The Survivalist 02 - The Nightmare Begins (8 page)

"Now that's American—little lady!" he said, laughing, his right hand moving from the gear shift and slapping her left knee. She sat bolt upright, looked at him a moment and started laughing again. They drove, talking, joking, through the sand dunes and in the general direction of Van Horn, where they hoped to find some information regarding Chambers. At one o'clock she called a halt, telling Yuri, "I've got to stretch my legs."

He pulled the jeep to a halt, shutting off the motor. "Do you want me to get it out of the back of the jeep?"

She glared at him. "Whose idea was that chemical toilet?"

"Karamatsov's idea—I think he was looking out for your comfort."

"He needn't have bothered," she stated flatly, getting out of the jeep and walking toward a low-rising dune fifteen yards to their right.

When she finished, she buried the tissue in the sand under her heel as she zipped her fly. Automat-ically, she started to feel for her pistol as she started back toward the jeep, remembering then that she had left it in the pocket of her jacket still on the seat. As she turned back toward the jeep, she screamed, in spite of herself. Almost instantly regaining her composure, she shouted,

"Who are you?" Two men, wearing T-shirts and faded jeans, were standing on the top of the small dune, their faces leering. "I said, who are you?"

"I heard what ya' said, girl," the taller of the two men shouted back.

She started walking again, slowly. She stopped when she saw the jeep. Two men dressed like the first two were standing beside it, and a short distance behind them were four motorcycles. She couldn't see Yuri.

She turned to the two men on the top of the dune, one of whom was already sliding down toward her. "Where is he—the man on the jeep, the man I was with?"

"Well, you don't have to worry yourself 'bout him no more—he's dead. Slit his throat just as nice as you please, we did," the nearer man told her.

She found herself shaking her head. Yuri was too good to have let himself be surprised like that. "I don't believe you," she said.

"See," the taller man began, sliding to the ground and getting to his feet less than a yard from her. "He never noticed this," and he reached into his hip pocket and flicked open a long-bladed switchblade, " 'cause he was too busy lookin' at that," and the tall man gestured back toward the top of the dune. The second man swung his right hand from behind him now, a shotgun in it, the barrels impossibly short, she thought, the stock of the shotgun all but gone. She noticed a leather strap from the butt of the shotgun stretched across the man's body like a sling.

"While your boyfriend was a lookin', I was a cuttin'," the tall man said, grinning.

Natalia stared at him, assessing his build, the way he stood, searching him with her eyes for additional weapons. There was a pistol crammed between the wide black belt he wore and the sagging beerpot under the sweat-stained T-shirt. As near as she could make out, the gun was a German luger.

"What do you want?" she asked, lowering her voice.

"What do you think I want, girl?" the man laughed, starting to step toward her. The knife was still in his right hand and as he took his second step, Natalia moved, both hands going toward him, her right hand flashing upwards, the middle knuckles locked outward, impacting under his nose and smashing the bone upward into his brain. Her left hand had already found the nerve on the right side of his neck and pinched it, momentarily numbing the right arm, causing the knife to fall from his grasp. She knew he was dead and let him fall, dismissing the inferior switchblade knife and snatching the Luger from his belt as he went down. Her right thumb found the safety, her left hand slamming back the toggle in case the gun had been carried chamber empty, the trigger finger on her right hand poised for a fast squeeze as the toggle slammed forward, two rounds—9mms, she thought—slamming up at a sharp angle into the man with the sawed-off shotgun standing on top of the dune. She wheeled, a shot already echoing from behind her, a second shot—the sound registering somewhere at the back of her mind, creasing heavily into her left forearm, pitching her back into the sand on her rear end, her first shot toward the two men standing near the jeep going wild. She rolled across the sand, bullets kicking it up into her face. She fired, two rounds in a fast burst at the nearest man—he had a pistol. The last man was working a bolt action rifle, swinging the muzzle toward her. She fired once, shooting out the left eye. She automatically glanced down to the Luger's sights—the rear sight looked banged up and she attributed the eyeball shot to that. She had aimed between the eyes.

