The Survivalist #2

by Jerry Ahern

  Rourke wheeled and dropped to his right knee, the CAR-15 thrusting outward. Four men, wild-looking, unshaven, hair long, clothes torn, started toward him, one with a club, another with a knife almost as long as a sword, the third carrying a rock and the fourth man with a gun. They were screaming something he couldn't understand and Rourke fired at them, the one with the rock going down, then the man with the club. Then he fired at the man brandishing the knife, missing the man as he lunged toward him. Rourke rolled onto his back, snatching one of the stainless Detonics pistols into his right hand, the CAR-15 on the ground a yard away from him. As the man with the knife charged at him again, Rourke fired once, then once more.

  There was still the fourth of the wildmen, the man with the gun, and Rourke spun into a crouch, his eyes scanning the darkness. He heard a scream, like an animal dying, then fell to the ground, rolled and came up on his knees, the Detonics in both his fists, firing as the fourth man stormed toward him. The man's body lurched backwards and into the dirt. Rourke got to his feet and walked toward the man. He was really little more than a boy, Rourke realized. The beard was long in spots, but sparse, the hairline bowed still, the face underneath the beard looking to be a mass of acne-like sores. Rourke reached down for the gun—it was a reflex action with him, he realized. The pistol was old, European, and so battered and rusted that for a moment he couldn't identify it. The weight was wrong and he pointed the pistol to the ground and snapped the trigger. There was a clicking sound and Rourke looked up into the darkness and let the gun fall to the ground from his hand.

  After a while, he reholstered his pistol and found the rifle on the ground. There was no thought of burying the four dead men, he realized. If he were to bury the dead, where would he start?

  Mechanically, still half staring at the gutted frame of the house where his family had lived, he reloaded the Detonics and the CAR-15 with fresh magazines. He started away from the house, then turned, remembering he'd been walking to the barn before the attack. He opened the barn door—an owl fluttered in the darkness, the sound of the wings were too large for a bat. Rourke lit one of the anglehead flashlights that he and Rubenstein had stolen that first night in Albuquerque.

  He scanned the barn floor—the horses were gone, but he had expected that. But so was the tack. He started toward the stalls, then remembered to flash the light behind him. He saw something catching the light, and he walked toward the barn door, then swung the door outward into the light of the stars and the moon.

  It was a plastic sandwich bag, the kind Sarah had used for lunches she'd stashed in the pocket of his jacket when he'd left early in the mornings to go deer hunting. There was something inside it and he ripped the bag from the nail attaching it to the barn door. It was a check, the first two letters of the word "Void" written across it—it was Sarah's writing. He turned the check over, shining the light on it, and read:

  My Dearest John, You were right. I don't know if you're still alive. I'm telling myself and the children that you survived. We are fine. The chickens died overnight, but I don't think it was radiation. No one is sick. The Jenkins family came by and we're heading toward the moun­tains with them. You can find us from the retreat. I'm telling myself that you will find us. Maybe it will take a long time, but we won't give up hope. Don't you. The children love you. Annie has been good. Michael is more of a little man than we'd thought. Some thieves came by and Michael saved my life. We weren't hurt. Hurry. Always, Sarah.

  At the bottom, the letters larger, scrawled quickly, Rourke thought, was written:

  I love you, John.

  Rourke leaned back against the barn door, reread­ing the note, and when he was through, rereading it again.

  He didn't look at his watch, but when finally he looked up, the moon seemed higher.

  He folded the half-voided check carefully and placed it in his wallet, looked up at the stars, and his voice, barely a whisper, said, "Thank you."

  John Rourke slung the CAR-15 under his right shoulder and started walking, away from the barn, past the gutted house and into the woods. He stopped and looked back once, lighting a cigar, then turned and didn't look back again.

  The End