The End is Coming ts-8

by Jerry Ahern

  He held the wheel as long as he dared, then threw himself down to the floor over the hump, his body shuddering as he felt the impact, heard the twisting and tearing of steel. Smoke—he smelled gasoline fumes.

  His back hurt a little—he pushed himself up.

  Natalia was already up— “I’ve got the packs and everything—all the gear— “

  “Out of the car and—”

  “Run like hell,” she almost laughed, Rourke see-ing her streak through the rear driver’s side door and out, Rourke, the L-Frame in his belt now be-side the Detonics, half rolling, half falling from the driver’s side of the front seat.

  On his feet, his hands grabbing at the lapels of the overcoat, ripping it free of his body as he ran—

  He felt it—like a giant’s breath blowing at him, throwing himself to the road surface, shouting to Natalia,

  “Down!”

  He shielded his face and head, the roar of the explosion—the gas tank—deafening as it echoed from the steel of the bridge above him and below.

  The bridge shook—Rourke’s mind raced—if it collapsed it collapsed—

  The shaking stopped, and John Rourke looked up, the crackle of the fire from the LTD that had served them so well all that he could hear over the ringing in his ears. And Natalia was beside him—holding him.

  Chapter Forty-six

  The Low Alpine Systems Loco pack on his shoulders, his guns back where they belonged, Na-talia’s hands cleaned and clothing checked for fleas or ticks, they walked through the under-ground now—gray light in patches only through gratings leading up to the street. If he remembered his Chicago streets well enough, they had a short distance only to go until coming up on Lake Street between Michigan and Wabash.

  But Rourke stopped—hearing sounds.

  “Dogs?” Natalia whispered hoarsely.

  The growling sounds increased.

  “Not dogs—” and he looked back—shadowy figures moved in the edge of light from the still burning Ford—it looked like one of the figures carried a human limb. “Imagination,” he whis-pered, more to himself than Natalia.

  He risked no flashlight, moving ahead.

  The growling sounds again.

  Natalia close beside him, Rourke hearing the telltale click of the selector on her M-16. Rourke spoke into the darkness. “If you’re hungry—there are dead men all over the bridge behind us. We’re heavily armed and in too much of a hurry to be gentle—let us pass and we’ll leave you unharmed.”

  The growling sounds again.

  “John!”

  And then Rourke heard a voice, nearly human sounding, “A woman—”

  Rourke turned toward the origin of the voice in the darkness. “Let it be—or you’re meat, too.”

  “Woman!” It was another voice now. “Woman!” Still another. And then, like chanting,

  “Woman—woman—woman—woman—wo-man—” and with each repetition, the chanting grew louder, voices adding to it.

  “I guess they aren’t just hungry,” Rourke ob-served, Natalia close beside him—very close.

  “Woman—woman—woman—woman—wo-man—woman—woman—”

  Rourke raised the Kel-Lite in his left fist, high over his head, snapping the switch—eyes glowed in the beam of the flashlight, more eyes than he could count, human eyes, but strangely not hu-man. To Natalia, Rourke rasped, “Stay close to me—we’re backing out of here—I am—you walk forward—we stay back to back—shoot anything that moves—when we reach what looks like a ramp, take the left and start up it.”

  “I’m afraid,” she whispered.

  “Me too,” he told the darkness where she was.

  He felt her move, felt her rear end pressing against him, as they stood back to back.

  “Start walking,” Rourke almost whispered.

  “Woman—woman—woman—woman—wo-man—woman—woman—”

  Rourke pumped the M-16’s trigger once, a short, two-round burst— “Automatic weapons—you don’t stand a chance—”

  There was a moan in the darkness.

  The chanting never stopped, “Woman—wo-man—woman—woman—woman—”

  “On my left, your right,” he heard Natalia whis-per—

  Rourke shot a glance right—movement in the shadows, and now, above the chanting he could hear the shuffling of feet.

  Rourke killed the light, ramming it into his belt as he swung the muzzle of the M-16 left to right and back left, pumping the trigger, fighting the muzzle climb, blowing half a magazine into the darkness— “Run for it—fast!”

