The Survivalist #2

by Jerry Ahern

  Rourke leaned against the wall of the trailer, his hands flat against the wood there, closing his eyes a moment. "I don't know. You want an educated guess, I'd say, yeah, New York is gone. I'm sorry, Paul. But it was probably quick—they couldn't have even tried to evacuate."

  "I know—I've been thinking about that. I used to buy a paper from a little guy down on the corner—he was a Russian immigrant. Came here to escape the mess after the Russian revolution—he was just a little boy then. He was always so concerned with his manliness. I remember in the wintertime he never pulled his hat down over his ears and they were red and peeling. His cheeks were that way. I used to say to him, 'Max—why don't you protect your face and ears—you're gonna get frostbite.' But he'd just smile and not say anything. But he spoke English. I guess he's dead too, huh?"

  Rourke sighed hard, then bent forward to look into an open box in front of him. He already knew what was inside the box, but he looked there anyway. "I guess he is, Paul."

  "Yeah," Rubenstein said, his voice odd-sounding to Rourke. "I guess—" Rourke looked up and Rubenstein was already climbing out of the trailer. Rourke searched the remaining boxes quickly. He found some flashlight batteries, bar-type shaving soap prepacked in small mugs and safety razors and blades. He rubbed the stubble on his face, took a safety razor, as many packs of blades as he could cram in the breast pocket of his sweat-stained blue shirt and one of the mugs and several bars of soap. He found another consignment of ammunition—158 grain semijacketed soft point .357s and took eight boxes of fifty. With it were some .223 solids, and he took several hundred rounds of these as well. He carried what he wanted in two boxes back to the rear of the trailer and helped Rubenstein climb inside with the sack to carry it all. They crammed the sack full and Rourke jumped down to the road, boosting the sack onto his left shoulder and carrying it toward the bikes. Rourke, as Rubenstein climbed down from the truck, said, "We're going to have to split up this load." As Rourke turned toward his bike, he heard Rubenstein's voice and over it the clicking of bolts— from assault rifles. Without moving he looked up, heard Rubenstein repeat, "John!"

  Slowly, Rourke raised to his full height, squinting against the glare through his sunglasses. A dozen men—in some sort of uniform—were on the far side of the road. Slowly, Rourke turned around, and behind him, on Rubenstein's side of the road beside the abandoned truck trailer, were at least a half-dozen more. All the men carried assault rifles of mixed heritages—and all the guns were trained on Rourke and Rubenstein.

  "Caught you boys with your fingers in the pie, didn't we?" a voice from Rubenstein's side of the road shouted.

  "That's a damned stupid remark," Rourke said, his voice very low.

  "You men are under arrest," the voice said, and this time Rourke matched it with a face in the center of the men by the trailer. Fatter than the others, the man's uniform was more complete and military appearing. There was a patch on the man's left shoulder, and as Rourke tried to decipher what it stood for he noticed the duplicate of the patch on most of the uniforms of the other men.

  "Who's arresting us?" Rourke asked softly.

  "I am Captain Nelson Pincham of the Texas Independent Paramilitary Response Group," the fat man said.

  "Ohh," Rourke started, pausing. "I see. The Texas Independent Paramilitary Response Group—the T-I-P-R-G—Tiprg. That sounds stupid."

  The self-proclaimed captain took a step forward, saying, "We'll see how stupid it sounds when you boys get shot in just about a minute and a half. Official policy is to shoot looters on sight."

  "Is that a fact?" Rourke commented. "Whose official policy is it—yours?"

  "It's the official policy of the Paramilitary Provi­sional Government of Texas."

  "Try saying that sometime with a couple of beers under your belt," Rourke said, staring at Pincham.

  "Drop that sidearm," Pincham said. "That big hogleg on the belt around your waist. Move, boy!" Pincham commanded.

  Out of the corner of his eye Rourke could already see hands reaching out and taking Rubenstein's High Power from the holster slung to his pants belt. The Schmeisser, as Rubenstein still called it, and Rourke's CAR-15 and Steyr-Mannlicher SSG were still on the bikes. Rourke slowly reached to the buckle of the Ranger Leather belt at his waist and loosened it, holding the tongue of the belt in his right hand away from his body. One of the troopers stepped forward and grabbed it, then stepped back.

