The End is Coming

by Jerry Ahern

  He heard Natalia— “Yes.” He felt her working at his back to remove the ammo box.

  He dropped to his knees beside the statue, both Detonics pistols reloaded, the Colts—all three re­loaded as Natalia loaded thirty-round magazines from the box.

  He started reloading his .45 magazines—the eight-round Detonics extension magazine, the smaller magazines for the little Detonics pistols— “What the hell stopped those crazy people?”

  “We’re in Grant Park,” she answered. “The ur­ban Brigands I spoke of—these ones are armed, perhaps as well as we are. And they cut the heads off their victims to show they don’t like intruders. I don’t know where they live—but between here and the band shell—a no man’s land—not even our patrols will go into the park at night unless they have infrared equipment.”

  Rourke looked at her, feeling sweat drip off his face. He found one of his cigars, chewed down on it, lit it—coughed as the smoke entered his lungs. “So between us and your uncle—more loonies?”

  Natalia nodded, lighting a cigarette. “Yes—more—more of them.”

  He wondered what they could be like—if the crazy men from the underground were afraid. “Let’s go—right up the middle,” he told her.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  They had left the metal ammo box behind, the remaining cardboard boxes of twenty 5.56mm Ball divided between Rourke’s pack and Natalia’s—equally.

  They moved at a fast commando walk, through the middle of the park.

  A bright moon, Rourke could see the trees—dead and leafless. The grass beneath their feet, he knew, was dead too.

  The neutron bombing.

  They walked on.

  “Any idea how we’ll get to your uncle—once we get to the museum?”

  “The museum guards are army—or at least they were—and they are loyal to my uncle and to me—my uncle would assume, I think, that we can get inside—”

  “I hope you’re right,” Rourke told her softly, walking.

  Dead trees flanked them now as briefly they stepped into a paved walkway—the most direct route across the park, if he remembered it correctly. On business in Chicago, he had frequently stayed in Michigan Avenue hotels and walked the park to unwind, to relax. He tried making the memories surface, to guide him.

  The noise of a whistle stopped him.

  “The Brigands,” Natalia whispered.

  “No guns unless we have to,” Rourke cautioned. They were too close to the hub of Soviet activity and gunfire might bring the whole KGB down on them.

  Rourke’s right hand went to the big Gerber knife, his left snatching out the black chrome AG Russell Sting IA.

  He heard the clicking sound of Natalia opening and closing the Bali-Song—it was advertising— “Don’t tread on me,”—and also on her nerves, he thought.

  A man shape stepped out of the dead trees into the gray gloom.

  “Nice night for a walk in the old park, ain’t it?”

  Rourke answered him—the voice more New York-sounding than mid-western, Rourke thought. “Yeah—nice and romantic—listening to the whistle of the punks in the trees, the moon­light—whole nine yards.”

  “You Russians?”

  Natalia answered him, “I am Russian—”

  “Hey—sexy voice, lady—real sexy—what you look like without your clothes?”

  “Yeah—me—I wanna see—right now—” An­other figure stepped from the trees.

  Then another and another and another, finally perhaps eighteen of the urban Brigands flanking them on both sides, as the trees flanked them.

  “You forced this, didn’t you,” Natalia whis­pered.

  “Better than havin’ them stalk us in the park,” Rourke smiled.

  “If I fire a gun,” Natalia shouted, “the entire Russian military will be down on you—I am Ma­jor Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna—the KGB!”

  “No shit, woman,” one of the figures laughed. “KGB women fuck as good as other women, huh?”

  Rourke looked at the figure belonging to the voice. “You open your goddamn mouth one more time, I’ll kill you—period.”

  The figure stepped back a little, silently.

  Rourke turned his attention to the figure at the center of the walkway, saying, “We’re going past you or over you—your choice, asshole.”

  “Man—you can’t come here into my goddamn park and talk shit to me, man!”

  “I just did—asshole.”

  “You gonna die, sucker!”

  Rourke nodded his head, “You bet,” and he rasped to Natalia, “cover me, but don’t interfere unless you have to—watch yourself.”

