The Awakening

by neetha Napew

  Rourke didn’t open his eyes. “Stay outside with Natalia, son,” and then he opened his eyes and he stood, staring down at the dead clustered around him. He began to walk the length of the vault, stepping over the dead, stopping to examine a dead child or a dead woman or a dead man to be certain—but they were all dead.

  He found the old one, knowing it was the man Michael had spoken of. The watch chain—Rourke held up the key, letting it sway a moment pendulum fashion. Rourke shook his head, then bent to the man-he replaced the key and closed the man’s eyes.

  The far end of the room—he started toward it now. Cloth bags were there—the shapes were enough to show him, stacked one atop the other. Generations of the Families.

  He looked at the old one. “For what?” John Rourke whispered.

  He would not have expected an answer even if any of them had remained alive. There was a dead woman near his feet as he stopped near the vault door, her eyes dull but once pretty he knew. He looked at her right hand as he closed her eyes—the skin was rough textured from toil. If it were a symbol of poetic justice for the sins of her ancestors—if all of it were that, John Rourke thought. He shook his head, “Aww, shit,” and he stood up and walked back to the living.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  “They’re all dead—mass murder or mass sui­cide, I don’t know which,” Rourke told them as he walked, again Natalia and Michael flanking him. “The surgery was used for castrations—the Coun­sel of Ministers realized what they had done sending people out into the outside world. Some of them survived by eating the others and there was no other way for the Ministers to reduce their population without sending out surplus people. So, they castrated the men. The reason we only saw men outside was because of the few who were strong enough to stay alive and be accepted into the cannibals—the ones Madison calls Them— none were women.” And he looked at Natalia. “Even if you were out there, with no weapons, no martial arts training—you wouldn’t have had a prayer.”

  “I disagree,” Natalia said flatly.

  Rourke put his right arm around her shoulders for an instant, then found her left hand and held it as they continued walking. “Likely the cannibals had enough sense left that when their numbers began dwindling, they’d let new members in—and the food was less needed. Population control for the outside world as well. Involuntary—just like it was inside. You said,” and he looked at Michael, “that one or two of them shouted ‘meat’ as they attacked. They were probably some of the more recent acquisitions to the tribe—they still retained some language that was recognizable. There isn’t any village—they wander, eating what they can off the land and waiting for their ration of meat. And they were never disappointed. Never at all. But they can’t reproduce sexually at all. And with their meat supply gone, some of them will starve to death and the rest of them will just die off naturally. Ten years from now, maybe twenty— none of them will be left. It’ll be as if none of them ever existed. A five-centuries-old tribe, which split in two, completely extinct—except for Madison. Some of them—some of them out there now. Some of them still probably have language abilities, but using language like we know it would have been so rare that it just ceased being necessary. Some of them—we could probably talk with them, bring the language back to them.”

  “Isn’t there anything we can do?” Michael asked. “For Them—nothing. Their religion, their lifestyle, their ritual—all of it tied to receiving the human sacrifices. And they won’t have that anymore. We could try to teach them other ways— but they wouldn’t let us.” He had locked the vault door and taken Michael’s revolver and from a safe distance shot off the combination dial. It could never be opened without torches or explosives. “We have to get all the useful stuff from here that we can carry, then make it away from here.”

  “Madison told me there were rumored to be other exits from here.” “I could look for them—if we could find another way out, we could avoid another battle with the people outside. I don’t—“ Rourke looked at Natalia. “Agreed—there’s been enough death. Meet us back at the arsenal room—and be careful.”

  Natalia started to turn off and Rourke reached out to her. She looked back at him. “One hour or less,” and she glanced to the gold ladies’ Rolex on her left wrist, her left hand held in his right.

  “Agreed—one hour.” ^

  Rourke watched after her a moment and then tapped his son on the shoulder.

  “You’re a strong young man—that means you can carry a lot of stuff to the bikes.

  Come on.”

  Rourke started toward the arsenal room, his son beside him.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  She felt bone weary—the travel and the exertion through the thinner air had sapped her strength, she knew. But she forced herself into the gentle run as she moved along the corridor toward the conference room, one of the M-16s held at high port in her balled fists.

  She stopped, before the conference room doors.

  She started through, inside, past the conference table and the still-open safe, slowing now, stop-ping before the rear wail of the conference room. She had seen executive quarters in all parts of the world—the Kremlin, Washington, the corpora-don boardrooms of New York, Zurich. There was always a secret way in and out.

  “Always,” she whispered.

  As she began examining the wall surfaces, she thought of John Rourke—of his sadness. He had wanted for the world to be changed, for the evil to be gone from it. He had always, she knew, considered her naive. She smiled at the thought— for once she was the realist.

  Evil was as intrinsic to life as good.

  Her left hand stopped—she found a seam. Her right hand had the Bali-Song, the knife flicking open in her hand, the tip of the Wee-Hawk blade following the seam now, scratching the paint ever so slightly, but giving the seam in the wall greater definition.

  She dropped to a crouch, wiping the blade clean on the carpet, flicking the handle half to close the knife, thumbing closed the lock as she squeezed the handles tight together. She pocketed the Bali-Song, feeling down the length of the wall to the floor, a smile something she could feel on her lips as she found the floor seam, following this as well—she had found the door. She followed the seam out to where it stopped.

  Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna had one task remaining as she glanced at her ladies’ Rolex— more than a half hour remained before the rendezvous with John and Michael. She only had to find a way to open the secret door.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  With Michael, Rourke had emptied the arsenal room of all that the bikes could conceivably carry. He had taken no more M-16s—there was an abundance of the rifles and the ammo for them already stored at the Retreat, nor had he taken .45s, and for the same reason. The six Steyr-Mannlicher SSGs were the only long guns he considered potentially useful from the arsenal, spare maga­zines for these as well and several canisters of .308 to feed the sniper rifles. .44 Magnum ammo for Michael and 9mm Parabellum for Paul Ruben-stein and for the Walther P-38 pistol Natalia had selected. A half dozen boxes of .880 ACP for Natalia’s stainless PPK/S American, the silenced pistol she had carried in the final assault against the Womb. A stainless steel six-inch Python from the pistol cabinet, then considering, a second one, as well. Perhaps for Annie, perhaps just to hold in reserve.

  He had sent Michael on alone with the last batch of weapons and ammo for them, working fever­ishly to deactivate the weapons Natalia and Paul had not had the time to take care of earlier. To reactivate them, a machinist with gunsmithing abilities would be needed—he doubted any of the cannibals would qualify. He replaced the last of the revolvers—the firing pin removed—in the cabinet, dropping the firing pin with the others in the musette bag at his left side. He turned when he heard the sound of fingers rapping against a door frame, one of the Detonics Scoremasters coming from his trouser band into his right fist. But it was Natalia.

  She was smiling. “I found our door. Another air lock. It looks as though it was never used. I
opened it. It leads out on the far side of the mountain— there’s a valley beyond, I climbed up some distance. I got our bearings. We can ride through the valley and then go directly south for perhaps a day and then turn east and intersect our original trail here. It should even save us a day’s travel time and the path down from the doorway isn’t so steep that we can’t walk the bikes.”

  “What can I say?” Rourke smiled.

  “I know what you’ll say. Go get Michael and Paul and Madison and meet you by the doorway.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In the back wall of the conference room.”

  Rourke started toward the doorway. “We’ll get the others together—come on,” and he took her hand in his and started into the corridor.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  “Madison showed me the hydroelectric power plant for this place—it was only a matter of time. No one had repaired or serviced the generators for so long some of the parts were starting to seize with rust. They would have lost their electrical power here in another year at the most. And the backup generator was so heavily greased it wouldn’t have functioned,” Michael announced, walking beside his father.

  Rourke only nodded, turning into the corridor which led toward the conference room. He glanced back once—Michael was wheeling one of the Harleys, Paul another and Natalia a third. Madison—like Rourke—was festooned with ar­mament, bringing up the rear.

  “When we reach those doors, Natalia, you go first to lead the way—I’ll leave last in case anything goes wrong inside here,” Rourke or­dered. They were at the conference room doors now and Rourke stopped, letting Michael roll the Low Rider past him, then letting Natalia and Paul do the same with the other two bikes. As Madison passed through, looking nervously behind her, Rourke fell into step with her. “Relax,” he told her. “The worst is over—you and Michael will be happy together.”

  “But this place—the Place—I—“

  “It’s all right now—don’t worry, you’re safe,” and he stopped near the head of the conference table, Natalia pulling open the inside air lock door, Paul Rubenstein helping her.

  Natalia looked back once. “It’s very steep seeming—but it can be walked without difficulty, you’ll find. We’ll each need help getting the bikes over the door flanges here and beyond.”

  “Natalia can help me after I help her, John,” the younger man volunteered. “Ml take care of it on this end—Natalia, be careful,” Rourke told her matter-of-factly.

  Natalia smiled, nodding. Rourke stepped to the other side of her bike, helping her roll the Harley over the inside air lock flange—the air lock was similar to the type found on a submarine and, Rourke theorized, likely bought from surplus or manufactured to naval specifications in the same factory. Natalia’s bike was through, Rourke helping Rubenstein then. He heard Paul Rubenstein’s voice from beyond the interior air lock door. “Wait up a minute—have Michael wait—crowded in here—too crowded.” “Right,” Rourke called back—he looked at his son, standing beside Madison. “You two are next,” he told them. And then Rourke heard another sound—almost too low to hear but his hearing had always been good and he had always trained himself to listen for sounds that shouldn’t be there.

  This was such a sound—almost impossible to discern, it was the guttural cry of

  one of the cannibals and it came from beyond the conference

  %

  room doors and somewhere inside the Place.

  Chapter Sixty

  Michael had pushed Madison through the inside air lock door and swung his M-16 forward so rapidly that momentarily Rourke had been shocked by his son’s instant apprehension of the danger. He was learning, John Rourke thought. Rourke started toward the conference room doors, running now, the M-16 in his right hand. He called to his son, his voice a rasping whisper, “Don’t open lire—don’t make any loud noises. Let’s keep ‘em searching for us long enough to get everyone through. You go back—get Madison on the back of one of the bikes and ride like hell.”

