The Web s-5

by Ahern, Jerry

  He let the bike skid out, jumping clear of it, the machine sliding across the road surface as he rolled. The Harley stopped in a snowbank to the far right of the road; Rourke landed flat on his stomach on the ice and snow.

  He looked up, shaking his head to clear it.

  He pushed himself up with his hands, slowly rising to his feet, pulling off his right glove, clutching the wrist hole tight in his left fist to retain the warmth inside. Then, with his right hand, he took off the glasses that had protected his eyes. He realized also that he was tired, fast approaching exhaustion; and with the cold, that could be fatal. He moved slowly, carefully toward his bike. It was in a snowbank, the snow having cushioned its impact. It appeared totally undamaged.

  "Lucky," he murmured. He reached down and shut off the key, putting the glasses into an inside pocket of the jacket first. Squinting against the ice, he looked around him; he needed shelter. To his left—to the east—the

  clouds had a strange glow. Radiation? He shook his head, dismissing the thought. He could be dying at this very instant, he realized, if the snow that fell on him was irradiated. He would worry about that later.

  But there was a subtle glow and trails of fire were visible; and as the cloud patterns shifted in the wind, the glow remained, as if it emanated from the ground.

  If things had been normal, he would have labeled the glow as the lights from—he verbalized it—"A town—a town. A town." It looked to be about two or three miles away, but he realized that with the darkness and the snow and the cloud layers the distance judgment he made could have been self-deceptive. , He gloved his right hand again, working his fingerfs which were already stiffening.

  There were two possibilities: to fabricate a shelter which would give marginal protection from the wind and no protection from the cold, or to go to the source of the lights. He had passed a side road turnoff a half-mile back; it likely led toward the source of the lights. The general direction seemed the same, although mountain roads, winding like Christmas ribbons across the landscape and really leading nowhere, could be deceptive as to direction. But along such a road there would be farms, homes—he decided.

  His best chance for shelter was along the side road, though the snow would be heavier there.

  He wrest/ed the Harley up, straddling it, starting it, the engine rumbling; his gas gauge was low, very low. Rourke fought the machine back out of the snowdrift and arced it around. If he kept the speed low enough . . .

  When more Brigands had started arriving—some sort of conclave she wondered?—she had awakened the children; then as silently as possible, she led them and the horses down on the far side of the rise—away from the Brigand camp, into the mounting storm. As Sarah rode Tildie now, the horse's body white-coated with the snow and ice, she wondered if it had been a wise decision—the right one? What would John have done? Would he have—?

  "Mommie?"

  She shook her head, smiling as she turned around. "What is it, Annie? Are you cold?"

  "No—I'm letting her hug me—she isn't—"

  "I am cold," Annie interrupted Michael. "I'm cold. I'm cold."

  "Slow up, Michael," Sarah told her son, wanting him to rein in Sam.

  Michael didn't argue; she guessed he was cold, too. "Here." She reined Tildie around, then came up beside her children. She took the blanket which she had wrapped around her and put it around Annie's shoulders, wrapping her and Michael in it, pinning the blanket with her shaking hands across Michael's chest.

  "But now you're gonna be cold, Mom," Michael protested.

  "No. I won't lie and say I was too warm before, but I'll be fine. That should be better now," she said, turning to Annie. She stuffed her hands back into her gloves. She knew it wouldn't really be better; blankets only served to retain body warmth, not promote it, and both of the children were rapidly losing theirs. Again she wished for John to be there. He was a doctor, and among other things an expert on cold-weather survival.

  She urged Tildie forward, telling Michael, "Stay here a minute. I'm going up that rise to see where we are^ maybe."

  f

  "We can come," Michael insisted.

  "AH right—but stay well behind me—no sense wearing out Sam more than you have to."

  She rode toward a tall stand of pines, the modified AR-across her saddle, cold against her thighs. If a Brigand conclave was on, then there would be Brigands traveling through the area, toward it.

  Urging Tildie up the rise with her knees, her left hand holding the reins, she clutched the AR-pistol grip in her gloved right fist. "Come on, Tildie—just a little while longer," she cooed. Sarah glanced behind her once— Michael and Annie were coming, slowly, as she wanted them to.

