by Jerry Ahern
They were incompatible— had always been. But had always loved each other.
They stopped as they reached the base of the defile. Sarah Rourke wondered if she would ever see John Rourke again, ever feel his hands on her skin— ever argue with him again.
"Bill—" she almost hissed the name, keeping her voice low.
"This way," he nodded.
She realized suddenly she had been pointing the muzzle of her rifle in the same direction he had picked— had he read it, realized she had wanted them to go that way because the ground was more even— seeming in the starlight and would be easier to traverse at a dead run if necessary?
She shuddered slightly— power.
Chapter Twenty-One
They had walked along the natural path in the woods for more than a half-hour, she judged, glancing at the watch carried in her jeans pocket. She would have to improvise a band for the Tudor so she could wear it on her wrist. That could come later, she thought— if there were one, a later.
For the last two minutes she had heard the telltale noises again. She had left Michael and Annie with Mary Mulliner, being practical and giving Michael her M-16— Mary was the worst shot Sarah had ever seen. She laughed at herself— before the Night of The War, she herself was the worst shot she had ever seen, would never have touched a gun except to move it out of the way when she dusted the house, would never have left her young son with a loaded gun in his hands.
The Trapper .45 felt good in her hand, her right fist clenched around it. She carried it cocked, her right thumb poised over the locked safety. She ducked under a low-hanging tree branch, the branch snagging at the blue and white bandana handkerchief covering her hair.
"Shit," she murmured. Bill turned, looking back at her, and she shook her head to signify nothing was wrong. Saying a word like that— she would rarely if ever have said it before the Night of The War. It was the people she had associated with since then, she thought— they swore sometimes. And now she did, too.
She kept moving, watching Bill Mulliner as much as she watched the trail and the shadows beyond it where the meager starlight didn't penetrate.
Sarah heard something— she wheeled, something hammering at her, driving her down.
Her thumb depressed the upped safety, the muzzle of the .45 searching a target as though it had become independent of conscious thought.
She found flesh, the pistol rammed against it, her first finger touching at the trigger.
"Sarah!"
The voice was low, a whisper, whiskey-tinged. The breath smelled of cheap cigars— "Sarah—
it's me—"
She edged her trigger finger out of the guard, finding the safety before she moved anymore. She sank her head against the man's chest. She had never thought she'd be so happy to see the Resistance leader, Pete Critchfleld.
"Pete." She said the name once and quietly— he was more competent than she. She needed that now.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The wood crackled as the cross burned and Cole felt somehow safer— He watched the wildmen, watching him now, puzzled that he too had ordered a cross erected, but only to burn it.
"When the hell somethin' gonna happen, captain?" It was Kelsoe, crouched beside him, Armitage sitting on the ground near where Teal was handcuffed to the pine tree.
"Soon, Kelsoe— real soon."
"Soon— they're gonna come down here and cut us up into little pieces, captain."
"Maybe," Cole nodded— he looked up at the wildmen on the ridge. "If they haven't yet— well, maybe they are gettin'—"
"Cole—"
It was Armand Teal. Cole turned, facing him, shifting his position on the ground, his legs stiff from squatting beside the burning cross. "Yes, colonel?"
"What the hell you plan to offer those lunatics— power. What power?"
Cole stood up, his legs unable to take it anymore, cramping. "Well— I guess you could call it the ultimate power. The power of the sun. The power to destroy—"
"You're gonna give them a goddamn missile?" Cole shrugged and turned away. There was movement now on the rise, the lines of gaping wildmen separating, forming almost a wedge as Cole watched, a new group of wildmen coming from the center of the wedge— they seemed better armed as best he could judge in the firelight and the light from the torches they carried.
"Throw down your weapons!" It was a voice, loud, powerful-sounding, coming from the opening in the wedge.
"No," Cole shouted back. "I come to offer you power— not to surrender myself and be killed!" He was gambling— he knew it.
"Throw down your weapons!" The voice sounded again, as if whoever spoke had not heard him.
"The ultimate power is what I offer— power undreamed of for your leader!"
A man stepped forward then. He held no torch. He held no rifle. What looked like a fur pelt— at the distance Cole could not tell if it was the skin of a dog or a bear— was draped around his shoulders. He seemed short, or perhaps only by comparison to the well-armed men with torches who flanked him. His body seemed thick— but it could have been the animal skin he wore like a robe.
The voice was not the one that had called for Cole to lay down his weapons.
It was higher-pitched, almost amused-sounding.
"An audacious man— there are hundreds of us. Four of you and one is apparently your prisoner. You offer me power— undreamed of, ultimate power? I like a sense of humor. My followers, I'm afraid, are relatively humorless types, as you might imagine. So— tell me. What's this ultimate power you offer me?"
Cole paused for a moment, then shouted back, "An eighty-megaton thermonuclear warhead mounted on an intercontinental ballistic missile, which I can arm and target."
The man on the ridge said nothing for a moment, then, "I am called Otis— who knows, we may become great friends."
