the Timex on his wrist. Rourke had been gone for more than an hour. "That woman
keeps mumbling about a jeep," Rourke had said. "If there is one out there, that
should mean food and water, maybe gasoline."
"But she wouldn't have left it if it hadn't been out of gas," Rubenstein had
countered.
"People out here in the desert don't usually let themselves run out of gas.
Could have punched a hole in a radiator, severed a fuel line. Could still be
enough gas to run these bikes into Van Horn. Otherwise, we've got a long walk
ahead of us and we used our last water with her."
"You're the survivalist, the expert," Rubenstein had said, almost defensively.
"Can't you just go out there and find water?"
"Yeah," Rourke had answered. "If I take a hell of a long time doing it I can,
and I can find us food, too— but not gasoline. Even if I discovered crude oil it
wouldn't do us any good."
And Rourke had mounted up and gone, leaving the Steyr-Mannlicher SSG rifle with
Rubenstein for added protection, the light-gathering qualities of the 3-9
variable Mannlicher scope that rode it something Rourke had labeled "potentially
useful" if whoever had wounded the girl were still out there somewhere in the
darkness. The thought of more violence-prone thieves didn't appeal to
Rubenstein. He shivered in the darkness. The girl's body temperature was about
normal, Rourke had said, and she wasn't really so much unconscious anymore as
just sleeping, Rourke had cleansed and bandaged the deep flesh wound on her left
forearm. Her right hand still had blood on it, but only blood from the arm
wound, which Rourke had not washed away because of the water shortage.
Rubenstein shifted his position on the ground, hearing something in the darkness
to his left. He turned and peered into the black, seeing nothing. He heard the
sound again, pulling open the bolt on the Schmeisser, ready, his voice a loud
whisper, saying, "I know you're out there—I hear you. I've got a submachine
gun, so don't try anything."
"That doesn't do much to scare a rattler, Paul," Rourke said softly. Rubenstein
wheeled, seeing Rourke standing beside the sleeping woman, the CAR-15 in his
hands, the sling suspending the gun beneath his right shoulder. "Rattler—your
body heat is drawing him. Move over."
Rubenstein took a step left. Rourke raised the CAR-15 from its carry position,
drawing out the collapsible stock and bringing the rifle to his shoulder. "What
are you doing?" Rubenstein said.
"I'm sighting with the iron—this kind of scope wouldn't be much good at this
range."
Rourke shifted his feet, settling the rifle, and suddenly Rubenstein jumped, as
Rourke almost whispered, "Bang!" then brought the rifle down and collapsed the
stock.
"Bang?"
"Yeah—If I shoot that snake—unless he comes into camp and we have to, all I'm
going to do is advertise to everybody and his brother we're here, we've got guns
and we're stupid enough to go shooting at something in the dark. Keep an eye out
for that snake and I'll bring my bike up."
"Why did you leave it?"
"What if something had happened, somebody'd wandered into camp and gotten the
drop on you?"
''That wouldn't have happened,'' Rubenstein insisted, his voice sounding almost
hurt.
"Happened to her," Rourke said slowly. "After I found her jeep, I backtracked
it. I didn't figure I'd have to go far. There was a bullet hole in the radiator
and in today's heat the thing couldn't have gone far without the engine stalling
out. Dead man. Either her boyfriend or her husband and they just didn't believe
in rings. Throat slit ear to ear. Four other dead men there—bikers, well armed.
Looks like our ladyfriend there shot all four but one of them."
"Maybe the other one's still out there," Rubenstein said.
"No condition to do anything to us—looks like she broke his nose and drove the
bone up into his brain. Professional young lady. I found a jacket that looked
like it was small enough to be hers—had an interesting little gun in it. The
dead man with his throat slit was carrying a Walther P-38K. Pretty professional
piece of hardware—the muzzle was threaded on the inside for a silencer. I found
the silencer back at the jeep stuffed inside one of the tubular supports for the
seat frame."
"Jesus," Rubenstein exclaimed.
"I don't think that was his name," Rourke said quietly, turning then and fading
back into the darkness.
Chapter Twenty-One
Michael Rourke opened his dark eyes, squinting against the sun. His legs ached
and he started to move, but then remembered the weight on his lap. He looked
down at his mother's face, the eyes still closed. "Momma," he said softly. "Wake
up—it's morning."
He looked across the flat expanse of ground and confirmed the rising sun. Millie
and Annie were still asleep. The horses were still tied to the tree that he'd
secured the reins to the previous night. Their saddles were still in position.
After his mother had fallen down and he hadn't been able to waken her, he'd had
Millie and Annie watch her and he had loosened the straps under the horses'
bellies that held the saddles on—his mother called them "cinches," he
remembered.
"Momma," he said again, shaking her head gently. He closed his eyes. "Millie,
Annie! Get up— time to get up!" he shouted. Annie sat bolt upright, stared
around her and then at him.