She started to her feet, took a step forward and fell into the sand. She rolled onto her back, the sun, still almost directly overhead, momentarily blinding her despite the sunglasses. But then she remembered she'd lost them rolling through the sand. She tried standing, felt her head—it hurt badly. Forcing herself to her feet, she staggered toward the jeep and fell against it, burning her fingers on the hot metal, the Luger slipping from her right hand. Pulling herself into the jeep and across the passenger seat, her blue eyes glanced downward—Yuri, his throat slit ear-to-ear—in a clumsy fashion, she thought—lay in the sand, his eyes wide open and staring into the sun. She started the jeep, heard a high-pitched whistle and saw steam rising from in front of the hood.

"Shot the radiator—stupid," she murmured to herself, then fumbled off the emergency brake and threw the car into gear. The thought that drove her was that the four men were probably not alone. The sketchy intelligence from the area indicated a large and heavily armed gang of looters and killers moving across the state, "Outriders," she said dully as she started the jeep up a low dune. "Got to hurry…"

Chapter Eighteen

"Wait here in case it's a trap of some kind," Rourke said.

"What do you mean—a trap?" Rubenstein asked.

Rourke looked at him a moment. "Could be those paramilitary guys, could be anyone—put a woman's body down beside the road, most people are going to stop, right? Plenty of cover back by those dunes, right?"

"Yeah, but—she's awful still. Hasn't moved since we spotted her."

"Could be dead already, maybe just a bag of rags stuffed into some old clothes. Keep me covered," Rourke almost whispered. He swung the CAR-15 across the front of the Harley and started the bike slowly across the road, throwing a glance back over his shoulder, seeing Rubenstein readying the German MP-40 subgun to back him up. Rourke cut a wide arc across the opposite shoulder, going off onto the sand and running a circle around the body—it was a woman, dark hair covering half her face, her right hand clutched to her left arm, dark bloodstains seeping through her fingers. Rourke stopped the bike a few yards from her, dismounted and kept the CAR-15 pointed in her general direction, his right fist bunched around the pistol grip, his first finger just outside the trigger guard.

He walked slowly across the sand, the sun to his left now starting to sink rapidly, because, techni-cally—despite the heat—it wasn't quite spring. Darkness would come soon, and Van Horn was still miles away. Water and food were virtually gone— and, of more immediate concern, so was the gasoline. His bike was nearly empty and he doubted Rubenstein's bike would make even another twenty or thirty miles.

He stopped, staring at the woman's body inches from the dusty toes of his black combat boots. Rourke pushed the sunglasses back from his head and up into his hair, staring at her more closely. She was incredibly beautiful, even dirty and disheveled as she was now, and somewhere at the back of his mind Rourke knew he'd seen the face before. "I wouldn't forget you," he murmured, then pushed the toe of his left boot toward her, moving her body a little and finally rolling her over. The limpness of her body spelled recent death or a deep state of unconscious-ness. He dropped to one knee beside her, swinging the scoped CAR-15 behind his back, bending down to her then and taking her head gently into his left hand, his right thumb slowly opening her left eyelid. She was alive. He felt her pulse, weak but steady. Her skin was waxy-appearing and cold to the touch. "Shock," he murmured to himself. "Heat prostra-tion." Rourke looked up and called across the road.

"Paul—do a wide circle to make sure she doesn't have any friends, then come over—we've got to get her out of the sun."

Rourke scanned the horizon to see if there were any natural shade, fearing she might not survive until darkness. About a hundred yards off to the opposite side of the road, he spotted an overhanging outcrop-ping of bare rock. Quickly feeling the woman's arms and legs and along the rib case to ascertain that there were no readily apparent broken bones, he stood up, bringing the unconscious girl to her feet, then sweeping her up into his arms. As Rubenstein completed his circuit and drove up alongside, Rourke, the girl cradled in his arms like a child, said, "I'm heading over toward those rocks on the other side of the road. Bring your bike over there, then come back for mine." Rourke didn't wait for an answer, but started across the concrete, his knees slightly flexed under the added weight of the girl in his arms. As he reached the opposite shoulder he looked down, felt her stirring there. She was moving her lips. "… find Sam Chambers… get to jeep," and she repeated herself, over and over again as Rourke reached the shelter of the rocks with her. The sun low, there was ample shade. Rourke set her down in the sand as gently as he could. Rubenstein was already coming back with Rourke's Harley. Rourke looked up as Rubenstein ground to a dusty halt. "We've got to normalize her body temperature. Get me the water—she needs it more than we do."

