Ahern, Jerry - Total War

Chapter Twenty-seven

Sarah Rourke turned on her heel and took the .45 automatic from the waistband of her blue jeans. The corners of her mouth raised into a smile and her green eyes lost their hard set. "Ron Jenkins," she said. The man she stared at was a familiar one, the retired Army sergeant who owned the next farm. He rode a tall Appaloosa gelding. She knew the horse well. On a bay, behind him, was his wife, Carla, and riding behind her on the same horse was their ten year old girl, Millie.

"My wife and me-we was gettin' ready to clear out on horseback here, then we heard the explosion over your place this morning and I said to Carla, 'Betchya Sarah Rourke's got some problems-John probably ain't home.'"

Sarah slipped the .45 automatic back into her waistband, gestured with the same hand toward the smoldering ruins of the house and said, "I guess you'd call them brigands or something. They wanted to rob us and-well, you know," Sarah said, turning away from the Jenkins family and looking back to the tack she was adjusting on her chestnut colored mare. The white mare with the black mane and tail and four black stockings-John's horse-was already saddled and the gear tied on. She finished adjusting the latigo strap on her own horse and turned back to the Jenkins. "Thanks for coming to see about us," she said quietly.

"You want we should all ride together? I'm taking my wife and daughter up into the mountains. Not far, but should be safer," Ron Jenkins said.

"Come with us, Sarah," Carla Jenkins said, leaning forward in her saddle.

Sarah wiped the palms of her hands on the legs of her jeans, then glanced at Michael and Annie standing beside the barn. Carla Jenkins talked too much, and Ron Jenkins didn't talk enough-and their daughter Millie was a brat, Sarah recalled. But she looked at her children again. "I guess there's safety in numbers," she said. "I thank you for coming for us. I know it was out of your way. We'll be happy to come with you. I'm sure we can all help each other. I'm almost through here. I just have one thing to do."

"I'll help your children get mounted up," Ron Jenkins said. "On your husband's horse-the white one?"

"Yes-please," Sarah said, smiling. She walked back to the barn doorway and gave each of the children a nudge, then reached into her canvas purse and took a pen and the checkbook. She tore off a check and almost laughed as she found herself starting to write "void" across the front. They were all void now, she realized. She dropped to her knees on the ground and, using the checkbook to steady her hand, wrote: "My Dearest John, You were right. I don't know if you're still alive. I'm telling myself and the children that you survived. We are fine. The chickens died overnight, but I don't think it was radiation. No one is sick. The Jenkins family came by and we're heading toward the mountains with them. You can find us from the retreat. I'm telling myself that you will find us. Maybe it will take a long time, but we won't give up hope. Don't you. The children love you. Annie has been good, Michael is more of a little man than we'd thought. Some thieves came by and Michael saved my life. We weren't hurt. Hurry. Always, Sarah"

She slipped the note inside a plastic sandwich bag-from Michael's lunch the last day he'd been in school. There was a nail already driven into the inside of the barn door, and she stuck the plastic bag over it, took one last look at the note, took the bag down and took out the check again. At the bottom, in larger letters, she scrawled, "I love you, John," put the note back in the bag and hung it back on the nail.

Snatching up her black canvas purse, she turned on her heel and ran toward her horse, then climbed into the saddle.

"You ready, Sarah?" Ron Jenkins asked.

Sarah Rourke looked at the Jenkins family, then at her children, then pressed her heels gently against her horse's flanks. She held the reins from John's horse which carried Michael and Ann, in her left hand. As they started from the yard, she looked back. The ruins of the house were still smoking. But her attention focused on the barn door, the note to her husband nailed to the inside. Silently, she prayed that he was alive to read it.

"Come on, Tildie," she whispered to the mare between her legs.

Chapter Twenty-eight

John Rourke leaned back against a rock and stared at the wrecked airplane two hundred yards away. He closed his eyes, and he wanted to put his hands over his ears to shut out the moaning of the injured passengers-the ones he'd worked through the long day to save.

"Mr. Rourke-coffee?"

He opened his eyes. The stewardess-the same one who had helped him at the beginning-was standing beside him, a coffee cup in her hand.

"Yeah, thanks," he said.

"I don't believe the way you were able to get everybody out, Mr. Rourke, then go back for the things in the cargo hold. You're a real, live hero."

Rourke smiled at the woman. "Well, going back into the cargo hold was pure selfishness. I needed the stuff I had there."

"Those?"

Rourke followed her eyes to the twin stainless Detonics .45's in the holster across his shoulders. "Yeah-and the other ones, too. I'm going to have to go into town for some medical help-if I can find it. There isn't much more I can do for most of the people who were injured. And when I leave you people, you may need to defend yourselves. And I need to defend myself when I try making it into Albuquerque."

"Defend ourselves? From what? Surely, no one-"

Rourke cut her off "Let me ask you a question," he said. "Would you have felt comfortable walking around in a high-crime area in Atlanta last night? Or any night?"

"Well-no."

"How about Chicago, New York, Los Angeles?"

"Well-certainly I wouldn't have, but-"

"Now, that's with police, civil courts, the whole shot of civilization. What about with no police, no courts, no laws-no civilization?"

"But-"

"People who'd hit you over the head to steal your money when there might be a cop looking will kill you to steal your food, your medical supplies, your ammunition-when their lives depend on getting it. You understand? Since last night, in almost any area you can think of, there is no law, no protection. The only recourse you have is yourself, or someone who cares enough about you to put himself on the line."

"Is that why you're going for help, Mr. Rourke?" the stewardess asked.

"Somebody has to," Rourke grunted. "I'm going to leave you in charge-with a gun. That Canadian businessman who was sitting next to me-what's his name?"

"Mr. Quentin?"

"Yeah, well he said that he shoots. I'll leave him a gun, too-two of them. If somebody shows up and starts acting funny, shoot first and ask questions afterward. Got it? I'm taking about five or six people in with me-just in case we can't get help to come out here, we'll be able to bring enough stuff back to do something. I make it twenty, maybe twenty-five miles into Albuquerque. We'll be there by dawn. Be back by tomorrow night, late, probably. So just hold out, huh?"

Rourke took the stewardess aside and showed her how to work the Colt Python .357, then left it with her. He gave his CAR-15 rifle to his florid-faced ex-seatmate, along with the snub-nosed Metalifed Colt Lawman .357 revolver, reminding him the stewardess was in charge. Among the survivors, he found five men strong enough and willing to accompany him on foot to Albuquerque. He let one of the five carry his SteyrMannlicher bolt-action rifle. It was cool on the desert with night failing, and he pulled a sweater on over his shirt and the Allessi shoulder rig with his Detonics .45s, then pulled his sportcoat back on over the sweater. He started from the camp with his group. He heard the stewardess running after him.

"Mr. Rourke! I thought you and the other men could use these." She handed him a paper bag.