  Rourke reached into the darkness—he had Na-talia’s shoulder—he knotted his fist into her pack-strap, running beside her on her right, firing into the darkness, Natalia firing now, but louder than the firing, the chanting, “Woman!”

  They ran toward the brighter grayness that would be the exit up to Lake Street, and as the light grew, Rourke’s fear grew—flanking them and behind them were men, dozens, more than that—clubs, machetes, axes in their hands, trash can lids held like shields, men in rags, filth seem-ing to drip from them, their flesh as gray as the light, and as one man can—Rourke almost retched and he heard Natalia gasp, almost scream—the man chewed a still living rat, the rat between the man’s teeth. The M-16 was empty, Rourke taking no time to reload or shift to another firearm—almost drag-ging Natalia with him as they ran.

  The ramp up to Lake Street—they turned into it, the darkness of the outside world bright by comparison, running up the steep incline, rocks and bottles pelting the street beside them, win-dows in the buildings on both sides smashing as faces appeared there—the chanting— “Woman!”

  He didn’t know whether they wanted to con-sume her flesh, rape her, or do both simultane-ously—they were insane.

  An automobile, wrecked, and then another—they were being pushed into the mouth of the street, blocking them into the ramp—flame—one automobile, then the second—afire now, the howling chants from behind them louder, from both sides of them as more rocks and bottles hammered down toward them.

  Rourke rammed a fresh magazine into the M-16, shouting to Natalia over the screaming and wailing din— “Your purse—protect your face with it—I’ll take care of the shooting!”

  He looked at her once—terror in her eyes—and she obeyed, her M-16s swinging on their slings, her black shoulder bag up over her head as she bent into the run.

  Rourke fired his M-16 to right and left, into the windows of the flanking buildings, to stop the fu-sillade of rocks and bottles and bricks and chunks of paving stones.

  Natalia stumbled—he could see her—but she kept running as a brick hammered against her, bouncing from her backpack—a bottle thudded against Rourke’s face, his right cheek taking the impact—he lost his cigar butt.

  The bottle shattered at his feet as he ran.

  The M-16 was empty and he let it fall to his right side on its sling, Rourke’s hands going under his coat, finding both Detonics pistols, firing one from each hand simultaneously as they raced for the burning cars blocking their path.

  Men—if men they still were—were beside the burning cars, hurtling rocks and bottles. Rourke killed as many as he could until the pis-tols came up empty. Actions still open, he rammed both pistols into his belt, taking the Colt Government model, working the slide, jacking a round into the cham-ber, firing as he ran.

  Natalia’s purse was back at her side—her re-volvers in her hands, belching fire, thundering as she ran toward the burning automobiles.

  The .45 was empty, Rourke rammed it into his belt—crowded with the twin Detonics pistols al-ready there. The Python. He drew with his right hand, shifting to his left. He found the two-inch Lawman in the Thad Rybka holster in the small of his back, the Lawman in his right fist—both re-volvers firing. Natalia’s revolvers were empty, he realized—the revolvers gone, the second M-16 in her hands, spitting fire.

  Rourke’s revolvers emptied as they reached the burning cars, few of the men there now, some run-ning, most dead.
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  Rourke holstered his revolvers, his hands going out to Natalia—there was a section of the barrier already burned out— “Don’t touch the metal—jump when I get you up there—hurry!”

  Rourke had her up in his arms, her feet on the blackened hood of a wrecked Cadillac, and she ran one step, jumped—he heard her scream.

  “Shit!” Rourke snarled—he ran back from be-side the cars, the CAR-15 his only loaded gun now as he threw himself into a dead run for the Cadil-lac’s hood—he jumped, nearly slipping, the metal hot through the soles of his combat boots as he jumped clear, Natalia on the other side of the bar-ricade, the silenced Walther in her right fist, the slide back—the gun was empty. She crashed it down across the face of a rag-clad man grabbing for her—the man fell in a heap at her feet.

  More men coming for her—the chanting loud now from both sides of the burning barrier, Rourke’s CAR-15 firing from his right hand—the trigger pumping, bodies falling as he closed to-ward her, killing his way to her.

