The Doomsayer Read online

  Chapter 4

  Sarah Rourke rested her hands on the saddle horn. Tildie’s head dipped down as the horse browsed at a patch of grass. Sarah’s eyes scanned the valley beneath the low hill on which they’d stopped. She looked behind her. Michael sat easily in the saddle of her husband’s big off-white horse, Sam. She smiled at little Annie, the girl waving to her. Shaking her head, almost not believing the children could have endured what they had, she studied her hands. The nails were trimmed short and there was dirt under them. She had always kept her nails long, even with the farm, the children, the horses, her illustrating. At least the nails on her left hand had been nearly perfect, she thought, smiling. She looked at the gold wedding band, wondering if somewhere still in the world its mate was on a living hand like her own. She cooed to the horse under her as it started to move, raising both her hands to the nape of her neck to retie the blue and white bandanna over her hair. Was John Rourke actually alive? she wondered.

  Mary Mulliner’s farm, she remembered. She could have stayed there, forever if she had wanted to, the children having an island of normality in the world or what was left of it. But she had packed the saddlebags, the dufflebag, cleaned the assault rifle she’d taken from one of the men who’d tried to rape and kill her. She’d gotten Mary’s red-headed son to show her how to “field strip”— that was what he had called it— the rifle and her husband’s Colt .45 automatic. She’d saddled her own horse that morning. Annie had cried, and Michael had talked of how he would take care of Annie, and his mother as well. It was summer now, though by the weather she realized she would have never guessed that. Turning and looking at her two children, she murmured, “Michael will be seven.” She shook her head in disbelief. Six years old and he had killed a man to save her life; six years old and the boy had saved her life again after she’d drunk contaminated water. The corners of her gray-green eyes crinkled with a smile— the resemblance between Michael and his father wasn’t just physical. She studied the boy’s face, the dark eyes, the thick, dark hair. The forehead was lower; but Michael was still a boy, she reminded herself. The shoulders, the leanness about him. But it was the strength the boy seemed to have inside of him that at once heartened and sometimes terrified her. He was John all over— loving, analytical, practical, yet a dreamer too. It had taken the War, she realized, to understand that John Rourke’s preoccupation with survivalism had not been nightmarish, but a dream for going on when civilization itself failed. She smiled again. She could no more see the War or its aftermath killing her husband John than it had killed Michael— and Michael was here, with her now.

  “Michael,” she said, looking at the boy with a smile on her lips.

  He smiled back at her, saying, “Why are you smiling like that?”

  “I love you.” She looked over at Annie. “And I love you, too.”

  “We know that,” the boy said, starting to laugh.

  “I know you know,” she laughed. Then she pulled up on Tildie’s reins and said over her shoulder to the children, “Come on kids—“

  She stopped, reining in, the internal terror gripping at her again, thinking, “Come on— where?” Shaking her head, she let out on the reins, moving her knees against Tildie’s warm flanks again. “Come on,” she said aloud, starting the mare down into the valley.

  They rode in relative quiet for more than an hour as she judged it by the sun still far to the east. After she had left the Mulliner farm she had tried heading into Georgia. But there had been Brigands, too many of them, she’d thought, to wait it out or skirt around them. She had made the decision then to turn East into the Carolinas, trying to reenter Georgia as she judged she had almost two days ago, nearer the Atlantic Coast. She had convinced herself that perhaps Savannah still existed as an entity, too important as a seaport to bomb from existence. She reined in on Tildie again, staring now across the low valley, then back behind her into the hills. Before the War, she thought, the sound of an automobile or truck engine had been familiar, sometimes comforting. She had liked it when someone had stopped by the farm unexpectedly— at least most of the time. There would be the rumbling, humming noise, and she would look out the window of her studio or through the kitchen windows and see a familiar vehicle pulling up the driveway. Since the War the sound of engines had meant only one thing to her— Brigands.

