by Ahern, Jerry
They were in a field of jagged, carelessly arranged rocks on the rise, mists covering much of the valley, the fine mist coming down on them as well on the rise.
The mule's hide smelled as she took Annie into her arms and helped her to the ground.
Michael held the mule's halter. Sarah helped Millie down.
"You kids get under some shelter—got a shelter half goin' up," Bill Mulliner ordered.
Michael looked at him, saying nothing, then nodded and took the two girls in tow.
Sarah shifted the weight of her knapsack, tossing it to the ground near the rocks and then unslinging the M-from her right shoulder.
"Mrs. Rourke—there's shelter for you, too," Pete Critchfield said, passing her.
He was always moving, always doing something—never standing still.
"I'm all right here, Mr. Critchfield," she called after him, not knowing if he'd heard or not.
She sat on the rock nearest her, feeling the cold and dampness as it worked through her blue jeans to her panties and then to her skin.
"Here, ma'am," and Bill Mulliner handed her a blanket. "Sit on this."
She smiled up at him, took the blanket and placed it under her. The blanket was damp feeling, but at least not so cold as the rock, "The weather's crazy, isn't it?" she said, just for conversation.
Bill Mulliner sat down beside her and she rearranged the blanket which brought him quite close to her, but at least made the young man more comfortable. "Them sunsets— so red. The thunder all the time in the sky—spooky to me," he nodded, lighting his pipe. He looked silly smoking it, but she wasn't about to tell him that.
"Maybe it's the end—for all of us," she said after a moment.
"Way I see it—well, folks used to talk in the magazines and books and on the television how's a nuclear war would kill ever'body. But everybody ain't dead,"
and he looked at her.
"Maybe you're right," she answered, her voice Jow.
She shifted the pistol belt she now wore—inherited from one of the dead brigands at the Mulliner farm. The ., her husband's gun—was on the belt in a flap covered black leather holster with "US" stamped into the flap. She had canvas magazine holders on the belt as well—six extra magazines for the .. The smaller gun—the Trapper Scorpion .—was in a homemade belt holster— same holster Bill Mulliner's father had used, on a belt threaded through the belt loops of her jeans under her coat. It was a good way to carry a gun, she decided—it was always on her, except when she slept, and beside her then when she did.
She unlatched the web material pistol belt, wrapped the belt around the flap holster and set the big . on the ground beside her—she was tired.
"Things'Il be fine once you and your family reach the refugee camp—people there'll help ya out—and people there for you to help too, ma'am. Lots a sick people. Lots of people who lost their families and all. But it's a good place—church service twice a week—Wednesday nights and Sunday mornin's—preacher'd do more, but he keeps up goin' out the rest of the time lookin' for more sick people to bring in. Good man, the preacher. Methodist— me, I'm Baptist, but that's all right."
"I guess we were Presbyterian before the War—didn't go much to church," she told him.
"Me—heck, ma'am—I miss church. We had a youth group—I woulda been out of it the next year anyways— And the Scouts—my Scout troop was through the church—Pastor was my scout leader from the time I first got out of my Cub pack 'til I made Eagle Scout."
"Your parents must have been very proud of you—I know your mother still is,"
Sarah whispered.
"I liked that life—don't spose we'll ever have that life again."
"Did you have a girl?" she asked him, then felt sorry
for asking as she watched his eyes.
"Yes, ma'am," he answered after a moment, sighing hard and loud. "Yes, ma'am—I had a girl. Pretty hair like yours—long like yours is."
Sarah felt he wanted her to ask—so she did. "What happened to your girl, Bill?"
The boy licked his lips, looked at her and then looked away, knocking out the pipe against the heel of his work-boot. "Dead, ma'am. What got me in the Resistance. She lived in town, ya know—some of them brigand trash came through right after it all happened. I—ahh—I found her— they'd, ahh—" He didn't finish it.
Sarah reached out to him, putting her left arm across his shoulders, her left hand touching his neck as he leaned forward, not looking at her.
