"All the old folks are out there," he told Chris and Jack. He took the joint from Jack, pulled down a hit. Then he picked up the telephone. "I'll call the other guys. Hey, the phone's dead."

"What is going on?" Chris went to the window.

With startling clarity, a voice sounded over the Civil Defense public address system, silencing everybody. "This is an emergency. Repeat, emergency. All residents assemble on the beach. All residents assemble on the beach as quickly as possible. Do not stop for anything. Your lives depend on moving quickly. Repeat, this is an emergency."

"Who's that?" Roger asked.

"It isn't the sheriff. That's not his voice," said Chris. "Let's get moving, maybe mom and dad will need help."

"Let Sheriff Fletcher help them," Jack blurted. "We help ourselves. With everyone down on the beach, we can take whatever we want. We could get a whole mountain of loot. We could be set for years!"

"What are you talking about?" said Roger.

"You can forget that," Chris glared at Jack. "The law says looters get shot."

"He goes to college and he thinks he's a lawyer," Jack sneered. "Who's going to see us? It's dark out there. It'll be like Watts. Everybody gets a color TV."

Glen Shepard riffled through his wife's closet in search of a maternity dress. Ann waited, sitting on the edge of the bed, eight months pregnant. She picked up the bedside phone, dialed, listened. She clicked the receiver several times.

"Come on, stand up, let's get some clothes on the sleepwalker."

"The phone isn't working."

"Lines are probably jammed. Everyone calling at once."

"No, there's no tone at all."

"Arms up." He dropped the dress over her head, guiding it over her shoulders. "I'll go find out what's going on, but you've got to be ready to move."