mouth.
Her arms—she moved them around his neck. She leaned her head against his chest.
"Sarah—you're a woman. You need a man to care for you—let me care for you," she
heard him whisper. "You've been brave beyond what most men could do—let alone
a—"
She pushed away from his chest, stepped back, her hands groping behind her,
finding the doorknob. "A woman?" she rasped. "Just what the hell is so damn
wrong with being a woman? I should fall over dead in a faint when somebody
shoots at me? I should let my children die because Pm crying and can't do
anything to help myself? A Russian woman—fine. But he's still looking for me.
I'm still looking for him. If there's a Russian woman—Natalia
whats-her-name—whatever the hell she is—then fine. He'll tell me about her. And
if we never see each other again—what should I do? Give away everything in
myself to you—or somebody else?"
She found the doorknob—finally. She twisted it open, breaking a nail on it.
"Damn," she muttered.
"What?" Balfry asked her.
"Go to hell," she told him. She ran through the doorway.
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Chapter 57
She was tired. "Paul—you asked to take my pack—take my pack—please," she said.
Rubenstein turned toward her. She stopped walking, feeling herself sway a
little.
Rourke asked her. "You all right?"
"Of course she isn't all right—takin' a damn Commie woman with us was fuckin'
stupid, Rourke!"
She watched Rourke—he closed his eyes. He opened them—he bit down hard on the
stump of cigar in the left corner of his mouth—despite the cigars, his teeth
were white, even,
"No, John—I can—"
"I know you can," he said through his teeth.
He turned around. She could see Cole's face past his back. Rourke was shifting
out of his pack.
"You want me to take your pack, too," Rubenstein asked, trying to make a joke,
she thought. It wasn't funny.
Rourke dropped the pack. "No," he said quietly.
"We havin' a damn rest break here—should I tell everybody the smokin' lamp is
lit?"
She watched Rourke, the muscles in the sides of his neck.
"Cole—I make it we've got a day's march left to Filmore Air Force Base and
Armand Teal—but I just can't take another day of your mouth."
She looked at Cole—he didn't move. Then, "Yeah— well, too fuckin' bad, Rourke."
Rourke shifted his shoulders. She could hear the zipper in the front of his
bomber jacket opening. "I thought you'd
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say that," she heard Rourke's voice murmur.
"What?"
"Thought you'd say something like that," Rourke said again, louder this time.
"John," she whispered. "Leave it alone."
Like he'd told Rubenstein with the back pack—"No."
"You lookin' for a fight, Rourke?" Cole shouted, laughing.
Natalia watched Rourke's head—it nodded once, slightly. She heard him say, his
voice barely audible, "Yeah."
"Well," Cole smiled. "Well—you gonna take off your coat and your guns?"
"Won't need my guns—and no sense taking off my jacket for something that won't
take much time."
"Wise ass, huh?"
Rourke said nothing. He started walking, slowly.
"John!" It was Rubenstein.
"I know," Rourke answered slowly, still walking, toward Cole. "But it can be
your turn next time."
He stopped in front of Cole. Natalia saw movement at the corner of her right
eye—Rubenstein setting down her pack, halving the distance between them. She
rested her right forearm across the M-16 she carried slung cross body, her
forearm just ahead of the carrying handle.
"Now look, Rourke—we got a job to—"
"Shut up," she heard Rourke say.
"The hell—" She saw Cole move, his right fist drawing back. Rourke sidestepped,
turning half away from Cole, Cole's left hammering forward, Rourke's left foot
snapping out—a double kick into Cole's midsection and chest. Cole stumbled back,
Rourke bringing his left foot down, wheeling, his right foot snapping out,
catching Cole in the chest and the left side of the face.
Rourke didn't turn around—he started walking. Back toward her.
She smiled—Lieutenant O'Neal was trying to stifle a laugh. He wasn't doing a
good job of it.
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Chapter 58
"What's the matter, Momma?"
She looked up, Michael slightly above eye level as she sat on the running board
of the old Volkswagen beetle. The irony of where she sat, Michael coming to her
to ascertain what was wrong, the complete role reversal—it was not lost on her.
"Nothing—not really."
"I saw you come out of the house—is it Professor Balfry?"
"Sort of," she told her son, not really knowing what else to tell him.