  "Now the guns from the shoulder holsters— quick," Pincham said, his voice sounding more confident.

  Slowly, Rourke started to reach up to the harness, then Pincham shouted, "Hold it!" The captain turned to the trooper nearest him and barked, "Go get those pistols—move out!"

  The trooper walked toward Rourke. "You sure you don't want to talk about this—you're just going to shoot us?" Rourke asked softly.

  "I'm sure," Pincham said, his face breaking into a grin.

  Rourke just nodded his head, keeping his hands away from the twin stainless Detonics .45s in their double shoulder rig. The trooper was in front of him now, between Rourke and Pincham and the rest of the men on the trailer side of the road. The trooper rasped, "Now—take out both those shiny pistols, mister. Just reach under your armpits there nice and slow—the right hand gets the one under the right arm, the left hand the left one. Nice and easy, then stick 'em out in front of you with the pistol butts toward me."

  "Right," Rourke said quietly. As he reached up for the guns, he said, "To get them out of the holsters, I've got to jerk them a little bit."

  "You just watch how you do it, mister. No funny stuff or I cut you in half where you stand." Rourke eyed the H-K assault rifle in the man's hands.

  Rourke reached for his guns, his hands moving slowly. He curled the last three fingers of each hand on the Pachmayr gripped butts of the Detonics pistols and jerked them free of the leather. Rourke eyed the trooper, who was visibly tense as the guns cleared, and slowly brought them forward in his hands, the butts of the guns facing toward the "soldier."

  "That's a good boy," the trooper said, smiling. The trooper took his left hand from the front stock of his rifle and reached forward for the gun in Rourke's right hand.

  The corners of Rourke's mouth raised in a smile. Rourke's hands dropped to waist level, the twin stainless .45s spinning on his index fingers in the trigger guards, the pistol butts arcing into his fists, his thumbs snapping back the hammers and both pistols firing simultaneously, one slug pumping into the trooper's throat, the second grazing his shoulder as it hammered past and into the chest of the soldier closest to Paul Rubenstein. Rourke pumped two shots into the men on the far side of the road and dove toward the trailer, rolling under it, firing both pistols into the men flanking Captain Pincham. Out of the corner of his eye, Rourke could see Ruben­stein—almost as if in slow motion. The smaller man had done just what Rourke had hoped—he'd grabbed up an assault rifle from the man nearest him whom Rourke had shot down and now had the muzzle of the weapon flush against Pincham's right cheekbone. Rourke stopped firing as he heard Rubenstein shouting, "Hold your fire or Pincham gets his!"

  Rourke crawled the rest of the way along under the truck and got his feet on the other side, two rounds each still in the twin .45s. He leveled them both across the road, ignoring the men near him. "Your show, Paul," Rourke almost whispered, catching Rubenstein's eye.

  He watched the younger man nod, then heard him shout, "Now everybody get out from cover and throw your rifles to the ground—move it or Pincham gets this. Move it!"

  Rourke watched as Rubenstein shoved the muzzle of the assault rifle against Pincham's cheek, heard Pincham shout, "Do as they say—hurry!"

  Slowly, the men on the far side of the road climbed out of the ditch they'd dropped into as Rourke had opened up on them. Rourke watched as, one by one, they dropped their rifles, hearing the rifles from the man near Rubenstein and Pincham clattering to the ground beside him. "Gunbelts too," Rubenstein shouted.

  Rourke watched as the men started dropping their
pistol belts to the ground. His eyes scanned the ground and he saw his own gunbelt there, then he stepped toward it and bent down, breaking the thumb snap on the flap over the Python. He shook the holster free and let it fall to the ground, the Detonics from his right hand already in his trouser belt, the long-tubed, vent-ribbed Python now in his right. Thumbing the hammer back, he walked slowly across the road, his long strides putting him beside the man in the center of the ten men still standing there. Glancing down to the ground, he spotted the two he'd killed. Sticking the muzzle of the Python against the temple of the closest man, Rourke almost whispered, "All right—you guys want to be military—get into the front leaning rest position. That's like a pushup, but you don't go down. Now!"

  Rourke stepped back, guiding the man closest to him down to the ground. The ten got to their knees, arms outstretched, then balanced on their toes as they stretched their legs, supporting themselves on their hands. "First man moves dies," Rourke said quietly, starting back across the road.