  “Children!” she almost shrieked. “Hurry up!” She kicked her heels into Tildie’s sides, bending around in the saddle, watching Michael as he dropped low over his horse’s neck, and Annie as she slapped her tiny hands against her horse’s rump. The two children moved their mounts ahead. “Hurry,” she called again, her right hand moving from Tildie’s mane to the butt of her husband’s Government Model .45 jammed in the waistband of her faded Levis. In the valley where they rode, they were in the open, exposed.

  She could pinpoint the source of the sound now, just over the hills leading down into the valley. The only shelter up ahead was a farmhouse. “Over there!” she finally shouted, wishing the children could make their animals move more quickly, wishing she hadn’t let Annie try riding by herself. The girl wasn’t yet five, wouldn’t be for four more months. “Come on, children,” she said again, staring back toward the hills, the engine sounds getting louder, more well defined. Trucks, many of them— and there was another sort of sound. She had ridden with John on his motorcycle, she had heard motorcycles ever since the War, and she heard them now.

  “Brigands,” she almost screamed to the children. “Hurry! For God’s sake—“ And under her breath as she drew in on the reins, Tildie backing up a step, the children almost even with her now, Sarah whispered, “For our sake!”

  She stared toward the hills, the engine noises getting louder, then turned her head quickly, watching the children’s mounts heading toward the farmhouse. She drew in tight on Tildie’s reins, loosing the modified AR-15 from the saddle thongs, slinging it across her back. “Come on, girl,” she snapped, heeling into the horse, bending low over its flowing mane as the dark hairs whipped her face in the wind, tears coming to her eyes because of it.

  Sarah passed Annie’s horse, swinging her right hand out and swatting the horse on the rump. Then she snatched at the reins, leading out the left rein as she pulled ahead on Tildie. Glancing behind her, first at Annie, then to the hills, Sarah thought she saw the profile of a truck or car coming into view. She shouted to Tildie, “Giddup! Come on, girl!” Michael was already starting to rein in, the farmhouse just ahead. “Michael!” Sarah shouted. “Get your horse inside— hurry!” Sarah, as Michael began dismounting, reined in old Tildie, swinging easily from the saddle, shifting the AR-15 on her back, snatching out with both hands for the reins of Annie’s horse. She hauled the animal down, then grabbed the little girl from the saddle. “Run— into the house.” Sarah pushed Michael ahead of her, holding the reins now of all three horses.

  Michael was struggling with the farmhouse door. Sarah almost pushed the boy aside, throwing her weight against the door as she tried turning the knob, the rough unpainted wood scratching against her hands. But the door gave and she hurried Michael through, Annie after him. She could see over to the brow of the hill now— they weren’t trucks. They were tanks, with red stars on their sides. “Russians,” she rasped, swatting the horses in through the door ahead of her. She stepped through the door, swinging it shut, collapsing against it.

  Sarah Rourke heard Michael call out, “Momma!” She spun on her heels, the .45 automatic in her hand, her thumb pushing down the safety. Two ideas came to her as one— how conditioned she had become to danger, to defending herself and the children from it; and who was the man with the bloodstained shirt, a revolver falling from his limp right hand as he collapsed onto the floor from a cot in the corner. He had what she’d learned was a South Georgia accent as he rasped, “I’m with the Resistance...

  As Sarah started toward him across the floor, she realized there were Russians outside her door— but there was a new, unwanted responsibility within.

  Cha
pter 5

  John Rourke watched as the needle of the Harley’s fuel gauge hovered near the “E”— he made it another ten miles before he reached the site of the strategic fuel reserve, one of the sites pinpointed on the map given him by Samuel Chambers, the President of United States II. Rourke had memorized the map, then destroyed it, later reproducing a copy and storing it at the Retreat where Paul Rubenstein memorized it as well. This was the first time Rourke had found it necessary to tap into the fuel reserve supply— finding gasoline, stealing it, trading for it as he had gone along. But this was the farthest he had been from the Retreat as well.

