The Nightmare begins

by neetha Napew

  the Timex on his wrist. Rourke had been gone for more than an hour. "That woman

  keeps mumbling about a jeep," Rourke had said. "If there is one out there, that

  should mean food and water, maybe gasoline."

  "But she wouldn't have left it if it hadn't been out of gas," Rubenstein had

  countered.

  "People out here in the desert don't usually let themselves run out of gas.

  Could have punched a hole in a radiator, severed a fuel line. Could still be

  enough gas to run these bikes into Van Horn. Other­wise, we've got a long walk

  ahead of us and we used our last water with her."

  "You're the survivalist, the expert," Rubenstein had said, almost defensively.

  "Can't you just go out there and find water?"

  "Yeah," Rourke had answered. "If I take a hell of a long time doing it I can,

  and I can find us food, too— but not gasoline. Even if I discovered crude oil it

  wouldn't do us any good."

  And Rourke had mounted up and gone, leaving the Steyr-Mannlicher SSG rifle with

  Rubenstein for added protection, the light-gathering qualities of the 3-9

  variable Mannlicher scope that rode it something Rourke had labeled "potentially

  useful" if whoever had wounded the girl were still out there somewhere in the

  darkness. The thought of more violence-prone thieves didn't appeal to

  Rubenstein. He shivered in the darkness. The girl's body temperature was about

  normal, Rourke had said, and she wasn't really so much unconscious anymore as

  just sleeping, Rourke had cleansed and bandaged the deep flesh wound on her left

  forearm. Her right hand still had blood on it, but only blood from the arm

  wound, which Rourke had not washed away because of the water shortage.

  Rubenstein shifted his position on the ground, hearing something in the darkness

  to his left. He turned and peered into the black, seeing nothing. He heard the

  sound again, pulling open the bolt on the Schmeisser, ready, his voice a loud

  whisper, saying, "I know you're out there—I hear you. I've got a sub­machine

  gun, so don't try anything."

  "That doesn't do much to scare a rattler, Paul," Rourke said softly. Rubenstein

  wheeled, seeing Rourke standing beside the sleeping woman, the CAR-15 in his

  hands, the sling suspending the gun beneath his right shoulder. "Rattler—your

  body heat is drawing him. Move over."

  Rubenstein took a step left. Rourke raised the CAR-15 from its carry position,

  drawing out the collapsible stock and bringing the rifle to his shoulder. "What

  are you doing?" Rubenstein said.

  "I'm sighting with the iron—this kind of scope wouldn't be much good at this

  range."

  Rourke shifted his feet, settling the rifle, and suddenly Rubenstein jumped, as

  Rourke almost whispered, "Bang!" then brought the rifle down and collapsed the

  stock.

  "Bang?"

  "Yeah—If I shoot that snake—unless he comes into camp and we have to, all I'm

  going to do is advertise to everybody and his brother we're here, we've got guns

  and we're stupid enough to go shooting at something in the dark. Keep an eye out

  for that snake and I'll bring my bike up."

  "Why did you leave it?"

  "What if something had happened, somebody'd wandered into camp and gotten the

  drop on you?"

  ''That wouldn't have happened,'' Rubenstein insisted, his voice sounding almost

  hurt.

  "Happened to her," Rourke said slowly. "After I found her jeep, I backtracked

  it. I didn't figure I'd have to go far. There was a bullet hole in the radiator

  and in today's heat the thing couldn't have gone far without the engine stalling

  out. Dead man. Either her boyfriend or her husband and they just didn't believe

  in rings. Throat slit ear to ear. Four other dead men there—bikers, well armed.

  Looks like our ladyfriend there shot all four but one of them."

  "Maybe the other one's still out there," Rubenstein said.

  "No condition to do anything to us—looks like she broke his nose and drove the

  bone up into his brain. Professional young lady. I found a jacket that looked

  like it was small enough to be hers—had an interest­ing little gun in it. The

  dead man with his throat slit was carrying a Walther P-38K. Pretty professional

  piece of hardware—the muzzle was threaded on the inside for a silencer. I found

  the silencer back at the jeep stuffed inside one of the tubular supports for the

  seat frame."

  "Jesus," Rubenstein exclaimed.

  "I don't think that was his name," Rourke said quietly, turning then and fading

  back into the darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Michael Rourke opened his dark eyes, squinting against the sun. His legs ached

  and he started to move, but then remembered the weight on his lap. He looked

  down at his mother's face, the eyes still closed. "Momma," he said softly. "Wake

  up—it's morning."

  He looked across the flat expanse of ground and confirmed the rising sun. Millie

  and Annie were still asleep. The horses were still tied to the tree that he'd

  secured the reins to the previous night. Their saddles were still in position.

  After his mother had fallen down and he hadn't been able to waken her, he'd had

  Millie and Annie watch her and he had loosened the straps under the horses'

  bellies that held the saddles on—his mother called them "cinches," he

  remem­bered.

  "Momma," he said again, shaking her head gently. He closed his eyes. "Millie,

  Annie! Get up— time to get up!" he shouted. Annie sat bolt upright, stared

  around her and then at him.

