The Nightmare begins

by neetha Napew

  recognition that he had even heard her. Shrugging her shoulders under the short

  leather jacket she wore, she climbed into the passenger seat and checked her

  pistol while she waited for Yuri. She had left the H-K assault rifle behind as

  being out of character. Yuri was supposed to be her brother and he was supposed

  to be a geologist. They had been out in the field—"What war?" she would say. "We

  were in the desert. Our radio stopped working, but we thought it was just

  sunspot activity or something." She looked at the gun in her hand. "Oh, this?"

  she would say. "Just in case of snakes. My brother showed me how it works and

  just insisted that I carry it but I really don't know anything about guns." She

  turned the gun over in her hand. Like all the American- and Western

  European-origin conventional guns she and the rest of Karamatsov's team used,

  they had been acquired technically illegally according to American law. This was

  a particularly nice one and she liked it, despite its limited capacity—a

  four-barreled stainless steel .357 Magnum COP pistol, derringerlike with a

  rotating firing pin and an overall size approximating a .380 automatic. It was

  pattern loaded, the first round intended for snakes—a .38-.357 shot shell, the

  last three chambers loaded with 125-grain jacketed hollow point .357s. With the

  gun she had a set of .22 Long Rifle insert barrels, which even more greatly

  expanded its versatility.

  She put the gun back in the inside pocket of her leather jacket and leaned back

  on the seat, pulling the hat lower over her eyes, the bandanna knotted around

  her throat already wet with perspiration, her dark glasses doing little to

  reduce the harsh glare of the sun.

  She turned her head, closing her eyes, when Yuri said, "Well, little lady—ya'll

  ready to get on with this here safari?"

  She opened her eyes. "Yuri—you are a fine agent. But if you do not stop talking

  like that tome, you will find cyanide in your tea, or a curare-tipped straight

  pin inside your trouser leg. I don't like being called 'little lady.' You are

  not to call me Captain Tiemerovna in the field. You are to call me Natalie, the

  American way of saying my first name. I should not call you Yuri—why are you not

  correcting me? Your name for this operation is Grady Burns. I will call you

  that."

  Yuri looked at her, running his fingers through his hair, pulling his hat down

  low over his nearly squinted-shut eyes. "Yes ma'am," he said, choking a laugh,

  then cranking the key and throwing the jeep into gear.

  She turned toward him, started to say something, then eased back into her seat,

  laughing out loud in spite of herself. "Yuri—my God."

  "Now that's American—little lady!" he said, laughing, his right hand moving from

  the gear shift and slapping her left knee. She sat bolt upright, looked at him a

  moment and started laughing again. They drove, talking, joking, through the sand

  dunes and in the general direction of Van Horn, where they hoped to find some

  information regarding Chambers. At one o'clock she called a halt, telling Yuri,

  "I've got to stretch my legs."

  He pulled the jeep to a halt, shutting off the motor. "Do you want me to get it

  out of the back of the jeep?"

  She glared at him. "Whose idea was that chemical toilet?"

  "Karamatsov's idea—I think he was looking out for your comfort."

  "He needn't have bothered," she stated flatly, getting out of the jeep and

  walking toward a low-rising dune fifteen yards to their right.

  When she finished, she buried the tissue in the sand under her heel as she

  zipped her fly. Automat­ically, she started to feel for her pistol as she

  started back toward the jeep, remembering then that she had left it in the

  pocket of her jacket still on the seat. As she turned back toward the jeep, she

  screamed, in spite of herself. Almost instantly regaining her composure, she

  shouted, "Who are you?" Two men, wearing T-shirts and faded jeans, were standing

  on the top of the small dune, their faces leering. "I said, who are you?"

  "I heard what ya' said, girl," the taller of the two men shouted back.

  She started walking again, slowly. She stopped when she saw the jeep. Two men

  dressed like the first two were standing beside it, and a short distance behind

  them were four motorcycles. She couldn't see Yuri.

  She turned to the two men on the top of the dune, one of whom was already

  sliding down toward her. "Where is he—the man on the jeep, the man I was with?"

  "Well, you don't have to worry yourself 'bout him no more—he's dead. Slit his

  throat just as nice as you please, we did," the nearer man told her.

  She found herself shaking her head. Yuri was too good to have let himself be

  surprised like that. "I don't believe you," she said.