"They'd—they'd raped her—real bad—real—it was— the stuff—all over her legs and her belly and her face— it—it was all beat up. She just died I guess—right in the middle of it all—her name was Mary—like my mom's—" He started to cry and Sarah leaned close to him. There wasn't anything she could say.
Chapter 28
"I need Doctor Rourke with me—Rubenstein can stay here. And no guns for Rourke, ' Cole said flatly.
Gundersen wove the fingers of his hands together. "I anticipated that, Captain Cole. I've talked briefly here with Doctor Rourke. Sending a man out unarmed into what might be out there would be like committing murder. Doctor Rouke gets his guns—"
"I object to that, sir!"
"I'll note that objection in my log," Gundersen went on placidly. Rourke watched his eyes. "And as to Mr. Rubenstein—if he chooses to accompany his friend, he certainly may. If you like, Lieutenant O'Neal—he's my missile officer and hasn't had much to do since we fired all our missiles you know—well, he's coming along as well as are a few of my men—a landing party. Lieutenant O'Neal can be responsible for Mr. Rubenstein if that suits you better. And as to Major Tiemerovna—there's no policy decision to be made there. She's not strong enough yet to travel. So she doesn't need her guns. Questions about that, captain?"
"I still protest, sir—once we're on land, this mission is mine."
"But this mission involves my submarine, mister—and getting those missile warheads safely on board this boat directly affects the safety of my crew. So some of my people go along, like it or not."
"I want to send out a recon patrol right away—before the shore party."
"A wise move—I'll let you handle that. If you'd like any of my men to ace—"
"No—no, sir. My men can handle that. That's what they're trained for."
"Can I say something?" Rourke asked.
"Certainly, Doctor Rourke," Gundersen nodded.
Rourke saw Natalia, Paul—even Cole staring at him. "That recon party could be a mistake—we can recon as we go. We have to go from here anyway, regardless of what's out there. Only way to reach Filmore Air Force Base. Sending out a patrol from here will only serve to alert any potentially hostile force to our intentions of going inland. I say we move out under cover of darkness—get ourselves well inland before dawn and go from there."
"Bullshit, Rourke!"
"There's a lady present, mister," Gundersen snapped. "And I agree with Doctor Rourke."
"The land portion of the mission is mine—I intend to send a recon patrol out now—I've got men geared up and ready."
Rourke shrugged.
Rubenstein cleared his throat, Rourke watching as the younger man pushed his glasses up off the bridge of his nose. "John's right—we let anybody out there know what we're up to, all they're going to do is set a trap for us."
"If this meeting is about over, commander—I've got a final briefing for my men."
Rourke lit one of his cigars, looking at Cole, studying him. "You leading it—the recon patrol, I mean?"
"Corporal Henderson—"
"Ohh—well, I don't care much if he ever comes back anyway. How's his face doing?" Henderson was the man Rourke had put away for shooting Natalia.
Cole glared at Rourke, saying, "One of these days, Doctor Rourke—after we contact Colonel Teal, after we secure those warheads—it's you and me."
Rourke nodded. "It scares me just to think about it," and he exhaled the gray smoke from his lu
ngs.
Chapter 29
The faces—she watched them as they watched her. She held Michael's right hand in her left, the boy saying nothing, but watching the faces, too.
Sarah shifted the weight of her M-, the rifle carried now cross body on its sling, her right fist balled around the pistol grip. She had not seen so many people in one place—crowded together in one place—since before the Night of The War. It mildly frightened her. She had seen other large groups—but she didn't count them people. The brigands—they were less than animals. The Russians—she refused to think of them any more than she had to. But she thought every once in a while of the Soviet major—the man she had met during the resistance escape in Savannah, whom she had met once again in Tennessee.
He had spared her.
She had watched his eyes, seeing something there she had seen in her husband's eyes. And she wondered what he had seen in her eyes.
She shook her head.
"What's wrong, Momma?" Michael looked up at her—he was nearly to the height of her breasts when he stood erect.
