by Jerry Ahern
Rourke took the stewardess aside and showed her how to work the Colt Python .357, then left it with her. He gave his CAR-15 rifle to his florid-faced ex-seatmate, along with the snub-nosed Metalifed Colt Lawman .357 revolver, reminding him the stewardess was in charge. Among the survivors, he found five men strong enough and willing to accompany him on foot to Albuquerque. He let one of the five carry his Steyr-Mannlicher bolt-action rifle. It was cool on the desert with night failing, and he pulled a sweater on over his shirt and the Allessi shoulder rig with his Detonics .45s, then pulled his sportcoat back on over the sweater. He started from the camp with his group. He heard the stewardess running after him.
"Mr. Rourke! I thought you and the other men could use these." She handed him a paper bag.
"Sandwiches?"
"Uh-huh."
"Thoughtful, Miss...?" Rourke had still not bothered to learn the young woman's name.
"Sandy Benson," she said, smiling.
"You have a pretty smile, Sandy,"
Rourke said, then turned and started away from the impromptu camp.
He glanced at his watch, then at the hazy moon. The Rolex on his wrist read eight P.M. Shifting his right shoulder under the water bottle suspended there on a borrowed trouser belt, he looked at the five men with him and then at the open ground in front of them. He guessed they would make four or five miles an hour. With rest stops, they'd be in Albuquerque by sunrise or before.
He walked with the five men in silence for the first hour, making a better pace than he'd thought they would. Then he called a rest stop. The five sat by themselves and made no move to talk with him. He watched them for a while, then tried remembering their names. One was O'Toole. Another, Rubenstein. Then there was Phillips. He couldn't remember the last two names. One of the men—one of the two whose names he didn't remember—said, suddenly, "Are you really coming back, Rourke?"
"That's what I told everybody," Rourke answered quietly.
"Are you for real?"
"Why shouldn't I?" Rourke asked.
"Well, most of those people back there are dying, except for the stewardess you left your rifle with, and the Canadian guy and a few others, maybe."
"Left my rifle with the Canadian. I left the stewardess a revolver," Rourke corrected. "Don't you think we owe it to the people back there to help?"
"What about us?"
"Well, what about us?" The one who had been talking started to get to his feet.
"Well," he said, walking toward Rourke, "I say we don't."
Rourke stood, his back aching. "Then, just don't go back," he said. "We can get along okay without you."
"Yeah," the man said, stopping less than a yard from Rourke. "But that isn't the point. With your guns, we'd stand a better chance."
"I can see where that's true," Rourke said, looking away from the man a moment and nodding his head. "And you figure you need all the help you can get. Like my guns. Right?"
"Right."
"Not right," Rourke said softly, and his left fist hammered forward and into the man's stomach. At the same time, his right knee came up and connecting with the side of the man's jaw. Already, both of Rourke's hands had snatched one of the Detonics .45's from the shoulder holsters. Rourke took a step back. One of the other four men had the stock of Rourke's 550 sniper rifle to his shoulder. Rourke shouted, "You might get off one shot—but while you're working that bolt action, I'll kill all of you unless that first shot is a good one. Your move. I said my piece."
He thought it was Rubenstein, but wasn't sure. The man stepped away from the other three, hands in the air, saying, "Hey—wait. I'm not with them."
A second man, carrot-red hair in his eyes, stepped beside Rubenstein. It was O'Toole. "Me neither!"
Keeping one of the guns trained on Rubenstein and O'Toole, Rourke shouted, "What about it?" to the other two men. He could hear the man he'd decked starting to groan.
The man holding Rourke's rifle started to lower the gun from his shoulder.
"Don't drop it—set it down slowly," Rourke whispered. "Rubenstein," he rasped, hoping he was matching the name to the right face. The man who'd first broken away took a step toward him. "Pick up my rifle. Grab it by the barrel and come here and stretch it out to me. Be quick about it." Rourke watched as Rubenstein walked over, picked up the rifle by the muzzle end, then started toward him. Rourke shoved the Detonics from his left hand into his belt, reaching out with his free hand and grasping the stock of the rifle. He slid the gun through his hand, catching it forward of the trigger guard along the front stock, then slipped his left arm between the rifle and the sling and hauled the synthetic stocked bolt action onto his left shoulder.
