by neetha Napew
indicated that Karamatsov had possibly been spotted by one of the growing
network of U.S. operatives outside of the area immediately surrounding Texas
and western Louisiana. There weren't enough reports yet to provide a continuous
flow of accurate or even reasonably accurate information, but there were enough
to provide interesting bits and pieces of information—and perhaps it was valid.
Rourke had left Rubenstein with one of the bikes and the bulk of the supplies
about fifty miles southeast of the retreat. To have traveled on with the rough
going of the last miles would have lost Rourke another twelve hours, perhaps,
and the younger man had insisted he'd be all right until Rourke returned. Rourke
had left him the Steyr-Mannlicher SSG, in a secure position in a high rock
outcropping from which to shoot if necessary. Then Rourke had started toward the
farm.
He had argued with himself silently all the long walk after he'd left his Harley
hidden two miles or so back. He had tried to imagine a scenario for all the
possibilities of what might have happened at the farm. In each case, he had
determined that Sarah, Michael and Ann would no longer be there. But perhaps
there would be a clue to where they had gone. There had been one scenario that
he had rejected since the night of the war—that he would find their bodies
there.
He was armed to find them, if they lived. The retreat contained more than enough
supplies for several years, enough ammunition for his needs, and there was
hydroelectric power, which he had engineered himself, using the natural
underground stream as the source. The one thing he had lacked was gasoline and
now he had that—by way of repayment, President Chambers had shown him a map,
which afterwards Rourke had memorized and burned but was still able to reproduce
from memory. It showed strategic reserves of gasoline cached throughout the
southeast. For Rourke's comparatively meager needs, the supply was infinite.
Rubenstein had spoken of going south to Florida to see if somehow his parents
had survived, and Rourke supposed that soon the younger man would.
He hoped Paul would return. Rourke had counted on few people as friends in life
and Rubenstein was one of these few, perhaps the only one left alive. He
supposed that perhaps he should count the Russian girl, Natalia—he rolled the
name off his tongue in the darkness so that only he could hear it—had there been
anyone else present.
After leaving Chambers, Rourke had used the twin engine plane to carry him
across the Mississippi with the still weakened Rubenstein. There had been
nothing. Once thriving cities were obliterated, the course of the river itself
even seemed altered. From the air, Rourke had seen no signs of life, and the
vegetation that still had stood had appeared to be dead or dying. Captain Reed
had rigged the plane with a device similar to a Geiger counter that was a sensor
which worked from outside of the craft. The radiation levels—if the device had
been accurate— were unbelievably high.
Rourke had landed the plane just inside the Georgia line—what had been the
Georgia line before, just below Chattanooga. The city was no longer really
there—a neutron bomb site, Rourke decided, since the majority of the buildings
were standing but there were no people at all.
Finally, the cigar burnt out in the left corner of his mouth, Rourke rose to his
feet and started forward through the woods again, in a low crouch, a round
already chambered in the CAR-15, the two Detonics .45s cocked and locked in the
Alessi shoulder rig, the Python riding in the Ranger scabbard on his right hip.
He had no pack, just a canteen and one packet of the freeze-dried food and a
flashlight.
He edged to the boundary of the tree line and stopped. The frame of the house
was partially standing, like bleached bones of a dead thing, the walls burned
and the house itself gone. Rourke stood to his full height, the CAR-15 in his
right hand by the carrying handle, awkward that way for his large hands with the
scope attached.
He walked forward, hearing the howling of the dogs. The moon was full and he
could see clearly, not a cloud in the sky, the stars like a billion jewels in
the velvet blanket of the sky.
He stopped by where the porch had been. Michael had liked to climb over the
railing and Rourke had always told the boy to be careful. Annie had driven her
tricycle into the railing once, and knocked loose one of the finials, if that
was what you called them, he thought. He remembered Sarah standing in the front
door that morning after he had come back. She had taken him inside, they had had
coffee, talked—she had shown him the drawings for her latest book, then they had
gone upstairs to their room and made love. The room was gone, the bed,
porch—probably even the coffee pot, Rourke thought.
The barn was still standing, the fire that had gutted the house apparently not
having spread. He started toward the barn, then turned back toward the house,
studying it for a pattern. After circling it completely, he had found two
things—first, that the house had exploded, and second, the charred and twisted
frame of Annie's tricycle.