"Nothing—just all these people—" She stopped, Pete Crichfield having stopped, even Bill Mulliner's golden retriever, the dog the children had constantly played with at the farm, having stopped.
Bill Mulliner came up beside her. "That fella on the porch—David Balfry—he's the commander."
"The commander?"
"Yeah—college professor before the Night of The War—he's sort of the headman for the resistance in Tennessee here."
She looked beyond Pete Critchfield's massive shoulders. "David Balfry,*' she repeated.
He was her own age, she judged. Tall, straight, lean-featured. Close cropped blond hair, a smile lighting his face for an instant.
"Mrs. Rourke!" It was Pete Critchfield, calling to her.
"Yes, Mr. Critchfield."
"You and your boy come up here and meet David." Sarah left the ragged column, walking closer to the knot of people, still watching her—watching all of the newcomers, she told herself. There were wounds—bandaged, some not cleanly. There were missing limbs, eyes—terrible burns on the faces and exposed hands of some of the people in the crowd. She pushed past, stopping at the porch steps of the farmhouse.
"Mrs. Rourke—I heard of your work in Savannah with the resistance there. It's an honor to meet you," and David Balfry extended his hand. The fingers were long, like the fingers of a pianist or violinist were supposed to be but so rarely were.
She felt his hand press around hers.
She looked into his eyes—they were green. They were warm.
"It's—it's a pleasure to meet you, too—Mr. Balfry."
"It used to be Professor Balfry—now it's just David. Sarah—isn't it?"
"Yes," she told him. She wondered quickly what else he would ask her.
"May I call you Sarah?"
She nodded, saying nothing.
"I understand your husband was a doctor—"
"Is a doctor," she told him, shifting her feet in her tennis shoes.
"Yes—but were you ever a nurse—"
"Not really—but I've done a lot of it."
"Reverend Steel—I think he could use some help with the sick—after you settle in, of course."
"Of course—I mean—yes. I'll help," she told him.
Balfry extended his right hand again, this time to Michael's head, tousling his hair. She felt the boy's right hand tensing in her left, saw him step away.
David Balfry smiled. "We'll get to know each other, son," and he turned to Pete Critchfield. Sarah felt awkward just standing there, but didn't know what else to do.
Michael tugged at her hand.
Something else tugged at her as well.
Balfry looked away from Pete Critchfield once and she thought he smiled at her.
Chapter 30
The landing party had not returned. Rourke, Cole, Gundersen, Lieutenant O'Neal and Paul Rubenstein stood in the sail, watching the dark shore. There was no moonlight, the sky overcast still and the incredibly large flakes of snow still falling, but the temperature still almost warm.
Rourke glanced at the luminous black face of the Rolex on his left wrist, cupping his right hand over it to make the darkness deep enough that the numerals would glow.
"They've been gone for eight hours—supposed to be back two hours ago. If they were my men, Captain Cole, I think I might go looking for them."
"Yeah—well—"
"Yeah—well," Rourke mimicked. He shifted his shoulder under the bomber jacket, the familiar weight of the Detonics pistols there in the double Alessi rig something he was glad to have back again. The Sparks Six Pack rode his trouser belt, the magazines freshly loaded and the ammo from each all hand cycled through his pistols to assure the magazines functioned properly—they did. These six magazines plus the magazines he normally carried, vastly increased his ready firepower. Rubenstein stood beside him, the Browning coming into his hands. He hand cycled the slide, chambering a round off the top of the magazine, then made the mm pistol disappear under his Army field jacket.
ins
"Ready when you are, John," Paul smiled.
"Captain—" It was Lieutenant O'Neal, the missile officer. "Sir, I can get together part of that shore party right now—"
Rourke interrupted him. "Belay that—that's what you say in the Navy, isn't it?"
O'Neal's normally red cheeks flushed as he laughed. "That's right, sir."
"I've got a better idea, I think—if Commander Gundersen approves," Rourke added.
