“We have to get out of here!” Curtis shouted. His voice sounded like he was trying to communicate over a jet engine, though despite all of the activity, the only noise in the room remained that maddening gentle knocking.
His brother was right, Ryan knew, but the door outside was through their parents' room, and their own windows were hidden behind that terrible winking shutter and could not be opened. They'd have to be smashed, and the four of them would be forced to leap to the ground, quite a jump even under ideal circumstances.
David took charge. Picking up the chair on which he'd been sitting, he lifted it above his head and ran toward the shutters, throwing it as hard as he could against the winking upper corner. The slats cracked and fell, the frame jerked loose from its hinges, and both the upper and lower shutters fell away from the window. There was no residual movement, the wood was only wood, and David threw open the left pair of shutters, picked up his chair, hefted it and slammed it into the glass. The pane must have looked a lot thicker than it really was, because it shattered instantly beneath this onslaught, and David awkwardly manuevered his body around in order to clean the glass from the edges of the window with a chair leg.
The room was suddenly filled with the overpowering smell of smoke, but since that strange red flame was still expanding over the surface of the ceiling and not touching the wood, the fire had to be coming from outside. Was the building burning? Or was there a fire down below on the grass into which they'd be jumping?
It didn't matter. They had to get out of here, and David went first, screaming as he leaped out of the open window into the night. The rest of them were hot on his heels, not speaking, not needing to speak, as they attempted to escape that hellish room.
Ryan hit the ground hard, landing on his feet but immediately falling over from the jolt. Rolling, he had time to see that the building housing their suite
was
on fire and that the tents on the grass around him had been torn down, their occupants nowhere to be seen. He tried to stand and was grateful that he was able to do so. Curtis, Owen and David were on their feet as well, as surprised as he was not to have any broken bones. They looked up at their room. Through twin tendrils of smoke curling down from the roof, a white figure could be seen standing in front of their shattered window, the ceiling red with heatless flame behind it.
Ryan felt tired, empty, hungry, scared. He wished this was all a dream, a nightmare from which he would awake, but it wasn't, and his brain and body were overwhelmed by everything he had seen and experienced. He might have read a lot of books, and maybe he had some insights that might help them handle the situation here, but deep down he was just a kid, and he didn't want to have to deal with this. He
shouldn't
have to deal with this.
A familiar shout caused him to turn around, and his heart swelled as he saw his parents speeding toward them across the lawn, calling their names, their faces an alternating mixture of terror and relief. His father reached them first, and Ryan fell gratefully into his welcome arms.
“Dad,” he sobbed.
Thirty-six
Other buildings had collapsed during the night. They saw the destruction from Rand Black's window when they awoke: an entire block of rooms that had imploded, crumbling into itself; the Santa Fe structure housing the Saguaro Room and the Grille now a jumble of faux adobe, exposed wooden beams, broken plumbing and snapped wiring; the modern building next to it that had been home to the Winner's Circle completely gone, not even a foundation remaining. Smoke or dust issued from the piles of rubble, polluting the air outside and giving the rising sun a brownish cast.
Despite the boys' story, Lowell would have still probably assumed the Roadrunners were behind it all had he not been to that other resort in the canyon. For that is what The Reata now resembled. And if the kids were right about the symbiotic relationship between the two, that other resort was probably in tip-top shape right about now.
But he could not convince the employees or the other survivors of any such thing. Black was stirred up and energized, and going room to room, tent to tent, he gathered a large band of angry men nearly thirty strong to chase down the Roadrunners and their supporters. Lowell accompanied them, but more out of obligation than conviction. Black had offered to share his room with them last night after their own suite disintegrated before their eyes, and the firefighter and his wife had been gracious enough to provide sleeping space for their boys and David in the limited area they had. He owed them.
How many people were here at The Reata right now? he wondered. Even if only two-thirds of the resort's rooms had been occupiedâand the full parking lots had indicated it was probably more than thatâthat left approximately fifty rooms. An average of two people per room made a hundred. And as far as employees, between managers and support staff and maintenance services there were another thirty.
And how many were left? It was impossible to say, and he only hoped that their side outnumbered the other side.
Not that it would make any difference in the long run. The Reata was pitting them against each other and no doubt had plans of its own for whichever side came out on top.
They marched up the sidewalk to the rooms that were left, gathering recruits. On the gate by the pool, they found a note, written in blood on a white queen-sized bedsheet. The message consisted of two words: TOURNAMENT TONIGHT.
None of them knew exactly what that meant. Obviously the Roadrunners wanted a match of some sort, but what sport they intended to play and where it was to be held and all of the other practical details remained unstated and unknown. The note was aimed at them, however, so obviously they'd been expected to come here and find it. That easy prediction of their movements didn't sit well with anyone.
“They were at the amphitheater last night.” Black turned toward Lowell. “How many would you estimate?”
“I don't know,” Lowell admitted. “All of the Roadrunners. What's that, fifteen or so? Plus their families.” He paused. “I saw some recruits, too.”
“Let's figure fifty to be on the safe side.”
“That sounds about right.”
“The question is: what do we do when we find them?” Black sounded just as angry as he had before, but a sense of pragmatism seemed to have entered his thinking. “I doubt we could overpower them even with the element of surprise. Do we watch them, follow them, take them out one by one when we get the opportunity, orâ”
“Take them out?”
Jose said.
Lowell was thinking exactly the same thing. If the firefighter had said “capture them” or something along those lines, he would have been right with him. But Black clearly had no problem with killing Roadrunners, with murdering each of them individually, irrespective of their culpability in any of this.
“Yeah,” Scott said defensively. “Take them out.” He motioned around at the battered resort. “You see what they're capable of. Hell, we all knew it before that first volleyball game. Now it's kill or be killed, and unless we want to be the victims here, we've got to strike hard and make it count.”
