The End is Coming Page 3

  Rourke removed his binoculars from the case, the lens caps already off, in the case bottom.

  His hands were trembling.

  It was near Mt. Eagle, it had apparently once been a horse farm. A sign, fallen down and bro­ken in half, partially obscured by underbrush, had been at the end of the dried-mud-rutted ranch road, where the ranch road had met the blacktop.

  The sign had read: Cunningham’s Folly—Friends Welcome, Others Planted.

  Apparently, it hadn’t been planting season.

  Both buildings, having been burned so com­pletely, bore the marks of other than natural causes—Brigands.

  Rourke raised the binoculars to his eyes, foc­using them.

  “Freeze!”

  Rourke froze—whoever was behind him, whoever had spoken, was very good—very good.

  Rourke held the binoculars at eye level, shift­ing his right hand slightly so the fingers of his left hand could reach under the storm sleeve of his bomber jacket. With all the Soviet activity, Rourke had hidden the little Freedom Arms .22 Magnum boot pistol he’d taken off the dead body of a Brigand, hidden it on a heavy rubber band butt downward on the inside of his right wrist. The four-round cylinder was one-round shy, the half-cocked hammer resting over an empty chamber.

  “You must be an Indian to sneak up on me like that,” Rourke said, not turning around, palming the little Freedom Arms gun under his left hand, still peering through the binoculars. There was a woman moving about the yard near the white corral fence.

  “I been called ‘nigger’ lots, but ain’t never been called no Indian, fella.”

  “There’s a woman—young woman—down there by the corral fence—what’s her name?”

  He heard movement behind him.

  “I asked her name.”

  He felt the muzzle of a gun at the back of his neck.

  Rourke stepped back against it on his right foot, simultaneously snapping his left foot up and back, hearing a guttural sigh, feeling his heel connect with tissue and bone, his left arm moving as he half dodged, half fell right, sweep­ing up and against the muzzle of the gun—it was a Ruger Mini-14 stainless—knocking the rifle barrel hard left as the man holding it sagged for­ward, knees buckling.

  Rourke half rolled, half wheeled, balanced on his right hand and left foot, his right leg snaking up and out, the toe of his combat boot impacting against the black rifleman’s abdomen just above the belt.

  Then Rourke was up, the little Freedom Arms boot pistol’s hammer at full stand, the muzzle of the pistol against the black man’s right ear as the man sagged to the ground.

  “Don’t move—you alone?”

  “Fuck you—”

  Rourke increased the pressure of the pistol against the man’s ear. “It’d be awful dumb for you to make me shoot you—I think we’re on the same side. Now—the name of the woman down by the corral fence—”

  “Why the hell you wanna know—”

  “Maybe she’s my wife—”

  “You the guy’s who’s the doctor— “

  Rourke eased the three-inch barreled pistol away from the man’s ear. He stood up, blocking the hammer with his thumb, his hands shaking too much to trust to lowering it at that instant.

  “Her name is—”

  The black man looked up—there was anger in his eyes, but surprise too— “Sarah Rourke—”

  Rourke did something he rarely did.

  His hands stopped shaking. He lowered the hammer on the little .22 Magnum and shifted it to his left hand.

  With his right hand, John Thomas Rourke made the sign of the Cross.

  Chapter Ten

  The black Resistance fighter’s name was Tom—he said Annie was “the cutest little girl he’d ever seen,” and that Michael was more man than boy, pulling his weight, and that Sarah was a tough fighter, an angel of mercy—what held them to­gether since the loss of David Balfry.

  Rourke had said nothing about the Mulliner boy.

  And he walked now, his Harley left behind him with the man named Tom—he had told the man he was the quietest man he had never heard. But Rourke put being surprised down more to himself than to Tom’s skills—his mind had been else­where, his reactions turned off. Had Tom been a Brigand, or a Russian—he would have been dead.

  He walked on.

  He could see Sarah’s figure growing in defini­tion as he bridged the gap of distance between the depression’s overlook and the farmyard near the white corral fence.

