by neetha Napew
afterthought and walked toward Karamatsov, standing beside and a little behind
him, the H-K in her hands, its muzzle moving like a wand through the darkness.
Karamatsov put his arm around her shoulders, whispering, "As always—you are my
right arm, Natalia."
Then Karamatsov moved away from her, issuing orders to the men standing on the
edge of the wall of darkness.
Chapter Twelve
Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna moved through the darkness toward what she
perceived as the outline of a staircase. "I'm searching upstairs," she declared,
then added, "Yuri—back me up," glanced over her shoulder—her eyes were becoming
accustomed to the darkness—and saw the blonde-haired Yuri a few steps behind
her, the dark mass of a pistol in his right hand. "Sure thing, little lady," he
said. She disliked the Texas-style accent Yuri had trained in recently. She
turned, glaring at him, hoping somehow that even in the darkness she could
signal her displeasure.
She witnessed his shrug, then she turned back toward the stairs and took them
two at a time, the stock on her H-K collapsed, the .308 calibre selective fire
assault rifle held at her hip like a submachine gun.
She reached the top of the stairs and stopped against the wall, flat, buttocks
and shoulder blades against it, listening. She pulled the black silk bandanna
from her hair and shook her head, stuffing the scarf in the front of her
jumpsuit. Balling her fists around the rifle, she turned in one fluid motion
into the hallway, the H-K's muzzle sweeping the open space.
"Check the rooms on the left," she commanded to Yuri, then without waiting for a
response started to examine the first room on the right. The door was open
halfway and she kicked it in, dodging inside and across the doorframe, going
into a crouch, the H-K's selector on auto, her finger poised against the
trigger.
Nothing.
She left the room and went into the hallway. One other room remained on the
right—the side facing the front yard. She was almost certain there had been
someone there with a rifle as they had stormed the house. The door was closed.
She stopped in front of it, took a half-step back and kicked it in, firing the
H-K in rapid three-shot bursts as she sidestepped away from the doorway and into
the room. She could hear breathing there in the darkness to her left, heard a
brief flurry of movement and opened fire, two three-shot bursts. There was a
heavy groaning sound and the dull thud of a body hitting the floor.
She mentally flipped a coin, then, holding the H-K in her right hand by the
pistol grip, took the small Tekna light from her waist and twisted it on
awkwardly one-handed, flashing its beam in the direction of the noise. There was
a man on the floor, eyes opened, a lever-action Winchester in his hands— he was
dead. "Not Chambers," she whispered to herself. The man was Latino—a Mexican
ranch-worker, she theorized, one of many thousands she had been taught were
exploited by the capitalists for long hours and short wages. She looked at the
dead man once again, regretting his death and pitying him for having died
defending his exploiters against those who would liberate him from his chains.
She turned and left the room, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead
with the back of her still gloved left hand.
Chapter Thirteen
Very slowly, Sarah Rourke climbed back up the slope and out of the valley. At
the back of her mind, she knew she couldn't leave Ron Jenkins' body on the
street in the town below—there were packs of dogs running the hills and
mountains now and his body might well be partially devoured by morning. She was
tired, at the prospect of burying Ron Jenkins and from the added weight of his
pistol and rifle. The pistol was a gun like the one she carried in the
waistband of her Levis, a .45 Colt Automatic, but smaller than her husband's
gun and having a differently shaped hammer. She had no idea what kind of rifle
Jenkins had carried, but it was heavy, she decided, as she reached the top of
the rise and turned through the darkness toward their camp, her breath short.
It was as though she had never left, she thought. Michael was sitting up with
Annie's head on his lap. Carla Jenkins was sitting stock straight on the ground
a few feet away from him, staring blankly into the darkness, her daughter Millie
cradled in her arms. Sarah Rourke walked toward Carla Jenkins, dropped to her
knees on the ground beside the woman and said nothing. Carla turned, even in the
darkness the frightened set of her eyes unmistakable to Sarah Rourke.
"That's Ron's rifle—and you got his pistol belt there, too," she said softly.
"Carla—I don't. I, ah… I don't know how to tell you—"
"He is dead," Carla Jenkins said flatly.
"Yes," Sarah murmured.
"I'd like to be alone for a few minutes, Sarah. Can you take care of Millie for
me?"
Sarah nodded, then realized that in the darkness Carla Jenkins might not have
understood and said, "Of course I will, Carla." The Jenkins woman handed the
ten-year-old girl into Sarah Rourke's arms and Sarah, leaving Jenkins' guns
beside Carla, walked the few feet toward her own children. She dropped to her
knees, trying to get into a sitting position.
She turned her head before she realized why—a gunshot, she realized. Putting
Millie down on the ground, Sarah half crawled, half ran the few feet to Carla
Jenkins. Sarah reached down to the Jenkins woman's head there on the ground by
her feet. Her hand came away wet and slightly sticky. "Can you take care of
Millie for me?" Sarah had told Carla, "Of course I will."
