Survivalist - The Web Part 5

Sarah rolled onto her belly and screamed, "No!" She pushed herself up to her knees. The burly man with the machete who'd tried for her back in the pines was coming.

Sarah glanced toward Tildie; the mare was up, apparently unhurt. Sarah started to her feet, running toward her rifle, then for the horse. She slipped, falling forward, the rifle still several feet from her. She rolled onto her side, fumbling under the s.h.a.ggy woolen coat she wore, under her sweater and her T-s.h.i.+rt, for John's Government Model .. She had it out, in her right hand, her right thumb c.o.c.king the hammer as the man with the machete shrieked and threw himself toward her.

Her first finger pumped the trigger. The . rocked in her right hand, and the ma.s.sive body rolled toward her.

Her mind flashed-why did all the others look half-starved when this man was fat?

As his body rolled toward her, she knew why. Around his neck was a necklace; the teeth were human. / "You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" she screamed as his head lolled toward her and he started pus.h.i.+ng himself off the ice, the left hand, blood dripping from the arm, reaching for her. She fired the ., into his face, once, twice, then a third time.

She edged back across the ice, the gun held out ahead of her, toward the pulp of face, as if coming in contact with his flesh would disease her.

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d," she screamed.

She heard Tildie's whinnie, then rolled onto her belly, reaching out for the AR-, pulling it toward her, firing it out at the others as they charged toward her. The rifle empty, she stopped firing and slung it across her back, as she reached up for Tildie's stirrup. Then she pulled herself to her feet, s.n.a.t.c.hed at the mane and the saddle horn, and swung up, Tildie wheeling under her, rearing, then coming down. Sarah leveled the ., firing once, twice, a third time, into her attackers; the slide locked open, empty.

"Gyaagh!" she shouted. Tildie spurred ahead as Sarah tugged at her mane.

The animal reared again, wheeled, then streaked off. In the distance, Sarah could see Michael and Annie, Sam's black mane swatting at Michael's face as he leaned low over the animal's neck, Annie hanging on to his back.

Sarah leaned against Tildie. "Take me out of here," she cooed, feeling tears streaming down her face. "Take me out of here," she said again.

This was not for the greater glory of mother Russia, he decided. As Major Borozeni stepped inside the abandoned farmhouse, he thought he heard the scurrying sounds of rats. He turned to his sergeant, saying, "Krasny, get a detail in here to clean this place; I do not sleep with rats."

"Yes, Comrade Major." The sergeant saluted.

Borozeni merely nodded, then stepped back outside into the cold. His men were retreating, ponsolidating their position. The eastern coastal regions of the United States were being buffeted by freak storms. Rebellion was starting everywhere along the southeast coast since the escape, in Savannah, of the Resistance fighters, led by the woman who had bluffed her way through, with him. He felt a smile cross his cracked lips as he dusted snow from the front of his greatcoat; then he pulled away his gloves and felt under the coat for his cigarettes.

"All is being prepared, Comrade Major," Sergeant Krasny told him, saluting as a squad of men with hand torches went past Borozeni into the farmhouse.

"She was quite a woman, Krasny."

"Comrade Major?"

"The woman who effected that escape. I would like to meet her again, see what she looks like without a submachine gun or a pistol in her hands. Or when she isn't all wet, for that matter."

"Yes, Comrade Major."

"Yes." He nodded, walking to keep his feet from freezing. Despite the cold he liked the prospects of the farmhouse even less than the storm. He was to take his contingent of men to Knoxville, Tennessee. He wondered precisely what was in Knoxville; there had been a . World's Fair there once, he seemed to recall. He had been on detached duty then, training guerrilla fighters in the Middle East.

He decided he should have been somewhere else. He nad never like the Middle East, though he could have used some of its heat now.

The other woman in the truck had used her name. "Sarah," he said, roiling the name on his tongue, tasting it. She was probably someone's wife, perhaps one of the prisoners, who had been released, but he didn't think so. Perhaps someone's widow-one of the men who had been executed.

But then, he asked himself, inhaling deeply on the cigarette, wouldn't she have killed him-a Russian who was an officer, one of the ones responsible for the war?

He threw the cigarette into the snow. She was probably safe in her husband's arms by now ... or perhaps not.

He felt himself smiling. The trek across the snow, the stalling vehicles, the ice, the freezing temperatures . . . They were somewhere in South Carolina; he didn't remember the name of the town that would be ahead.

He lit another cigarette. He watched the flame of his lighter dancing against the blue whiteness of the ground. "Sarah," he murmured again. The sort of woman he had always wanted to meet-and never would again /. .

He shook his head, smiled, and turned, starting toward the farmhouse.

"Krasny! How goes the detail?"

Natalia studied the map-another half-day if the weather were to ease and they would be in central ,Indiana. She could convince Paul to leave her there. She looked more intently at the map; she had heard the sound again, beyond the ground-cloth windbreak.

Reaching up to the bootlaces that secured the sleeping bag about her like a coat, she undid them. Finding the flap of the right holster on her belt, she opened it slowly to reduce the noise of the snap in the stillness that was only punctuated by the howling of the wind.

The wood grips felt cold against her bare hand. She glanced at Rubenstein, sleeping, debating whether to awaken him. But if the sound were nothing it would only further convince him he had to take her all the way into northern Indiana. She wanted him back with John Rourke, helping Rourke in the search for his wife and children, helping to keep Rourke alive-for herself?

