Survivalist - 21.5 - The Legend (15 page)

Paul Rubenstein, despite the saturated parka to filter the air

he breathed, coughed, his eyes streaming tears, but not all the tears because of the smoke. Sarah.

She was dead.

After all of this, Sarah and Natalia in one night.

And his hands shook, with rage, because if John had not prevented what happened to Sarah, that meant that John was—

Paul Rubenstein kicked away a burning sheet of plaster board, his trouser leg catching fire. He tore the coat from his head, holding his breath against the heat and smoke, beating out the flames, then running on, dragging the coat over him again.

The corridor took a bend and he was at John’s office. The door was open. There was no one inside.

The woman and her-” Paul leaned against the office wall, trying to get a breath.

John would have gone to find Lieutenant I^arrimore, whose baby he had just delivered this very morning, drinking that Sarah could make it out herself, perhaps.

Paul moved along the corridor, trying to orient himself, toning to his left.

The corridor walls and ceiling were collapsed and there was a wall of flame between him and the debris.

“John! John! Where are you? John!”

The walls and ceiling creaked. In seconds, Paul Rubenstein knew, the bidding would be entirely collapsed.

All hope would be dashed.

The Germans and the Americans at Mid-Wake did wonders with skin grafts these days, he knew.

Inhaling as deeply as hie could, pulling the coat tight around his head, Paul Rubenstein ran toward the flames and jumped, his trousers on fire, his left arm aflame. And he was through. He threw himself against the wall, rolling against it to extinguish the fire, beating at his legs with his coat, his left arm cold with pain.

He could hardly see, but there was a pile of rabble jest

ahead of him. He staggered toward it. “John?”

It was John, beneath pieces of the walls and railing, some of these aflame. “John!”

Paul Rubenstein, on his knees beside his friend, threw his weight against the rubble, sending chunks of it skidding away, his hands grabbing at the still hot pieces of steel, blistering as he touched them.

“John!?”

John’s upper body was free, a huge fragment of steel protruding from John’s back.

Paul Rubenstein leaned over his friend, protecting John Rourke’s body with his own, kicking at the rubble which pinned John’s legs, kicking at it, pulling at John’s upper body, praying he was doing the right thing, not killing his friend by-moving him.

Paul Rubenstein fell back, John pressed against him. “God, save him!”

Paul dragged himself to his knees, pulling at John, pulling him up. Paul bent forward as low as he could, getting his right shoulder beneath John, then trying to kneel, Paul’s burned and blistered hands grasping at the wall, at anything for support.

He stood, swaying.

Flames were on his right.

There was an open doorway along the corridor.

Paul held John close, sagging under his friend’s weight, moving along the wall, toward the doorway, not knowing if safety might lie beyond it.

To the doorway.

Flames almost danced along the floor, up the wall. The window was smashed. Cold air.

He moved toward it. The air made him light-headed, faint. He staggered, but did not fall. To the window.

He pushed John’s body up, off his shoulder, over the sill, through and into the snow, the creaking of the walls, of the entire structure, louder now; fire covering the ceiling of the room, rolling toward him.

Paul Rubenstein stepped up onto a chair, threw himself through the opening and into the snow …

Annie Rourke Rubenstein cried, her eyes aching with the tears, her fingers kriotting into her hair as she wept and screamed and shouted damnation to the men who had done this, shrieked this to the vaults of Heaven.

One

Paul had been sedated, his hands so badly burned that, in conjunction with the bums on his legs and left arm, he would require surgery and the only relief from his pain would be in sleep.

Annie, arms hugged close against her, sat on the edge of a straight back chair, her smoke smudged nightgown all but in tatters, a blanket wrapped round her hunched-forward shoulders, a blank look in her eyes, her mouth downturned.

The door opened.

Hair pulled straight back, face as pale as death, eyes filled with hate, Natalia entered the room. She wore German fatigue pants, surgical scuffs and a khaki T-shirt.

“You shouldn’t be up.”

“Dont tell me what to do; you’re not your father.”