  “I’m staying with you. We’re—“

  “Fighting together, that’s just what we’re doing. But the more people we have to get through that air lock the longer it’ll take. Just do as I say— I’m not plannin’ to wait around any longer than I have to. Have Paul ride with you—Natalia can be the last away. She’s gonna have to wait for me— we’re sharing the same bike.”

  His son’s brown eyes could only be described by one word, Rourke thought—intense. Michael Rourke extended his right hand. “Dad—“ Rourke took his son’s hand in his, then folded his arms around him. “I love you—now get out of here.” v He felt the pressure of his son’s arms embrace him for a moment, then Michael was starting in a long-strided run back toward the air lock. “If you aren’t following us in five minutes—well, Paul can carry double on his bike too and I’ll be back, Dad.”

  Rourke smiled at his son. “I know you will— now hurry,” and Michael started the last bike through the interior air lock door.

  Rourke worked the selector of the M-16 to auto, waiting. Rolling back the knit cuff of his battered brown bomber jacket, he glanced at the luminous black face of the Rolex Submariner—he would give Michael and the others three minutes only. No more would be needed.

  Rourke reached into his inside jacket pocket— he clamped the cigar, unlit, between his teeth, biting down hard on it, waiting. The shouts, the cries—they grew louder now.

  Footsteps behind him—Rourke wheeled, the M-16 low, his finger nearly touching the trigger. “Natalia—what the hell are—“ “Paul and I decided. Michael and Madison can make it on their own—Paul’s outside with the bikes.”

  Rourke shook his head, then turned back to the doorway, Natalia taking the opposite side, an M-16 locked in each fist. “When they come,” Rourke told her, “empty your guns down the center of the corridor and run for it. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Agreed—I love you.”

  “I love you too—what the hell we’re gonna do about it, I don’t know.”

  “Sarah will change her mind.”

  “I don’t think so—but she’s still my wife.”

  “I understand that—I always have. It doesn’t change how I feel.”

  “I know that,” Rourke told her. “I’m sorry—“

  “For the way you are? Don’t be—don’t ever be, John. If someday—well, then we will. But I don’t need that to love you, do you know that?” “Yes,” Rourke almost whispered. “I’m glad you’re with me.” He saw them—the first of the cannibals as they raced along the corridor from where the corridor bent. “Don’t shoot yet,” Rourke commanded. “I want the whole corridor full of them.”

  Natalia didn’t answer. Rourke shifted the M-16 from his right fist into his left. With his right hand, he drew one of the recently liberated Detonics Scoremaster pistols, jacking back the hammer, the chamber already loaded in this pistol as well as its twin still tucked into his belt. More of the cannibals, the cannibals filling the corridor. “Now!” Rourke shouted, pumping the M-16’s trigger in a three-round burst, Natalia stepping into the doorway, both M-16s spitting fire from her hands, the Scoremaster in Rourke’s right fist bucking again and again, waves of the cannibals going down, stone clubs launched toward them, falling just short of the doorway. “Empty!” Natalia shouted.

  fi

  “Run for it—I’ll cover you!”

  Rourke’s M-16 empty as well, two shots re­mained in the Scoremaster—Rourke fired them off, ramming the gun, slide locked open, into his waistband, drawing the second Scoremaster with his left fist, firing into the attacking cannibals. He started backing away from the doorway, more of them coming, many of them already wounded and bleeding. The second Scoremaster was empty. Slide locked open, he rammed this into his belt as well.

  The twin Detonics stainless Combat Masters— both fists found them, ripping them from the double Alessi shoulder rig, his thumbs jacking back the hammers. He was at the air lock doorway, cannibals charging now through
the conference room doorway, Rourke’s index fingers twitchingagainst the triggers, bodies going down.

  One pistol empty—the second empty now. Rourke turned, stepping through the doorway, throwing his weight against the air lock door, feeling suddenly weight—pushing at it. Then more weight as he threw his body against it—the door was being pushed open against him.

  A hand through the space between the door and the frame. The A.G. Russel Sting IA—Rourke stabbed the back of the hand with the small bladed knife, a scream of pain, a spurt of blood, the hand drawn back. Rourke dropped the knife. Behind him—Natalia’s voice. “John, run for it—we can get the second door together.”

  Rourke reached down for the Sting IA and ran, diving through the second door, rolling onto the rocks beyond, twisting, clambering to his feet, throwing his weight against the exterior air lock door, Natalia beside him. But the door would not close. “Paull” But Rubenstein was already beside them. “Who the hell’s on the other side of that door?”

  “A bunch of determined guys who don’t know any better—rugged outdoor life they lead, all that crap. Now push,” Rourke snarled, leaning into it as he fought the door.

  “It’s no good!” Natalia shouted.

  Rourke glanced behind him once, chewing down harder on his cigar. “Natalia, start Paul’s bike—then start our bike. Paul—when I count to five, make a run for your bike and—“ “It’s too steep that way,” Natalia interrupted. “We’ll have to cut across the mountain—there’s a better path on the far side that we can ride down.” “You heard her—then cut across. Natalia and I’ll be right behind you.”