by neetha Napew
time back from the geological supply shop in Albuquerque, Rourke had gone down
and discovered the cache of supplies. All the ammunition had been .308 and
Rourke had left it, not having need of additional ammo for the Steyr. But the
vast supplies of Mountain House freeze-dried foods, water and gasoline had been
welcome. They had taken comparatively little, resealing the door after
themselves just in case the original owner was still alive. They'd found the
pickup truck a half-hour earlier and with the added supplies decided on taking
it along—the keys had been in it.
The girl had been left on guard outside the warehouse while Rourke and
Rubenstein had done the loading, the most awkward thing being getting the
Harleys aboard the truck and securing them. There had been no further signs of
the doomed, insane "Guardians" they had confronted earlier. As the three had
started to leave—darkness already having fallen—the girl had said to Rourke,
"You're a doctor—isn't there something you can do for them?"
"Mercy killing?" he'd asked quietly. "And beyond that, they're beyond help. If I
had a hospital, some specialists in nuclear medicine, we could make them
comfortable, prolong their lives by a few weeks, maybe. But the result'd be the
same. The longer we keep moving on the greater the chance we have of the same
thing happening to us."
They'd driven in silence after that, Rubenstein starting to whistle
occasionally, some lonely-sounding tune Rourke couldn't quite identify. The
pickup's headlights didn't go on once, as Rourke headed slowly along the road
and after several miles turned off into the desert, nothing more than moonlight
lighting his way. He'd walked back along the route and carefully obliterated
their tire treads from the sand then, and when Rubenstein—as usual—had asked
why, Rourke had merely said, "I want to sleep with both eyes closed
tonight—maybe."
Rubenstein passed the bottle around—Jack Daniels, square bottle, black label—and
Rourke took a hard pull on it, leaning back again by the light blue pickup's
rear bumper. He looked at the girl as she drank and when she handed the bottle
back to Rubenstein, said, "Have you remembered me yet?"
She just shook her head, the same gesture of brushing her hair from her face,
making Rourke see her again as she had been years earlier, as he remembered
her. She took another drink, and so did Rubenstein.
Rourke alternately watched the stars overhead and stared at his watch, only once
more taking a drink. As he watched the glowing tip of his second cigar, already
burnt to nearly a stump in his fingers, he turned, startled. Rubenstein was
snoring, the bottle beside him more than half-empty. A smile crossed Rourke's
lips.
"I must trust you," the girl started to say, standing up, weaving a bit as she
walked around the lantern, then sitting down on the ground beside him.
"Why do you say that?" Rourke said as she picked up Rubenstein's bottle and
drank from it. She offered it to Rourke and he wiped his sleeve across it and
took a tiny swallow, then returned it to her.
"I trust—trust you, because otherwise I wouldn't let myself get drunk around
you! You will have to promise me," she whispered, leaning toward him, smiling,
"that if I start to talk, you won't listen—I mean if I say anything personal or
like that."
She leaned toward him and he turned to face her and she kissed him on the mouth.
"There, Mister Goodie-goodie," she laughed. "That didn't hurt, did it?"
Rourke looked into her eyes, watched her eyes, the sad and beautiful set they
had, the deepness of their blue. He whispered, "No—it didn't hurt. The problem
is it felt too good." He dropped the cigar butt on the ground and kicked it out
with the heel of his boot, folding the girl into his left arm and letting her
head sink against his chest. In a moment he could hear her breathing, slow and
even against him. He looked up at the stars, the warmth of the woman in his arms
only heightening the loneliness. He wondered what was in the stars—was there
another world where men and women hadn't been foolish enough to destroy
everything as it was now destroyed here. As the girl stirred against him, Rourke
closed his eyes. Her breathing, its evenness, and the warmth of her body in the
desert cold… he opened his eyes, breathing hard and stared down at her in the
light of the lamp. He eased her head down onto the rolled-up blanket beside him
and stood up to put out the lantern. He stared back at her profile in the
semi-darkness, his fists bunching hard together. He was a man who had always
screamed inwardly, silently, and this time he screamed the name "Sarah!"
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sarah Rourke climbed stiffly into the saddle, her stomach still cramping when
she moved too quickly or bent, but the cramps lessening in intensity. The
previous night's dinner had stayed with her although she hadn't eaten much, and
at breakfast that morning there had been none of the accustomed nausea. After
she had awakened that first morning, with Michael's help they had found a
better, more permanent campsite as close as possible to the site they had used
the night of her collapse. She had barely been able to mount up then, but with
Michael leading her horse, they somehow had managed.