The man he'd knocked down was groaning louder now, and Rourke stepped back from him. Then, looking at the four men still standing, Rourke said slowly, "Now—if I were smart, I'd kill all of you right now and save myself headaches later on. Once we get into Albuquerque, anybody who wants to come into this with me and go back for the rest of the passengers can. Anybody who doesn't, just stay away from me. But if you split and if I ever see you again, I'll kill you. Now, you two," and Rourke gestured toward Rubenstein and O'Toole. "Pick up this guy and get him walking. We're moving out, and all you guys are staying in front of me. One wrong move from anybody and he gets a bullet—maybe two just for luck. Questions?"
None of the four men said anything. Rubenstein and O'Toole walked forward slowly and started helping the fifth man off the ground. "All right—let's start walkin'," Rourke said.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Rourke stood in the middle of the square; in front of him—miraculously—still standing—was the oldest church in the American southwest. Around it, much of the rest of Albuquerque's old town was gutted and burned. He glanced down to the Rolex on his wrist. It was almost four A.M., and the sun would not be up for more than three hours. There were no lights, except for lights from inside the church, and Rourke assumed these had to be Coleman lamps or candies. Whole streets had ripped apart when the fire-storm had hit natural gas lines. There was no electricity.
Rourke shivered under his sweater and coat. Shifting the rifle from his shoulder, he stood there a moment, staring at the old church. He remembered taking Sarah an there once, several years ago. Michael had enjoyed playing in the old town cul-de-sacs, watching the Indians selling their jewelry along the square. Sarah had wanted a rug from one of the shops, but for some reason which Rourke couldn't remember now, they hadn't purchased it.
There were no people on the street, but he could hear the howling of dogs. Rourke turned and glanced at the five men with him, standing together to his left. "Well," he said. "I guess here's where we part company—at least those who want to. Looks from here like that Catholic Church is probably being used as a shelter. Anybody's who's not coming with me back to the plane, can split here. I'm going to check that shelter after I take care of a couple of things, then I'm going to find the closest thing to a hospital." He lit a cigar, then said, "Anybody coming with me, step over here."
None of the five men moved for a moment. Then Rubenstein—a smallish man with a receding hairline and wire framed glasses—stepped away from the other four and walked toward Rourke. "What about you, O'Toole?" Rourke said through a cloud of cigar smoke.
"No. I don't want to go back," O'Toole said. "I don't know if I'm hanging in with them, either, but I'm not going back to the plane."
"Suit yourself—and good luck," Rourke added. Turning to Rubenstein, Rourke said, "Well, friend. Let's go." Without waiting for a reply, Rourke started across the fire-scorched square, picking his way over the large gouges in the pavement and away from the church.
He heard Rubenstein, beside him saying, "Where are we going, Mr. Rourke?"
"It's John. "What's your first name?"
"Paul."
"Well, Paul, Albuquerque is a town where a lot of people were interested in prospecting. Geology, things like that. So I'm looking to find a geological equipment shop, where there might be a Gei
ger counter. I want to see how much radiation we've taken. And then, we get back to the plane. I want to check out the rest of us."
Rubenstein walked silently for a while, then asked, "Tell me, John, what're you going to do then—after we help those people back there?"
Rourke turned and looked at him, "Well, going back across the country. See, my wife, Sarah, and our two children. They're back in Georgia."
"But all those missiles that were going off around the Mississippi River—that whole area between here and Georgia is going to be just a huge desert, a big crater."
Rourke said slowly, "I've thought of that. Here, turn down here." He moved onto the ruins of a side street. "There were a lot of little stores down here, I remember."
"I never been to Albuquerque before," Rubenstein said.
"It was a nice town," Rourke said, his voice low. "But, anyway, I'll get back to Georgia—maybe work my way down through Mexico then up along the Gulf Coast. I'll have to play it by ear.
"What if they're dead when you get there?"