Rourke looked down at the girl's face. He nodded to himself. It was a face he wouldn't forget and he remembered it now but couldn't yet make the connection.

Chapter Nineteen

The moon was bright but there was a haze around it—Sarah Rourke recalled her husband using the phrase "blood on the moon." There was enough blood on the earth, she thought. All through the day she had followed along the path of the brigands who had tortured Ron Jenkins and everywhere they had gone—small farms, two more towns—the scene had been the same. Wanton destruction and dead people and animals everywhere. But their trail had taken a sharp turn back into the northeastern portion of the state and now, as she guessed she was crossing the border into Tennessee, as best as she could judge they were behind her and going in an entirely different direction, each mile taking them farther apart.

She pulled up on the reins. Tildie slowed and stopped, bending her head down low and browsing the ground. Sarah Rourke looked behind her. Michael was riding her husband's horse Sam by himself now, and Millie and her own daughter Annie were riding Carla Jenkins' mount and Ron Jenkins' appaloosa was carrying most of the cargo. It was a better arrangement for the animals, and every few hours she swapped horses with Michael to rest Tildie from her weight. It would be several more days before they reached Mt. Eagle, Tennessee and tried search-ing for Millie's aunt who had a small farm there. Earlier in the day, Sarah had tried questioning Millie about where the farm was, but the girl had remained silent, just as she had been since the death of her parents the previous night. At the back of her mind, Sarah Rourke realized that if the girl did not respond, trying to find her surviving family would be hopeless. And by leaving Georgia, Sarah thought bitterly, she was cutting down on her own chances of reuniting with her husband. She had concretized the idea in her mind that John Thomas Rourke was still alive, out there somewhere and looking for her even now. She realized that if she once abandoned that idea she would be without hope.

She could not see any value in a life of constantly running from outlaws or brigands, living in the wild like hunted animals. She bent low over the saddle horn. The pains in her stomach were increasing in frequency and severity. It wasn't the time of the month for her period, though she supposed it possible she was having it early. But the cramps were somehow different anyway. She had tried the water near the one town they had passed, she recalled. Something had been odd-tasting and she had kept the children and the horses from it and gone on. Hours later, she had found bottled water in an aban-doned convenience store and stocked up.

She turned quickly when she heard a noise from one of the horses behind her. It was Sam—her husband's horse. As she started to turn her head back, she doubled over the saddle, gagging, her head suddenly light and hurting badly. She started to dismount but couldn't straighten up, tumbling from the saddle onto her knees on the ground.

"Momma!"

"Mommie!" The last voice was Annie's. Sarah started to push herself to her feet, wanting to say something to Michael. She pulled on the base of the left stirrup near her hand, but as she stood she slumped against the saddle, colored lights in her eyes. She could feel the blood rushing to her head. Her hands slipped from the saddle horn and she tried grabbing at the stirrup but couldn't…

Chapter Twenty

Rubenstein sat in the darkness, watching the rising and falling of the strange girl's chest in the moonlight, listening to her heavy breathing, the Schmeisser cradled in his lap. His mouth was dry. He'd given up cigarette smoking two years earlier, but now having a cigarette was all he could think about. He looked at the Timex on his wrist. Rourke had been gone for more than an hour. "That woman keeps mumbling about a jeep," Rourke had said. "If there is one out there, that should mean food and water, maybe gasoline."

"But she wouldn't have left it if it hadn't been out of gas," Rubenstein had countered.

"People out here in the desert don't usually let themselves run out of gas. Could have punched a hole in a radiator, severed a fuel line. Could still be enough gas to run these bikes into Van Horn. Other-wise, we've got a long walk ahead of us and we used our last water with her."

"You're the survivalist, the expert," Rubenstein had said, almost defensively. "Can't you just go out there and find water?"

"Yeah," Rourke had answered. "If I take a hell of a long time doing it I can, and I can find us food, too— but not gasoline. Even if I discovered crude oil it wouldn't do us any good."