  Her dark brown hair was all but obscured by what looked like a bandanna handkerchief. She wore a light blue shirt of some kind—it looked like a T-shirt. She looked, from the distance at least, like she looked when she worked in her studio, or about the house.

  He walked on.

  A small child, near a man propped beside a tree—too small, the child was, to be Michael. It was Annie.

  She looked like a miniature of her mother.

  Where was Michael?

  He walked on, a thin, dark tobacco cigar in the left corner of his mouth, clenched tight between his teeth.

  He lit it with cupped hands around his Zippo against the cool wind blowing up from the direc­tion of the burned-out farm.

  The CAR-15 was across his back, slung diago­nally cross-body from his left shoulder.

  The musette bag on his right side whacked out and back against his body as he took long strides, even strides in his combat-booted feet. The binoc­ular case swayed and thumped at his right side, against the Pachmayr gripped butt of his Python there in the flap holster.

  In the small of his back, where he’d placed it when he’d seen the Russians, was the two-inch barreled Colt Lawman .357—the one he’d used to shoot the Brigand leader in that first confronta­tion after the massacre of the passengers from the airliner he had landed—less than perfectly—in the desert outside Albuquerque.

  The black chrome Sting IA knife was tucked inside the waistband of his Levis on his left side.

  He was barely conscious of the weight of the twin stainless Detonics pistols under his armpits beneath the battered brown leather bomber jacket.

  He walked on.

  The musette bag was heavy—he felt its weight. Spare magazines for the CAR-15.

  On his gunbelt, he carried the holstered Python. Hanging from his trouser belt, was the Sparks Six-Pack with loaded Detonics magazines, the Six-Pack a gift from the submarine commander, Gunderson.

  He inhaled the smoke into his lungs—memo­ries.

  Natalia’s face. Paul’s face—memories he could feel now.

  The future was about to turn around, to notice him—he could feel it as it started at the growingly clear image of his wife, Sarah Rourke.

  He walked on.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Momma?”

  Half the women and a small percentage of the men in the world would react to the name, Sarah Rourke thought, turning around, seeing her son coming up from the bunker.

  “Momma?”

  “What is it, Michael?” and she felt herself smile.

  But she saw past him, past his tall, straight little body, beyond the tousled brown hair that never stayed combed, beyond the brown eyes sometimes sparkling with curiosity, sometimes dull with wea­riness.

  She saw a figure of a man, a man, tall, straight, dark hair like her son’s hair, the wind catching it. There was an assault rifle slung from his body under his right arm—she could barely detect the shape of the barrel—it was across his back.

  “Your father always carried a rifle like that—it never looked comfortable to—”

  She stopped, staring.

  She said it again. “Your father—your—Mi­chael—.” She was barely whispering.

  He looked at her, then to where Annie was still pretending to read to the injured Resistance fighter, and then he looked behind him, beyond the gutted frame of the farmhouse.

  “Daddy—”

  Michael started to run.

  Sarah looked—like a reaction—to Annie. An­nie had dropped t
he book, was pulling the ban­danna from her hair, her honey-colored hair caught in the wind as she ran. “Daddy!”

  Sarah Rourke closed her eyes. “Please, Jesus—let it work—please,” she whispered.

  Sarah Rourke ran, toward the tall, dark-haired man in the leather jacket, shouting across the field, “John!”

  Chapter Twelve

  John Rourke started to run, toward the woman outdistancing the two children—toward Sarah, Michael, Annie. Sarah wasn’t wearing a bra—he could tell that, because as she ran her fists were balled up and tucked up under her chest—she al­ways ran like that if she just wore a shirt or blouse and no bra. Michael—he was taller, bigger-look­ing than he had been—fine-looking. Annie—her hair was longer, her smile something he had never forgotten.

  As he ran, he stripped the CAR-15 from his shoulder, holding the rifle now by the pistol grip, almost like a balance pole for an acrobat. He could hear her—”John!” Rourke shouted the word: “Sarah!” He threw himself into the run, hearing the chil­dren screaming to him, his eyes riveting to Sarah’s face—one hundred yards now, ninety yards—”Sarah—” eighty yards, the tall grass in the field parting like an ocean wave in front of his feet, his mouth open gulping air, his hands out at his sides, the rifle weightless to him in his clenched right fist.