  Michael, like his father, stubborn, arrogant, but reliable—a man she could count on more than he knew.

  She was tempted to call out to the children, telling Michael to save Sam the haul up the rise, but she didn't, lest there be Brigands nearby she couldn't see.

  Her eyelashes were encrusted with ice, the sleet and snow blowing against her face. She reached the top of the

  rise, reining Tildie back. "Whoa—easy," she cooed again.

  Beyond the rise was the Savannah River and suddenly, she knew where she was. Lake Hart well would be nearby—in the distance, she could see the Hartwell dam. John had taken her there once with the children for a tour of the dam structure, and several times she had gone to the lake itself with John and the children—swimming.

  The thought of plunging her body into water now chilled her. She trembled, then trembled again, remembering John's hands on her once as they'd lain by the lake, their bodies wet and mostly naked, the children splashing in the water at its edge.

  She turned to call out to Michael that everything was all right. Tildie reared; Sarah was thrown back in the stock saddle, a gunshot punching into the snow by the animal's front hoofs.

  Sarah glanced to her right. Out of the pines were coming men and women, ragged, running, snow-covered, rifles and handguns in their hands, curses coming from their lips—and threats.

  "Shit!" she screamed, wheeling Tildie, fighting -tc control the animal, and swinging the rifle up as she reined the horse under her. Her stiff-with-the-cold righl thumb worked the selector to full auto position; her first finger twitched against the trigger. A short burst fired across her saddle; flowers of red blotched the ice-encrusted chest of the lead man. The man lunged toward her and the horse, an ax in his hands. They weren't Brigands; they were starving men and women, people who—she fired again, at another man starting to fire a shotgun. Sarah shot him in the face and neck, then

  screamed, "Michael—get Sam going. Get Annie out of here!"

  Sarah dug her heels into the frightened horse she rode; Tildie leaped ahead, back down the rise. A woman was lunging for her, out of the trees, a knife in bony hands held like a stake that was to be driven into someone's heart. Sarah pumped the AR-'s trigger again. The woman's body rocked back, spinning, then falling, a ragged line of red across the threadbare clothes covering her body.

  She knew what they wanted now—the horse for food, the weapons for defense, her life and the children's lives/ "Michael—get out of here," she shouted again, kneeing Tildie onward.

  The pine boughs to her left shuddered, and in the darkness against the whiteness of the snow, she could see a man coming out of the trees, running toward her. She recognized what he had in his right hand—a machete.

  He threw himself toward Tildie, into the animal's path. Tildie rearing under her, Sarah reined up, as the machete sliced toward Tildie's neck.

  The reins came away in Sarah's hands. She reeled back as the man sliced his blade again. Her left hand, still clutching at the useless reins, reached downward, snatching at Tildie's bridle. Sarah kneed the animal.

  "Come on, girl!"

  Tildie leaped forward. The man hacked with his machete, but fell aside at the impact of the animal. Then he w
as on his feet and running after her as Sarah glanced back. She loosed the bridle, snatching at a generous handful of flowing ice-encrusted mane, and digging her heels into the bay mare's sides, coaching her. "Up, Tildie—up, girl.' The animal responded, charging ahead

  and down the rise.

  Ahead of her now, she could see Michael's horse, Michael and Annie aboard it. The thought suddenly startled her—Michael's horse. It was John's horse. Two figures wrestled against the front of the animal, reaching for the reins. Michael edged the animal back from them. She saw something flash against the snow, heard a scream; Michael had a knife. Where had he gotten it?

  One of the two figures fell away, the second dove toward the two children in the saddle.

  Sarah hauled back on Tildie's mane, the animal slowing, skidding along the snow on its haunches. Sarah's right hand brought the rifle up to her shoulder, her finger reached for the trigger. "Help my aim, God," she breathed, twitching the trigger as Tildie settled; the man, reaching for Michael and Annie, spun, fell.