  He had taken the auto ferry as far as he dared toward Savannah, abandoning it and leaving the girl in as secure a spot as he could find. He did not want the injured girl to slow him as he made his way to the gasoline supply, nor would he unnecessarily endanger her. As best he knew, Soviet troops honeycombed the Savannah area, using it as a primary southeastern port facility now. And there were Brigands, as the earlier encounter attested. Rourke had left the woman the little Colt Lawman two incher as last ditch protection, as well as food and water in case something went wrong. There was a rise ahead and Rourke took the bike up, then over it. Checking the black-faced Rolex Submariner on his wrist, he made it another ten minutes before he reached the site given the current terrain— and remembering the map he didn’t foresee the terrain improving. It was uneven, untraveled. All in all, Rourke reflected, a smile crossing his lips, the perfect location for a strategic oil and gas reserve. Off the beaten path, accessible by motorcycle or the heaviest of trucks. Rourke pitied the fuel tanker drivers who had traveled the rough road to bring the gasoline there originally.

  After several more minutes driving the Harley, the needle fuel gauge settled well below Empty, and Rourke stopped the bike, the engine running a little rough, he thought. In his mind’s eye he pinpointed the spot from the map, then checked his lensatic compass to make certain the coordinates he’d memorized were correct. He started the Harley Davidson down off the rise, slowly, the CAR-15 slung under his right arm. Rourke realized he was now at his most vulnerable. He could be stopped, in the open, the motorcycle unusable while he refueled then filled his emergency container. Rourke circled the big black bike around the clearing, then slowed it, cutting the wheel slightly left. He stopped, putting down the kick stand. Then he dismounted the bike, snapped back the bolt on the CAR-15 and let it fly forward, chambering a round. Rourke thumbed on the safety and walked out to the clearing, checking the compass again against the memorized map. He spotted a likely stand of trees and walked toward it, pushing his way through the pine boughs several feet, then finding the valve.

  Chambers had explained that the strategic fuel reserves shown on the map were emergency supplies as opposed to massive reserves for civilian, industrial, and military use. Because of their emergency nature, they had been designed to operate on air pressure rather than electricity. And that meant that the time to refuel an average full-sized automobile, for example, as Chambers had explained it, would be roughly ten to twelve minutes— a slow process. Rourke smiled at the thought. He wondered if he’d ever drive an “average automobile” again. He went back to the Harley, then walked the bike back toward the edge of the tree line and began the refueling process. Even with the vastly smaller tanks, including the auxiliary tank, the process still seemed interminable as Rourke worked the pump, leaving the key on to watch the fuel gauge. He realized that with air in the system and the nearly bone-dry tank he could easily make a mistake, assuming his tanks were full when in reality they weren’t. As he fueled the Harley, then began working on his emergency container, he scanned the clearing and the crude road leading down and through it. He was still vulnerable.

  Rourke froze, hearing something that chilled his spine— it was another human voice, the words unmistakably Russian. It was cool, clear and there was a strong wind blowing from the direction from which he’d come, and despite the apprehension gripping Rourke now, he continued the fueling operation. The voice came from beyond the low ridge over which he’d entered the clearing. Rourke calculated the situation— there were at least two men, probably an advance Soviet patrol. Rourke swung the CAR-15 forward, telescoping out the stock. He glanced at the emergency fuel container— it was almost full. He tightened the gas cap on the Harley Davidson, visually inspecting the area to make certain he’d left no other signs of his presence beyond the tire tracks. He’d spilled a few drops of fuel and he kicked dirt over the damp spots in the ground. The container was full and Rourke stopped pumping. Quickly, his eyes riveted through his dark aviator-style sunglasses to the ridge, Rourke sealed the emergency container, securing it on the Harley.

  He coiled the pump hose back into its base, then shut down the valve, working the combination lock to secure it— Chambers had given Rourke the combination, too, at the time Rourke had received the map.

  He heard the Russian voice more clearly now, closer. Moving the bike without starting it toward the center of the clearing, he went back over the ground and obliterated any footprints or tread marks as best he could, using the leather jacket he’d stripped from his back. Shouldering back into the jacket, reslinging the CAR-15 and collapsing the stock, Rourke mounted the motorcycle and waited. If the voice came no closer, he would wait until it was no longer audible, then go up to the ridge and, when all seemed clear, steal away. It was of paramount importance not to attract too much attention to the clearing and cause the Soviets to initiate a detailed search for the fuel reserve.