"Ohh, Jesus," Sarah Rourke cried, dropping to her knees beside Carla Jenkins'
body, wanting to cover her own face with her hands but sitting on her haunches
instead, perfectly erect, the bloody right hand held away from her body at arms'
length…
Sarah Rourke couldn't load Carla Jenkins' body across the saddle without getting
her son, Michael, to help—and the thought of asking him had revolted her more
than manhandling the body, but he had done it, simply asking her why Mrs.
Jenkins had shot herself. Miraculously, Millie was sleeping still, as was Annie.
Sitting with Michael a few feet away, not comprehending how the girls had slept
through the gunshot, she began, "Well—sometimes death is awfully hard for people
to accept. Do you understand?"
"Well," he had said, knitting his brow, "maybe a little."
"No—" Sarah said, looking down into the darkness and then back at her son's
face. "See, if all of a sudden on Saturday morning—before the war—I had told you
that you couldn't watch any cartoon shows at all and never explained why, told
you you'd never see a cartoon show again, how would you have felt?"
"Mad."
"Sad, too?" she asked.
"Yeah. Yeah, I would have been sad."
"And probably the worst part of it making you mad and sad would have been that
there wasn't any reason why—huh?"
"Yeah—I'd want to know why I couldn't watch TV."
"Well, see when Mr. Jenkins died, I guess his wife—Mrs. Jenkins—just couldn't
&n
bsp; understand why he had to die. And losing someone you love is more important than
missing cartoon shows, right?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"Well, see, once somebody is dead you never get him back."
"But in church they said that after you die you live forever."
"I hope so," Sarah Rourke said quietly.
Chapter Fourteen
"I never ate something so bad in my life," Rubenstein said, starting to turn
away from Rourke to spit out the food in his mouth.
"I'd eat that if I were you," Rourke said softly. "Protein, vitamins, sugar—all
of that stuff, including the moisture—is something your body is craving right
now. Just reading a book burns up calories, so riding that bike all day,
especially in this heat, really draws a lot out of your body."
"Aww, God, but this tastes like cardboard."
"You eat much cardboard?"
"Well, no, but you know what I mean."
"It doesn't taste good, but it's nutritious. Maybe we'll find something better
tomorrow or the next day. When we get back to the retreat, you can stuff
yourself. I've got all the Mountain House freeze-dried foods—beef stroganoff,
everything. I've got a lot of dehydrated vegetables, a freezer full of
meat—steaks, roasts, the works. I've even got Michelob, pretzels, chocolate chip
cookies, Seagrams Seven. Everything."
"Ohh, man—I wish we were there."
"Well," Rourke said slowly, "wishing won't get us there."
"What I wouldn't do for a candy bar—mmm…"
"Unless you're under high energy demand circumstances, candy isn't that good for
you. Sugar is one of the worst things in the world."
"I thought you said you had chocolate chip cookies," Rubenstein said.
"Well—you can't always eat stuff that's healthy for you."
"What kind of chocolate chip cookies are they?" Rubenstein asked.
"I don't remember," Rourke said. "I always confuse the brands."
"I found your one weakness!" Rubenstein exclaimed, starting to laugh. "Bad at
identifying chocolate chip cookies."
Rourke grinned at Rubenstein, "Nobody's perfect, I guess."
Rubenstein was still laughing, then started coughing and Rourke bent toward
him, saying, "Hold your hands over your head—helps to clear the air passage."
"This—pukey—damned baby—baby food," Rubenstein coughed.
"Just shut up for a minute until you get your breath," Rourke ordered. "Then
let's get a few hours' rest and get started before first light again. I'd like
to put on as much desert mileage as we can during darkness—want to make Van Horn
and beyond tomorrow."
"What's at Van—Van Horn?" Rubenstein asked, coughing but more easily.
"Maybe food and water and gasoline. Good-sized town, a little off the beaten
track, maybe it's indecent shape still. At least I hope so. Knew a guy from Van
Horn once."
"Think he's still there?" Rubenstein said, speaking softly and clearing his
throat.
"I don't know," Rourke said thoughtfully. "Lost touch with him a few years ago.
Might have died—no way to tell."
Rubenstein just shook his head, starting to laugh again, saying, "John, you are
one strange guy. I've never met somebody so laid back in my whole life."
Rourke just looked at Rubenstein, saying, "That's exactly how I'm going to be in
about thirty seconds— laid back. And sleeping. You'd better do the same." Rourke
stood up, starting away from the bikes.
"Takin' a leak?" Rubenstein queried.
Rourke turned and glanced back at him. "No—I'm burying the jar from the baby
food. No sense littering, and the sugar clinging to the sides of the glass will
just draw insects."
"Ohh," Rubenstein said.
