wrapping her and Michael in it, pinning the blanket with her shaking hands
across Michael's chest.
"But now you're gonna be cold, Mom," Michael protested.
"No. I won't lie and say I was too warm before, but I'll be fine. That
should be better now," she said, turning to Annie. She stuffed her hands
back into her gloves. She knew it wouldn't really be better; blankets only
served to retain body warmth, not promote it, and both of the children
were rapidly losing theirs. Again she wished for John to be there. He was
a doctor, and among other things an expert on cold-weather survival.
She urged Tildie forward, telling Michael, "Stay here a minute. I'm going
up that rise to see where we are^ maybe."
f
"We can come," Michael insisted.
"AH right—but stay well behind me—no sense wearing out Sam more than you
have to."
She rode toward a tall stand of pines, the modified AR- across her
saddle, cold against her thighs. If a Brigand conclave was on, then there
would be Brigands traveling through the area, toward it.
Urging Tildie up the rise with her knees, her left hand holding the reins,
she clutched the AR- pistol grip in her gloved right fist. "Come on,
Tildie—just a little while longer," she cooed. Sarah glanced behind her
once— Michael and Annie were coming, slowly, as she wanted them to.
Michael, like his father, stubborn, arrogant, but reliable—a man she could
count on more than he knew.
She was tempted to call out to the children, telling Michael to save Sam
the haul up the rise, but she didn't, lest there be Brigands nearby she
couldn't see.
Her eyelashes were encrusted with ice, the sleet and snow blowing against
her face. She reached the top of the
rise, reining Tildie back. "Whoa—easy," she cooed again.
Beyond the rise was the Savannah River and suddenly, she knew where she
was. Lake Hart well would be nearby—in the distance, she could see the
Hartwell dam. John had taken her there once with the children for a tour
of the dam structure, and several times she had gone to the lake itself
with John and the children—swimming.
The thought of plunging her body into water now chilled her. She trembled,
then trembled again, remembering John's hands on her once as they'd lain
by the lake, their bodies wet and mostly naked, the children splashing in
the water at its edge.
She turned to call out to Michael that everything was all right. Tildie
reared; Sarah was thrown back in the stock saddle, a gunshot punching into
the snow by the animal's front hoofs.
Sarah glanced to her right. Out of the pines were coming men and women,
ragged, running, snow-covered, rifles and handguns in their hands, curses
coming from their lips—and threats.
"Shit!" she screamed, wheeling Tildie, fighting -tc control the animal,
and swinging the rifle up as she reined the horse under her. Her
stiff-with-the-cold righl thumb worked the selector to full auto position;
her first finger twitched against the trigger. A short burst fired across
her saddle; flowers of red blotched the ice-encrusted chest of the lead
man. The man lunged toward her and the horse, an ax in his hands. They
weren't Brigands; they were starving men and women, people who—she fired
again, at another man starting to fire a shotgun. Sarah shot him in the
face and neck, then
screamed, "Michael—get Sam going. Get Annie out of here!"
Sarah dug her heels into the frightened horse she rode; Tildie leaped
ahead, back down the rise. A woman was lunging for her, out of the trees,
a knife in bony hands held like a stake that was to be driven into
someone's heart. Sarah pumped the AR-'s trigger again. The woman's body
rocked back, spinning, then falling, a ragged line of red across the
threadbare clothes covering her body.
She knew what they wanted now—the horse for food, the weapons for defense,
her life and the children's lives/ "Michael—get out of here," she shouted
again, kneeing Tildie onward.
The pine boughs to her left shuddered, and in the darkness against the
whiteness of the snow, she could see a man coming out of the trees,
running toward her. She recognized what he had in his right hand—a
machete.
He threw himself toward Tildie, into the animal's path. Tildie rearing
under her, Sarah reined up, as the machete sliced toward Tildie's neck.
The reins came away in Sarah's hands. She reeled back as the man sliced
his blade again. Her left hand, still clutching at the useless reins,
reached downward, snatching at Tildie's bridle. Sarah kneed the animal.
"Come on, girl!"
Tildie leaped forward. The man hacked with his machete, but fell aside at
the impact of the animal. Then he was on his feet and running after her as
Sarah glanced back. She loosed the bridle, snatching at a generous handful
of flowing ice-encrusted mane, and digging her heels into the bay mare's
sides, coaching her. "Up, Tildie—up, girl.' The animal responded,
charging ahead
and down the rise.
Ahead of her now, she could see Michael's horse, Michael and Annie aboard
it. The thought suddenly startled her—Michael's horse. It was John's
horse. Two figures wrestled against the front of the animal, reaching for
the reins. Michael edged the animal back from them. She saw something
flash against the snow, heard a scream; Michael had a knife. Where had he
gotten it?