"Daddy'll find us—especially here. All the resistance fighters going in and out
all the time—all of the stuff goin' on here. He'll find out that we're here and
come and get us."
She looked at her son—his eyes. She wanted to ask—why are you so sure? But she
looked more deeply into his eyes, watched his face—she didn't think his eyes-
were light sensitive like those of her husband. He didn't squint against the
light like John had always done—like John did. But he looked enough like his
father to be his clone.
"When do you think Daddy will find us?" she asked instead.
"Probably not for a while yet. He's gotta first find out where we are, then he
has to get here to get us. Might be a while yet. Maybe a few weeks."
She hugged her son to her. "Maybe in a few weeks," she whispered, believing it
then.
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"Momma—is everything—"
"Fine," she whispered, not letting go of him . . .
Millie Jenkins had left the refugee camp with Bill Mulliner and his mother—to
pick blackberries. Michael hadn't wanted to go. He didn't like blackberries and
liked the thorns less. Annie had gone with them though.
Sarah sat by the edge of camp with Michael, the wounded and injured under
Reverend Steel's care for the moment. "What are you thinking about?" she asked
her son.
"I don't know," and he laughed. She hadn't seen him laugh for a while.
"I like seeing you laugh. Your father doesn't laugh much. You laugh more. That's
good."
"What'll we do after he finds us?"
She folded her left arm around the boy. "I guess—well, I don't know."
"Go and live in the Survival Retreat?"
"I guess so—at least for a while. Until the Russians are forced to leave, maybe.
Maybe after that we can find a place and settle down there—just like pioneers,"
she added, her voice brightening. "Build a cabin—get some horses again. Maybe
grow our own food. Like that?"
"No electricity."
"Your Daddy is pretty smart—he can probably find some land near a fast running
stream and make our own electricity. Eventually, the cities will start up again
and the factories—make things we can use."
"Will Daddy go back to work—and be gone all the time again?"
"I think—I don't know. It'll be a long time before we get rid of the Russians—"
"I hate the Russians," the boy said with an air of finality.
"You shouldn't," she said after a moment. "They're people, just like we are.
Very few of the Russians are really Communists—it's the Communist government.
They run Russia—they started the war. You shouldn't hate the
Russians."
"Well, I hate the Communists then."
"Well—I don't think it's going to hurt the Communists half as much as it's going
to hurt you if you do."
She looked at him—he was looking at her. "What do you mean?"
"Well—we've gotta fight the Communists. We've gotta win. But if they make us all
live for hate, then maybe they'll win—even if we kick them out of our country.
If we love freedom—being free to do what we think is right—it has the same
effect as hating the Communists—but a good thing, not a bad thing. Hate won't do
us any good. First thing you know—we'll spend all our time hating and we won't
have time to fight the Communists and win. Like that."
"Maybe that's like telling a lie," he told her, his voice very serious sounding,
his eyes hard. "You know—you spend so much time telling lies you can't remember
what's the truth."
"Maybe," she nodded. "Maybe."
She reached into her pocket, found the liberated Tudor wristwatch and checked
the time. "I've gotta go and help Reverend Steel—but I'll see you at dinner
tonight—okay?"
The boy smiled. "Okay—I'll walk you over there!"
"Okay," she smiled.
"I'll help you up!" The boy was standing already and reached out his hand, Sarah
taking it, letting Michael help pull her to her feet.
"Ohh—you're getting stronger all the time—you know that?"
"You wanna feel my muscle?"
"Okay," she nodded, the boy raising his arms in the classic iron pumpers pose.
* 'Which one do you think is bigger—stronger? I think it's my right arm."
She felt the right arm, then the left—carefully. The biceps were hard, however
diminutive. She felt the right one again. "I think the right one is stronger,
too—but that
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makes sense. You're right handed."
"Yeah," he nodded.
"Can I hold your hand?"
"Okay," he smiled, letting her take his right hand in her left.
They started to walk.
The last afternoon sun was low, the sky already reddening—the redness which
seemed imperceptibly to increase bothered her—perhaps John would know why. She
looked at Michael—he was tall, strong—she loved him.
She felt the pain before she heard the shot. She looked down—her left hand and
his right were covered with blood.
"Michael!"
She smudged her right hand across their hands—the fleshy part of her left hand
had a deep cut—it burned. The upper portion of Michael's right wrist, near where
it joined the hand—a gaping cut there as well.
