The Nightmare begins

  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