As she straightened in the saddle now, she thought of Michael and the last few
days since she had drunk the contaminated water and been rendered virtually
helpless. The boy was a constant source of amazement to her. Lying virtually
helpless on her back at that time, the stomach cramps, the nausea—Michael had
been her hands, her feet, keeping the girls and himself fed, feeding and
watering the horses. Once, there had been noises, voices from far along on the
other side of the forested area from where they were, and the boy had brought
her the .45 automatic pistol, then gathered the girls next to him and waited
silently beside her until the voices had died away, the noise ceased. She turned
now in the saddle, still awkwardly because of her stiffness, and looked at the
boy.
"You're the finest son anyone could want, Michael," she said to him, her voice
still not sounding quite right to her.
"Why did you say that, Mom?" the boy said, smiling at her, his brown hair
falling across his forehead.
"I just wanted to," she said. She moved her knees too fast and the cramps
started to return, but she straightened up in the saddle as Tildie started
forward along the trail into Tennessee.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Rourke brought the Harley to a fast stop, skidding his feet into the dirt and
squinting against the morning sunlight despite the dark aviator-style
sunglasses he wore. His face and his body under his clothes were bathed in
sweat. He shifted the CAR-15's web sling off his shoulder, the outline of the
sling visible in dark wet stains on his shirt. He had cut across country,
backtracking for a while until he had come across the lead elements of the
paramilitary force. With his liberated field glasses he had spotted the familiar
face of the officer he and Rubenstein had encou
ntered days earlier by the
abandoned truck trailer when they had been resupplying with ammunition. The
force consisted of what Rourke estimated as close to three hundred and fifty
men, traveling in trucks and jeeps in a ragged wedge formation along the road,
outriders on dirt bikes paralleling their movements and working back and forth,
up and down the convoy line like herders moving cattle or sheep. He timed them
and judged they were making approximately fifty miles per hour, and with their
numbers there was no reason to suppose they wouldn't press on for fourteen or
more hours per day—as long as daylight lasted.
Rourke had cut ahead then, the convoy several hours behind where he had left
Paul Rubenstein and the girl who called herself Natalie. And now, as he watched
the road below him, the tight bend the highway followed, he could see the
brigands. There were more than two dozen long-haul eighteen-wheeler trucks at
their center, traveling four abreast, consuming the entire highway space, squads
of motorcycle riders in front and in back and on the shoulders, all heavily
armed. Though he had no way of telling what or who might be inside the trucks,
he judged the strength of the brigand force at better than four hundred men and
women. For some reason he couldn't fathom, they were heading back in the
direction of Van Horn, speed approximately fifty miles per hour. A smile crossed
Rourke's lips, but then vanished quickly. As he watched the brigand column began
turning off the road, moving into a long, single column and heading into the
desert.
"Shit!" he muttered, dropping the field glasses and staring down into his hands.
The change of direction into the desert would keep the brigands ahead of him,
and the paramilitary force was still behind him. Rourke reslung the CAR-15 on
his right shoulder and revved up his bike. The brigands' turning had forced his
hand, he realized, and any way he decided to go, the odds for staying alive were
dropping.
Chapter Thirty
Rourke had left early in the morning, awakening the slightly hung-over
Rubenstein to let him know his intentions, letting the girl continue to sleep.
As Rourke slowed the Harley and drove it up the grade into the sheltered
campsite where the truck was parked, he spotted Rubenstein sitting by the
Coleman stove, a cup of coffee in both hands, his glasses off. Natalie was
standing by the front of the truck and all Rourke could see of her as he eased
the bike to a halt was her back.
"I didn't recognize you without your glasses," Rourke said to Rubenstein,
smiling.
"Shut off the motor, huh? My head is—"
Rourke laughed, killing the Harley's engine and dismounting, then walking over
toward Rubenstein. Rourke set the CAR-15 against the bumper of the truck and
dropped to a crouch beside the younger man, snatching a cup and pouring himself
some coffee. "What's with her?"
"What? Oh—I don't know—she's been that way ever since she woke up and found you
were gone," Rubenstein answered, his voice shaky.
"So what did you find out, Rourke?"
Rourke looked up. It was the girl, hands on her hips, feet a little apart, tiny
chin jutted forward, her eyes fixed and staring at him. "You look cheerful this
morning," Rourke told her, then, "What I found out was that the paramilitary is
a few hours behind us with a large force. The brigands are a few hours ahead of
us with a large force. Even larger than the paramils. If we bump into the
paramils, we've had it. Paul and I had a run-in with one of their patrols before
we bumped into you. The officer who commanded the patrol is with the paramil
force I saw. He'll spot us, we'll get shot—and probably you too since you're
with us. They're southwest of us now, heading northeast along the road. The
brigands were heading southwest, and for a while I thought they'd run into the
paramils, but then they turned off into the desert. Probably going to be staying
in this area for a while."