“Sit down before you fall down,” Miehael countered. She glared at him, but sat on the remaining vacant chair. Michael Rourke watched her. “Are you all right?”

“My lungs were flushed, my stomach was pumped and they stimulated my heartbeat with high voltage. I have bruises all over my chest and my left breast. I am just fine. And I want to throw up but there isn’t anything in my stomach.” She looked away, started to light a cigarette, broke it in half and threw it into the ashtray on the desk near her. “How are you?”

Michael Rourke wished he smoked.

And he didn’t want to answer her.

When the medical team which accompanied Colonel Mann arrived, Doctor Munchen was already injecting Natalia with

drugs designed to regulate her heartbeat, Michael Rourke had been told. Her heartbeat had been so low, so erratic, that she had been mistaken for dead.

And the medical team had had so much to do, had they done anything else right, Michael wondered? But, he told himself, they had done everything right, done everything that was possible to save the lives of his father and mother.

Natalia was by the front entrance-what had been the front entrance. Hence, she was the first of the casualties to be attended to.

He closed his eyes, sat on the edge of Doctor Munchen’s desk and waited. But his mind could not rest.

What happened to his father was less deliberate than the fate which had befallen his mother, a deliberate assassination. And, where was the child?

Doctor Munchen entered the office and stood in the doorway.

Michael stared at him. Annie did not move. Natalia said, “Well?”

The child was a boy. We were able to tell from amniotic fluid residue scrapings taken from Sarah’s thighs. There is no reason to suppose that anything was wrong with the child. That is the good news.”

There was an old joke his father had told him years ago, something his father had heard on television or in a movie or something like that, and Michael Rourke remembered it now: A doctor entered his patient’s room, the patient recovering from surgery. “I have good news and bad news. The good news is that the man in the next room would like to buy your slippers. The bad news is that we amputated the wrong leg.”

Annie didn’t look up when she spoke. Tell them.”

Michael stared at her, wondering if she already knew.

Munchen cleared his throat. The bullet which penetrated Sarah Rourke’s skull essentially killed her.”

Michael Rourke stood up, his hands trembling. “What the fuck does essentially mean, darnnit!”

Munchen lit a cigarette from his case. His eyes were very tired. There is nothing in our power now that can alter the state of your mother’s condition for any positive result, but she is still perfectly alive in the physical sense.”

“Jesus,” and Michael as he made the sign of the cross.

The bullet entered the brain in such a manner that its path evidently did little damage, and there is a remarkable tendency for the brain to heal itself, for one portion of the brain to take over the function of a portion which has been damaged. But the bullet is buried within an area of the brain which is inaccessible in a living patient by any means at our disposal. To remove the bullet, without going into medical explanations none of you-and I mean no offense by this, of course-but that none of you would understand, would precipitate her physical death instantly. Researchers in both New Germany and Mid-Wake have been studying the brain in great detail for the past five centuries; as, of course, have Soviet researchers. This is nothing new, certainly. The brain, as the seat of personality, of being who we are, is the ultimate quest in medicine.

“We have known,” Munchen said through a cloud of exhaled smoke, “for centuries that the brain feels no pain, yet makes its own pain killers to assist those portions of the body which do feel pain. Brain surgery was not even undertaken in modern medicine until the early 1900s, although primitive societies undertook brain surgery of a sort in ancient times by various means, often just drilling into the skull. Enkaphalins, endorphins and other natural drugs are just a part of the chemical defenses the brain can muster to support the host body during times of stress. Because Sarah had just given birth, her body was pumped with natural chemicals, things to give her greater endurance, things to give her greater strength, things to help her control the pain and discomfort of her sudden childbirth.

“Add ID this,” Munchen said, “that she was already it another crisis situation, namely the burning hospital, the fact that she had to be uncertain about John, Natalia as well. Then, as all these chemicals are beginning to rebalance in her body and her brain, along comes whoever the assassin was and there ■ an instantaneous surge of various of these chemicals as the brain and the body try to prepare for an anticipated, know* trauma.”

“But Momma isn’t dead,” Annie almost whispered.

