Ahern, Jerry - The Savage Horde

"Gundersen's men took my guns—I didn't see any way of arguing it—six of them and no running room."

Rourke nodded soberly. "I took off my pistols when I scrubbed—most of them anyway," and Rourke smiled.

' 'But you were right—trying a shootout in a metal skin in the water—under it now—would have been stupid."

"You're not gong through with this—to find the missiles. Are you?"

"I don't have much choice. We'll be there anyway when this thing surfaces—and if I can contact Chambers and he confirms that Cole is acting in his behalf, then I'll have to. And if I can't contact Chambers—my gut still tells me there's something wrong. Something really wrong with Cole and his outfit. And if Cole is some kind of crazy—or maybe a Russian Natalia wouldn't have known about—or something else—we can't let him get his hands on those six missiles. He was talking about them—eighty megaton capacity for each missile. Nearly five hundred megatons combined."

"What started it between Cole and Natalia?" Rubenstein asked.

Rourke sat down, holding his head in his hands for a moment, then looked up. He picked up the bottle of medicinal liquor—"Looks like it tastes great."

"You get used to it," and Rubenstein felt himself smile.

"Yeah—well—after Natalia's suction has been working for a while—"

"Her what?"

"Got a Levin tube suctioning her until peristalsis resumes—but there's always a chance the suture line I made wasn't complete enough and I might have to open her up again—I should know in about six hours or so—gonna try and sleep."

"I could feel for you, John—doing that—holding her life in your hands."

"A lot of things I've been thinking about lately," and Rourke smiled. "I always get the impression you look to me as the problem solver—don't you?"

Embarassed slightly, Rubenstein only nodded.

"Well—if I'm so smart, how the hell come I'm in love

with my wife and I'm in love with Natalia at the same time, huh?"

Rourke said nothing else, reaching into his shirt pocket and taking one of the dark tobacco cigars and lighting it, his face more lined and tired than before.

Chapter 13

Sarah Rourke opened her eyes, her eyes, her face warm in the shafts of brilliant sunlight coming through the screened open window, the curtains blowing softly in the warm breeze. She sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes once, then stretching, feeling too warm in the nightgown.

"Spring," she smiled. She had inured herself to the insanity of the seasons since the Night of The War. Today it would be spring—tomorrow it might be winter again. "Tomorrow—" She laughed as she said the word.

She pushed down the sheet and the quilt and swung her legs over the side of the bed, standing up, barefoot, the nightgown's hem hiding her feet. She walked to the window. There was quiet—the dog not running madly with the children yet. She would shower later, she told herself.

She stepped away from the window, standing near the dresser, conscious of herself as she pulled the nightgown over her head and put it on the bed. She looked at herself—her breasts weren't exactly little anymore. Nursing two children had seen to that. But there was, as best she could tell, barely an ounce of fat on her body—the constant running, fighting—all of it since the Night of The War had seen to that.

She wondered absently—taking a bra from the dresser drawer and starting to put it on—if time in the future would be reckoned from the Night of The War—like it had been since the birth of Christ?

The irony was not lost on her.

Peace versus war.

She stepped into her panties, dismissed the idea of wearing a slip and pulled the yellow dress from the hook inside the wardrobe cabinet doors and took it from the hanger. She puHed the dress on over her head, starting to button the back of the dress mechanically, without watching, as she stared out the window.

It would be a beautiful day—perhaps so beautiful that Mary Mulliner's son would come back and bring word of contacting John—that he was well, that he was coming for her and for the children.

She began to brush her hair, her hair longer than she had kept it in years—somehow she was unwilling to cut it. She set down the brush, opened the top drawer of the dresser and began to search for a pony tail holder to keep her hair back from her face. The old blue T-shirt she had worn—it was washed, folded neatly—She looked under it. The terminally rusted . her husband had left for her, that she had carried next to her abdomen since the Night of The War.

She picked it up, her reflexes automatic now as she pushed the magazine release catch button, dropping the magazine on the bed clothes, then with her stronger right hand, the gun held in her left, drew back the Government Model's slide.

The Colt's chamber was empty. She knew it would be—but had learned never to trust to that.

She pointed the emptied gun at a safe space of exterior wall and snapped the trigger, the hammer falling with a loud "click", an infinitesimal amount of oil felt sprayed on the web of her hand as the hammer fell.

"My God." She simply shook her head, looking at the pistol; the sunlight and the yellow dress she wore somehow no longer the same to her.

Chapter 14

Rourke saw them—Michael and Annie. They were running—but running happily. There was a beach—they were running along it in the surf, barefooted, their pants legs rolled up but stilt hopelessly wet as the foaming water lapped against their shins, the children only half-heartedly running.

He looked at himself—the weight distribution o*f his shoulder rig felt odd to him and he lifted his shoulders under it, searching the beach—Sarah had to be there too.

He wanted to shout to Michael and Annie—but even more than holding them he wanted to watch them run—to play. Hear them laugh. Annie had grown—but somehow she hadn't changed at all. The wild-eyed little kid—the happy girl, the girl who made you laugh. He laughed at himself.

Sarah—he still couldn't see her.

He watched Michael—his face was more serious than it had been—tanned more deeply than it always seemed to be, even in the dead of winter. He was somehow taller and straighter than he'd been just before the Night of The War, and even disguised under the T-shirt Michael wore, he could see the boy's musculature—how it had changed, matured.

Rourke stopped, seeing someone lying further along the beach. He brought the Bushnell xs out and focused them. The figure was a woman, wearing a bathing suit—she lay sunning herself, pale seeming under the bright sun on the sand.

'Sarah,'' he whispered. He started to run, the binoculars bouncing against his chest as they swung from their strap. "Sarah!" The children would hear him he knew.

The sand was hard to run in, slowing him. "Sarah!"

He was there suddenly, beside her. She didn't turn around.

"Sarah—I tried to make it back sooner—you'll never know how I tried. There were so many battles to fight—and—"

She didn't answer. She didn't move. He dropped to his knees in the sand. The body was so familiar to him—the patterns of the tiny freckles on her shoulders, the way she pushed her hair from the nape of her neck when she lay in the sun.

The flesh was cold as he touched it.

"Sarah—" He drew his hand back, then touched gently against her back. Still cold—clammy to the touch.

Swallowing hard, feeling his muscles bunching tight, he bent closer to her and felt at the neck for a pulse. There was none.

"Oh, Jesus," he rasped.

He took his hands away for a moment, then placed them both on the shoulders, turning the body.