  The two knives in his hands, Rourke started for­ward—Natalia called softly behind him, “Let me do it—”

  She was better with a knife than he was—he knew that. He ignored what she said.

  The little Sting IA was palmed in his left hand, invisible in the darkness he hoped—he moved the Gerber—to draw attention to it, make it the focal point.

  Rourke stopped, two yards or so from the man in the center of the walkway.

  “Past you or over you?” Rourke asked. “Ques­tion still stands.” The man wore a gun—some kind of revolver in a shoulder holster over his sweater.

  “I oughta shoot you, man,” the man challenged.

  Rourke shrugged his shoulders. “You’re better off with a knife—I’m very good with a knife, so maybe you have a little bit of a chance. With guns, you’d be outclassed. Stick to the knife.”

  And now the man shouted to his friends, “This sucker thinks he’s so good—shit—” he drawled.

  “What’s your strategy—you gonna bore me to death talkin’ or start fighting?”

  The man lunged, a switchblade flicking audibly open, the blade catching a glint of moonlight, Rourke feigning with the big Gerber, the man side­stepping, Rourke’s left hand punching out, the Sting IA clenched tight in his left fist, the spear-point blade stabbing into the carotid artery on the right side of the neck.

  There was a scream, Rourke feeling blood squirt onto his hand as he backstepped, the man going down in a heap.

  Rourke stepped back, making the big Gerber disappear into its sheath, his right fist now swing­ing the M-16 forward, the thumb flicking off the safety.

  The men from the trees on both sides were edg­ing in, Rourke stooping to wipe clean his little knife on the dead man’s sweater.

  Rourke stood up, sheathing the knife.

  He took his cigar in his left hand, studying the glowing tip a minute, then replaced it between his teeth.

  “This has gotten awful tedious,” Rourke called in a loud whisper. “I mean, a real drag. Now fight and die or run and hide—doesn’t matter shit to me.”

  Searchlights lit the ground—from above, Rourke thought, but he wasn’t certain.

  “Commies,” one of the figures shouted, all of them breaking and running, Rourke starting to move.

  “Major Tiemerovna!”

  The voice, English but Russian-accented, from beyond the edge of the light, down the walkway. “Major! Please—I beg of you, stop—”

  Natalia was running, swinging her M-16 toward the lights to fire, Rourke wheeling, in a crouch, the muzzle of his M-16 coming up—

  “It is Captain Vladov—major!”

  Natalia’s voice—

  “John—it is all right, I think—he is my uncle’s friend— “

  Rourke didn’t move the rifle’s muzzle for an in­stant, the searchlight going out—its origin was ahead of them, not from above—

  The Russian voice again. “I have come to find you—we travel the park here each night in hopes you are coming, major—and this man is Rourke?”

  Rourke didn’t move his weapon.

  “John—” It was Natalia.

  Rourke lowered the M-16—thinking it might be the last stupid thing he would ever do.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  They walked in total silence, in darkness save for the bright moon, through the park. Captain Vlad
ov led the way with his three men, Vladov and his men in black camouflaged-pattern fatigues, their faces and hands blackened as well.

  They reached what Rourke recognized as Co­lumbus Drive, the street running parallel to the lakefront and Lake Shore Drive itself. The foun­tain at the middle of the square now seemed odd—no lights, no water—stillness.

  Vladov waited behind bushes near the street, signaling silently to one of his men—the man ran to the curb, then signalling. Vladov whispered hoarsely- “Hurry!”

  Vladov ran ahead, Rourke and Natalia running abreast behind him, the two other men following, Rourke recognizing their rifles as the new 5.45 mm AKS 74s—Vladov and his men were paratroop­ers—he could tell from the stylized berets, and likely the Soviet equivalent of Special Forces.

  They halted in dead underbrush—but in the moonlight Rourke could see sprigs of pale green—new life.