“No, she is not,” Doctor Munchen responded almost immediately. “But she is comatose and, in light of current technology, there is no way to remove the bullet which has precipitated this condition. ‘Dead’ and ‘alive’ cease to have meaning in such a situation as this. With X-ray tomography, we have located the bullet, but seeing it and getting at it are two different things.

“The bullet is lodged in almost the very center of the epen-cephalon, near the post-nodular fissure on the under surface of the cerebellum. No tool can reach it, let alone extract it, without killing Sarah. No technique of micro-surgery currently known, nor laser surgery, nor any method currendy under development can effectively assist Sarah Rourke.”

“What about Dad?” Michael asked, watching Munchen’s face.

“Your father suffered burns, none of them serious; he suffered various traumatic bruises, which will heal. Unlike your mother, he suffered no penetration of the brain or the body, yet very like your mother, he is comatose. Evidently, the roof materials which crashed down on him caused several incidents of trauma to the brain, concussion. But all of these will eventually heal.

“John Rourke’s problem,” Munchen said, lighting another cigarette, “is more complex. To have a chance of saving Sarah Rourke, we need the right tools and procedures. These do not exist. But for John, I do not know. He could awaken in ten seconds, or he might never awaken. I am not a specialist in

these matters, but I know the literature. Like your mother, he may have assumed at the instant that the explosion or structural collapse caught him, that this was, in fact, the end, that he was dead. Add to that, the peculiar nature of John Rourke’s personaUty and the problem we may face begins to take shape.

“John Rourke, like any man, would reject death. But, unlike most men, he has an almost pathological sense of duty. It is likely he suspected that Sarah might still be in the building. From where he was found, he was evidently en route to locate Lieutenant Larrimore and her baby in order to effect a rescue. Death meant more to him than the loss of his life, something he had risked on occasions too numerous to count; it meant the inability to do what be must do. It meant failure. I may be very wrong, and I certainly hope that I am. Yet, I suspect that what makes John Rourke comatose is his inability to accept the fact that just this once he did not succeed. In effect, his brain is rejecting contact with reality, almost angry with his body for failing to shrug off the building materials which collapsed upon him and drove him into unconsciousness, so angry with the body that it may well have disassociated itself from the body.”

“What are you talking about?” Natalia asked him, coughing, staring down at her hands; they were shaking.

“For a human being to function, brain and body must work together. The brain controls the body, but the body affects the brain, because the brain is physical, is an organ like any other in that respect. The brain has defenses, for the body and for itself. One ultimate defense is the total rejection of what surrounds it. This only occurs in cases of severe trauma coupled with great stress. John Rourke had a mission. He was unable to fulfill this mission. Somewhere, deep inside his psyche, his brain is rejecting awakening because of this perceived failure. His brain is giving all the appearances of shutting down the biological system which supports it. John Rourke’s blood pressure, heart rate, everything is declining, as if death were imminent. Brain activity, measured electrically, is subsiding

rapidly to death. We can keep him alive on marhinmt, as we do now, but that is not the answer, nor is it even an effective temporary solution. He can only decline so fax before this lack of cooperation between his inner self and his physical being will begin to take its toll on the brain as an organ, in a way that is very physical.

“He would still be alive,” Munchen added, “but he would be nothing more than a shell, never to awaken again, merely living on, solely because of the machines which support him even as we speak.”

Annie said very quietly, Tm getting nothing from Mom. Ifs like she’s dead. But Daddy, there’s something there, but I keep losing him and then he comes back. And each time, ifs worse, what I feel is weaker, harder to reach.”

“What about what John did when I was ill?” Natalia asked, looking at Munchen.

“That was most ingenious and daring and inventive, and tharMilly quite effective. However, Fraulein Major, the situations are totally dissimilar.”

“He’s right,” Annie murmured. “I couldn’t reach into Daddy’s mind, and neither could you.”

“The concept of ‘mind” is the key to understanding, here. There is a tendency to look at the brain as some mystical thing. It is a physical organ, and what occurs occurs because of physical processes, some from within the brain itself and some from without, internal and external stimuli, if you will.”