by Ahern, Jerry
"That'll take care of itself." She smiled. "Walk me to the library."
"All right," he nodded. He glanced at his wrist watch as they walked.
Seeing children strolling down the street with books in packs on their backs or stuffed under rheir arms, he thought of Michael and Annie. She would have been— It was three-fifteen in the afternoon. "School's out for today?"
"Yes." She smiled, saying nothing more.
Rourke kept walking with her, in silence, his leather jacket warm to him, but necessary to hide the shoulder
rig with the twin Detonics .s. His Harley was,relpcked in ihe garage, his other weapons w.ith it except for the Black Chrome Sting IA which was in its sheath inside the waistband of his Levi's on his left side.
"You don't need your guns," she said, as if she'd been reading his mind.
"No one would hurt you. You're my brother.'
"But I'm not your brother," he murmured, leaning down to her, smiling, as a group of children passed and waved, calling her "Mrs. Bogen."
"But that doesn't matter." Martha Bogen smiled, then looked at the children. "Hey Tommy, Bobby, Ellen— hey." And she kept walking.
Rourke slopped before they reached the library—the post office down the street from it. An American flag flew from the staff in front of it; a small garden was planted at the base of the staff.
"That's a pretty sight, isn't it—John?" She smiled.
"Yes," Rourke said. It was all he could say.
He felt something bump against him and looked down. A liltle child, a black mask covering the upper portion of his face, a white straw cowboy hat partially covering carrot red hair. "Sorry, mister," the little boy called out, running past him.
A woman, perhaps twenty-five, was walking after the little boy. She nodded to Martha Bogen and called after the child, "Harry—you take that mask off until tonight. You can't see where you're going!"
Rourke looked after the little boy, saying absently, "I grew up on that guy, him and his friend. Listened to him on the radio, then television."
Martha Bogen said, "Remember—it's Halloween."
"Halloween," Rourke repeated. "Right."
He followed her inside the library. As he had by now expected, there were teen-agers in the library, working on reports, it appeared; volumes of encyclopedias and other reference books were spread messily on several of the library tables. An older woman, white-haired, worked at the card catalog.
It was a library—perfectly normal.
"I have a few things to do. If you want you might like to look through the newspaper files," she offered, stopping beside a glass-fronted office.
"What—and read about Memorial Day and Valentine's Day?"
"I'll only be a little bit—I'll get some coffee going, then answer all of your questions."
"I have to leave—very soon," Rourke told her. "And you promised those trails."
"The library closes at five—there'll be plenty of light," she told him, then turned away and started into her office.
Shaking his head, he scanned the library shelves; his eyes stopped on a book that was appropriate—-at least part of the title. War and Peace. He smiled, murmuring half to himself, "We've had the war part." The white-haired woman at the card catalog looked at him strangely, and Rourke only smiled at her.
At five o'clock, trails or not, he was leaving the town. And if it meant shooting his way past policemen to do it, then he would. If it was Halloween here, he didn't want to find out what the locals meant by trick or treat.
"Hurry, Michael . . . Annie," Sarah shouted, taking the saddlebags off the back of Tildie's saddle and slinging them over her own shoulder—it could have been a death weight on her, she realized. She ripped a thong from the saddle and lashed the bags that were across her left shoulder under her right arm.
"Michael—you take that knife of yours—and when I tell you to, cut the rope on the railings—hurry."
"All right, Momma," the boy answered, reaching under his coat and producing what looked like a Bowie knife.
"My God—what a thing," she exclaimed. Then she turned to Annie. "You stay with me—take whatever I tell you to carry and do what I say."
The twin inboard engines weren't able to resist the current—she had tried longer than she should have and now it was impossible even to make way for one of the shorelines. But by swimming they might still escape the houseboat before it crashed against the remainder of the high concrete hydroelectric dam—or crashed through the massive gap in the center, to be crushed there where the water spilled now. Either way meant certain death for/
herself and the children.
