The Survivalist 02 - The Nightmare Begins (7 page)

"That's Ron's rifle—and you got his pistol belt there, too," she said softly.

"Carla—I don't. I, ah… I don't know how to tell you—"

"He is dead," Carla Jenkins said flatly.

"Yes," Sarah murmured.

"I'd like to be alone for a few minutes, Sarah. Can you take care of Millie for me?"

Sarah nodded, then realized that in the darkness Carla Jenkins might not have understood and said, "Of course I will, Carla." The Jenkins woman handed the ten-year-old girl into Sarah Rourke's arms and Sarah, leaving Jenkins' guns beside Carla, walked the few feet toward her own children. She dropped to her knees, trying to get into a sitting position.

She turned her head before she realized why—a gunshot, she realized. Putting Millie down on the ground, Sarah half crawled, half ran the few feet to Carla Jenkins. Sarah reached down to the Jenkins woman's head there on the ground by her feet. Her hand came away wet and slightly sticky. "Can you take care of Millie for me?" Sarah had told Carla, "Of course I will."

"Ohh, Jesus," Sarah Rourke cried, dropping to her knees beside Carla Jenkins' body, wanting to cover her own face with her hands but sitting on her haunches instead, perfectly erect, the bloody right hand held away from her body at arms' length…

Sarah Rourke couldn't load Carla Jenkins' body across the saddle without getting her son, Michael, to help—and the thought of asking him had revolted her more than manhandling the body, but he had done it, simply asking her why Mrs. Jenkins had shot herself. Miraculously, Millie was sleeping still, as was Annie. Sitting with Michael a few feet away, not comprehending how the girls had slept through the gunshot, she began, "Well—sometimes death is awfully hard for people to accept. Do you under-stand?"

"Well," he had said, knitting his brow, "maybe a little."

"No—" Sarah said, looking down into the dark-ness and then back at her son's face. "See, if all of a sudden on Saturday morning—before the war—I had told you that you couldn't watch any cartoon shows at all and never explained why, told you you'd never see a cartoon show again, how would you have felt?"

"Mad."

"Sad, too?" she asked.

"Yeah. Yeah, I would have been sad."

"And probably the worst part of it making you mad and sad would have been that there wasn't any reason why—huh?"

"Yeah—I'd want to know why I couldn't watch TV."

"Well, see when Mr. Jenkins died, I guess his wife—Mrs. Jenkins—just couldn't understand why he had to die. And losing someone you love is more important than missing cartoon shows, right?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Well, see, once somebody is dead you never get him back."

"But in church they said that after you die you live forever."

"I hope so," Sarah Rourke said quietly.

Chapter Fourteen

"I never ate something so bad in my life," Rubenstein said, starting to turn away from Rourke to spit out the food in his mouth.

"I'd eat that if I were you," Rourke said softly. "Protein, vitamins, sugar—all of that stuff, includ-ing the moisture—is something your body is craving right now. Just reading a book burns up calories, so riding that bike all day, especially in this heat, really draws a lot out of your body."

"Aww, God, but this tastes like cardboard."

"You eat much cardboard?"

"Well,
no
, but you know what I mean."

"It doesn't taste good, but it's nutritious. Maybe we'll find something better tomorrow or the next day. When we get back to the retreat, you can stuff yourself. I've got all the Mountain House freeze-dried foods—beef stroganoff, everything. I've got a lot of dehydrated vegetables, a freezer full of meat—steaks, roasts, the works. I've even got Michelob, pretzels, chocolate chip cookies, Seagrams Seven. Every-thing."

"Ohh, man—I wish we were there."

"Well," Rourke said slowly, "wishing won't get us there."

"What I wouldn't do for a candy bar—mmm…"

"Unless you're under high energy demand circumstances, candy isn't that good for you. Sugar is one of the worst things in the world."

"I thought you said you had chocolate chip cookies," Rubenstein said.

"Well—you can't always eat stuff that's healthy for you."

"What kind of chocolate chip cookies are they?" Rubenstein asked.

"I don't remember," Rourke said. "I always confuse the brands."

"I found your one weakness!" Rubenstein ex-claimed, starting to laugh. "Bad at identifying chocolate chip cookies."

