship, climbing, just about everything a young boy needs to know at a public school in Atlanta." He pointed at his bow. "Except archery, unfortunately. College was to be a necessary evil, then right into the police department as a rookie, and finally a member of his own crack corps."
"What happened?"
"It was his dream, not mine. Is this where the dramatic music comes in?"
Molly nodded. "Strings usually."
"Well pretend. Anyway, he wanted me to study-criminal justice, I wanted to study philosophy and theology."
"Theology?" Molly said, shocked.
"Yeah. I wanted to become a minister."
"Jesus, forget what I said earlier, okay? I didn't mean anything."
"I said minister, Molly, not eunuch. My dad and I used to have some real screaming matches at home about that. Well, I was always very good in science and math, so my mother's compromise was physics. That's what I got my degree in."
Season tilted her head at him. "You've got a degree in physics? I thought you worked at the university as a janitor or something."
"Maintenance, if you please. After graduation I let my father talk me into at least trying out for the force, giving it a chance."
"And?" Molly asked.
"I gave it a chance. I didn't like it, so I quit. He hasn't spoken to me since."
"And your ministry?"
He shrugged. "Lost interest in that by my sophomore year."
"That leaves physics."
"I wanted to take a few years off, see if I was still interested in that enough to pursue it any further."
"And? Christ, why do I have to pull every word out of you?"
Rydell laughed. "And I applied to several graduate schools and was accepted by all of them. I'd decided to go back in the fall. But the best laid plans of mice and men…"
"Tell me about it," Season said. "At least you had some choices. My parents had me acting since I was eight months old. They thought it was so cute to stick me in their films, kinda like Alfred Hitchcock, which is who I looked like as a baby. When the rest of my friends were trying to figure out which end of a tampon you inserted, I was in my own sitcom."
"Friends of the Family," Molly said.
"Yeah, right. I was pretty horrible, huh?"
Molly shrugged.
"I know. I didn't know how to act, still don't. But I had the right look, and the right name. We ran for four seasons. When I decided to go to college, my parents thought it was a great idea. Until I told them I was going to major in physical education. They thought only dykes liked that."
"Your parents read Reader's Digest, too," Rydell said.
"I don't know what they read, except Variety. Anyway, I ended up doing a lot of sports, and you know what? I loved it. And you know what else? My folks thought it was great too. They came to every event I competed in whenever they were in Los Angeles."
"Happy ending," Molly said.
"I guess so. I was pretty happy, everything just as I wanted it. Except for one little problem. Guys."
"You're kidding?" Molly said, surprised.
"I wish. It seemed that every guy I went out with thought he had to compete with the image of my father in movies. They were always trying to be so cool, you know, staring with sophisticated indifference. Acting cynical. In bed they were so concerned about their performance you'd think they were auditioning for Francis Ford Coppola. Jesus, what a mess. I think if-"
"Hey, Molly!" Tag Hallahan's voice shouted above his running feet. He burst into the room, looked surprised to see all of them, but recovered quickly. He was panting as he spoke. "It's Jennifer Ravensmith," he said urgently. "She's missing. Her body's gone."