But the horses would be strong swimmers, and if they held to the horses there would be a chance to escape the current.
Sarah released Tildie and Sam, then swung up onto Tildie's saddle, reaching down for Annie. "You hold these blankets—don't Jet go unless you have to or I telJ you to." If they made it out alive at all, the water would so soak them that the still-cool air temperatures would bring about chills, perhaps pneumonia. The blankets could be dried over a fire. Annie was in front of her, the little girl's crotch crushed against the front of the saddle.
In her right hand, the arm around Annie, Sarah held Tildie's repaired reins, then in her left she snatched Sam's. She ducked, keeping her head low to avoid crashing it against the ceiling. The houseboat shifted wildly under her now. "Michael—when I shout for you to do it, cut all the ropes you can, then swing aboard Sam and hold on tight and stay with me." She had thought, fleetingly, about tying the children aboard one of the horses, but if the horse were to get in trouble, the children would be powerless to help themselves. She swam, not well, but well enough, Sarah hoped. Annie could paddle around, but it wasn't really swimming. Michael was a strong swimmer for his age and size and couJd stay afloat—she prayed.
She kneed her horse ahead, holding back tight on the reins for control.
Ducking her head but not soon enough, she hit her forehead on the doorframe as Tildie passed through and onto the deck. The boards there were awash with cold spray from the current as the houseboat plowed through the water toward—the dam. She could see it clearly, the gaping holes, as if dynamite had opened it—
or perhaps some crack during the Night of the War, from the bombing. She didn't know what had caused it.
"Michael—the ropes! Cut the ropes. Hurry!"
"Right, Momma." And the boy—not a boy at all she again realized—turned to the ropes, hacking at them.
"Saw with it, Michael—saw with it!"
The boy had the highest of the ropes cut, then began working on the next.
Sarah reined in Tildie; Sam, inside the cabin still, bucked and reared.
Sarah was hardly able to keep the reins in her hands. "Hurry, Michael!
Hurry! I can't hold the horses much longer!" The second rope was cut. The boy glanced toward her once, then ignored her advice, and took the heavy-bladed Bowie pattern knife and chopped with it against the lower and final rope— again and again, the knife blade bounced up toward his face.
"Michael!" she screamed, but the last rope was cut.
She knew now that she could never get him aboard Sam. She edged Tildie forward, as Michael sheathed the knife. "Climb up behind me—and don't you let go of me," she heard herself shriek. Michael tugged at her left arm as she loosed Sam's reins, her arm aching as she helped him swing up behind her.
"Hold on!" she shouted, digging her heels into the frightened mare under her. The horse jumped ahead, through the opening in the guardrail and into the water. The mare's head went down, then surfaced. Sarah was washed in a wave of ice-cold spray that made her sjiiver. Annie screamed; Michael said, 'Tve got you, Momma!"
Sarah Rourke glanced behind her once. Sam had jumped for it, but she lost sight of him in the next instant. Now the houseboat was swirling toward the opening in the dam, spinning wildly like a leaf in a whirlp
ool.
"Tildie—save us, Tildie," Sarah shouted, afraid to dig
in her heels, the horse floundering under her. "Tildie!" she cried, as the horse's head went down.
"We've gotta jump, Momma," Michael shouted to her.
Sarah bit her lower lip, thought she had screamed; then, holding Annie tight in her arms, she shouted above the roar of the waters around her, "Michael—don't let go of me. And if I go under, you save Annie—do it." She jumped, her left foot momentarily caught up in the stirrup, then free as Tildie washed away in the current.
"Tildie," she shouted, the animal gone from sight. Michael clung to Sarah's neck. Sarah wanted to tell him to loosen his grip; it choked her, but she was afraid she'd lose him.
The saddlebags were filled with water now; the AR-was lost, their food and clothing gone except for what little she had in the bags.
