by Jerry Ahern
She could not see any value in a life of constantly running from outlaws or brigands, living in the wild like hunted animals. She bent low over the saddle horn. The pains in her stomach were increasing in frequency and severity. It wasn't the time of the month for her period, though she supposed it possible she was having it early. But the cramps were somehow different anyway. She had tried the water near the one town they had passed, she recalled. Something had been odd-tasting and she had kept the children and the horses from it and gone on. Hours later, she had found bottled water in an abandoned convenience store and stocked up.
She turned quickly when she heard a noise from one of the horses behind her. It was Sam—her husband's horse. As she started to turn her head back, she doubled over the saddle, gagging, her head suddenly light and hurting badly. She started to dismount but couldn't straighten up, tumbling from the saddle onto her knees on the ground.
"Momma!"
"Mommie!" The last voice was Annie's. Sarah started to push herself to her feet, wanting to say something to Michael. She pulled on the base of the left stirrup near her hand, but as she stood she slumped against the saddle, colored lights in her eyes. She could feel the blood rushing to her head. Her hands slipped from the saddle horn and she tried grabbing at the stirrup but couldn't…
Chapter Twenty
Rubenstein sat in the darkness, watching the rising and falling of the strange girl's chest in the moonlight, listening to her heavy breathing, the Schmeisser cradled in his lap. His mouth was dry. He'd given up cigarette smoking two years earlier, but now having a cigarette was all he could think about. He looked at the Timex on his wrist. Rourke had been gone for more than an hour. "That woman keeps mumbling about a jeep," Rourke had said. "If there is one out there, that should mean food and water, maybe gasoline."
"But she wouldn't have left it if it hadn't been out of gas," Rubenstein had countered.
"People out here in the desert don't usually let themselves run out of gas. Could have punched a hole in a radiator, severed a fuel line. Could still be enough gas to run these bikes into Van Horn. Otherwise, we've got a long walk ahead of us and we used our last water with her."
"You're the survivalist, the expert," Rubenstein had said, almost defensively. "Can't you just go out there and find water?"
"Yeah," Rourke had answered. "If I take a hell of a long time doing it I can, and I can find us food, too— but not gasoline. Even if I discovered crude oil it wouldn't do us any good."
And Rourke had mounted up and gone, leaving the Steyr-Mannlicher SSG rifle with Rubenstein for added protection, the light-gathering qualities of the 3-9 variable Mannlicher scope that rode it something Rourke had labeled "potentially useful" if whoever had wounded the girl were still out there somewhere in the darkness. The thought of more violence-prone thieves didn't appeal to Rubenstein. He shivered in the darkness. The girl's body temperature was about normal, Rourke had said, and she wasn't really so much unconscious anymore as just sleeping, Rourke had cleansed and bandaged the deep flesh wound on her left forearm. Her right hand still had blood on it, but only blood from the arm wound, which Rourke had not washed away because of the water shortage.
Rubenstein shifted his position on the ground, hearing something in the darkness to his left. He turned and peered into the black, seeing nothing. He heard the sound again, pulling open the bolt on the Schmeisser, ready, his voice a loud whisper, saying, "I know you're out there—I hear you. I've got a submachine gun, so don't try anything."
"That doesn't do much to scare a rattler, Paul," Rourke said softly. Rubenstein wheeled, seeing Rourke standing beside the sleeping woman, the CAR-15 in his hands, the sling suspending the gun beneath his right shoulder. "Rattler—your body heat is drawing him. Move over."
Rubenstein took a step left. Rourke raised the CAR-15 from its carry position, drawing out the collapsible stock and bringing the rifle to his shoulder. "What are you doing?" Rubenstein said.
"I'm sighting with the iron—this kind of scope wouldn't be much good at this range."
Rourke shifted his feet, settling the rifle, and suddenly Rubenstein jumped, as Rourke almost whispered, "Bang!" then brought the rifle down and collapsed the stock.
"Bang?"
"Yeah—If I shoot that snake—unless he comes into camp and we have to, all I'm going to do is advertise to everybody and his brother we're here, we've got guns and we're stupid enough to go shooting at something in the dark. Keep an eye out for that snake and I'll bring my bike up."
"Why did you leave it?"
"What if something had happened, somebody'd wandered into camp and gotten the drop on you?"
''That wouldn't have happened,'' Rubenstein insisted, his voice sounding almost hurt.
"Happened to her," Rourke said slowly. "After I found her jeep, I backtracked it. I didn't figure I'd have to go far. There was a bullet hole in the radiator and in today's heat the thing couldn't have gone far without the engine stalling out. Dead man. Either her boyfriend or her husband and they just didn't believe in rings. Throat slit ear to ear. Four other dead men there—bikers, well armed. Looks like our ladyfriend there shot all four but one of them."
"Maybe the other one's still out there," Rubenstein said.
"No condition to do anything to us—looks like she broke his nose and drove the bone up into his brain. Professional young lady. I found a jacket that looked like it was small enough to be hers—had an interesting little gun in it. The dead man with his throat slit was carrying a Walther P-38K. Pretty professional piece of hardware—the muzzle was threaded on the inside for a silencer. I found the silencer back at the jeep stuffed inside one of the tubular supports for the seat frame."