  The Bali-Song knife was in her right hand, the fancy Gerber-Mk II in her left, men lunging for her—not attacking, but wanting to grab her, he re-alized—to touch her.

  The knives flashed, like a well-practiced martial arts Cata, ears, hands, noses, and fingers falling to the sidewalk as she fought.

  Rourke’s CAR-15 empty, he worked the tele-scoped stock like a club, a horizontal butt stroke to the face of one of the men, a forward butt stroke to another, using the flash deflector like a bayonet now, knifing down, slashing across the neck and face of another.

  The big Gerber from his belt—it was in his right hand now as he let the rifle fall on its sling—he hacked with it, like a short sword, slicing across faces and necks, stabbing out with it—the attack-ers were endless.

  Natalia screamed to him— “John!” She had fallen—at least six men lunging for her.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Rourke threw himself toward the men, his left foot snaking out as he half wheeled right, the sole of his combat boot impacting a jaw in a double Tae-Kwon-Do kick, his right hand still holding the knife stabbing into a second man.

  He finished the turn, his right foot in a short, jabbing kick to the groin of a third man, Rourke’s knife blade hacking upward, catching the nose and cheek—ripping flesh as blood sprayed. He wheeled again, his right elbow hammering back as a man came from his right flank, the point of his elbow contacting bone—Rourke hissing with the pain—but feeling bone crunch, not his own. He sidestepped, knifing another man in the throat, as a swordsman would make his lunge, Rourke’s left hand stabbing outward, the middle knuckle impacting beneath the nose of another man, breaking it, bringing the bone up and punc-turing the ethmoid bone—the nose driven up into the brain, the man’s eyes rolled as he fell back dead.

  The knife in his right hand flashed again—slick and red and wet with blood now—chopping through the neck of another man.

  And Rourke was beside Natalia, Natalia up, her knives working, cutting and stabbing. Rourke stabbed a man with a club—in the cen-ter of the adam’s apple—he withdrew the knife, finding a spare magazine for one of the .45s—one of the eight-round extension magazines. He but-toned out the magazine in the big Colt, losing it on the sidewalk, ramming the fresh magazine home, working down the slide stop—he fired point blank, shooting away the face of one of the attack-ers, the Gerber in his left fist now slashing out-ward—another man down.

  He fired the .45 a second time and a third, two men going down— “An opening, John!”

  It was Natalia—he looked to his right, pumping the trigger of the Colt again—another man down—an opening in the wall of attackers, Nata-lia running for it, Rourke almost shoving her ahead. He fired the .45 into the gaping mouth of a man with a machete—

  Natalia was through the opening, the opening closing, Rourke hacking it open again with the knife, blasting it open with the remaining rounds in the magazine of his one loaded pistol. He was through, Natalia looking behind her as she ran—she was loading an M-16, perhaps twenty yards ahead of him.

  He ran for her—Natalia shouted, “John—flat on the ground!”

  Rourke threw himself forward and down, roll-ing, gunfire over his head, Natalia’s M-16, firing into the wall of attackers as they pursued.

  On his back, Rourke dropped his knife, rammed the Colt into his belt, found the M-16—he snatched two spare magazines, both from the musette bag at his left side, buttoning out the spent magazine, letting it be lost, ramming one of the two fresh sticks up the well of the assault rifle, working the bolt release—

  He was rolling again, Natalia’s rifle empty—

  The Gerber in his left fist along with the spare thirty-round stick for the M-16, Rourke was up, pumping the M-16’s trigger, cutting down men in waves as they ran from the still burning barricade. And then Rourke started to run, firing out the stick, dropping the empty to the pavement, ram-ming the fresh one home, hands reaching for him—he hacked out with the knife, hearing a shriek of pain. He wheeled, firing point blank into four men, cutting them down.

  The nearest of the pursuers was ten yards back—but there were dozens behind this nearest man. Rourke ran, Natalia running just ahead of him, her M-16 spitting three-round bursts—bright tongues of yellow light in the night—

  Rourke’s breath was coming in gasps—his M-16 firing behind him, he ran. Michigan Avenue—Natalia turned right—in-stinctively, he thought, heading for the lake, for her uncle, despite the KGB, despite the fact that she was wanted—dead. Rourke was after her, firing out the M-16, drop-ping out the empty to the sidewalk, Natalia run-ning diagonally across Michigan Avenue, toward the park between Michigan Avenue and the lake, Rourke after, a fresh magazine going up the well of the M-16.