“It's stooping to their level,” Lowell said quietly, though he was not sure he believed his own argument. He, too, felt the pull of violence, understood the satisfaction to be gained by taking that sort of action.
“I came here for a vacation with my family,” said a clean-cut young man Lowell didn't know. “I'm not going to end it by murdering someone.”
“I suppose it's against your religion,” Scott sneered.
The man faced him. “As a matter of fact, it is. Do you have a problem with that?”
“Okay, okay,” Black said wearily. “Let's not fight among ourselves.” He turned back toward Lowell. “Any suggestions?”
He didn't have any. He agreed with the religious guy, he wasn't willing to kill anyoneâ
not yet
âbut he also thought they should be keeping tabs on the Roadrunners, especially if Blodgett and his crew were expecting them to participate in some sort of tournament. “Let's find them first,” he suggested. “We'll see how it plays from there.”
They could see from here that the lobby was still sealed shut, and Lowell was sure that was where the Roadrunners were hiding, but just in case, they set out for the amphitheater, approaching it cautiously in three split groups, one from the rear, one from either side. As expected, the amphitheater was empty save for several nude and broken bodies strung from the rigging above the stage. The bonfire had burned itself out without causing too much damage, but all of the seats had been ripped from their moorings and piled in front of the stage in obvious preparation for another bonfire. Graffiti marked the walls all around, and on a big boulder in back of the stage was a frighteningly realized depiction of an ancient scraggly-haired man who had to be the same figure the kids had seen. As the other men prowled the aisles and backstage area of the amphitheater looking for Roadrunners or any living victims, Lowell studied the drawing. It was in ash or charcoal, and portrayed a man so thin and desiccated he looked almost like a corpse. Only his eyes were alive, and even in this rough amateur sketch their irredeemable darkness shone through chillingly.
There was nothing else to be found here, and they made a quick tour of the remaining resort, including a short trip to Laszlo's garage, where the battery bought for Lowell's car still sat forlornly on a metal cart next to an open bay, before returning to the main building that housed the lobby.
According to a waiter, the building was also home to the Starlight Pavilion, a secret restaurant catering exclusively to winners of the tournaments. Lowell had not realized before how integral these tournaments seemed to be to life at The Reata. He'd known before the first volleyball game that it wasn't just the casual diversion the activities coordinator had made it out to be, but he hadn't understood until now just how much importance the powers that be attached to these competitions.
They stood under the awning by the front entrance, which had been sealed shut with plywood onto which had been painted a childish red skull and crossbones. “Any ideas on how to get in?” Black asked Jose and the other employees.
“There's a service entrance around the side,” Jose said. “But it's probably boarded up, too. It's worth a shot, though.”
As if on cue, a spear shot out from an unseen opening, hitting Laszlo in the arm. It pierced the skin and carved a slash above his elbow that immediately started gushing blood, but the mechanic merely pulled off his T-shirt and clamped it against the bleeding wound as the rest of them retreated. Jose thought to grab the spear.
The wound obviously hurt, but it wasn't life-threatening, and Laszlo didn't seem too concerned. He appeared to be more angry than anything else, and he pulled the spear from Jose's hand as the entire group continued moving farther out into the parking lot.
“Still think we shouldn't strike first and ask questions later?” Scott demanded.
They looked slightly ridiculous, Lowell thought, thirty or so grown men cowering in a huddle in the middle of an empty parking lot, and he, too, thought they should be taking some kind of action, but he didn't know what and didn't know how.
“So I guess our tournament this afternoon is the javelin toss?” someone said dryly, and the laughter that greeted his remark at least alleviated some of the tension.
Black, standing next to Laszlo, looked at the spear, as did Lowell. It looked old, like something taken out of a museum. “Whereâ?” Lowell started to ask.
“They sell 'em in the gift shop,” Jose said, and Lowell remembered seeing a display case with several overpriced pots and Native American artifacts.
“At least we know where they are,” Black said. He thought for a moment. “Okay. We'll station someone here, rotating shifts, to keep an eye on them. Two people,” he amended, obviously thinking of the spear. “Just in case. If there's any movement, anything unusual, come and get the rest of us. I suggest we do like they do today, remain all in one place for safety's sake.”
“We have walkie-talkies,” Jose said. “They run on batteries and don't have much of a range, but they'll work anywhere in The Reata. We could give one to the people standing watch, and spread the others around.”
“Why didn't you tell us this before?” Black asked, exasperated.
“I'm telling you now,” Jose said coolly, and Lowell realized that the employees still did not completely trust the guests. The feeling, he supposed, looking at Scott, was mutual.
Two men volunteered to take first watch, Jose and a custodian, while the rest of them returned to pick up their families and meet on the grassy area in front of the last set of rooms, the building farthest away from the lobby. Lowell wasn't sure if it was real or just his imagination, but the entire resort now seemed to have a sickening putrid smell, like spoiled meat, and he could not help thinking of all those dead bodies bloating in the desert heat.
They spent the rest of the morning worrying and talking, the afternoon practicing and making weapons out of the few materials they had on hand. Lowell sharpened a broom-handle spear, and the boys made smaller shivs from broken branches. Laszlo and another mechanic raided the garage and came away with quite a few wrenches, screwdrivers and tire irons.
The tension and close quarters caused them to get on each others' nerves, and a fistfight broke out between one of The Reata's custodians and one of the guests, a former Coyote who, before all this started, had complained to the front desk about an overflowing litter basket, a complaint that had resulted in a reprimand. People immediately began taking sides, and it would have turned into a huge ugly brawl with employees versus guests had Lowell not interceded and reminded them that they needed to work together against a common enemy. The men grudgingly gave it up, going back to their respective tasks.