Ahern, Jerry - Total War

The biker was halfway up the hill, and the bike started collapsing under him again. Rourke skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust at the base of the hill, letting the bike drop to the ground. He snapped the riot shotgun to his right shoulder. He squinted down the sights and muttered the word, "Die!" Then he pulled the trigger.

The biker's hands went to his back, and he fell forward, then slid down the hillside on his face. His body slammed to a halt at the base of the hill, less than ten yards from where Rourke stood.

Rourke dropped the riot shotgun into the sand and started walking back toward the camp. He could see a dust cloud, coming in his direction, a single man on a motorcycle. As the bike neared him, Rourke made out Rubenstein's face and stopped, switching loads in his .45's as he waited.

Rubenstein slowed the bike. Obviously, he was still having a hard time still controlling it. He stopped, and the machine nearly skidded out from under him.

Rourke waited a moment until the dust settled. Then he walked over to Rubenstein and his bike. Rubenstein, very softly, asked, "Are you finished now?" Rourke nodded his head, saying, "We've got a long ride ahead of us. But I'm finished for now."

The End

Special Preview of the Survivalist #2

The Nightmare Begins

"I've been meaning to ask you," Rubenstein began, wiping his red bandana handkerchief across his high, sweat dripping forehead. "Out of all those bikes back there at the crash site, why did you take that particular one?"

Rourke leaned forward on the handlebars of his motorcycle, squinting down at the road below them, the intense desert sun rising in waves, visible despite the dark-lensed aviator framed glasses he wore. "Couple of reasons," Rourke answered, his voice low. "I like Harley Davidsons, I already have a Low Rider like this," and, almost affectionately, he patted the fuel tank between his legs, "back at the survival retreat. It's about the best combination going for off-road and road use-good enough on gas, fast, handles well, lets you ride comfortably. I like it, I guess," he concluded.

"You've got reasons for everything, haven't you, John?"

"Yeah," Rourke said, his tone thoughtful, "I usually do. And I've got a very good reason why we should check out that truck trailer down there-see?" and Rourke pointed down the sloping hillside and along the road.

"Where?" Rubenstein said, leaning forward on his bike.

"That dark shape on the side of the road; I'll show you when we get there," Rourke said quietly, revving the Harley under him and starting off down the slope. Rubenstein settled himself on the motorcycle he rode and started after. Perspiration dripped from Rourke's face as he hauled the Harley up short and waited at the base of slope for Rubenstein. Lower down, the air was even hotter. He glanced at the fuel gauge on the bike-just a little over half. As he automatically began calculating approximate mileage, Rubenstein skidded to a halt beside him. "You've gotta watch those hills, pal," Rourke said, the corners of his mouth raising in one of his rare smiles.

"Yeah-tell me about it. But I'm gettin' to control it better."

"All right-you are," Rourke said, then cranked his bike into gear and started across the narrow expanse of ground still separating them from the road. Rourke halted a moment as they reached the highway, stared down the road toward the West and steered his motorcycle in the direction of his gaze. The sun was just below its zenith and as far as Rourke was able to tell they were already into Texas and perhaps seventy-five miles or less from El Paso. The wind in his face and hair and across his body was hot, from the slipstream of the bike as it cruised along the highway, but it still had some cooling effect on his skin-already he could feel his shirt, sticking to his back with sweat, starting to dry. He glanced into his rear-view mirror and could see Paul Rubenstein trying to catch up.

Rourke skidded the Harley into a tight left, realizing he was almost past the abandoned truck trailer. He took the bike in a tight circle around it as Rubenstein approached. As he completed the 360 degrees he stopped alongside the younger man's machine. "Common carrier," Rourke said softly. "Abandoned. After we run the Geiger counter over it we can check what's inside-might be something useful. Shut off your bike. I don't think we're gonna find any gas here."

Rourke unstrapped the Geiger counter from the back of his Harley and gave it to Rubenstein. He watched as the smaller man carefully checked the truck trailer; the radiation level proved normal. Rourke walked up to the double doors at the rear of the trailer and visually inspected the lock.

"You gonna shoot it off?" Rubenstein was asking, suddenly beside him. Rourke turned and looked at him. "You've gotten awful violent lately, haven't you? We got a prybar?"

"Nothin' big," the other man said.

"Well," Rourke said, drawing the Metalifed Colt Python from the holster on his right hip, "then I guess I'm going to shoot it off. Stand over there," he gestured back toward the motorcycles. Once Rubenstein was clear, Rourke took a few steps back and on angle to the lock, raised the Magnnaported six-inch barrel on line with the lock and thumbed back the hammer. He touched the first finger of his right hand to the trigger, his fist locked on the Colt Medallion Pachmayr grips, the .357 Magnum 158-grain semi-jacketed soft point round slamming into the lock, the mechanism visibly shattering. Rourke holstered the revolver. As Rubenstein started for the lock, he cautioned, "It might be hot," but Rubenstein was already reaching for it, pulling his hand away as his fingers contacted the metal.

"I said it might be hot," Rourke whispered. "Friction." Rourke walked to the edge of the shoulder, bent down and picked up a medium sized rock, then walked back to the trailer door and knocked the shattered lock off the hasp with the rock, throwing the rock aside. "Now open it," Rourke said slowly. Rubenstein fumbled the hasp for a moment, then cleared it and tugged on the doors. "You've got to work that bar lock," Rourke advised.

Rubenstein started trying to pivot the bar and Rourke stepped beside him. "Here-watch." Rourke swung the bar clear, then opened the right hand door, reached inside and worked the closure on the left hand door, then opened it as well.

"Just boxes," Rubenstein said, staring inside the truck.

"It's what's in them that counts. We could stand to re-supply."

"But isn't that stealing, John?"

"A few days ago, before the War, it was stealing. Now it's foraging. There's a difference," Rourke said quietly, boosting himself onto the rear of the truck trailer.

"What do you want to forage?" Rubenstein said, throwing himself onto the truck, then dragging his legs after him.

Rourke, using the Sting 1A from its inside-the-pants sheath, cut open the tape on a small box and said, "Well-what do I want to forage? This might be nice." Reaching into the box, he extracted a long rectangular box about as thick as a pack of cigarettes. ".45 ACP ammo-it's even my brand and bullet weight-185-grain JHPs."

"Ammunition?"

"Yeah-jobbers or wholesalers used certain common carriers to ship firearms and ammunition to dealers. I'd hoped we'd find some of this. Find yourself some 9-mm Parabellum-may as well stick to solids so you can use it in that M-40 as well as the Browning High Power you're carrying. If you come across any guns, let me know."

Rourke started working his way through the truck, opening each box in turn unless the label clearly indicated something useless to him. There were no guns, but he found another consignment of ammunition-.357 Magnum, 125-grain semi-jacketed hollow points. He put several boxes aside in case he didn't find the bullet weight he wanted.

"Hey, John? Why don't we take all of this stuff-all the ammo, I mean?"