"Cole, Paul, myself—those three other troopers of Captain Cole's—we go in now.
Hit the beach in a rubber boat if you got one, then get up into those rocks. If that recon patrol Hendersen led got nailed, it was probably pretty soon after they hit shore. You save that landing party if we're not back by dawn—and have 'em ready in case we come back sooner with somebody chasing us."
"That sounds good to me," Gundersen nodded. "Captain Cole?" Gundersen raised his eyebrows, as if waiting for Cole to respond.
"No other choice, I guess," Cole nodded.
'Til get the rest of the gear," Rubenstein said, disappearing toward the hatchway leading down from the sail.
"And with your permission, sir," O'Neal volunteered to Gundersen. "I'll get that inflatable geared up."
"You got it," Gundersen nodded.
Rourke stared past Gundersen—the shore was a darker gray line against the near blackness of the water, and in the distance above the rocks which marked the coast was a lighter gray—it was the sky. The water in the inlet was calm—the deck on the sail almost motionless under him.
There were people in the darkness—and Rourke didn't doubt that someone of them at least was watching him from the rocks.
As it always was—despite the elements, the forces of nature—the true danger was man.
Chapter 31
The waves made a soft, almost rhythmical slapping sound against the gunwales of the gray inflatable boat; Rourke crouched in the prow, the CAR-ready, Rubenstein beside him, Cole and his three troopers filling out the center and aft section, two of the three troopers rowing.
There had always been considerable talk about a sixth sense, but nothing concretely proven, at least as far as Rourke considered it. But if there were a sixth sense—and gut feelings had convinced him long ago there were—he felt its activation now.
"I feel something," Rubenstein murmured beside him.
Rourke smiled, saying nothing. Beneath the bomber jacket against the cold, he wore a dark blue crew neck sweater from the submarine's stores—but he still shivered. It wasn't the cold doing it.
There was a whitish outline gleaming ahead—the shoreline where the waves lapped against it now. The tide was high, and this cut the distance to the rocks beyond the beach.
"Kill those oars," Rourke commanded, stripping away his leather gloves, stuffing
them into one of the bomber jacket's outside patch pockets, then dipping his hands into the water on both sides of the prow. "Use your hands," he rasped, his fingers numbing from the water temperature already—but there was no choice.
It took several minutes of the slow movement, barely
able to fight the waves rolling back from the shore, to move with the tide and reach the land. Rourke throwing a leg out, water splashing up over the collar of his combat boot, then his other leg out, Rubenstein into the water too now. The surf splashed against the prow of the boat, turning into a fine, icy spray, Rourke flexing his fingers against the fabric of the boat as he hauled at it, snow still coming down—no more heavily than before, but no less heavily either.
"Come on, Paul," he rasped to the younger man, then to Cole, "Get your butts outa the boat and give us a hand! Come on!"
Cole sprang from the boat, dousing himself in the water, his three men following suit but with less lack of grace. Water dripping from him, Cole reemerged, cursing—"Shut up, damnit!" Rourke snapped. The boat was nearly up from the surf, Rourke glancing to Paul, saying, "Together," then hauling at the rubber boat, over the last roll of breakers, both men heaving together, the boat onto the sand.
"You and you—you help 'em," Rourke rasped to the three soldiers. "Get the boat out of here—back in those rocks. Secure it in case the tide does get higher."
Rourke swung the CAR-off his shoulder where it had hung muzzle down. He pulled the rubber plug from the muzzle and dropped it into his musette bag where he carried some of his spare magazines and other gear. He shifted the rifle forward, working the bolt and chambering the top cartridge out of the freshly loaded thirty-round stick.
He started forward across the sand, feeling he was being watched, waiting for it to come—It came.
"Kill them!"
The shout—somehow oddly not quite human.
Ill
Rourke wheeled, snapping the CAR-'s muzzle forward, ramming the flash deflector into the face of the man—man?—coming for him. The machete dropped from the right hand as the body reeled.