  Twenty-five yards—he ran, Sarah’s face clear to him, her right hand reaching up and tugging away the bandanna covering her head, her hair falling into the wind longer than he had seen it for years—ten yards. Five—

  John Rourke swept his wife into his arms, their mouths finding each other, Rourke crushing her against him, feeling her body mold to his.

  He buried his face in her neck for a moment, kissing her, inhaling her—

  He kissed her hair as she pressed her head against his chest.

  He looked down—Michael and Annie— “Daddy!” It was Annie, the smile.

  John Rourke dropped to his knees, losing the CAR-15 in the high grass, folding his son and his daughter into his body—Sarah fell to her knees, her arms about his neck, holding him tight as he held the children.

  “Daddy—” It was Michael—

  John Rourke cried.

  Chapter Thirteen

  She was exhausted, but she was careful—not to show it. Because Paul Rubenstein seemed even more exhausted and the seriousness of his wound sustained at the hands of the Wildmen was some­thing that worried her. It would heal well, but there had been much blood loss—the Wildman’s spear had impaled Rubenstein’s arm, and it had been some time before medical treatment had been available.

  She killed the red light switch and stepped in be­hind Paul, into the Retreat.

  “No need to close the inside door,” Paul told her, leaning heavily against the natural rock beside the interior entrance door, the lights on in the Great Room now, his hand beside the switch. “Welcome home,” he told her, looking at her, smiling.

  “Paul—why don’t I change your bandages—and make you comfortable—there’s nothing that heavy that I can’t load it into the truck— “

  “Bullshit—like John’d say— “ and then his eyes lit behind his wire-framed glasses, smiling— “But you can drive the pickup—”

  She only nodded—men were insane....

  They had gotten the truck ready quickly—Nata­lia had, forcing Paul to rest on the couch in the Great Room of the Retreat, hoping against hope that he would fall asleep. She could disable his bike and hers so he couldn’t follow her, and he would be forced to rest. But he hadn’t fallen asleep—and they drove, together, away from the Retreat now, down the mountain—she thought of it as Rourke’s mountain but supposed on some map of northeastern Georgia somewhere it had a different name. But that didn’t matter—it was his mountain. He had bought the property, forged the Retreat with his own hands, stocked it—he had prepared.

  She felt a smile cross her lips—he was always prepared—almost.

  And she felt something else at the thought—her love for him.

  And it was, like he had said, “home”—now, for­ever. Whatever happened with Sarah, whatever happened with the world—she would be with John Rourke, however he wanted her with him. It was still a long drive to the hidden F-111 prototype and the cache of arms and ammunition and supplies.

  The road was best built for foot travel, horse­back or motorcycles—even the four-wheel drive of the truck was hard pressed, she realized, driving down from the Retreat, the Retreat doors secured again with their weights and balances locking system, the interior secured with its combination sys­tems.

  The truck’s lights were out and she drove by the intermittent moonlight.

  Thunder rumbled, illuminating the high, scat­tered clouds, the clouds seeming to be a rich blue when lit by the lightning.

  Beside her, Paul Rubenstein was asleep.

  She yawned, rolling the window of the camou­flage-painted Ford pickup truck all the way down, forcing her eyes to stay open, putting her head partly out the window so the cold night breeze would help keep her awake.

  She thought of a line by the American poet Robert Frost—”... miles to go before I sleep.” Her favorite poets were Russian poets—but his words and thoughts seemed good to her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  She couldn’t take her eyes off the guns—he only wore the double shoulder holsters, the ones he had always worn. The leather of the harness seemed a little dirty, but from so long on the trail, searching for her—her eyes shifted up to his eyes, flickering in the dull burn of the bare bulb suspended from the ceiling over the small card table in the far corner of the underground shelter.