  "See," the taller man began, sliding to the ground and getting to his feet less

  than a yard from her. "He never noticed this," and he reached into his hip

  pocket and flicked open a long-bladed switchblade, " 'cause he was too busy

  lookin' at that," and the tall man gestured back toward the top of the dune. The

  second man swung his right hand from behind him now, a shotgun in it, the

  barrels impossibly short, she thought, the stock of the shotgun all but gone.

  She noticed a leather strap from the butt of the shotgun stretched across the

  man's body like a sling.

  "While your boyfriend was a lookin', I was a cuttin'," the tall man said,

  grinning.

  Natalia stared at him, assessing his build, the way he stood, searching him with

  her eyes for additional weapons. There was a pistol crammed between the wide

  black belt he wore and the sagging beerpot under the sweat-stained T-shirt. As

  near as she could make out, the gun was a German luger.

  "What do you want?" she asked, lowering her voice.

  "What do you think I want, girl?" the man laughed, starting to step toward her.

  The knife was still in his right hand and as he took his second step, Natalia

  moved, both hands going toward him, her right hand flashing upwards, the middle

  knuckles locked outward, impacting under his nose and smashing the bone upward

  into his brain. Her left hand had already found the nerve on the right side of

  his neck and pinched it, momentarily numbing the right arm, causing the knife to

  fall from his grasp. She knew he was dead and let him fall, dismissing the

  inferior switchblade knife and snatching the Luger from his belt as he went

  down. Her right thumb found the safety, her left hand slamming back the toggle

  in case the gun had been carried chamber empty, the trigger finger on her right

  hand poised for a fast squeeze as the toggle slammed forward, two rounds—9mms,

  she thought—slamming up at a sharp angle into the man with the sawed-off shotgun

  standing on top of the dune. She wheeled, a shot already echoing from behind

  her, a second shot—the sound registering somewhere at the back of her mind,

  creasing heavily into her left forearm, pitching her back into the sand on her

  rear end, her first shot toward the two men standing near the jeep going wild.

  She rolled across the sand, bullets kicking it up into her face. She fired, two

  rounds in a fast burst at the nearest man—he had a pistol. The l
ast man was

  working a bolt action rifle, swinging the muzzle toward her. She fired once,

  shooting out the left eye. She automatically glanced down to the Luger's

  sights—the rear sight looked banged up and she attributed the eyeball shot to

  that. She had aimed between the eyes.

  She started to her feet, took a step forward and fell into the sand. She rolled

  onto her back, the sun, still almost directly overhead, momentarily blinding her

  despite the sunglasses. But then she remembered she'd lost them rolling through

  the sand. She tried standing, felt her head—it hurt badly. Forcing herself to

  her feet, she staggered toward the jeep and fell against it, burning her fingers

  on the hot metal, the Luger slipping from her right hand. Pulling herself into

  the jeep and across the passenger seat, her blue eyes glanced downward—Yuri, his

  throat slit ear-to-ear—in a clumsy fashion, she thought—lay in the sand, his

  eyes wide open and staring into the sun. She started the jeep, heard a

  high-pitched whistle and saw steam rising from in front of the hood.

  "Shot the radiator—stupid," she murmured to herself, then fumbled off the

  emergency brake and threw the car into gear. The thought that drove her was that

  the four men were probably not alone. The sketchy intelligence from the area

  indicated a large and heavily armed gang of looters and killers moving across

  the state, "Outriders," she said dully as she started the jeep up a low dune.

  "Got to hurry…"

  Chapter Eighteen

  "Wait here in case it's a trap of some kind," Rourke said.

  "What do you mean—a trap?" Rubenstein asked.

  Rourke looked at him a moment. "Could be those paramilitary guys, could be

  anyone—put a woman's body down beside the road, most people are going to stop,

  right? Plenty of cover back by those dunes, right?"

  "Yeah, but—she's awful still. Hasn't moved since we spotted her."

  "Could be dead already, maybe just a bag of rags stuffed into some old clothes.

  Keep me covered," Rourke almost whispered. He swung the CAR-15 across the front

  of the Harley and started the bike slowly across the road, throwing a glance

  back over his shoulder, seeing Rubenstein readying the German MP-40 subgun to

  back him up. Rourke cut a wide arc across the opposite shoulder, going off onto

  the sand and running a circle around the body—it was a woman, dark hair covering

  half her face, her right hand clutched to her left arm, dark bloodstains seeping

  through her fingers. Rourke stopped the bike a few yards from her, dismounted

  and kept the CAR-15 pointed in her general direction, his right fist bunched

  around the pistol grip, his first finger just outside the trigger guard.