  Vladov, a pistol in his right hand—he had car­ried it since Rourke had first set eyes on him—turned, still crouched, saying, “Your uncle, major—my men and I have been patrolling the park each night, a similar patrol on the far side of the museum—he almost despaired, comrade,” and the man smiled at her—warmly.

  “So had I,” she laughed softly. “Almost de­spaired.”

  “There’s no need to speak in English—I speak Russian,” Rourke advised Vladov.

  “Very good,” Vladov nodded, slipping into Rus­sian then. “The comrade general—he is watched by some of the residual forces of the KGB—but Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy is no longer here—it is rumored he has gone to a place in Colorado called The Womb. Our forces mass for an attack against United States II, but this is senseless commitment of troops—these are your uncle’s words, comrade major—there is something afoot.”

  Rourke studied the man’s gun as he listened to him. “What are you doing with a Smith & Wesson automatic and the AKS-74 assault rifle?”

  “You are observant, Dr. Rourke—we are the So­viet equivalent of your—” and he said the next two words in English— “Special Forces. Officers are allowed to choose their own personal weapons, and we are all issued the AKS-74—it is more effi­cient. Now,” and he seemed to dismiss the subject, “we shall make all good speed to the museum—the guard posted at the main entrance is friendly to our cause—but we must hurry,” and he rolled back the cuff of his black and dark green night jacket—the watch was a Rolex. “The guard will change in less than forty-five minutes.” “My uncle,” Natalia asked. “He is well?” “The comrade general is well—yes, comrade major,” Vladov grinned, adding, “and as tough a man as ever. It will gladden his heart that you are well.” And he looked at Rourke, “But we must hurry—there will be no need for shooting—you see, I have looked at your guns.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Rourke only told him. And then, Vladov in the lead, they began to run again.

  Chapter Fifty

  They had reached the main entrance to the mu­seum from the side, by circling behind the struc­ture—and the guard there, a young, florid-faced man who looked very tired, had pretended they were invisible, never acknowledging their pres­ence, never following with his eyes as they had gone up the steps toward the heavy doors.

  Vladov used a key—two of the men went through first, the third in a guard position in the shadow beside a pillar at the head of the stone steps.

  Vladov was checking his watch—then he said in English, “Hurry—inside.” Natalia went through, Rourke behind her, Vladov after them, closing the door as his men came through, then locking it from the inside.

  Vladov rasped, “That way—hurry!”

  The figures of two fighting mastodons domi­nated the central hallway, Rourke running past them waved on by the two Special Forces men who had gone through first, toward mezzanine stair­ways, Natalia taking the stairs three at a time in a run, Rourke behind her, doing the same, Vladov and the third trooper behind him.

  At the head of the stairs, the two Soviet SF men waved them down a left-hand corridor, Natalia following, Rourke beside her now, Vladov giving an order in Russian to the third trooper to stand guard by the mezzanine and stay out of sight.

  They slowed their run, walking in dark shadows, a golden light ahead of them. The two Soviet SF men turned right into a side chamber, Rourke and Natalia after them—Rourke stopped.

  At the far side of the chamber—perhaps some sixty feet away, was a man, huge in his bulk, but of average height and not more. His face was a com­bination of sternness and the warmth of a home­less dog, his uniform tunic open, his feet moving as though it hurt him to stand.

  Natalia ran into his arms, the man seeming to smother her.

  “That is Comrade General Varakov,” Vladov said with obvious pride. “I am sure that as the friend of the major you will not, but should you attempt to harm the comrade general, I would willingly—even gladly—die in his defense.”

  Rourke studied Vladov’s eyes, saying, “You know—I think you would.”

  Chapter Fifty-one

  They had moved—silently but slowly because of Varakov—Rourke, had circumstances been differ­ent, would have liked to have examined the old man’s feet to see if perhaps some remedy for the man’s obvious pain would suggest itself. They were deep within the museum now, in what was apparently part of an Egyptian wing, glass cases dominating the high-ceilinged chamber, inside the cases ranks of mummies and sarcophagi, and about the hall various items of antiquity of Egypt­ian origin.