Rourke sat down on the ground and stared up at the stars, again wondering if
there could be places where the things that called themselves intelligent life
had elected to keep life rather than wantonly spoil it. He looked at the
wreckage of the house behind him and thought not. He started toward the barn,
then stopped, hearing something behind him.
Rourke wheeled and dropped to his right knee, the CAR-15 thrusting outward. Four
men, wild-looking, unshaven, hair long, clothes torn, started toward him, one
with a club, another with a knife almost as long as a sword, the third carrying
a rock and the fourth man with a gun. They were screaming something he couldn't
understand and Rourke fired at them, the one with the rock going down, then the
man with the club. Then he fired at the man brandishing the knife, missing the
man as he lunged toward him. Rourke rolled onto his back, snatching one of the
stainless Detonics pistols into his right hand, the CAR-15 on the ground a yard
away from him. As the man with the knife charged at him again, Rourke fired
once, then once more.
There was still the fourth of the wildmen, the man with the gun, and Rourke spun
into a crouch, his eyes scanning the darkness. He heard a scream, like an animal
dying, then fell to the ground, rolled and came up on his knees, the Detonics in
both his fists, firing as the fourth man stormed toward him. The man's body
lurched backwards and into the dirt. Rourke got to his feet and walked toward
the man. He was really little more than a boy, Rourke realized. The beard was
long in spots, but sparse, the hairline bowed still, the face underneath the
beard looking to be a mass of acne-like sores. Rourke reached down for the
gun—it was a reflex action with him, he realized. The pistol was old, European,
and so battered and rusted that for a moment he couldn't identify it. The weight
was wrong and he pointed the pistol to the ground and snap
ped the trigger. There
was a clicking sound and Rourke looked up into the darkness and let the gun fall
to the ground from his hand.
After a while, he reholstered his pistol and found the rifle on the ground.
There was no thought of burying the four dead men, he realized. If he were to
bury the dead, where would he start?
Mechanically, still half staring at the gutted frame of the house where his
family had lived, he reloaded the Detonics and the CAR-15 with fresh magazines.
He started away from the house, then turned, remembering he'd been walking to
the barn before the attack. He opened the barn door—an owl fluttered in the
darkness, the sound of the wings were too large for a bat. Rourke lit one of the
anglehead flashlights that he and Rubenstein had stolen that first night in
Albuquerque.
He scanned the barn floor—the horses were gone, but he had expected that. But so
was the tack. He started toward the stalls, then remembered to flash the light
behind him. He saw something catching the light, and he walked toward the barn
door, then swung the door outward into the light of the stars and the moon.
It was a plastic sandwich bag, the kind Sarah had used for lunches she'd stashed
in the pocket of his jacket when he'd left early in the mornings to go deer
hunting. There was something inside it and he ripped the bag from the nail
attaching it to the barn door. It was a check, the first two letters of the word
"Void" written across it—it was Sarah's writing. He turned the check over,
shining the light on it, and read:
My Dearest John, You were right. I don't know if you're still alive. I'm telling
myself and the children that you survived. We are fine. The chickens died
overnight, but I don't think it was radiation. No one is sick. The Jenkins
family came by and we're heading toward the mountains with them. You can find
us from the retreat. I'm telling myself that you will find us. Maybe it will
take a long time, but we won't give up hope. Don't you. The children love you.
Annie has been good. Michael is more of a little man than we'd thought. Some
thieves came by and Michael saved my life. We weren't hurt. Hurry. Always,
Sarah.
At the bottom, the letters larger, scrawled quickly, Rourke thought, was
written:
I love you, John.
Rourke leaned back against the barn door, rereading the note, and when he was
through, rereading it again.
He didn't look at his watch, but when finally he looked up, the moon seemed
higher.
He folded the half-voided check carefully and placed it in his wallet, looked up
at the stars, and his voice, barely a whisper, said, "Thank you."
John Rourke slung the CAR-15 under his right shoulder and started walking, away
from the barn, past the gutted house and into the woods. He stopped and looked
back once, lighting a cigar, then turned and didn't look back again.
The End