"Jesus," Rubenstein exclaimed.
"I don't think that was his name," Rourke said quietly, turning then and fading back into the darkness.
Chapter Twenty-One
Michael Rourke opened his dark eyes, squinting against the sun. His legs ached and he started to move, but then remembered the weight on his lap. He looked down at his mother's face, the eyes still closed. "Momma," he said softly. "Wake up—it's morning."
He looked across the flat expanse of ground and confirmed the rising sun. Millie and Annie were still asleep. The horses were still tied to the tree that he'd secured the reins to the previous night. Their saddles were still in position. After his mother had fallen down and he hadn't been able to waken her, he'd had Millie and Annie watch her and he had loosened the straps under the horses' bellies that held the saddles on—his mother called them "cinches," he remembered.
"Momma," he said again, shaking her head gently. He closed his eyes. "Millie, Annie! Get up— time to get up!" he shouted. Annie sat bolt upright, stared around her and then at him.
"How is Mommie?" she said.
"She'll be okay," he said. "Wake up Millie and have her make something to eat. You know where it is—the food. Millie can reach the bags."
He looked back to his mother. The sunlight was just hitting her face and he watched her eyelids moving. "Momma!"
Sarah Rourke opened her eyes. "Ohh," she started, her voice sounding hoarse to him.
"Annie—get Momma some water."
Sarah Rourke stared at him—Michael couldn't tell if she was all right or not.
"Momma—are you going to be okay?"
He saw her moving her right hand toward him and he bent toward her, felt her hand—cold—against his cheek. "Momma!"
"Shh," Sarah said, the corners of her mouth raising faintly in a smile. "I'll be all right—just give me a hug and don't ask me to get up for a while— okay?"
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rourke stepped away from the low yellow camp-fire and sat back against the rock face, staring out across the desert as the sun—orange against a gray sky—winked up over the horizon to the east. He hunched his shoulders in his leather jacket, both hands wrapped around a white-flecked black metal mug of steaming coffee.
He glanced at Rubenstein when the younge
r man spoke, "Now this is more like it—life on the trail, I mean. Food, coffee, water. Hey—" and Rubenstein leaned back against the far end of the rocks.
"Simple things can mean a lot," Rourke observed, staring then at the woman, still sleeping when last he'd looked, lying on a ground cloth between them. Her eyelids were starting to flutter, then opened and she started to sit up, then fell back.
"Give yourself a few minutes," Rourke said slowly to her.
"What's that I smell?" she said, her voice hoarse.
"Coffee—want some? It's yours, anyway," Rourke told her.
She sat up again, this time moving more slowly, leaning back on her elbow. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice still not quite right-sounding to Rourke.
"My name is John Rourke—he's Paul Rubenstein." and Rourke gestured over her. She turned and Rubenstein smiled and gave her a little salute.
"What the hell are you doing drinking my coffee?"
"Pleasant, aren't we?" Rourke said. "You were dying, we saved your life. I went back and found your jeep, buried your boyfriend or husband a few miles back beyond that, hauled up the gasoline, the water, the food, some of your stuff. Then so we didn't have to leave you alone and could make sure your fever didn't come up, we slept in shifts the rest of the night watching you. I figure that earns me a cup of coffee, some gas and some food and water. Got any objections?"
"You got any cigarettes?" Natalia said. "And some coffee?"
"Here," Rourke said, tossing a half-empty pack of cigarettes to her. "I guess these are yours—found 'em at the jeep." She started to reach out her left arm for the cigarettes and winced.
"You were shot in the forearm," Rourke commented, then looked back to his coffee, sipping at it.
"Anybody got a light?"
Rourke reached into his jeans and pulled out his Zippo, leaning across to her and working the wheel, the blue-yellow flame leaping up and flickering in the wind. The girl looked at him across it, their eyes meeting, then she bent her head, brushing the hair back. The tip of the cigarette lighted orange for a moment, then a cloud of gray smoke issued from her mouth and nostrils as she cocked her head back, staring up at the sky.
"I agree—but I'd already noticed you're beautiful," Rourke said deliberately.
She turned and looked at him, laughing, saying, "I think I know you from somewhere—I mean that should be your line, but I really do. That bandage is very professional."
Rubenstein said, "John's a doctor—among other things."
Rourke glanced across at Rubenstein, saying nothing, then looked at the girl. "I had the same feeling when I first saw you by the road, that I know you from somewhere."
"What happened?"
"I was hoping you could tell me. Paul and I just spotted your body by the side of the road, saw you were hurt and tried to help."
"Did I talk—I mean how did you know where to find the jeep?"
"You didn't say much," Rourke said, adding, "Don't worry. You mumbled something about a jeep and something about Sam Chambers. If I remember, before the war he was still down here in Texas—just been appointed secretary of communications to the president."
"The war?" Natalia said.
"Don't you know about the war?" Rubenstein said, leaning toward her.
"What war?" Natalia said.
"Tell her about the war," Rourke said, lighting one of the last of his cigars. "Looks like it's going to rain today."