  Michael slept, and so did Annie—getting them to sleep had been hard, with their father newly returned. But she had convinced them that the next day, going to their new home at their father’s Retreat would be full of excitement and wonder—she had not been able to convince herself.

  She was nervous—John had told her about the death of Bill Mulliner—and she had wept more than she had thought she could. All that was fine, decent—all that was good. It was being de­stroyed forever.

  Mary Mulliner sat by the edge of the card table, between Sarah and John.

  At each side of the table, one dominated by John, sat men of the Resistance, Pete Critchfield opposite John, his cigar more foul-smell­ing than the one her husband puffed. To Rourke’s right sat Tom—he had told her a little about his first encounter with her husband. To John Rourke’s left—to her left though she sat back from the table, was Curley, the radio oper­ator.

  She watched her husband’s eyes. Watched his lips as he took the cigar from his teeth, turning his face toward her, his eyes flickering toward Mary Mulliner, between them.

  “Mrs. Mulliner—before we talk here—well—”

  “Bill is dead,” Mary Mulliner said, her hands awkward-looking on her trousered thighs—Mary had never been anything of a modern woman, Sarah thought, trying to remember if ever before had she seen the older woman wear pants. She didn’t think so. And the hands just rested cupped inside one another between her thighs now.

  Sarah Rourke heard John Rourke clear his throat. “He died—well, very bravely. He was trying to save some other Resistance people who’d been shot up by Brigands—I don’t think he was in a lot of pain—he—”

  Mary Mulliner began to cry—to sob, heavy sobs. Sarah slid from the folding card table chair to the floor beside Mary’s chair, on her knees, reaching up to fold her right arm about the older woman’s shoulders. The woman’s head rested against her right shoulder, Sarah hugging her to herself.

  Her husband began again to talk. “The last things he said—well—he told me, Bill did—Tell my mom I love her— and tell Mrs. Rourke good­bye.’ “

  Sarah looked into her husband’s eyes—she cried, her throat tight, so tight she could barely breathe.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It had taken better than an hour for Sarah to calm Mary Mulliner, and to calm herself, her throat sore-feeling, her eyes burning, her sinuses strange
ly clear as she had returned to the Sam­sonite card table around which her husband, John Rourke, the de facto Resistance leader, Pete Crit­chfield, the black man, Tom, and Curley sat. The air was blue-gray under the glow of the bulb with the cigar smoke. At the far end of the under­ground shelter—like a huge concrete basement—she could hear the rhythm of the bicycle generator being pedaled.

  She was happy it wasn’t Michael.

  “Sarah—glad you’re back,” Pete Critchfield nodded. “Pull up a chair.” Her husband stood, pushing a chair for her as she sat. Tom started to stand—neither of the other two men moved. “I’m tryin’ to convince your husband here to throw in with all of us in the Resistance against the Com­mies, rather than take you away from us.”

  John Rourke said nothing. Critchfield cleared his throat loudly, cigar smoke filtering from his nostril. “What about it, John?” Sarah asked him.

  He looked at her— a stern look. “I’m getting you and the children to safety at the Retreat. The weather, the thunder and lightning—all of it. Something’s happening and I need to find out what so we can prepare for it and survive it. After all that, if there’s a chance, sure—I’ll help the Re­sistance. My friend Paul will help—but you and Michael and Annie. I don’t want you having any part of it.”

  “Yeah—I don’t mean to interfere between a man and his wife, John, but—well, hell— “Critchfield started.

  John Rourke turned his eyes away from her and stared across the table at Critchfield—Pete Critchfield fell silent.

  Tom spoke. “What Pete means, man—your lady there. She’s one of us. Fights better than a lot of us—especially me,” and Tom laughed. “She’s good with a gun and all, but so’s your son, I hear. But more than that—she’s well—hell—a strong lady, and smart. We lose her and well—even the boy, and little Annie—she keeps us goin’—but we lose Sarah here, man—I mean, I know she’s your wife and belongs with you, but—we can’t get somebody else—nobody—ain’t nobody’ll replace her to us, ya know?”