"Michael!" She dropped to her knees, gunfire everywhere now around her,
ricochets humming maddeningly off vehicles and tent pegs and cooking pots. There
was a whooshing sound. And an explosion to her far left—near the tent where some
of the sick were housed.
The tent burst into flames.
A whirring sound—cutting the air.
She looked skyward—a helicopter—another helicopter —like the kind she had seen
before, red stars painted over U.S. symbols—the Russians.
Michael's wrist. "Can you move it—"
He was holding back tears. "Yeah—it hurts!"
"Does it hurt to move it?"
"No—it hurts—hurts here," and he touched at the cut, tears welling in his eyes.
She ripped the bandanna handkerchief from her hair, binding it around Michael's
wrist. The fleshy edge of her own left hand. She wiped it against the left thigh
of her jeans, cleaning away the blood for an instant—her fingers moved, her
wrist moved.
"Ohh, my God, were we lucky!" She pushed herself to her feet, grabbing the
little boy by the shoulder. "Run, Michael—hurry!''
ripping through the dirt camp streets, men, women, children—running—dying.
The tent where her gear was—she needed to reach it.
"Come on, Michael—hurry—run!" She could see the tent, gunfire hammering the
ground around it. Beyond the tent, at the farmhouse, she could see David Balfry,
an assault rifle in his hands, blazing skyward. She heard the rumble of the
trucks—
She looked behind her. The furthest end of the street— Soviet troops, pouring
from trucks, rifles in their hands, women, children—the resistance
fighters—going down.
"Momma!"
"Gotta get to the tent!" She screamed the words, fear gripping her—she turned,
seeing more of the Soviet troopers now, running down the street, killing,
killing— killing everyone. Reverend Steel—he was outside his tent, holding a
cross in his hands with a Bible behind it.
The top of his head exploded and the body fell.
She was at the tent. She pushed Michael inside. "Get everything of ours
together—hurry—throw it in any way you can."
She stuffed her clothes, all the food she had—the spare ammo for her husband's
.45, the pistol itself—all of it into her knapsack. The picture—she glanced at
it for an instant —her wedding dress—it had burned in the ruins of her house.
His tuxedo—it was gone as well. The picture— water stained, dirty, cracked. She
shoved it in the knapsack.
"Momma!"
She wheeled, reaching unconsciously for the Trapper .45 on her right hip,
thumbing .back the hammer, pointing the gun instinctively, the Soviet soldier
raising the muzzle of his assault rifle.
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She fired—the Soviet soldier's face exploded.
"Ohh, my God," she whispered.
She upped the pistol's safety, stuffing it back in the holster at her hip, then
grabbed up her M-16.
She worked the bolt, chambering the top round.
"Grab all the ammo," she shrieked, catching up the knapsack. She reached into
her hip pocket, found her other, handkerchief and wrapped it around her left
hand—the hand burned, was stiff—but she could move the fingers. She gripped the
front handguard of the M-16, her right fist on the pistol grip, the knapsack
slung across her back.
"Come on, Michael—gotta find your sister—and Millie, too."
She pushed through the tent flap, stepping over the dead Russian soldier.
Gunfire from the helicopter above laced the center of the street, running men
and women dying.
She pushed Michael ahead of her, "Toward the fence where the children
play—hurry!"
Carrying a knapsack and a second sack loaded with ammunition and spare
magazines, her son ran ahead of her, Sarah stopping to pump the trigger of the
M-16, catching a Soviet soldier in the chest. She started to run again, the
whooshing sound—she guessed it was a mortar. The tent behind her exploded, the
tents on each side catching fire, someone running from the nearest tent—she
couldn't tell if it were a man or a woman, the body a living torch, screams
shrieking from inside the f
lames.
She pumped the trigger of the M-16—a long burst, the body tumbling to the
ground, the screaming stopped.
She kept running, Michael ten yards ahead of her, already beside the fence. "Get
through and onto the other side—hurry, Michael!"
The boy slipped through the fence, starting to run across the corraled area. She
reached the fence, climbing up, rolling, half falling down, firing the M-16 into
a knot of Russian soldiers too close to her, gunfire ripping into the fence
posts and runners, the M-16 bucking in her hands,
two of the Russians going down.
She rammed a fresh magazine into the rifle, stuffing the empty into her jeans