Rourke stopped in mid-stride and turned to Rubenstein. "You married?"
"No, I have a mother and father in St. Petersburg, Florida."
"Are you going back for them?"
"I hadn't thought about it. I don't know."
"You got anyplace else to go, anything else to do?"
"No, I guess not."
"Neither have I," Rourke said. "I'm going on the idea that my wife and children are still alive. I'm going to look for them. And if they're not home—we had a farm in a rural part of the state—and I don't find hard evidence that they're dead, I'll keep on looking."
"But aren't we all gonna die?" Rubenstein said, his voice starting to crack.
"All of humanity wiped out? I'm not plannin' on it." At that, Rourke turned and continued walking, stopping a few yards further down what was left of the street in front of a partially burned building.
"Well—look at that," Rourke said, pointing up at the sign above it.
" 'Geological Supplies,' "Rubenstein read aloud.
"Yeah, looks like." Rourke pushed against the door—all the glass was broken out—and the door moved in a foot. Reaching under his coat, he grabbed the Detonics from under his left arm and stepped through the door frame, Rubenstein close behind him.
"This place is in ruins."
"Looks like, but let's see," Rourke said. The floor of what had once been the store was covered with charred pieces of wood, broken glass, some half-burned small cardboard boxes. The fire, Rourke guessed, had burned through quickly.
The back portion of the shop was relatively untouched except for dark scorch—marks on the walls.
"Jees," Rubenstein muttered.
"What's the matter?"
"I tripped—this place is as dark as a closet."
"Just have to get your eyes accustomed," Rourke said quietly. "Close your eyes and count to ten, then open them. There's moonlight from outside—enough to see by if you look close."
"It looks like some sort of storeroom, back there, Rubenstein," Rourke said.
"Where? That door?"
"Yeah. Watch your step now," Rourke said. Then he picked his way across the rubble on the floor.
"It smells funny in here," Rubenstein said.
"Well, it isn't gas. More like burned flesh," Rourke said manter-of-factly.
"Burned what?"
"People, Rubenstein. Come on." He tried the doorknob, but the door didn't budge. Taking a step back, he raised his right leg and kicked. His foot smashed hard against the lock and the door fell inward.
"Just like in the movies," Rubenstein remarked. Rourke turned and looked at Rubenstein, saying nothing. The storage room, high-ceilinged and narrow, was darker than the store had been. Rourke waited in the doorway, letting his eyes become accustomed to the dimness.
"You must see real well in the dark," Rubenstein said.
"I do. But it has its disadvantages. If I don't wear sunglasses when I'm outside during the day, the brightness gives me headaches—bothers my eyes." He started into the storeroom. "Here, just a second," he said, and in a moment there was a soft clicking sound then a light. "Flashlight—the guy must have sold them. I had to find batteries for them. Here," Rourke said, handing the flashlight to Rubenstein, "Take this—I'll fix another one for myself."
"Isn't this stealing? I mean, couldn't we get shot as looters?"
"Yeah, we could," Rourke said, tightening his grip on the flashlight and flicking it on. "Not a very good flashlight," Rourke commented, flashing the anglehead light around the room. He stopped the beam at the high shelves at the back of the room.
"Look! What do you want for free?" Rubenstein commented.
"Yeah, I suppose you're right," Rourke said. "Give me a leg up so I can get to that top shelf."
"What leg up?" Rubenstein said.
"Here," Rourke said. "Put your hands together like that." Rourke put his right foot in Rubenstein's palms, then pushed himself up on the shelves.
"For a lanky guy, you're sure heavy," Rubenstein gasped.
Rourke stretched to reach the shelf, got a grip on a box, then slid down to the floor.
"What is that?"
"A Geiger counter. Looks like the last one he had. I have to put some batteries in it." He dropped to his knees, ripped open the box, then produced a dark-bladed knife and pried at the cowling on the machine.
"What kind of a knife is that?"