  "Get going, Michael!" Sarah screamed. Sam spurred ahead as she saw Michael kicking at him with his heels. Sarah dug in her knees, and Tildje started after him.

  There was a burst of gunfire from behind her now, and Tildie started to slip on a patch of ice beneath her. Sarah felt the animal going down, perhaps wounded; she threw herself free of the animal's bulk, into the snow. Her back ached as she impacted, the rifle skittering across the ice, back toward Tildie.

  Sarah rolled onto her belly and screamed, "No!" She pushed herself up to her knees. The burly man with the machete who'd tried for her back in the pines was coming.

  Sarah glanced toward Tildie; the mare was up, apparently unhurt. Sarah started to her feet, running toward her rifle, then for the horse. She slipped, falling

  forward, the rifle still several feet from her. She rolled onto her side, fumbling under the shaggy woolen coat she wore, under her sweater and her T-shirt, for John's Government Model .. She had it out, in her right hand, her right thumb cocking the hammer as the man with the machete shrieked and threw himself toward her.

  Her first finger pumped the trigger. The . rocked in her right hand, and the massive body rolled toward her.

  Her mind flashed—why did all the others look half-starved when this man was fat?

  As his body rolled toward her, she knew why. Around his neck was a necklace; the teeth were human. /

  "You bastard!" she screamed as his head lolled toward her and he started pushing himself off the ice, the left hand, blood dripping from the arm, reaching for her. She fired the ., into his face, once, twice, then a third time.

  She edged back across the ice, the gun held out ahead of her, toward the pulp of face, as if coming in contact with his flesh would disease her.

  "Bastard," she screamed.

  She heard Tildie's whinnie, then rolled onto her belly, reaching out for the AR-, pulling it toward her, firing it out at the others as they charged toward her. The rifle empty, she stopped firing and slung it across her back, as she reached up for Tildie's stirrup. Then she pulled herself to her feet, snatched at the mane and the saddle horn, and swung up, Tildie wheeling under her, rearing, then coming down. Sarah leveled the ., firing once, twice, a third time, into her attackers; the slide locked open, empty.

  "Gyaagh!" she shouted. Tildie spurred ahead as Sarah tugged at her mane.

  The animal reared again, wheeled, then streaked off. In the distance, Sarah could see

  Michael and Annie, Sam's black mane swatting at Michael's face as he leaned low over the animal's neck, Annie hanging on to his back.

  Sarah leaned against Tildie. "Take me out of here," she cooed, feeling tears streaming down her face. "Take me out of here," she said again.

  This was not for the greater glory of mother Russia, he decided. As Major Borozeni stepped inside the abandoned farmhouse, he thought he heard the scurrying sounds of rats. He turned to his sergeant, saying, "Krasny, get a detail in here to clean this place; I do not sleep with rats."

  "Yes, Comrade Major." The sergeant saluted.

  Borozeni merely nodded, then stepped back outside into the cold. His men were retreating, ponsolidating their position. The eastern coastal regions of the United States were being buffeted by freak storms. Rebellion was starting everywhere along the southeast coast since the escape, in Savannah, of the Resistance fighters, led by the woman who had bluffed her way through, with him. He felt a smile cross his cracked lips as he dusted snow from the front of his greatcoat; then he pulled away his gloves and felt under the coat for his cigarettes.

  "All is being prepared, Comrade Major," Sergeant Krasny told him, saluting as a squad of men with hand torches went past Borozeni into the farmhouse.

  "She was quite a woman, Krasny."

  "Comrade Major?"

  "The woman who effected that escape. I would like to meet her again, see what she looks like without a submachine gun or a pistol in her hands. Or when she isn't all wet, for that matter."

  "Yes, Comrade Major."

  "Yes." He nodded, walking to keep his feet from freezing. Despite the cold he liked the prospects of the farmhouse even less than the storm. He was to take his contingent of men to Knoxville, Tennessee. He wondered precisely what was in Knoxville; there had been a . World's Fair there once, he seemed to recall. He had been on detached duty then, training guerrilla fighters in the Middle East.

  He decided he should have been somewhere else. He nad never like the Middle East, though he could have used some of its heat now.