  Behind him as he reached the opposite curb—the pursuers had stopped.

  “John!”

  Natalia’s hoarse whisper from the darkness be-side a statue.

  Rourke ran to her, his stomach aching with the exertion, his breath in short gasps—he coughed, fresh loading the CAR-15 - he had lost three M-16 magazines—but he had plenty more. He had lost one .45

  ACP magazine, standard Colt—but it had been an ordinary magazine and was not irreplace-able. They had burned he didn’t know how many hundred rounds of ammo.

  “Get that—that—that—the eight hundred-round box—bottom of my pack—strapped there—reload magazines.”

  He heard Natalia— “Yes.” He felt her working at his back to remove the ammo box. He dropped to his knees beside the statue, both Detonics pistols reloaded, the Colts—all three re-loaded as Natalia loaded thirty-round magazines from the box.

  He started reloading his .45 magazines—the eight-round Detonics extension magazine, the smaller magazines for the little Detonics pistols— “What the hell stopped those crazy people?”

  “We’re in Grant Park,” she answered. “The ur-ban Brigands I spoke of—these ones are armed, perhaps as well as we are. And they cut the heads off their victims to show they don’t like intruders. I don’t know where they live—but between here and the band shell—a no man’s land—not even our patrols will go into the park at night unless they have infrared equipment.”

  Rourke looked at her, feeling sweat drip off his face. He found one of his cigars, chewed down on it, lit it—coughed as the smoke entered his lungs. “So between us and your uncle—more loonies?”

  Natalia nodded, lighting a cigarette. “Yes—more—more of them.”

  He wondered what they could be like—if the crazy men from the underground were afraid. “Let’s go—right up the middle,” he told her.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  They had left the metal ammo box behind, the remaining cardboard boxes of twenty 5.56mm Ball divided between Rourke’s pack and Natalia’s—equally.

  They moved at a fast commando walk, through the middle of the park. A bright moon, Rourke could see the trees—dead and leafless. The grass beneath their feet, he knew, was dead too.

  The neutron bombing.
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br />   They walked on.

  “Any idea how we’ll get to your uncle—once we get to the museum?”

  “The museum guards are army—or at least they were—and they are loyal to my uncle and to me—my uncle would assume, I think, that we can get inside—”

  “I hope you’re right,” Rourke told her softly, walking.

  Dead trees flanked them now as briefly they stepped into a paved walkway—the most direct route across the park, if he remembered it correctly. On business in Chicago, he had frequently stayed in Michigan Avenue hotels and walked the park to unwind, to relax. He tried making the memories surface, to guide him.

  The noise of a whistle stopped him.

  “The Brigands,” Natalia whispered.

  “No guns unless we have to,” Rourke cautioned. They were too close to the hub of Soviet activity and gunfire might bring the whole KGB down on them.

  Rourke’s right hand went to the big Gerber knife, his left snatching out the black chrome AG Russell Sting IA.

  He heard the clicking sound of Natalia opening and closing the Bali-Song—it was advertising— “Don’t tread on me,”—and also on her nerves, he thought.

  A man shape stepped out of the dead trees into the gray gloom.

  “Nice night for a walk in the old park, ain’t it?”

  Rourke answered him—the voice more New York-sounding than mid-western, Rourke thought.

  “Yeah—nice and romantic—listening to the whistle of the punks in the trees, the moon-light—whole nine yards.”

  “You Russians?”

  Natalia answered him, “I am Russian—”

  “Hey—sexy voice, lady—real sexy—what you look like without your clothes?”

  “Yeah—me—I wanna see—right now—” An-other figure stepped from the trees. Then another and another and another, finally perhaps eighteen of the urban Brigands flanking them on both sides, as the trees flanked them.

  “You forced this, didn’t you,” Natalia whis-pered.

  “Better than havin’ them stalk us in the park,” Rourke smiled.