Rourke grinned at Rubenstein, "Nobody's perfect, I guess."

Rubenstein was still laughing, then started cough-ing and Rourke bent toward him, saying, "Hold your hands over your head—helps to clear the air passage."

"This—pukey—damned baby—baby food," Rubenstein coughed.

"Just shut up for a minute until you get your breath," Rourke ordered. "Then let's get a few hours' rest and get started before first light again. I'd like to put on as much desert mileage as we can during darkness—want to make Van Horn and beyond tomorrow."

"What's at Van—Van Horn?" Rubenstein asked, coughing but more easily.

"Maybe food and water and gasoline. Good-sized town, a little off the beaten track, maybe it's indecent shape still. At least I hope so. Knew a guy from Van Horn once."

"Think he's still there?" Rubenstein said, speak-ing softly and clearing his throat.

"I don't know," Rourke said thoughtfully. "Lost touch with him a few years ago. Might have died—no way to tell."

Rubenstein just shook his head, starting to laugh again, saying, "John, you are one strange guy. I've never met somebody so laid back in my whole life."

Rourke just looked at Rubenstein, saying, "That's exactly how I'm going to be in about thirty seconds— laid back. And sleeping. You'd better do the same." Rourke stood up, starting away from the bikes.

"Takin' a leak?" Rubenstein queried.

Rourke turned and glanced back at him. "No—I'm burying the jar from the baby food. No sense littering, and the sugar clinging to the sides of the glass will just draw insects."

"Ohh," Rubenstein said.

Chapter Fifteen

Karamatsov paced across the room—dawn was coming and lighting it, drawing long shadows through the shot-open windows. "We must find Chambers—he would still be in Texas. This is his power base, and the militia units we have heard of and observed would be satisfactory troops around which he could organize armed resistance."

"Perhaps he is only hiding," Natalia observed, leaning back on one elbow on the long sofa where she had slept the remainder of the night after securing the house.

"I doubt it, Natalia. He must strike while the iron is warm—"

"Hot," she corrected.

"Yes—hot. He must, though. Once our forces are settled into position in strength his task will be more difficult. Once we are able to organize a national identity system, collect all firearms, etc., his task will be virtually impossible. He must act now!" and Karamatsov hammered his fist down on the wall behind him.

"What we gonna do, boss?" Yuri said, grinning.

Karamatsov glared at the man, but continued speaking, ignoring the lack of formality.

"We are going to split up—that is what we are going to do. Natalia—you and Yuri will take an aircraft into the western portion of the state—it is desert there. Travel by jeep back to Galveston. We will all rendezvous there at our command center near the coast. Equip-ment and fortifications should be finished within days there at any event. Radio communications will still be impossible, so unless a perfect opportunity presents itself to get Chambers, try nothing on your own, but instead run down as many leads as possible concerning his whereabouts and anticipated move-ments. Questions?"

"What about identities?" Yuri's voice sounded more serious now.

"We don't have time to manufacture anything new—simply use the papers you have with you to best advantage. Unless you run into a skeptical, organized force there shouldn't be any difficulty. I wish I could offer more advice. Any other questions?"

Natalia said nothing, but uncoiled herself from the couch, standing, pressing her hands down along the sides of her coveralls. Karamatsov looked at her and watched as she ran her long fingers through her dark hair. "Natalia—I wish to speak with you a moment." Karamatsov caught Yuri's eyes glancing quickly, almost furtively at him. Natalia turned to face him and smiled, her long mouth upturned at the corners into a smile, the tiniest of dimples appearing there as if by some magic.

He turned and walked to the corner of the room, then looked back as Natalia walked toward him, the other already leaving for the front yard. "What is it, Vladmir?" she asked, the sound of her voice almost something he could feel.

"Nothing, really—I just wished to tell you to be careful. That's all. These surviving Americans are crazy. All of them with guns, so ready to use them."

"Was there anything else?" she asked, her eyes intent on his.

Karamatsov put his hands on her shoulders and drew her toward him, felt the curves of her body pressing against him. "Yes—we can be together at the headquarters. I couldn't sleep last night—do you know that?" Without waiting for her to answer, he moved his hands to her face and drew her mouth up toward his, kissing her, his hands moving down then and cradling her body against him. He bent and touched his lips to her throat, hearing her voice whispering in his ear, "Vladmir—I so want this all to be over. We can be together, now that we have won."