One of the two figures fell away, the second dove toward the two children
in the saddle.
Sarah hauled back on Tildie's mane, the animal slowing, skidding along the
snow on its haunches. Sarah's right hand brought the rifle up to her
shoulder, her finger reached for the trigger. "Help my aim, God," she
breathed, twitching the trigger as Tildie settled; the man, reaching for
Michael and Annie, spun, fell.
"Get going, Michael!" Sarah screamed. Sam spurred ahead as she saw Michael
kicking at him with his heels. Sarah dug in her knees, and Tildje started
after him.
There was a burst of gunfire from behind her now, and Tildie started to
slip on a patch of ice beneath her. Sarah felt the animal going down,
perhaps wounded; she threw herself free of the animal's bulk, into the
snow. Her back ached as she impacted, the rifle skittering across the ice,
back toward Tildie.
Sarah rolled onto her belly and screamed, "No!" She pushed herself up to
her knees. The burly man with the machete who'd tried for her back in the
pines was coming.
Sarah glanced toward Tildie; the mare was up, apparently unhurt. Sarah
started to her feet, running toward her rifle, then for the horse. She
slipped, falling
forward, the rifle still several feet from her. She rolled onto her side,
fumbling under the shaggy woolen coat she wore, under her sweater and her
T-shirt, for John's Government Model .. She had it out, in her right
hand, her right thumb cocking the hammer as the man with the machete
shrieked and threw himself toward her.
Her first finger pumped
the trigger. The . rocked in her right hand, and
the massive body rolled toward her.
Her mind flashed—why did all the others look half-starved when this man
was fat?
As his body rolled toward her, she knew why. Around his neck was a
necklace; the teeth were human. /
"You bastard!" she screamed as his head lolled toward her and he started
pushing himself off the ice, the left hand, blood dripping from the arm,
reaching for her. She fired the ., into his face, once, twice, then a
third time.
She edged back across the ice, the gun held out ahead of her, toward the
pulp of face, as if coming in contact with his flesh would disease her.
"Bastard," she screamed.
She heard Tildie's whinnie, then rolled onto her belly, reaching out for
the AR-, pulling it toward her, firing it out at the others as they
charged toward her. The rifle empty, she stopped firing and slung it
across her back, as she reached up for Tildie's stirrup. Then she pulled
herself to her feet, snatched at the mane and the saddle horn, and swung
up, Tildie wheeling under her, rearing, then coming down. Sarah leveled
the ., firing once, twice, a third time, into her attackers; the slide
locked open, empty.
"Gyaagh!" she shouted. Tildie spurred ahead as Sarah tugged at her mane.
The animal reared again, wheeled, then streaked off. In the distance,
Sarah could see
Michael and Annie, Sam's black mane swatting at Michael's face as he
leaned low over the animal's neck, Annie hanging on to his back.
Sarah leaned against Tildie. "Take me out of here," she cooed, feeling
tears streaming down her face. "Take me out of here," she said again.
This was not for the greater glory of mother Russia, he decided. As Major
Borozeni stepped inside the abandoned farmhouse, he thought he heard the
scurrying sounds of rats. He turned to his sergeant, saying, "Krasny, get
a detail in here to clean this place; I do not sleep with rats."
"Yes, Comrade Major." The sergeant saluted.
Borozeni merely nodded, then stepped back outside into the cold. His men
were retreating, ponsolidating their position. The eastern coastal regions
of the United States were being buffeted by freak storms. Rebellion was
starting everywhere along the southeast coast since the escape, in
Savannah, of the Resistance fighters, led by the woman who had bluffed her
way through, with him. He felt a smile cross his cracked lips as he dusted
snow from the front of his greatcoat; then he pulled away his gloves and
felt under the coat for his cigarettes.
"All is being prepared, Comrade Major," Sergeant Krasny told him, saluting
as a squad of men with hand torches went past Borozeni into the farmhouse.
"She was quite a woman, Krasny."
"Comrade Major?"
"The woman who effected that escape. I would like to meet her again, see
what she looks like without a submachine gun or a pistol in her hands. Or
when she isn't all wet, for that matter."
"Yes, Comrade Major."
"Yes." He nodded, walking to keep his feet from freezing. Despite the cold
he liked the prospects of the farmhouse even less than the storm. He was
to take his contingent of men to Knoxville, Tennessee. He wondered
precisely what was in Knoxville; there had been a . World's Fair there
once, he seemed to recall. He had been on detached duty then, training
guerrilla fighters in the Middle East.
He decided he should have been somewhere else. He nad never like the
Middle East, though he could have used some of its heat now.