  He could hear Rubenstein shouting similar commands to the men with Pincham on the trailer side of the road. Rourke looked at Rubenstein, hearing the younger man say, "What do we do now?"

  "You want to kill them?"

  "What?"

  "Neither do I, especially. Why don't you get the bikes straight in a minute here and we can take these fellas for a walk a few miles down the road, then let 'em go. Let me reload first—keep them covered." Rourke jammed the Python in his belt, changed magazines on both of the .45s and reholstered them. He caught up his pistol belt from the dirt and slung it over his shoulder, the Python back in his right fist. Already, Rubenstein had begun dividing the loads for the bikes.

  "You guys got any vehicles around here?" Rourke asked Pincham. The captain said nothing. Rourke put the muzzle of the Python under his nose.

  "Yes—on both sides of the road."

  "Any gas cans?"

  "Yes—yes," Pincham snapped.

  "Much obliged," Rourke said, then, shouting, "Paul—go over there and get some gas for the bikes. Take that thing you call a Schmeisser in case they left someone on guard. Did you leave anyone on guard?" Rourke asked, lowering his voice and eyeing Pincham.

  "No—no-nobody on guard!"

  "Good—if anything happens to my friend, you get an extra nostril."

  "Nobody on guard!" Pincham said again, his voice sounding higher each time he spoke.

  After a few moments, Rubenstein returned with the gas cans, filled the bikes and mounted up. Rourke walked Pincham toward his own bike. Already, some of the troopers were starting to fall, unable to support themselves on their hands.

  "Barbarian," Pincham growled.

  "No," Rourke said quietly. "I just want them good and tired so they can't get back here fast enough to follow us. It's either that or we disable your vehicles. And I don't think you'd like being stranded out here in the desert on foot. Right?"

  Pincham, biting his lower lip, only nodded.

  "All right—captain," Rourke said. "Order your men onto their feet and get 'em walking ahead of us—you bring up the rear. Anyone tries anything, it's your problem." Rourke started his bike as Pincham got his men up, formed them in a ragged column of twos and started them down the road toward El Paso.

  As Rourke and Rubenstein followed along behind them, Rourke glancing at the Harley's odometer coming up on the second mile, Pincham—walking laboriously, close in front of him—said, "Mister— you killed three of my men."

  "Four," Rourke corrected.

  "If I ever catch sight of you, you're a dead man."

  "There's some great baby food back there in the truck in case you fellas get hungry," Rourke responded, then to Rubenstein, "Let's go Paul!" Rourke gunned the Harley between his legs and shot past Pincham and his column, Rubenstein on the other side close behind him. Past the paramilitary troops now, Rourke glanced over his shoulder—some of Pincham's men were already sitting along the side of the road. Pincham was standing there, shaking his fist down the road after Rourke.

  Rubenstein, beside Rourke, was shouting over the rush of air. "I saw that trick in a western movie once—with the pistols, I mean."

  Rourke just nodded.

  "What do they call it, John, where you roll the guns like that when someone tries taking them?"

  Rourke glanced across at Rubenstein, then bent over his bike a little to get a more comfortable position. "The road-agent spin," Rourke said.

  "Road-agent spin," Rubenstein echoed. "Wow!"

  Chapter Four

  Varakov was pleased that he had ordered the intelligence briefing to be in his office at the side of the long central hall. The desk was closed in the front, and with the chairs arranged in a semicircle no one could see his feet. He wiggled his toes in his white boot socks and leaned back in his chair. "There are several other priorities aside from the elimination of political undesirables," he said flatly.

  "Moscow wants—" the KGB man, Major Vladmir Karamatsov, began.

  "Moscow wants me to run this country, keep armed rebellion from getting out of hand—some resistance cannot be avoided in a nation where everyone owns a gun—and try to get the heavy in­dustry restarted. That is what Moscow wants. How I choose to accomplish that is my concern. If Moscow eventually decides I am not doing my job properly, then I will be replaced. This will not," and Varakov crashed his hamlike fist down on the desk—"be a fiefdom of the KGB. Intelligence is to serve the interests of the Soviet people and the government— the government and the people are not holding their breath to serve the interest of intelligence. The Soviet is facing famine, a shortage of raw materials and most of our heavy industry has been destroyed by American missiles. If we cannot get this new land we have acquired to be productive, we shall all starve, have no more ammunition for our guns, have no spare parts. Most of American heavy industry is intact. Most of ours is gone. Our primary responsi­bility is to man the factories with work battalions and develop productivity. Otherwise, all is lost."