  He could hear the voice clearly now, saying something in Russian about having followed tire tracks. A smile crossed Rourke’s lips. Quickly, he dug into the Lowe pack on the back of the Harley, dismounting the bike then and gathering together some twigs and branches. Using the Zippo after skinning shavings off several of the twigs with his knife, Rourke started the twigs burning, setting out a pack of Mountain House food from the back pack on the ground. He crouched beside the small fire, waiting. If the Russians came over the ridge, they would see the campfire— and Rourke would hopefully convince them he had stopped for a meal. If he gave them a reason why he was there to begin with, then there might be no reason for the Russians to search further. He stared at the ridgeline, ripping open the Mountain House food pack. It was Turkey Tetrazini, and he scooped a handful of the dehydrated food into his hand, nibbling at it, letting the moisture of his mouth react with it to get the taste.

  “No sense wasting all of it,” he muttered to himself. Finally Rourke heard a second voice— he’d begun to think the Russian on the other side of the ridge was neurotic, talking to himself. He could hear the conversation reasonably well now— the two voices were saying the tracks led up over the ridge.

  Shaking his head, Rourke slung the CAR-15 across his back, muzzle down, safety on. He took the Metalifed six-inch Colt Python from the flap holster on his belt and pulled back on the cylinder release catch, spinning the cylinder once, checking that the ejector rod was tight. He closed the cylinder, his right fist wrapped around the black rubber Colt Medallion Pachmayr Grips, the long vent-ribbed barrel resting across his left thigh. And he munched at more of the Turkey Tetrazini, waiting for what he knew now was inevitable.

  He squinted against the sunlight, feeling the heat of the small fire near his hands, hoping the Russians would hurry. A smile crossed his lips. Over the ridge-line he could see the crown of a Soviet foraging cap, then the head under it.

  He stared at the face; the Russian stared back. There was a cry of alarm, and the Russian started to swing his AK-47 into position. Rourke, still squatting beside the fire, swung the Python up on line, the butt of the pistol in both his hands, the silvery front sight lining up dead center in the white outline Omega square notch. He pulled the trigger through, double action, the muzzle rising slightly as the revolver discharged. “Love that Mag-Na-Porting,” he muttered to himself, the recoil from the full house .357 158-grain semi-jacketed soft point almost negligible. Rourke was on his feet then, running.
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br />   As he reached the Harley Davidson, jumping into the saddle, knocking away the stand, he saw a second Russian coming over the ridgeline, an AK-47 in the man’s hands. As the Russian started to fire, Rourke wingshot the Python, once, then again. The Soviet soldier fell back. Rourke replaced the Python in the holster, gunning the motorcycle. Gunfire started up behind him, chewing into the dirt around him as he bent low over the machine. The engine was running well again, he decided, as he hit the opposite ridgeline and jumped the bike over it, coming down in the dirt, gunning the machine and starting down toward a road perhaps two hundred yards ahead. He could hear vehicles behind him, shouts, gunfire— he still had no idea of the size of the Soviet patrol, but hoped they’d bought the campfire routine. As Rourke reached the road, he looked back along the river. There was a Soviet truck, small, camouflage-painted, coming toward him. He skidded the bike into a tight turn, stopping it, drawing the Python, thumbing back the hammer. The Russian vehicle was over the ridge. Rourke fired the Python, once, then twice more in rapid succession. There was a cloud of steam from the front of the truck, the vehicle stopped dead halfway over the ridge. Rourke dropped the Python back into the holster and gunned the Harley down the road. It was tree-lined, the branches almost touching over the road as he passed under them. He reached his left hand into his shirt pocket and found one of his small cigars. Biting down on it in the left corner of his mouth as he sped along the road, Rourke decided to light it later.