She was swimming, fighting the current. Annie's mouth dipped under the water; Sarah fought to keep her up. Her breath, her own strength, was failing her; then Michael was gone.
"Michael!"
"Here," he shouted, suddenly beside her, no longer behind her, holding her left arm, helping her support his sister. "Momma—there's the shore!" Sarah looked up, the water pelting her face like waves of solid substance, slapping at her, hurting her.
She could see it—the shoreline, a muddy bank. She reached out her right arm, almost losing Annie, catching at the girl, the little girl saying, "I'm frightened, Mommie!"
"I am, too," Sarah cried as she saw the shoreline move rapidly away from her. Glancing to her right, she saw the opening in the dam growing wider by the instant. The
houseboat was now batting against the sides of the dam, then suddenly was sucked through, lost.
She reached out her right arm again; Michael was trying to tow her. She wanted to tell him to save himself—so at least one of them would survive.
"Michael!" "Keep going. Come on, Momma!" he shouted, water splashing across his open mouth, making him cough. Sarah was reaching, pulling, tugging, reaching, pulling, the shoreline still speeding past as she was pulled down by the current; but the shoreline somehow looked closer.
Michael was pulling at her, pulling at Annie—she couldn't understand what drove him.
She kept moving her arms, not really conscious of them anymore, not knowing if it was doing any good.
Left arm, right arm, left arm . . . She wanted to sleep, to open her mouth to the water.
She kept moving, her legs too tired now to push her.
Something hard, harder than the water hit at her face and she looked up—red clay, wet and slimy and . . . she wanted to kiss it.
Her left arm reached out, then her right, dragging Annie. The little girl was coughing, almost choking. Sarah slapped her on the back. "Annie!"
Annie slumped forward into the muddy clay and rolled onto her back, crying—alive.
"Michael!"
He wasn't there—he wasn't—"Michael!" She screamed, coughing, getting to her knees, slipping in the mud. She saw a dark spot on the water, staring into it.
His hair—dark brown, like his father's. "Michael!!" she screamed, tears rolling down her cheeks. Jump in and save him—yes, she thought. But if she died—Annie?
"Mich—" His head went below the surface and she died, but it was up again and his arms waved above the surface and he was coming toward her.
Sarah waded out into the water which thrashed around her waist. She tugged at the thong holding the saddlebags to her, loosed it awkwardly, then hurtled the bags to the shore, shouting to Annie, "Stay there, Annie!"
"Is Michael alive?"
Michael reached toward her and Sarah snatched at his hand. The boy came into her arms, both of them falling; then Sarah pushed them up toward the shore. Michael coughed.
"He's alive, Annie," Sarah whispered.
Michael hugged her, coughing still, and then Annie's arms were around her neck and the little girl was laughing and Sarah was laughing too. She whispered, 'Thank God for the Y.M.CA. pool!"
Rourke sat sipping the coffee.
"So when the war broke out—well we were always pretty cut off from the outside world, but we knew about it. The television reception here was never very good, but we lost the television stations, then the radio stations we could get. We knew ... all of it, as it happened. We sat up through the night in the town square, most of us, and we could see the lights on the horizons around the valley. We knew what was happening. We all sort of decided that living in a world that had been destroyed wouldn't be living at all. All but six families—and they left. They're probably dead now. See, we don't raise much more than what we have in truck gardens. The gas stations had just gotten their supplies before the war took place, and with no one going anywhere, well, we didn't use much gas. A lot of us—mostly everybody—just walk to work and such."
"So you decided to keep things going—just like before," Rourke told her.
"More or less." She smiled, sipping at her coffee, then pouring fresh coffee for Rourke. "At least to try."
"But—"
"But we realized it couldn't last forever. We only had so much. So we worked it out carefully—all of us. We all did. We were always close-knit—"
"You're not from here," Rourke said flatly, sipping his coffee.
"No. I'm not. It was my husband who was born here. He went away to medical school. We married and he brought me back here with him."