Chapter Fifteen
Karamatsov paced across the room—dawn was coming and lighting it, drawing long
shadows through the shot-open windows. "We must find Chambers—he would still be
in Texas. This is his power base, and the militia units we have heard of and
observed would be satisfactory troops around which he could organize armed
resistance."
"Perhaps he is only hiding," Natalia observed, leaning back on one elbow on the
long sofa where she had slept the remainder of the night after securing the
house.
"I doubt it, Natalia. He must strike while the iron is warm—"
"Hot," she corrected.
"Yes—hot. He must, though. Once our forces are settled into position in strength
his task will be more difficult. Once we are able to organize a national
identity system, collect all firearms, etc., his task will be virtually
impossible. He must act now!" and Karamatsov hammered his fist down on the wall
behind him.
"What we gonna do, boss?" Yuri said, grinning.
Karamatsov glared at the man, but continued speaking, ignoring the lack of
formality. "We are going to split up—that is what we are going to do.
Natalia—you and Yuri will take an aircraft into the western portion of the
state—it is desert there. Travel by jeep back to Galveston. We will all
rendezvous there at our command center near the coast. Equipment and
fortifications should be finished within days there at any event. Radio
communications will still be impossible, so unless a perfect opportunity
presents itself to get Chambers, try nothing on your own, but instead run down
as many leads as possible concerning his whereabouts and anticipated movements.
Questions?"
"What about identities?" Yuri's voice sounded more serious now.
"We don't have time to manufacture anything new—simply use the papers you have
with you to best advantage. Unless you run into a skeptical, organized force
there shouldn't be any difficulty. I wish I could offer more advice. Any other
questions?"
Natalia said nothing, but uncoiled herself from the couch, standing, pressing
her hands down along the sides of her coveralls. Karamatsov looked at her and
watched as she ran her long fingers through her dark hair. "Natalia—I wish to
speak with you a moment." Karamatsov caught Yuri's eyes glancing quickly, almost
furtively at him. Natalia turned to face him and smiled, her long mouth upturned
at the corners into a smile, the tiniest of dimples appearing there as if by
some magic.
He turned and walked to the corner of the room, then looked back as Natalia
walked toward him, the other already leaving for the front yard. "What is it,
Vladmir?" she asked, the sound of her voice almost something he could feel.
"Nothing, really—I just wished to tell you to be careful. That's all. These
surviving Americans are crazy. All of them with guns, so ready to use them."
"Was there anything else?" she asked, her eyes intent on his.
Karamatsov put his hands on her shoulders and drew her toward him, felt the
curves of her body pressing against him. "Yes—we can be together at the
headquarters. I couldn't sleep last night—do you know that?" Without waiting for
her to answer, he moved his hands to her face and drew her mouth up toward his,
kissing her, his hands moving down then and cradling her body against him. He
bent and touched his lips to her throat, hearing her voice whispering in his
ear, "Vladmir—I so want this all to be ov
er. We can be together, now that we
have won."
He held her head against his chest, his fingers stroking her hair, saying, "This
is the major step that we have dreamed of, Natalia. But America is not yet
conquered, our work is far from finished. But we can be together—more and more."
She looked up into his eyes and Karamatsov kissed her again.
Chapter Sixteen
Sarah Rourke wiped the dirt from her hands on the sides of her jeans, taking a
step back from the large grave. She had buried both Carla and Ron Jenkins there,
then, with Michael's help, gathered rocks to cover the mound by the side of the
road leading into the town. Two thick branches and one of Ron Jenkins' saddle
thongs had made the cross, and with Jenkins' pocket knife she had tried to
scratch names on it, but only the half-rotted bark had fallen away.
"Are you all right, Michael?" she asked, looking down at her son standing beside
her.
"I'm all right, Mom," the six-year-old answered, staring at the mound of dirt
and stone.
She looked back over her shoulder then, saw Millie and Annie playing together by
the horses and then looked back to Michael. "Do you think we should have Millie
and Ann come over and help us pray for the Jenkins?"
Michael didn't answer for a moment, but then said, "No—I think they're happy
playing. It might just make Millie and Annie cry again. We can pray for them
ourselves."
"Maybe you're right," Sarah said. "Let's just each of us be quiet a minute and
say something to ourselves, okay?"
Michael nodded and closed his eyes, knitting his dirty fingers together as
though he were saying grace. As she closed her own eyes, she heard him mumbling,
"God is gracious, God is good…" Her eyes still closed, she reasoned it was
probably the only prayer the boy knew.
Chapter Seventeen
Natalia pulled the straw cowboy hat down low over her eyes, squinting into the
sun as she stood beside the jeep, waving to the departing cargo pilot. She
turned her head as the dust became too intense and saw Yuri, his hair blowing in
the wind the plane was generating. She held her hands to her mouth like a
megaphone, shouting, "Let's get out of here!" but there was no answer, no