He held her head against his chest, his fingers stroking her hair, saying, "This is the major step that we have dreamed of, Natalia. But America is not yet conquered, our work is far from finished. But we can be together—more and more."

She looked up into his eyes and Karamatsov kissed her again.

Chapter Sixteen

Sarah Rourke wiped the dirt from her hands on the sides of her jeans, taking a step back from the large grave. She had buried both Carla and Ron Jenkins there, then, with Michael's help, gathered rocks to cover the mound by the side of the road leading into the town. Two thick branches and one of Ron Jenkins' saddle thongs had made the cross, and with Jenkins' pocket knife she had tried to scratch names on it, but only the half-rotted bark had fallen away.

"Are you all right, Michael?" she asked, looking down at her son standing beside her.

"I'm all right, Mom," the six-year-old answered, staring at the mound of dirt and stone.

She looked back over her shoulder then, saw Millie and Annie playing together by the horses and then looked back to Michael. "Do you think we should have Millie and Ann come over and help us pray for the Jenkins?"

Michael didn't answer for a moment, but then said, "No—I think they're happy playing. It might just make Millie and Annie cry again. We can pray for them ourselves."

"Maybe you're right," Sarah said. "Let's just each of us be quiet a minute and say something to our-selves, okay?"

Michael nodded and closed his eyes, knitting his dirty fingers together as though he were saying grace. As she closed her own eyes, she heard him mumbling, "God is gracious, God is good…" Her eyes still closed, she reasoned it was probably the only prayer the boy knew.

Chapter Seventeen

Natalia pulled the straw cowboy hat down low over her eyes, squinting into the sun as she stood beside the jeep, waving to the departing cargo pilot. She turned her head as the dust became too intense and saw Yuri, his hair blowing in the wind the plane was generating. She held her hands to her mouth like a megaphone, shouting, "Let's get out of here!" but there was no answer, no recognition that he had even heard her. Shrugging her shoulders under the short leather jacket she wore, she climbed into the passenger seat and checked her pistol while she waited for Yuri. She had left the H-K assault rifle behind as being out of character. Yuri was supposed to be her brother and he was supposed to be a geologist. They had been out in the field—"What war?" she would say. "We were in the desert. Our radio stopped working, but we thought it was just sunspot activity or something." She looked at the gun in her hand. "Oh, this?" she would say. "Just in case of snakes. My brother showed me how it works and just insisted that I carry it but I really don't know anything about guns." She turned the gun over in her hand. Like all the American-and Western European-origin conventional guns she and the rest of Karamatsov's team used, they had been acquired technically illegally according to American law. This was a particularly nice one and she liked it, despite its limited capacity—a four-barreled stainless steel .357 Magnum COP pistol, derringerlike with a rotating firing pin and an overall size approximating a .380 automatic. It was pattern loaded, the first round intended for snakes—a .38-.357 shot shell, the last three chambers loaded with 125-grain jacketed hollow point .357s. With the gun she had a set of .22 Long Rifle insert barrels, which even more greatly expanded its versatility.

She put the gun back in the inside pocket of her leather jacket and leaned back on the seat, pulling the hat lower over her eyes, the bandanna knotted around her throat already wet with perspiration, her dark glasses doing little to reduce the harsh glare of the sun.

She turned her head, closing her eyes, when Yuri said, "Well, little lady—ya'll ready to get on with this here safari?"

She opened her eyes. "Yuri—you are a fine agent. But if you do not stop talking like that tome, you will find cyanide in your tea, or a curare-tipped straight pin inside your trouser leg. I don't like being called 'little lady.' You are not to call me Captain Tiemerovna in the field. You are to call me Natalie, the American way of saying my first name. I should not call you Yuri—why are you not correcting me? Your name for this operation is Grady Burns. I will call you that."

Yuri looked at her, running his fingers through his hair, pulling his hat down low over his nearly squinted-shut eyes. "Yes ma'am," he said, choking a laugh, then cranking the key and throwing the jeep into gear.

She turned toward him, started to say something, then eased back into her seat, laughing out loud in spite of herself. "Yuri—my God."