  He walked slowly across the sand, the sun to his left now starting to sink

  rapidly, because, techni­cally—despite the heat—it wasn't quite spring. Darkness

  would come soon, and Van Horn was still miles away. Water and food were

  virtually gone— and, of more immediate concern, so was the gasoline. His bike

  was nearly empty and he doubted Rubenstein's bike would make even another twenty

  or thirty miles.

  He stopped, staring at the woman's body inches from the dusty toes of his black

  combat boots. Rourke pushed the sunglasses back from his head and up into his

  hair, staring at her more closely. She was incredibly beautiful, even dirty and

  disheveled as she was now, and somewhere at the back of his mind Rourke knew

  he'd seen the face before. "I wouldn't forget you," he murmured, then pushed the

  toe of his left boot toward her, moving her body a little and finally rolling

  her over. The limpness of her body spelled recent death or a deep state of

  unconscious­ness. He dropped to one knee beside her, swinging the scoped CAR-15

  behind his back, bending down to her then and taking her head gently into his

  left hand, his right thumb slowly opening her left eyelid. She was alive. He

  felt her pulse, weak but steady. Her skin was waxy-appearing and cold to the

  touch. "Shock," he murmured to himself. "Heat prostra­tion." Rourke looked up

  and called across the road.

  "Paul—do a wide circle to make sure she doesn't have any friends, then come

  over—we've got to get her out of the sun."

  Rourke scanned the horizon to see if there were any natural shade, fearing she

  might not survive until darkness. About a hundred yards off to the opposite side

  of the road, he spotted an overhanging outcrop­ping of bare rock. Quickly

  feeling the woman's arms and legs and along the rib case to ascertain that there

  were no readily apparent broken bones, he stood up, bringing the unconscious

  girl to her feet, then sweeping her up into his arms. As Rubenstein completed

  his circuit and drove up alongside, Rourke, the girl cradled in his arms like a

  child, said, "I'm heading over toward those rocks on the other side of the road.

  Bring your bike over there, then come back for mine." Rourke didn't wait for an

  answer, but started across the concrete, his knees slightly flexed under the

  added weight of the girl in his arms. As he reached the opposite shoulder he

  looked down, felt her stirring there. She was moving her lips. "… find Sam

  Chambers… get to jeep," and she repeated herself, over and over again as Rourke

  reached the shelter of the rocks with her. The sun low, there was ample shade.

  Rourke set her down in the sand as gently as he could. Rubenstein was already

  coming back with Rourke's Harley. Rourke looked up as Rubenstein ground to a

  dusty halt. "We've got to normalize her body temperature. Get me the water—she

  needs it more than we do."

  Rourke looked down at the girl's face. He nodded to himself. It was a face he

  wouldn't forget and he remembered it now but couldn't yet make the connection.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The moon was bright but there was a haze around it—Sarah Rourke recalled her

  husband using the phrase "blood on the moon." There was enough blood on the

  earth, she thought. All through the day she had followed along the path of the

  brigands who had tortured Ron Jenkins and everywhere they had gone—small farms,

  two more towns—the scene had been the same. Wanton destruction and dead people

  and animals everywhere. But their trail had taken a sharp turn back into the

  northeastern portion of the state and now, as she guessed she was crossing the

  border into Tennessee, as best as she could judge they were behind her and going

  in an entirely different direction, each mile taking them farther apart.

  She pulled up on the reins. Tildie slowed and stopped, bending her head down low

  and browsing the ground. Sarah Rourke looked behind her. Michael was riding her

  husband's horse Sam by himself now, and Millie and her own daughter Annie were

  riding Carla Jenkins' mount and Ron Jenkins' appaloosa was carrying most of the

  cargo. It was a better arrangement for the animals, and every few hours she

  swapped horses with Michael to rest Tildie from her weight. It would be several

  more days before they reached Mt. Eagle, Tennessee and tried search­ing for

  Millie's aunt who had a small farm there. Earlier in the day, Sarah had tried

  questioning Millie about where the farm was, but the girl had remained silent,

  just as she had be
en since the death of her parents the previous night. At the

  back of her mind, Sarah Rourke realized that if the girl did not respond, trying

  to find her surviving family would be hopeless. And by leaving Georgia, Sarah

  thought bitterly, she was cutting down on her own chances of reuniting with her

  husband. She had concretized the idea in her mind that John Thomas Rourke was

  still alive, out there somewhere and looking for her even now. She realized that

  if she once abandoned that idea she would be without hope.

  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