  Varakov looked around the room, his eyes stopping a moment on Captain Natalia Tiemerovna, also KGB and Karamatsov's most trusted and respected agent. "What do you think, captain?" Varakov asked, his voice softening.

  He watched the woman as she moved uneasily in her chair, her uniform skirt sliding up over her knees a moment, a wave of her dark hair falling across her forehead as she looked up to speak. Varakov watched as she brushed the hair away from her deep blue eyes. "Comrade general, I realize the importance of the tasks you have enumerated. But in order to success­fully reactivate industry here, we must be secure against sabotage and organized subversion. Comrade Major Karamatsov, I am sure, only wishes to begin working to eliminate potential subversives from the master list in order to speed on your goals, comrade general."

  "You should have been a diplomat—Natalia. It is Natalia, is it not?"

  "Yes, comrade general," the girl answered, her voice a rich alto. Varakov liked her voice best of all.

  "There is one small matter," Varakov began, "before we get to your master list of persons for liquidation. It is not an intelligence matter, but I wish your collective input. The bodies. In the neutron-bombed areas such as Chicago, there are rotting corpses everywhere. Wild dogs and cats have come in from the areas that were not bombed. Rats are becoming a problem—a serious problem. Public health, comrades. Any suggestions? I cannot have you arrest and liquidate rats, bacteria and wolflike hounds."

  "There are many natives in the unaffected parts of the city that were suburban to the city itself,' Karamatsov said. "And—"

  Varakov cut him off. "I knew somehow, comrade major, that you would have a plan."

  Karamatsov nodded slightly and continued. "We can send troops into these areas to form these people into work battalions, designating central areas for burning of corpses and equipping some of these work battalions with chemical agents to destroy the rats and bacteria."

  "But, Vladmir," Captain Tiemerovna began. Then starting again, "But comrade major, such chemicals, to be
effective, must be in sufficient strength that those persons in the work battalions could be adversely affected by them."

  "Precautions will of course be taken, but there will be adequate replacements for those who become care­less, Natalia," Karamatsov said, dismissing the remark. Turning to Varakov, then standing and walking toward the edge of the semicircle, then turning abruptly around—Varakov supposed for dramatic effect—Karamatsov said, "But once these work battalions have completed their task, they can be organized into factory labor. If they are utilized in twelve-hour shifts, working through the night—the electrification system is still largely intact—the city can be reclaimed within days. A week at the most. I can have the exact figures for you within the hour, comrade general," and he snapped his heels together. Varakov did not like that—Karamatsov reminded him too much of Nazis from the Second War.

  "I do not think your figures will be necessary—but unfortunately your plan seems to be the most viable," Varakov said.

  "Thank you, comrade general, but providing the figures will be of no difficulty. I had anticipated that this problem might be of concern to you and have already had them prepared, pending of course the actual number of survivors available for the work battalions and the quantities of chemical equipment that can be secured for the program—but I can easily obtain these additional figures, should you so desire."

  Varakov nodded his head, hunching low over his desk, staring at Karamatsov. "I am not ready to retire yet, my ambitious young friend."

  "I assure you, comrade general," Karamatsov began, walking toward Varakov's desk.

  "Nothing is assured, Karamatsov—but now tell me about your list."

  Karamatsov sat down, then stood again and walked to the opposite end of the semicircle of chairs occupied by KGB and military officials. Turning abruptly—once again for dramatic flair, Varakov supposed—Karamatsov blurted out, "We must pro­tect the safety of the State at all costs, comrades. And of course it is for this reason that many years ago— before the close of World War Two—my predecessors began the compilation of a list—constantly updated— of persons who in the event of war with the capitalist superpowers would be potential troublemakers, rallying points for resistance, etc. The master list, as it came to be called, has, as I indicated, been con­stantly updated. It was impossible to predict with any acceptable degree of accuracy who might survive such a war and who might not, and to determine which targets would be most readily able to be eliminated in any event. For this reason, since its inception, the master list was broken into broad categories of persons—all of equal value for elimina­tion purposes."