Cole's palms stopped sweating and he wiped them, one at a time, along the sides of his fatigue clad thighs.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sarah sat in the darkness at the base of an oak tree, Bill Mulliner beside her, the children and Bill's mother further along in the woods with some of Critchfleld's men. Pete Critchfield sat opposite her, cross-legged, Indian fashion, shielding one of his foul-smelling cigars with his hand— she knew why. So the glow from the cigar's tip wouldn't show light. She wondered if it had ever occurred to Critchfleld that an enemy could track him simply by the smell.
"We can't wait none for the Resistance leadership— with David dead or captured—"
"God bless him," Sarah whispered.
"Amen to that," Bill Mulliner intoned.
"Yeah— Amen, but with him out of the picture now, we gotta act. There's a big supply base the Commies are runnin' out of Nashville— been hoardin' stuff there for the last few days. Even more stuff than they had—"
"For what?" Bill asked him.
"Beats the hell outa me, Bill— but they got stuff we need. Medical supplies for openers— I got three men with bad gunshot wounds back in the woods there— no ampicillin or nothin', and no painkiller. The one guy's so bad, got two fellas sittin' with him to keep his mouth shut if he starts screamin'— been pourin' whiskey into him—"
"It's not a stomach wound, is it?"
"No, ma'am— legs."
"You should be careful— alcohol's a depressant— depressants act funny with blood loss," she told him.
"Well, Sarah— I guess I jes' started a-callin' ya that, ma'am—"
"That's fine— Sarah's my name."
"Well, Sarah— seems to me we could use you helpin' out in two ways— lessen' you got yourself somewheres to go—"
She laughed. "Well, I had a dinner engagement—"
"I'd offer y'all some food, Sarah— but we ain't—"
"I ate this morning," she told him.
"They got food there too at that supply base. If n you could keep an eye on the wounded, tend to
'em maybe— well, you're pretty good with a gun, too, ma 'am. I seen ya, Sarah. You could do that
, maybe get your kids to help a might— that'd free up Bill and me and the men to hit that supply depot. We got two trucks stashed out in the woods. We can get to Nashville and be back soon enough—"
"If you come back," she said candidly.
"Well— ain't no arguin' that with ya, Sarah— that's a true fact."
"I'll play nurse," she nodded.
Sometimes, on the other hand, she reflected, being a woman, despite the lack of ego problems, was not such a good thing. "I'll play nurse," she said again.
Chapter Twenty-Four
He sat on the ground opposite Otis— the ground was the only place to sit and Otis seemed well at home sitting there, Cole thought.
"You must have a great number of questions."
"Who the hell are you people?" Cole began.
"We are the people who control the entire Pacific Northwest. Anyone who is obviously a stranger here is killed. Those who live here when they are encountered are taken prisoner, given the choice of joining, or dying. Most join. Some die."
"I don't know how many guys you got, Otis— but no way you'd be able to take on a real army."
"That could be a problem someday, I suppose." Cole watched Otis's eyes in the firelight. They were a light brown color, lighter in shading than Cole had ever imagined a human being's eyes could be. "Someday, you and I maybe'll be enemies, Otis— but now we can be allies. There are six missiles."
"So you have said."
"I need five only— you can have the sixth."
"But Captain Cole— why don't I just kill you and take the missiles?"
"A bomb blast with any conventional explosive you name won't get through those doors into the bunker. Use something too big and you'll destroy the launching equipment inside. And you don't know how to arm the missiles or how to target them. I do, only I do."
"I can have you taken prisoner and tortured, then," Otis smiled. "You see, before the war— I assume it was a war, wasn't it?"
"The United States and Russia— yeah. It was a war."
"Well— before the war, I was arrested and tried for a multiple homicide. I was acquitted— lack of evidence. But I became a cult figure. I was guilty, of course. There were people who wanted to follow me. We came up here, into the mountains, and I was able to live like a tribal chieftain. You see, I studied social anthropology and group dynamics and comparative religions— all that. I made my own religion. This was before the trial. During the trial, the publicity generated caused my star to rise, so to speak. After this— this war, well— it was natural for me to provide order where there was chaos—"
"A religion?"
"More or less— all that is foreign is corrupt, evil. Other races are to be despised— from the cross you burn, I can see you may have heard of such an ideology—"
"The truth is universal," Cole told him.
"Truth? Hardly. But," Otis smiled, "if my followers believe it, I suppose there's no reason you shouldn't too. You see, I ran what the police might call a religious scam— a cult that took money from people for things like prayer shawls, incense, promised miracle cures— we collected many thousands of dollars in money left to us by the faithful. A black gentleman— quite rich— came to me, partook of our prayers and curses— he left his entire fortune to us. A sizable fortune. I broke into his home with two of my— my followers— and I killed him. His whole family, as well, so no one could contest his will. Unfortunately, a neighbor heard the screaming and police arrested us. My two followers committed suicide as I'd ordered them to. The papers were full of racial remarks attributed to me, ideals of racial superiority and a master race— all that drivel. After the acquittals well— certain types of people were drawn to me. Then this war thing and—
well— here we are, aren't we. I mean, I can certainly have you tortured."