The other woman in the truck had used her name. "Sarah," he said, roiling
the name on his tongue, tasting it. She was probably someone's wife,
perhaps one of the prisoners, who had been released, but he didn't think
so. Perhaps someone's widow—one of the men who had been executed.
But then, he asked himself, inhaling deeply on the cigarette, wouldn't she
have killed him—a Russian who was an officer, one of the ones responsible
for the war?
He threw the cigarette into the snow. She was probably safe in her
husband's arms by now ... or perhaps not.
He felt himself smiling. The trek across the snow, the stalling vehicles,
the ice, the freezing temperatures . . . They were somewhere in South
Carolina; he didn't remember the name of the town that would be ahead.
He lit another cigarette. He watched the flame of his lighter dancing
against the blue whiteness of the ground. "Sarah," he murmured again. The
sort of woman he had always wanted to meet—and never would again /. .
He shook his head, smiled, and turned, starting toward the farmhouse.
"Krasny! How goes the detail?"
Natalia studied the map—another half-day if the weather were to ease and
they would be in central ,Indiana. She could convince Paul to leave her
there. She looked more intently at the map; she had heard the sound again,
beyond the ground-cloth windbreak.
Reaching up to the bootlaces that secured the sleeping bag about her like
a coat, she undid them. Finding the flap of the right holster on her belt,
was only punctuated by the howling of the wind.
The wood grips felt cold against her bare hand. She glanced at Rubenstein,
sleeping, debating whether to awaken him. But if the sound were nothing it
would only further convince him he had to take her all the way into
northern Indiana. She wanted him back with John Rourke, helping Rourke in
the search for his wife and children, helping to keep Rourke alive—for
herself?
She shook her head; then extracted the revolver from the holster. It and
the one like it on her left hip were curious guns. On the right faces of
their slab-sided barrels were engraved American Eagles. The guns were
originally four-inch stainless steel Smith & Wesson Model s, the .
Magnum L-frame. On the left flats of the barrels were duplicate
inscriptions: METALIFE
Industries, Reno, Pa—by Ron Mahovsky. The
actions were the smoothest she had ever felt on a gun; the revolvers were
round butted, polished, tuned, perfect. Rourke, when they had been given
to her, told her he had known the maker of the guns well before the Night
of the War. They would be the best guns she would ever own.
The American Eagles. Mahovsky had made them for President Sam Chambers
before the war, and Chambers, for her part in the evacuation of Florida,
had insisted she take them. She smiled at the memory, recalling his words.
fT can't very well give a Russian spy an American medal, can I? And
anyway, we're fresh out of medals. Take these and use 'em to stay alive
with, miss."
She had taken them, and the holsters Chambers had had for them; Rourke had
found her a belt that better matched her waist size.
She heard the noise again; it snapped her out of her thoughts. She
extracted the second revolver now, gloves off, edging up to her feet. She
prodded Rubenstein with her left foot; the man rolled over, looking up at
her. She raised a finger to her lips, then pointed to her ear.
Rubenstein blinked his eyes, then nodded, suppressing a yawn. He edged
back from the fire, the battered Browning High Power he carried coming
into his right hand, the hammer slowly cocking back. In the stillness
against the wind, it sounded loud—too loud.
She gestured to Paul with one of the guns—that she would cross around
behind the bridge support and look. He nodded; he was sensible, she
thought. He wore no boots, but she did, and there wasn't time for an
alternate
plan. The sleeping bag fell from her shoulders and she held the pistol in
her left hand against her abdomen, flat, to keep her coat closed more
tightly about her.
She shook her head; the wind caught her hair as she stepped out of (he
crude lean-to into the night. Brigands were her worry—Russian soldiers she
could take care of. She had her identification, spoke Russian, could prove
who she was and lie about who Paul was.
But Brigands . . . that had been the risk they had run lighting a fire;
but otherwise, Paul's feet might have been gone. Frostbite, left
untreated, could so quickly turn gangrenous. She didn't want that for
Paul—death or being crippled. A friend was too hard a thing to find.
Whatever happened, the fire had been worth it, necessary.
She froze, her back flattening against the concrete bridge support as she
heard the sound again, this lime more clearly—a voice, whispering, meaning
there was a second person—at least—in the darkness of the storm.
She stayed against the bridge support, cold, both pistols in her_hands,
waiting.
They were shiny for night work, but she liked them, the polished stainless
steel, the permanence of it— "Permanence," she whispered to herself. What
was permanent these days? She had just said good-by to a man whom she had
told she loved, a man she would never see again, never forget. And soon,
it would be good-by to Paul as well, her friend.
She tried to remember who her friends had been.
Tatiana from her ballet class—they had traded secrets. Tatiana had been