  "How is Mommie?" she said.

  "She'll be okay," he said. "Wake up Millie and have her make something to eat.

  You know where it is—the food. Millie can reach the bags."

  He looked back to his mother. The sunlight was just hitting her face and he

  watched her eyelids moving. "Momma!"

  Sarah Rourke opened her eyes. "Ohh," she started, her voice sounding hoarse to

  him.

  "Annie—get Momma some water."

  Sarah Rourke stared at him—Michael couldn't tell if she was all right or not.

  "Momma—are you going to be okay?"

  He saw her moving her right hand toward him and he bent toward her, felt her

  hand—cold—against his cheek. "Momma!"

  "Shh," Sarah said, the corners of her mouth raising faintly in a smile. "I'll be

  all right—just give me a hug and don't ask me to get up for a while— okay?"

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rourke stepped away from the low yellow camp-fire and sat back against the rock

  face, staring out across the desert as the sun—orange against a gray sky—winked

  up over the horizon to the east. He hunched his shoulders in his leather jacket,

  both hands wrapped around a white-flecked black metal mug of steaming coffee.

  He glanced at Rubenstein when the younger man spoke, "Now this is more like

  it—life on the trail, I mean. Food, coffee, water. Hey—" and Rubenstein leaned

  back against the far end of the rocks.

  "Simple things can mean a lot," Rourke observed, staring then at the woman,

  still sleeping when last he'd looked, lying on a ground cloth between them. Her

  eyelids were starting to flutter, then opened and she started to sit up, then

  fell back.

  "Give yourself a few
minutes," Rourke said slowly to her.

  "What's that I smell?" she said, her voice hoarse.

  "Coffee—want some? It's yours, anyway," Rourke told her.

  She sat up again, this time moving more slowly, leaning back on her elbow. "Who

  are you?" she asked, her voice still not quite right-sounding to Rourke.

  "My name is John Rourke—he's Paul Rubenstein." and Rourke gestured over her. She

  turned and Rubenstein smiled and gave her a little salute.

  "What the hell are you doing drinking my coffee?"

  "Pleasant, aren't we?" Rourke said. "You were dying, we saved your life. I went

  back and found your jeep, buried your boyfriend or husband a few miles back

  beyond that, hauled up the gasoline, the water, the food, some of your stuff.

  Then so we didn't have to leave you alone and could make sure your fever didn't

  come up, we slept in shifts the rest of the night watching you. I figure that

  earns me a cup of coffee, some gas and some food and water. Got any

  objec­tions?"

  "You got any cigarettes?" Natalia said. "And some coffee?"

  "Here," Rourke said, tossing a half-empty pack of cigarettes to her. "I guess

  these are yours—found 'em at the jeep." She started to reach out her left arm

  for the cigarettes and winced.

  "You were shot in the forearm," Rourke com­mented, then looked back to his

  coffee, sipping at it.

  "Anybody got a light?"

  Rourke reached into his jeans and pulled out his Zippo, leaning across to her

  and working the wheel, the blue-yellow flame leaping up and flickering in the

  wind. The girl looked at him across it, their eyes meeting, then she bent her

  head, brushing the hair back. The tip of the cigarette lighted orange for a

  moment, then a cloud of gray smoke issued from her mouth and nostrils as she

  cocked her head back, staring up at the sky.

  "I agree—but I'd already noticed you're beautiful," Rourke said deliberately.

  She turned and looked at him, laughing, saying, "I think I know you from

  somewhere—I mean that should be your line, but I really do. That bandage is very

  professional."

  Rubenstein said, "John's a doctor—among other things."

  Rourke glanced across at Rubenstein, saying nothing, then looked at the girl. "I

  had the same feeling when I first saw you by the road, that I know you from

  somewhere."

  "What happened?"

  "I was hoping you could tell me. Paul and I just spotted your body by the side

  of the road, saw you were hurt and tried to help."

  "Did I talk—I mean how did you know where to find the jeep?"

  "You didn't say much," Rourke said, adding, "Don't worry. You mumbled something

  about a jeep and something about Sam Chambers. If I remember, before the war he

  was still down here in Texas—just been appointed secretary of communications to

  the president."

  "The war?" Natalia said.

  "Don't you know about the war?" Rubenstein said, leaning toward her.

  "What war?" Natalia said.

  "Tell her about the war," Rourke said, lighting one of the last of his cigars.

  "Looks like it's going to rain today."

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  "God, it's so green here," Samuel Chambers said, sitting on the small stone

  bench and looking at the profusion of camelias.

  "East Texas by the Louisiana border here is green like this most of the time.

  But I think it's time for the meeting to start now—Mr. President."

  Chambers looked at the man, saying quickly, "Don't call me that yet, George. I'm

  secretary of communications, and that's it."

  "But you're the only surviving man in the line of succession, sir—you are the

  president."

  "I was up in Tyler last year in October for the Rose Festival—this just might be

  the prettiest part of the State of Texas—here, north of here and down south to

  the Gulf."

  "Sir!"