"To tell you stuff, yeah," Cole nodded. "But not to make me actually arm and target the missiles. You could never know if I did it right, could you?"
"I suppose not," Otis laughed. "A man after my own heart. And what do you propose to do with your five missiles?" Otis laughed again. "I mean, if that isn't prying, of course?"
"The Russians occupy much of the East Coast and Midwest— what they didn't bomb out of existence."
"Really— hmmph."
"They use Chicago as their headquarters—"
"A lovely city, Chicago."
"Five eighty-ton warheads will obliterate the entire Soviet High Command in the United States, and tons of supplies, thousands of troops— the land war they're fighting with China is already draining them— they'd never be able to reinvade America and they wouldn't waste their missiles on us— they used most of them during the Night of The War—"
"Is that what you call it?" Otis asked. "Very nice ring to it— the Night of The War. Yes— I like that— I'll incorporate that in my ritual, if you don't object."
"We'd be free again, Otis— kill the fuckin' Commies, then track down the Jews and the niggers that helped 'em along, got them the footholds they needed— make this a country for Americans again."
"Wouldn't many of your Americans— I mean the white, Christian ones— wouldn't they die during this missile strike you propose?"
"Not more than a couple hundred thousand— a million or so at the most— and they'd willingly give their lives if I told them, explained it to them— they would."
"Would they? I wonder."
"They would," Cole told him, trying to reason with him. "First the Commies, then the scum that helped them come to power— get the United States back, build up a supply of warheads again while the Commies fight each other in China— then launch on China and Russia— kill 'em all. Make the world a decent place to live in again. Give our children a world where they can grow up safe— where white girls don't have to—"
"I don't doubt the sincerity of your convictions, captain— but isn't four hundred megatons a bit much for one city?"
"No— we've gotta be sure."
"Yes— we would be sure that way."
"You talked about torture— that man there, the air force colonel— he knows where the bunker is located. If you could—"
"I know where the bunker is located— I always wondered what they kept there. But as to the torture part, well— why don't we give him to my people— they've been so patient. We can let them amuse themselves with him while we discuss some of the fine points of our agreement."
"Then you'll help me to fight for America?"
Cole didn't like Otis— he couldn't understand why the man simply sat there, saying nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rourke watched the bonfires below him and far to port. It would be the wildmen— perhaps they had trapped Cole, he thought. He heard the voice coming through his headset.
"John— do you see those fires?"
"The wildmen."
"Should we go in?"
Rourke didn't answer her for a moment. Teal could be down there. But if Cole were still in control of his small party of men— and of Teal— Teal would be alive until the missile silos and the control bunker were reached, penetrated. If a stray shot from the wildmen disabled one of these two last functional helicopters, bringing back a full, heavily armed landing party from the submarine would be impossible.
"No, Natalia— we keep going to the coast," he said finally into the small microphone just in front of his lips, a cigar clenched— unlit— in the left corner of his mouth.
"All right," he heard her voice come back. "You are a strange man," her voice sounded in his ear after a moment.
"Why is that?"
"I would have expected you to storm in there— like that story Paul tells about you riding your Harley into the Brigand camp in the desert and killing the leader, then—"
Rourke thought back— it seemed so long ago. He remembered Paul then— like two different people in terms of skills and abilities. He studied the lights on the instrument panels. "That served a purpose," he told her.
"Revenge?"
"Yes."
/>
"And now the purpose is—" She let the question hang.
"Keep Cole from launching those missiles— it's the only thing he can be planning. The only thing. Millions of lives maybe— against one life."
He wondered if Armand Teal would understand. Rourke smiled to himself— he wondered if he himself understood it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It felt primitive— that was the word, Cole thought. "Primitive," and he verbalized it, watching Teal, tied to one of the crosses, a large man using a knife whose blade gleamed orange in the firelight near the foot of the cross, slicing skin in narrow strips from Armand Teal's legs.
Teal had stopped screaming, only moaning incoherently now as the knife edged slowly upward.
"It's an art— like everything done with skill," Otis explained, standing beside him. "To torture without inducing total unconsciousness or death is a precision craft. My man Forrester does it with such consummate grace— I rarely tire of watching him. He seems always to find a new and more subtle variation— oh, there— watch!"
Otis was gesturing now, enthused for the first time since Cole had seen him.
Cole watched, too.
Forrester was holding the naked Teal's testicles, using a different knife now— small-seeming.
"That's as sharp as a razor— as they say," Otis whispered conspiratorially and smiled. "What he's doing I've only seen him do once before— it's wonderful."
Cole thought Otis was insane— but he watched anyway, almost compelled to. The man with the knife— the one Otis had called Forrester— was seemingly shaving Teal's testicles.
"He's removing the upper layer of skin— but so slowly and patiently as to prevent most bleeding. Then— after that, he'll move to the—"
"I don't wanna—"
"Ohh— but it's exquisite. One of the women will come up to him— arouse him— and— well, he bleeds to death, captain—"
Cole turned his face away— he threw up across the top of his combat boots.
"Really, captain— for a man who wishes to slaughter so many— well, I hardly see where this should be—"