  The other woman in the truck had used her name. "Sarah," he said, roiling the name on his tongue, tasting it. She was probably someone's wife, perhaps one of the prisoners, who had been released, but he didn't think so. Perhaps someone's widow—one of the men who had been executed.

  But then, he asked himself, inhaling deeply on the cigarette, wouldn't she have killed him—a Russian who was an officer, one of the ones responsible for the war?

  He threw the cigarette into the snow. She was probably safe in her husband's arms by now ... or perhaps not.

  He felt himself smiling. The trek across the snow, the stalling vehicles, the ice, the freezing temperatures . . . They were somewhere in South Carolina; he didn't remember the name of the town that would be ahead.

  He lit another cigarette. He watched the flame of his lighter dancing against the blue whiteness of the ground. "Sarah," he murmured again. The sort of woman he had always wanted to meet—and never would again /. .

  He shook his head, smiled, and turned, starting toward the farmhouse.

  "Krasny! How goes the detail?"

  Natalia studied the map—another half-day if the weather were to ease and they would be in central ,Indiana. She could convince Paul to leave her there. She looked more intently at the map; she had heard the sound again, beyond the ground-cloth windbreak.

  Reaching up to the bootlaces that secured the sleeping bag about her like a coat, she undid them. Finding the flap of the right holster on her belt, she opened it slowly to reduce the noise of the snap in the stillness that was only punctuated by the howling of the wind.

  The wood grips felt cold against her bare hand. She glanced at Rubenstein, sleeping, debating whether to awaken him. But if the sound were nothing it would only further convince him he had to take her all the way into northern Indiana. She wanted him back with John Rourke, helping Rourke in the search for his wife and children, helping to keep Rourke alive—for herself?

  She shook her head; then extracted the revolver from the holster. It and the one like it on her left hip were curious guns. On the right faces of their slab-sided barrels were engraved American Eagles. The guns were

  originally four-inch stainless steel Smith & Wesson Model s, the .

  Magnum L-frame. On the left flats of the barrels were duplicate inscriptions: METALIFE

  Industries, Reno, Pa—by Ron Mahovsky. The actions were the smoo
thest she had ever felt on a gun; the revolvers were round butted, polished, tuned, perfect. Rourke, when they had been given to her, told her he had known the maker of the guns well before the Night of the War. They would be the best guns she would ever own.

  The American Eagles. Mahovsky had made them for President Sam Chambers before the war, and Chambers, for her part in the evacuation of Florida, had insisted she take them. She smiled at the memory, recalling his words.

  fT can't very well give a Russian spy an American medal, can I? And anyway, we're fresh out of medals. Take these and use 'em to stay alive with, miss."

  She had taken them, and the holsters Chambers had had for them; Rourke had found her a belt that better matched her waist size.

  She heard the noise again; it snapped her out of her thoughts. She extracted the second revolver now, gloves off, edging up to her feet. She prodded Rubenstein with her left foot; the man rolled over, looking up at her. She raised a finger to her lips, then pointed to her ear.

  Rubenstein blinked his eyes, then nodded, suppressing a yawn. He edged back from the fire, the battered Browning High Power he carried coming into his right hand, the hammer slowly cocking back. In the stillness against the wind, it sounded loud—too loud.

  She gestured to Paul with one of the guns—that she would cross around behind the bridge support and look. He nodded; he was sensible, she thought. He wore no boots, but she did, and there wasn't time for an alternate

  plan. The sleeping bag fell from her shoulders and she held the pistol in her left hand against her abdomen, flat, to keep her coat closed more tightly about her.

  She shook her head; the wind caught her hair as she stepped out of (he crude lean-to into the night. Brigands were her worry—Russian soldiers she could take care of. She had her identification, spoke Russian, could prove who she was and lie about who Paul was.

  But Brigands . . . that had been the risk they had run lighting a fire; but otherwise, Paul's feet might have been gone. Frostbite, left untreated, could so quickly turn gangrenous. She didn't want that for Paul—death or being crippled. A friend was too hard a thing to find.