  The third Soviet SF-er had rejoined them, and now all three men stood guard at the entrance-ways, Varakov seated on a backless low wooden bench, Natalia huddled beside him—for all the world looking like an overly tall little girl. Rourke smiled.

  Rourke stood, and beside him stood Captain Vladov.

  General Varakov at last spoke. “There is little time—perhaps no time at all, but only God—if in­deed there is one—can determine that now.” A woman joined them—slightly built, what most men would call plain, but a prettiness about her. She walked over to stand beside and slightly be­hind Varakov, the bench separating them.

  “Catherine,” Natalia murmured.

  “Comrade Major Tiemerovna,” the woman smiled.

  Varakov looked at the woman, her right hand going to rest for a second on his right shoulder, lovingly, Rourke thought, then moving it away, folding it inside her left hand, both hands held in front of her overly long uniform skirt.

  Varakov continued to speak, “There is little time. So, very plain talk, Dr. Rourke. Natalia. Captain Vladov. First, Captain Vladov—after our discussion here, unless I am greatly mistaken, my niece and this man, Dr. Rourke—they will be go­ing to Colorado, to The Womb—all is ready for you and your Special Forces to accompany them?”

  “Yes, comrade general,” Vladov answered.

  “What are you talking about?” Rourke asked softly.

  Varakov turned to Natalia. “Child—what does ionization of the atmosphere mean to you? You were very bright at the polytechnic—so tell this to me.”

  “The air—it would become charged with electri­cal particles—and—”

  “When the sun heated it,” Rourke interrupted, “the electrically charged particles would—”

  Varakov continued to speak, interrupting Rourke. “You are correct—both of you. I had little education—it took me a great deal of time to grasp this idea. But soon, all will understand it.”

  “You alluded to the end of the world,” Rourke whispered.

  “In the Judeo-Christian Bible, I believe that God promises this man who built the big ship—”

  “Noah,” Vladov said.

  Varakov looked at him and smiled. “Noah—He promises Noah that the world would never again end by water flooding it over, but by fire instead.”

  “I always thought that was a poor bargain on Noah’s part,” Rourke interjected. “I’d rather drown, I think, than burn to death.”

  “But this will be swift, Dr. Rourke—so swift—so very swift.”

  “Total ionization
of the atmosphere,” Rourke murmured.

  “Yes—the end of the world. It is coming. Per­haps,” and Varakov looked at a rectangular wrist-watch that seemed like something out of a 1940s movie or a museum, “in less than five hours, per­haps in another twenty-four hours after that, per­haps a few days. As best the data I have compiled can confirm, the total ionization should be com­plete within five days at the most—most likely, less than that. It will come at dawn, rolling through the sky, fire, consuming everything, the very air that we breathe, purging the Earth. Each sunrise for twenty-four hours will be the last sunrise, the fire storm sweeping the entire planet. Death for all living things, and should something by some quirk of fate survive, there will be no air to breathe for at least three hundred years afterward, nearer five hundred years before the oxygen content would be able to sustain higher life forms without special breathing apparatus. With this War we fought, this insanity—we have destroyed ourselves—fi­nally and irretrievably, and all mankind shall per­ish from the Earth forever.”

  There was nothing John Thomas Rourke could think of to say.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  John Rourke sat cross-legged on the floor. Na­talia had moved from the bench to sit beside him, and she held his hand.

  Catherine, Varakov’s secretary, Rourke under­stood, sat beside the general on his wooden bench—the general looked very old.

  Varakov held both her hands in his massive left hand.

  The old general had kicked off his shoes.

  Rourke smoked a cigar, Natalia a cigarette.

  Rourke stared at the mummies—his future brothers, he thought absently.

  “The Eden Project,” Varakov said slowly. “With the ionization would come the complete destruc­tion of breathable atmosphere, at the lowest eleva­tions the air thinner afterward than on the highest mountains. The partial destruction of the ozone layer at the very least. All of this was a postwar scenario, one of many. For a time, it was like a guessing game—this War of Wars. World War III.”