"How is Mommie?" she said.
"She'll be okay," he said. "Wake up Millie and have her make something to eat.
You know where it is—the food. Millie can reach the bags."
He looked back to his mother. The sunlight was just hitting her face and he
watched her eyelids moving. "Momma!"
Sarah Rourke opened her eyes. "Ohh," she started, her voice sounding hoarse to
him.
"Annie—get Momma some water."
Sarah Rourke stared at him—Michael couldn't tell if she was all right or not.
"Momma—are you going to be okay?"
He saw her moving her right hand toward him and he bent toward her, felt her
hand—cold—against his cheek. "Momma!"
"Shh," Sarah said, the corners of her mouth raising faintly in a smile. "I'll be
all right—just give me a hug and don't ask me to get up for a while— okay?"
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rourke stepped away from the low yellow camp-fire and sat back against the rock
face, staring out across the desert as the sun—orange against a gray sky—winked
up over the horizon to the east. He hunched his shoulders in his leather jacket,
both hands wrapped around a white-flecked black metal mug of steaming coffee.
He glanced at Rubenstein when the younger man spoke, "Now this is more like
it—life on the trail, I mean. Food, coffee, water. Hey—" and Rubenstein leaned
back against the far end of the rocks.
"Simple things can mean a lot," Rourke observed, staring then at the woman,
still sleeping when last he'd looked, lying on a ground cloth between them. Her
eyelids were starting to flutter, then opened and she started to sit up, then
fell back.
"Give yourself a few
minutes," Rourke said slowly to her.
"What's that I smell?" she said, her voice hoarse.
"Coffee—want some? It's yours, anyway," Rourke told her.
She sat up again, this time moving more slowly, leaning back on her elbow. "Who
are you?" she asked, her voice still not quite right-sounding to Rourke.
"My name is John Rourke—he's Paul Rubenstein." and Rourke gestured over her. She
turned and Rubenstein smiled and gave her a little salute.
"What the hell are you doing drinking my coffee?"
"Pleasant, aren't we?" Rourke said. "You were dying, we saved your life. I went
back and found your jeep, buried your boyfriend or husband a few miles back
beyond that, hauled up the gasoline, the water, the food, some of your stuff.
Then so we didn't have to leave you alone and could make sure your fever didn't
come up, we slept in shifts the rest of the night watching you. I figure that
earns me a cup of coffee, some gas and some food and water. Got any
objections?"
"You got any cigarettes?" Natalia said. "And some coffee?"
"Here," Rourke said, tossing a half-empty pack of cigarettes to her. "I guess
these are yours—found 'em at the jeep." She started to reach out her left arm
for the cigarettes and winced.
"You were shot in the forearm," Rourke commented, then looked back to his
coffee, sipping at it.
"Anybody got a light?"
Rourke reached into his jeans and pulled out his Zippo, leaning across to her
and working the wheel, the blue-yellow flame leaping up and flickering in the
wind. The girl looked at him across it, their eyes meeting, then she bent her
head, brushing the hair back. The tip of the cigarette lighted orange for a
moment, then a cloud of gray smoke issued from her mouth and nostrils as she
cocked her head back, staring up at the sky.
"I agree—but I'd already noticed you're beautiful," Rourke said deliberately.
She turned and looked at him, laughing, saying, "I think I know you from
somewhere—I mean that should be your line, but I really do. That bandage is very
professional."
Rubenstein said, "John's a doctor—among other things."
Rourke glanced across at Rubenstein, saying nothing, then looked at the girl. "I
had the same feeling when I first saw you by the road, that I know you from
somewhere."
"What happened?"
"I was hoping you could tell me. Paul and I just spotted your body by the side
of the road, saw you were hurt and tried to help."
"Did I talk—I mean how did you know where to find the jeep?"
"You didn't say much," Rourke said, adding, "Don't worry. You mumbled something
about a jeep and something about Sam Chambers. If I remember, before the war he
was still down here in Texas—just been appointed secretary of communications to
the president."
"The war?" Natalia said.
"Don't you know about the war?" Rubenstein said, leaning toward her.
"What war?" Natalia said.
"Tell her about the war," Rourke said, lighting one of the last of his cigars.
"Looks like it's going to rain today."
Chapter Twenty-Three
"God, it's so green here," Samuel Chambers said, sitting on the small stone
bench and looking at the profusion of camelias.
"East Texas by the Louisiana border here is green like this most of the time.
But I think it's time for the meeting to start now—Mr. President."
Chambers looked at the man, saying quickly, "Don't call me that yet, George. I'm
secretary of communications, and that's it."
"But you're the only surviving man in the line of succession, sir—you are the
president."
"I was up in Tyler last year in October for the Rose Festival—this just might be
the prettiest part of the State of Texas—here, north of here and down south to
the Gulf."