  "I'm coming, George—stop and smell the flowers, right?" Chambers stood up and

  reached into his shirt pocket, snatching a Pall Mall. He stared at the cigarette

  a moment, then said to his young executive assistant. "I wonder how I'll get

  these now—with the war?"

  "I'm sure we can find enough to last a long time for you, sir," the young man

  Chambers had called George said reassuringly, walking toward Chambers and

  standing at his side as he passed, almost as if to keep the man from taking

  another tour of the garden.

  Chambers turned as he reached the double french doors leading back from the

  walled garden to the library inside the nearly century-old stone house. He

  stared back into the garden, saying to George without looking at him, "I'm about

  to make history, George. When I walk into that room, if I reject the call to the

  presidency or if I accept it. And if I accept it, what will I be president of?

  It's a wasteland out there beyond this garden—much of it is, isn't it?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Pretty much of the whole West Coast is gone, New York was blown off the map.

  What am I going to be offered the presidency of—a sore that isn't smart enough

  to know that it can't heal?"

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  "Who are they, John?" Rourke heard Rubenstein asking. Rourke didn't answer,

  staring up the road at the stricken faces of the men, women and children

  struggling slowly toward them. As the women's faces showed recognition of

  Rourke, Rubenstein and the girl bending over their cycles, Rourke watched the

  women hug the children closer to them, some of the men starting to raise sticks

  or axes as if for defense. "Who are they?" Rubenstein asked again.

  Rourke turned and started to answer, but then the woman's alto, choked-sounding

  as she spoke, came from behind him on the Harley's long seat. "They're refugees

  from some town up ahead—it's written all over their faces, Paul."

  "I do know you from somewhere," Rourke said to her.

  "And I know you—I wonder what will happen when we remember from where, John?"

  "I don't know," he said slowly, then stared back up the road at the faces of the

  people. He looked over to Rubenstein on the bike beside him, saying, "Dis­mount

  and leave your subgun on the bike or give it to Natalie. Go tell them we don't

  mean them any harm."

  "But how do I know they don't mean me any harm?" Rubenstein asked, starting off

  his bike.

  "I'll cover you."

  Rubenstein handed the SMG to Natalie, Rourke glancing back to her and saying,

  "Don't tell me you can't figure out how to use it—remember I saw the job you did

  back there at the jeep."

  "Whatever do you mean," she said, her voice half laughing.

  "Sure, lady," Rourke grunted, then watched as Rubenstein, hands outspread as

  though he were approaching an unfamiliar dog, walked toward the refugees.

  Rourke heard Rubenstein starting to speak, "Hey look—we're good guys—don't mean

  you any harm, maybe we can help you."

  A man started toward Rubenstein with a long-handled scythe and Rourke shouted,

  "Watch out!" then started to bring the Python out of the Ranger cammie holster

  on his pistol belt. There was a short, loud roar behind him, hot brass burning

  against his neck, the scythe handle was sliced in half, and Rubenstein spun on

  his heel, the Browning High
Power in his right hand, his left hand pushing his

  glasses back off the bridge of his nose. Rourke glanced back to Natalie, saying,

  "Like I said, sure lady."

  "The hell with you," Rourke heard her say, as she slid from the back of his

  Harley and handed him the Schemiesser, the bolt still open, the safety on. She

  walked a few steps ahead of the bike, stopped and wiped the palms of her hands

  against her blue-jeaned thighs, shot a glance over her shoulder at Rourke, then

  started walking slowly toward the people, the refugees, the closest now less

  than a dozen feet from Paul Rubenstein.

  Her voice was soft, low—the way you'd want your lover to sound, Rourke thought.

  "Listen to us— please," she was saying. "We don't want to hurt any of you at

  all—I just fired to protect my friend here. We want to help. We don't want to

  hurt you," and she walked into the front of the crowd, reaching out her right

  hand slowly and tousling the sandy hair of a boy of about ten, standing pressed

  against a woman Rourke assumed to be the boy's mother.

  Rourke looked down to the MP-40, pulled the magazine and let the bolt kick

  forward, then reseated the magazine. He held the submachine gun in his left

  hand, dismounting the Harley-Davidson Low Rider and walking slowly, his right

  palm outstretched, toward Rubenstein, Natalie and the refugees. Natalie was

  talking again. "Where are you people from? What happened to you all?"

  Rourke found himself looking at her—the way the sides of her hair were pulled

  back and caught up at the back of her head, her hair then falling past her

  shoulders slightly, the movement of her hands. He inhaled hard, bunching his

  right hand into a fist, stepping up beside her, saying, "She's telling you the

  truth—we just want to know where you are all from, what happened. I'm a

  doctor—maybe I can help some of you."

  Rourke spun half-around, almost going for a gun—there was a woman screaming in

  the middle of the group, the faces on both sides of her melting away as Rourke

  took a step closer to her. She was on her knees, crying, holding a baby in her

  arms, the blanket stained dark red with blood.

  Rourke walked over to her, gently touching her shoulder, handing off the

  Schmeisser and the CAR-15 to Natalie behind him. He dropped to his knees, slowly