Chapter Twenty-Three
"God, it's so green here," Samuel Chambers said, sitting on the small stone bench and looking at the profusion of camelias.
"East Texas by the Louisiana border here is green like this most of the time. But I think it's time for the meeting to start now—Mr. President."
Chambers looked at the man, saying quickly, "Don't call me that yet, George. I'm secretary of communications, and that's it."
"But you're the only surviving man in the line of succession, sir—you are the president."
"I was up in Tyler last year in October for the Rose Festival—this just might be the prettiest part of the State of Texas—here, north of here and down south to the Gulf."
"Sir!"
"I'm coming, George—stop and smell the flowers, right?" Chambers stood up and reached into his shirt pocket, snatching a Pall Mall. He stared at the cigarette a moment, then said to his young executive assistant. "I wonder how I'll get these now—with the war?"
"I'm sure we can find enough to last a long time for you, sir," the young man Chambers had called George said reassuringly, walking toward Chambers and standing at his side as he passed, almost as if to keep the man from taking another tour of the garden.
Chambers turned as he reached the double french doors leading back from the walled garden to the library inside the nearly century-old stone house. He stared back into the garden, saying to George without looking at him, "I'm about to make history, George. When I walk into that room, if I reject the call to the presidency or if I accept it. And if I accept it, what will I be president of? It's a wasteland out there beyond this garden—much of it is, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Pretty much of the whole West Coast is gone, New York was blown off the map. What am I going to be offered the presidency of—a sore that isn't smart enough to know that it can't heal?"
Chapter Twenty-Four
"Who are they, John?" Rourke heard Rubenstein asking. Rourke didn't answer, staring up the road at the stricken faces of the men, women and children struggling slowly toward them. As the women's faces showed recognition of Rourke, Rubenstein and the girl bending over their cycles, Rourke watched the women hug the children closer to them, some of the men starting to raise sticks or axes as if for defense. "Who are they?" Rubenstein asked again.
Rourke turned and started to answer, but then the woman's alto, choked-sounding as she spoke, came from behind him on the Harley's long seat. "They're refugees from some town up ahead—it's written all over their faces, Paul."
"I do know you from somewhere," Rourke said to her.
"And I know you—I wonder what will happen when we remember from where, John?"
"I don't know," he said slowly, then stared back up the road at the faces of the people. He looked over to Rubenstein on the bike beside him, saying, "Dismount and leave your subgun on the bike or give it to Natalie. Go tell them we don't mean them any harm."
"But how do I know they don't mean me any harm?" Rubenstein asked, starting off his bike.
"I'll cover you."
Rubenstein handed the SMG to Natalie, Rourke glancing back to her and saying, "Don't tell me you can't figure out how to use it—remember I saw the job you did back there at the jeep."
"Whatever do you mean," she said, her voice half laughing.
"Sure, lady," Rourke grunted, then watched as Rubenstein, hands outspread as though he were approaching an unfamiliar dog, walked toward the refugees.
Rourke heard Rubenstein starting to speak, "Hey look—we're good guys—don't mean you any harm, maybe we can help you."
A man started toward Rubenstein with a long-handled scythe and Rourke shouted, "Watch out!" then started to bring the Python out of the Ranger cammie holster on his pistol belt. There was a short, loud roar behind him, hot brass burning against his neck, the scythe handle was sliced in half, and Rubenstein spun on his heel, the Browning High Power in his right hand, his left hand pushing his glasses back off the bridge of his nose. Rourke glanced back to Natalie, saying, "Like I said, sure lady."
"The hell with you," Rourke heard her say, as she slid from the back of his Harley and handed him the Schemiesser, the bolt still open, the safety on. She walked a few steps ahead of the bike, stopped and wiped the palms of her hands against her blue-jeaned thighs, shot a glance over her shoulder at Rourke, then started walking slowly toward the people, the refugees, the closest now less than a dozen feet from Paul Rubenstein.
Her voice was soft, low—the way you'd want your lover to sound, Rourke thought. "Listen to us— please,"
she was saying. "We don't want to hurt any of you at all—I just fired to protect my friend here. We want to help. We don't want to hurt you," and she walked into the front of the crowd, reaching out her right hand slowly and tousling the sandy hair of a boy of about ten, standing pressed against a woman Rourke assumed to be the boy's mother.
Rourke looked down to the MP-40, pulled the magazine and let the bolt kick forward, then reseated the magazine. He held the submachine gun in his left hand, dismounting the Harley-Davidson Low Rider and walking slowly, his right palm outstretched, toward Rubenstein, Natalie and the refugees. Natalie was talking again. "Where are you people from? What happened to you all?"
Rourke found himself looking at her—the way the sides of her hair were pulled back and caught up at the back of her head, her hair then falling past her shoulders slightly, the movement of her hands. He inhaled hard, bunching his right hand into a fist, stepping up beside her, saying, "She's telling you the truth—we just want to know where you are all from, what happened. I'm a doctor—maybe I can help some of you."
Rourke spun half-around, almost going for a gun—there was a woman screaming in the middle of the group, the faces on both sides of her melting away as Rourke took a step closer to her. She was on her knees, crying, holding a baby in her arms, the blanket stained dark red with blood.