"How did (he town live?" Rourke asked her. "I saw that factory—"
"That's only been here the last seven years. It was all cottage industry before that. The factory makes some sort of equipment for the space program or the defense department; the people who work there never were quite sure.
"It doesn't make anything, anymore," Rourke said soberly.
"The factory is still running—"
"Making what?" Rourke heard himself snap.
"What they did before—everything is like it was before."
"That's useless. That's insane! For what purpose?" Rourke asked her. "I mean—O.K., the holiday thing is pretty obvious. Make everyone happy as long as you can—but then what? What'll you do when the food runs out and—"
"We won't do anything."
Rourke lit one of his small, dark tobacco cigars—he was running low on those and would have to restock at the Retreat. "What was your cottage industry?"
"Fireworks." She smiled.
He felt strange—perhaps at the realization of what she was telling him.
"You're not—"
.
"When strangers came in after the Night of the War, we asked them to stay.
Some of them decided to join us. The rest of them are being taken care of—and they'll be released. That's why the police have gone to twelve-hour shifts."
"When'll they be released?"
"Christmas was always our favorite holiday here, the reunion of family and friends. It's—"
Rourke hammered his hands palm downward onto her desk, then glanced over his shoulder toward the library behind him through the glass partition; it was dark, empty. He looked at his watch. It was after five. His vision was blurring.
"I wanted you to stay."
Rourke stood up, suddenly feeling strange, lurching half across the desk.
"Coffee," he murmured.
"We have the entire valley mined with explosives. And the night after tomorrow night, there'll be a fireworks display and then all of us ...
we'll—"
Rourke fell across the desk, cursing his stupidity. He looked up at her.
"Mass—"
"Suicide." She smiled, finishing his thought. "All two thousand three hundred forty-eight people in the town. That's why no one minded the lie, John. When I called you Abe." Rourke was having trouble hearing her, seeing her. He snatched for one of his Detonics pistols, but she held his wrist and he could not move his arm. "I was the
only one who didn't have a family. My husband is dead. We had no children—there wasn't ever the time—the time to have children. But now I won't die alone, John."
He started to talk, his tongue feeling thick, unresponsive.
"I helped my husband in the clinic. I know how to use his drugs. You won't be able to do a thing, John—until it's too late, and then you can die with me, John."
She was stroking his head, smiling, and he felt her bend over to him and kiss his cheek. "It'll be all right, John; this is the better way. We'll all die and it will always be the same—normal, like it used to be."
Rourke tried to move his mouth to speak; he couldn't.
It was heavy rain now, cold but not freezing, dripping down inside the collar of his permanently borrowed &#;Army field jacket, his hair too wet to bother with pulling up the hood. His gloves were sodden. The Schmeisser was wrapped in a ground cloth and the Browning High Power was under his jacket. His boots were wet, the Harley having splashed through inches-deep puddles in the road surface, and the going was slow to avoid a big splash that could drown the engine.
He squinted through his rain-smeared glasses— Kentucky. He was entering Kentucky.
Paul Rubenstein wondered two things: would he ever see Natalia again now that she was safe with Russian troops, and had Rourke made it through the storm to find Sarah and the children yet?
Natalia had told the Russian commander that he, Rubenstein, was a Soviet spy who had been escorting her through American territory because he posed as one and was known to the Resistance people operating the area, thought to be one of them. His stomach churning as he'd done it, Rubenstein had agreed, backed up her story. Nat alia V credentials checked; he had been released.
They had shaken hands only, but she had blown him a kiss by .pursing her lips as they had spoken a few yards from the Soviet troops. Then he had boarded his machine and started back into the storm.
He had looked at her over his shoulder once; she hadn't waved, but he'd felt she would have if she could have.
And John—that Rourke had gotten through the storm at all wasn't something over which Rubenstein worried— Rourke was all but invincible, unstoppable.