"Sir!"
"I'm coming, George—stop and smell the flowers, right?" Chambers stood up and
reached into his shirt pocket, snatching a Pall Mall. He stared at the cigarette
a moment, then said to his young executive assistant. "I wonder how I'll get
these now—with the war?"
"I'm sure we can find enough to last a long time for you, sir," the young man
Chambers had called George said reassuringly, walking toward Chambers and
standing at his side as he passed, almost as if to keep the man from taking
another tour of the garden.
Chambers turned as he reached the double french doors leading back from the
walled garden to the library inside the nearly century-old stone house. He
stared back into the garden, saying to George without looking at him, "I'm about
to make history, George. When I walk into that room, if I reject the call to the
presidency or if I accept it. And if I accept it, what will I be president of?
It's a wasteland out there beyond this garden—much of it is, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Pretty much of the whole West Coast is gone, New York was blown off the map.
What am I going to be offered the presidency of—a sore that isn't smart enough
to know that it can't heal?"
Chapter Twenty-Four
staring up the road at the stricken faces of the men, women and children
struggling slowly toward them. As the women's faces showed recognition of
Rourke, Rubenstein and the girl bending over their cycles, Rourke watched the
women hug the children closer to them, some of the men starting to raise sticks
or axes as if for defense. "Who are they?" Rubenstein asked again.
Rourke turned and started to answer, but then the woman's alto, choked-sounding
as she spoke, came from behind him on the Harley's long seat. "They're refugees
from some town up ahead—it's written all over their faces, Paul."
"I do know you from somewhere," Rourke said to her.
"And I know you—I wonder what will happen when we remember from where, John?"
"I don't know," he said slowly, then stared back up the road at the faces of the
people. He looked over to Rubenstein on the bike beside him, saying, "Dismount
and leave your subgun on the bike or give it to Natalie. Go tell them we don't
mean them any harm."
"But how do I know they don't mean me any harm?" Rubenstein asked, starting off
his bike.
"I'll cover you."
Rubenstein handed the SMG to Natalie, Rourke glancing back to her and saying,
"Don't tell me you can't figure out how to use it—remember I saw the job you did
back there at the jeep."
"Whatever do you mean," she said, her voice half laughing.
"Sure, lady," Rourke grunted, then watched as Rubenstein, hands outspread as
though he were approaching an unfamiliar dog, walked toward the refugees.
Rourke heard Rubenstein starting to speak, "Hey look—we're good guys—don't mean
you any harm, maybe we can help you."
A man started toward Rubenstein with a long-handled scythe and Rourke shouted,
"Watch out!" then started to bring the Python out of the Ranger cammie holster
on his pistol belt. There was a short, loud roar behind him, hot brass burning
against his neck, the scythe handle was sliced in half, and Rubenstein spun on
his heel, the Browning High
Power in his right hand, his left hand pushing his
glasses back off the bridge of his nose. Rourke glanced back to Natalie, saying,
"Like I said, sure lady."
"The hell with you," Rourke heard her say, as she slid from the back of his
Harley and handed him the Schemiesser, the bolt still open, the safety on. She
walked a few steps ahead of the bike, stopped and wiped the palms of her hands
against her blue-jeaned thighs, shot a glance over her shoulder at Rourke, then
started walking slowly toward the people, the refugees, the closest now less
than a dozen feet from Paul Rubenstein.
Her voice was soft, low—the way you'd want your lover to sound, Rourke thought.
"Listen to us— please," she was saying. "We don't want to hurt any of you at
all—I just fired to protect my friend here. We want to help. We don't want to
hurt you," and she walked into the front of the crowd, reaching out her right
hand slowly and tousling the sandy hair of a boy of about ten, standing pressed
against a woman Rourke assumed to be the boy's mother.
Rourke looked down to the MP-40, pulled the magazine and let the bolt kick
forward, then reseated the magazine. He held the submachine gun in his left
hand, dismounting the Harley-Davidson Low Rider and walking slowly, his right
palm outstretched, toward Rubenstein, Natalie and the refugees. Natalie was
talking again. "Where are you people from? What happened to you all?"
Rourke found himself looking at her—the way the sides of her hair were pulled
back and caught up at the back of her head, her hair then falling past her
shoulders slightly, the movement of her hands. He inhaled hard, bunching his
right hand into a fist, stepping up beside her, saying, "She's telling you the
truth—we just want to know where you are all from, what happened. I'm a
doctor—maybe I can help some of you."
Rourke spun half-around, almost going for a gun—there was a woman screaming in
the middle of the group, the faces on both sides of her melting away as Rourke
took a step closer to her. She was on her knees, crying, holding a baby in her
arms, the blanket stained dark red with blood.
Rourke walked over to her, gently touching her shoulder, handing off the
Schmeisser and the CAR-15 to Natalie behind him. He dropped to his knees, slowly