"So what do we do?" the girl asked him.
"Can't go southwest and run into the paramils. Just have to take our chances on
butting up against the brigands."
Rubenstein, rubbing his eyes with his hands, said, "But if we do run into the
brigands, what then?"
"Well," Rourke said slowly, staring into his coffee, "we sort of promised that
woman with the refugees that we'd look for that blonde guy who killed her baby.
I guess we can do that, then move on."
"How many brigands are there?" Natalie asked, her voice tense.
"Better than four hundred, I make it. But we can't just stay here—the paramils
will find us. I make it that within the next few days both units should lock
horns—looks unavoidable with their sizes—couldn't miss one another. Then maybe
we can get clear of the area."
"But what do we do until that happens?" Rubenstein asked.
"Stay just shy of the brigands and try to pass around them—if we can. If we
can't, though, we only have one additional option. We join 'em."
"What!" Rubenstein exclaimed.
Rourke lit a cigar and leaned back against the truck. "They've never seen us,
must have picked up a lot of their force from bikers driftin' in two or three at
a time. If we have to, we'll fake it."
"And what if they don't buy that?" the girl asked, her voice emotionless.
"Then we'll buy it," Rourke answered slowly, then sipped at his coffee.
Chapter Thirty-One
Samuel Chambers, necktie at half-mast, suitcoat gone, two empty packs of Pall
Malls crumpled on the small table beside his chair, the standing glass ashtray
overflowing with cigarette butts, squinted against the yellow lamplight from the
desk. He glanced at his watch. The conference had gone on longer than he had
expected without breaking. The thought came to him that if this was what being
the president of the United States was really like, he could see why the job had
aged all the men who had gone before him. "Heavy lies the head," he muttered to
himself, lighting another cigarette and wishing he hadn't from the bad taste in
his mouth.
He looked at the notes he'd taken on the yellow legal pad on his lap, pondering
silently if it would work, if the country could be sewn back together even
temporarily. Parts of Louisiana and all of Texas had been consolidated into one
martial law district, the paramilitary commander, Soames—Chambers didn't like
the man and trusted him less—taking charge of internal matters because of the
sheer numbers of his force and the capability to recruit more. The air force
colonel, Darlington, would use his troops and the navy forces to handle border
defense, using the stores of National Guard supplies to help with this. The
National Guard unit—small—would function as a traditional army unit, but outside
the borders of this "kernel" of a nation. They would execute clandestine
military operations against the Soviet invaders as required, but, more
important, try to establish communications links with civil and military
authorities in other parts of the country.
Chambers smiled bitterly—he was too much of a realist to assume there were not
other
men now calling themselves president of the United States, or at the least
taking on the concurrent authority the title implied. He tried telling himself,
convincing himself, that it would work. "I don't believe it," he muttered, then
lit another cigarette.
When dawn came, he would be taking a military flight into Galveston to
personally assess rumors of a Soviet presence there, as well as to wrap up his
personal affairs. All his advisors had warned against the flight. Perhaps, he
reflected, that was the first time he had actually felt like a president. He had
listened carefully, asked questions, explained his reasoning and then—in the
face of the irrefutable logic of his "advisors"—flatly stated he didn't "give a
damn." He wanted to see Galveston one more time.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Rourke hadn't caught the name of the town as he, Natalie and Rubenstein had
passed it. There was smoke trailing in a wide black line across the sky from
where the town should have been, and Rourke thought silently that likely the
town was no longer there. There was gunfire discernible in the distance and
faint, almost ghostly sounds, Rourke mentally labeled them, that could either
have been the wind or human screams. The brigands had turned back out of the
desert early that morning, placing Rourke, Rubenstein and the girl sandwiched
between the brigands and the paramils, now perhaps a day's march or less apart.
Rourke braked the light blue pickup truck on the top of a rise, out of years of
driving habit pulling onto the shoulder and out of the main northeastern-bound
lanes, despite the fact that there was no traffic.
Rourke cut the engine and stepped out, stretching after the long ride, watching
the dark clouds moving in from the northwest. Already the breeze, which had been
hot that morning, was turning cool, and he shivered slightly as he walked to the
edge of the road shoulder and stared over the guard rail toward the remains of
the town. Below the level of the smoke, there were large dust clouds from
vehicles—many of them, Rourke reflected.
"Are they down there?"
Rourke turned around, bracing his right hand against the butt of the Python on