"Sting 1A black chrome—it's a boot knife," Rourke said absently. "Hand me some of those batteries from the shelf up there—the big ones." Rubenstein handed Rourke a half-dozen batteries. Rourke took what he needed and said, "Hold onto the rest of them. You might find a couple more flashlights and get them working. See if there's anything else we could use. A couple of good-sized hunting knives wouldn't be a bad idea. And see if you can find some compasses. Oh—the knives—look for thick blades rather than long ones."
"Gotcha," Rubenstein said. Rubenstein left the storeroom and Rourke finished placing the batteries, then replaced the cowling on the Geiger counter. He flicked the on switch and took the microphone-like attachment and swept it across his clothes. He watched the Roentgen reading, stripped off his jacket, then took another reading. He stood and stripped off the rest of his clothes and weapons, taking a reading on each item. His guns, the holsters, his knife, even the sweater he'd taken from his luggage in the cargo compartment—all were normal. The clothes he'd worn in the cockpit were reading high. He ran the counter over his skin and the reading was normal. His watch—the Rolex he habitually wore—was reading too high. He took it off and took another reading. His body was normal. He picked up his guns and knife and left the clothes in the storeroom, then walked back into the store, squinting as Rubenstein's light flashed across his face. "You're naked!"
"Yeah, aren't I though," Rourke said. "I took a Geiger counter reading. My clothes and everything must have gotten contaminated up in the cockpit. But my sweater, my guns—everything from the cargo hold—were fine. I even had to ditch my watch."
"That was a Rolex wasn't it? That's about fifteen hundred bucks"'
"A radioactive watch won't due me much good. Besides, I've got another one back at the plane," Rourke said. "Here," he said, "I'm gonna sweep your clothes with the counter. You might be hot, too."
Rourke checked Rubenstein with the wand of the Geiger counter and stepped back. "You should strip. Your clothes are contaminated."
"But I can't run around naked."
"Your choice, friend," Rourke said. "Would you rather get radiation poisoning?"
Rubenstein started to undress. Once the man was naked, Rourke ran the Geiger counter over him. "Get rid of your watch," he said.
"Sure," Rubenstein said, "You threw away a Rolex—I can throw away a Timex. What the hell, huh?"
"Come on," Rourke said. "That next block over looked pretty much untouched by the fire—maybe we can find a clothing store or something."
Rourke started out of the store, Rubenste
in behind him. "Jees—its cold."
"Here," Rourke said, and he tossed Rubenstein his sweater. "And watch your feet."
The double shoulder holster across his back, the rifle slung from his shoulder, the Geiger counter in his left hand and the flashlight in his right, Rourke started down the street toward the next block, aware of his nakedness only because of the night air. His main concern—and he began walking more rapidly—was the howling sound some distance behind him.
"What's that noise?" Rubenstein asked, a few feet behind Rourke. "Wild dogs—running in a pack," Rourke said, his voice even.
"A pack of hungry wild dogs, huh?" Rubenstein said. "And here we are, meat on the hoof, huh?"
"You've got the idea, Rubenstein," Rourke said, smiling. "And, speak of the devil."
Rourke stopped and turned, Rubenstein beside him now. The howling was louder, and at the end of the street in plain sight, less than fifty yards from Rourke and Rubenstein, stood six dogs. Five German shepherds and one Doberman.
"My God," Rubenstein muttered.
"The Lord helps those who help themselves, doesn't he?" Rourke said, snatching one of the Detonics pistols into his right hand. His knife was clipped to his shoulder rig, but his left hand was crowded with the Geiger counter, the flashlight, and a bag of spare ammo he had taken from the store.
"Here, hold my stuff," Rourke rasped.
"You just gonna stand here?"
"Yeah," he said. "Until they come at us in a run. Then I'm going to shoot them. Here—take the rifle in case I miss one of em."
"Oh," Rubenstein said, taking Rourke's SSG. "I never shot a gun in my life."
"First time for everything. Bet you never walked down the street naked before either."
"Well, yeah," Rubenstein said.
Rourke smiled, snatching the second Detonics from its holster.
The dogs started edging forward. "How good a shot are you?" Rubenstein asked, nervously.
"Not bad," Rourke said. "Better than average, I guess," he added.
