Ahern, Jerry - Total War

"Sandwiches?"

"Uh-huh."

"Thoughtful, Miss...?" Rourke had still not bothered to learn the young woman's name.

"Sandy Benson," she said, smiling.

"You have a pretty smile, Sandy,"

Rourke said, then turned and started away from the impromptu camp.

He glanced at his watch, then at the hazy moon. The Rolex on his wrist read eight P.M. Shifting his right shoulder under the water bottle suspended there on a borrowed trouser belt, he looked at the five men with him and then at the open ground in front of them. He guessed they would make four or five miles an hour. With rest stops, they'd be in Albuquerque by sunrise or before.

He walked with the five men in silence for the first hour, making a better pace than he'd thought they would. Then he called a rest stop. The five sat by themselves and made no move to talk with him. He watched them for a while, then tried remembering their names. One was O'Toole. Another, Rubenstein. Then there was Phillips. He couldn't remember the last two names. One of the men-one of the two whose names he didn't remember-said, suddenly, "Are you really coming back, Rourke?"

"That's what I told everybody," Rourke answered quietly.

"Are you for real?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Rourke asked.

"Well, most of those people back there are dying, except for the stewardess you left your rifle with, and the Canadian guy and a few others, maybe."

"Left my rifle with the Canadian. I left the stewardess a revolver," Rourke corrected. "Don't you think we owe it to the people back there to help?"

"What about us?"

"Well, what about us?" The one who had been talking started to get to his feet.

"Well," he said, walking toward Rourke, "I say we don't."

Rourke stood, his back aching. "Then, just don't go back," he said. "We can get along okay without you."

"Yeah," the man said, stopping less than a yard from Rourke. "But that isn't the point. With your guns, we'd stand a better chance."

"I can see where that's true," Rourke said, looking away from the man a moment and nodding his head. "And you figure you need all the help you can get. Like my guns. Right?"

"Right."

"Not right," Rourke said softly, and his left fist hammered forward and into the man's stomach. At the same time, his right knee came up and connecting with the side of the man's jaw. Already, both of Rourke's hands had snatched one of the Detonics .45's from the shoulder holsters. Rourke took a step back. One of the other four men had the stock of Rourke's 550 sniper rifle to his shoulder. Rourke shouted, "You might get off one shot-but while you're working that bolt action, I'll kill all of you unless that first shot is a good one. Your move. I said my piece."

He thought it was Rubenstein, but wasn't sure. The man stepped away from the other three, hands in the air, saying, "Hey-wait. I'm not with them."

A second man, carrot-red hair in his eyes, stepped beside Rubenstein. It was O'Toole. "Me neither!"

Keeping one of the guns trained on Rubenstein and O'Toole, Rourke shouted, "What about it?" to the other two men. He could hear the man he'd decked starting to groan.

The man holding Rourke's rifle started to lower the gun from his shoulder.

"Don't drop it-set it down slowly," Rourke whispered. "Rubenstein," he rasped, hoping he was matching the name to the right face. The man who'd first broken away took a step toward him. "Pick up my rifle. Grab it by the barrel and come here and stretch it out to me. Be quick about it." Rourke watched as Rubenstein walked over, picked up the rifle by the muzzle end, then started toward him. Rourke shoved the Detonics from his left hand into his belt, reaching out with his free hand and grasping the stock of the rifle. He slid the gun through his hand, catching it forward of the trigger guard along the front stock, then slipped his left arm between the rifle and the sling and hauled the synthetic stocked bolt action onto his left shoulder.

The man he'd knocked down was groaning louder now, and Rourke stepped back from him. Then, looking at the four men still standing, Rourke said slowly, "Now-if I were smart, I'd kill all of you right now and save myself headaches later on. Once we get into Albuquerque, anybody who wants to come into this with me and go back for the rest of the passengers can. Anybody who doesn't, just stay away from me. But if you split and if I ever see you again, I'll kill you. Now, you two," and Rourke gestured toward Rubenstein and O'Toole. "Pick up this guy and get him walking. We're moving out, and all you guys are staying in front of me. One wrong move from anybody and he gets a bullet-maybe two just for luck. Questions?"

None of the four men said anything. Rubenstein and O'Toole walked forward slowly and started helping the fifth man off the ground. "All right-let's start walkin'," Rourke said.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Rourke stood in the middle of the square; in front of him-miraculously-still standing-was the oldest church in the American southwest. Around it, much of the rest of Albuquerque's old town was gutted and burned. He glanced down to the Rolex on his wrist. It was almost four A.M., and the sun would not be up for more than three hours. There were no lights, except for lights from inside the church, and Rourke assumed these had to be Coleman lamps or candies. Whole streets had ripped apart when the firestorm had hit natural gas lines. There was no electricity.

Rourke shivered under his sweater and coat. Shifting the rifle from his shoulder, he stood there a moment, staring at the old church. He remembered taking Sarah and Michael there once, several years ago. Michael had enjoyed playing in the old town cul-de-sacs, watching the Indians selling their jewelry along the square. Sarah had wanted a rug from one of the shops, but for some reason which Rourke couldn't remember now, they hadn't purchased it.

There were no people on the street, but he could hear the howling of dogs. Rourke turned and glanced at the five men with him, standing together to his left. "Well," he said. "I guess here's where we part company-at least those who want to. Looks from here like that Catholic Church is probably being used as a shelter. Anybody's who's not coming with me back to the plane, can split here. I'm going to check that shelter after I take care of a couple of things, then I'm going to find the closest thing to a hospital." He lit a cigar, then said, "Anybody coming with me, step over here."

None of the five men moved for a moment. Then Rubenstein-a smallish man with a receding hairline and wire framed glasses-stepped away from the other four and walked toward Rourke. "What about you, O'Toole?" Rourke said through a cloud of cigar smoke.

"No. I don't want to go back," O'Toole said. "I don't know if I'm hanging in with them, either, but I'm not going back to the plane."

"Suit yourself-and good luck," Rourke added. Turning to Rubenstein, Rourke said, "Well, friend. Let's go." Without waiting for a reply, Rourke started across the fire-scorched square, picking his way over the large gouges in the pavement and away from the church.

He heard Rubenstein, beside him saying, "Where are we going, Mr. Rourke?"

"It's John. "What's your first name?"

"Paul."

"Well, Paul, Albuquerque is a town where a lot of people were interested in prospecting. Geology, things like that. So I'm looking to find a geological equipment shop, where there might be a Geiger counter. I want to see how much radiation we've taken. And then, we get back to the plane. I want to check out the rest of us."

Rubenstein walked silently for a while, then asked, "Tell me, John, what're you going to do then-after we help those people back there?"

Rourke turned and looked at him, "Well, going back across the country. See, my wife, Sarah, and our two children. They're back in Georgia."