She shook her head; then extracted the revolver from the holster. It and the one like it on her left hip were curious guns. On the right faces of their slab-sided barrels were engraved American Eagles. The guns were originally four-inch stainless steel Smith & Wesson Model s, the .

Magnum L-frame. On the left flats of the barrels were duplicate inscriptions: METALIFE Industries, Reno, Pa-by Ron Mahovsky. The actions were the smoothest she had ever felt on a gun; the revolvers were round b.u.t.ted, polished, tuned, perfect. Rourke, when they had been given to her, told her he had known the maker of the guns well before the Night of the War. They would be the best guns she would ever own.

The American Eagles. Mahovsky had made them for President Sam Chambers before the war, and Chambers, for her part in the evacuation of Florida, had insisted she take them. She smiled at the memory, recalling his words.

fT can't very well give a Russian spy an American medal, can I? And anyway, we're fresh out of medals. Take these and use 'em to stay alive with, miss."

She had taken them, and the holsters Chambers had had for them; Rourke had found her a belt that better matched her waist size.

She heard the noise again; it snapped her out of her thoughts. She extracted the second revolver now, gloves off, edging up to her feet. She prodded Rubenstein with her left foot; the man rolled over, looking up at her. She raised a finger to her lips, then pointed to her ear.

Rubenstein blinked his eyes, then nodded, suppressing a yawn. He edged back from the fire, the battered Browning High Power he carried coming into his right hand, the hammer slowly c.o.c.king back. In the stillness against the wind, it sounded loud-too loud.

She gestured to Paul with one of the guns-that she would cross around behind the bridge support and look. He nodded; he was sensible, she thought. He wore no boots, but she did, and there wasn't time for an alternate plan. The sleeping bag fell from her shoulders and she held the pistol in her left hand against her abdomen, flat, to keep her coat closed more tightly about her.

She shook her head; the wind caught her hair as she stepped out of (he crude lean-to into the night. Brigands were her worry-Russian soldiers she could take care of. She had her identification, spoke Russian, could prove who she was and lie about who Paul was.

But Brigands . . . that had been the risk they had run lighting a fire; but otherwise, Paul's feet might have been gone. Frostbite, left untreated, could so quickly turn gangrenous. She didn't want that for Paul-death or being crippled. A friend was too hard a thing to find.

Whatever happened, the fire had been worth it, necessary.

She froze, her back flattening against the concrete bridge support as she heard the sound again, this lime more clearly-a voice, whispering, meaning there was a second person-at least-in the darkness of the storm.

She stayed against the bridge support, cold, both pistols in her_hands, waiting.

They were s.h.i.+ny for night work, but she liked them, the polished stainless steel, the permanence of it- "Permanence," she whispered to herself. What was permanent these days? She had just said good-by to a man whom she had told she loved, a man she would never see again, never forget. And soon, it would be good-by to Paul as well, her friend.

She tried to remember who her friends had been.

Tatiana from her ballet cla.s.s-they had traded secrets. Tatiana had been Jewish, like Paul; and Tatiana's father had done something-Natalia had never known what- and Tatiana had never returned to ballet cla.s.s again.

Natalia tried to remember her own parents, but it was impossible. She was only able to remember what her uncle who had raised her nad told her about them. Her father had been a doctor, as John was a doctor. Her mother had been a ballerina-they had died. Her Uncle Ishmael had never really fully explained how.

She wondered, silently, whether, when she died, those who cared would know at all.

She didn't think so.

She beard noise again; this time, not the noise of speech, but the bolt of a weapon-a.s.sault rifle or submachine gun, she couldn't tell which-being opened.

Perhaps it was Paul with the gun he insisted on calling a Schmeisser, his MP-.

But the sound had been from the wrong direction.

She bunched her fists around the finger-grooved Goncalo Alves wood grips of the matched Smith & Wessons, then stepped away from the bridge support.

She walked, slowly but evenly, toward the edge of the support. She looked around it-she could see the glow of the fire from beyond the far side of the ground-cloth windbreak.

And she could see four men-men or women she wasn't really sure. She had shot both in her lifetime.

They were closing in on the windbreak, in a narrowing circle, a.s.sault rifles in their hands. She imagined there were others, behind her, coming up on Paul from the rear. He would have to look out for them-his instincts were good. She would be otherwise engaged.

She stepped away from the bridge support, the glow of the fire glinting off the polished stainless-steel revolvers in her fists.

"What do you want?" $he shouted.

One of the nearer a.s.sault rifle-armed figures turned toward her.

"Ever'thin' you got, li'l gal." He laughed.

"You shouldn't laugh," she said calmly. The man wheeled the muzzle of his rifle toward her, and both pistols bucked at once in her hands. The man's body hammered backward into the snow. The a.s.sault rifle discharged, its muzzle flashes lighting up the night, as the second nearer man started to turn, to fire. She caught the sight of hair; it wasn't a man, but a woman.

Natalia fired the pistol in her left hand, then the one in her right. The body of the woman twisted and contorted as it fell, her a.s.sault rifle impacting into the snow beside her.

Gunfire was coming from the other two and Natalia dove for cover behind a pile of discarded sewer pipes to her left. Bullets whined in the frigid air as they ricocheted off the concrete. Natalia's right hand flashed up, snapping off one shot, then another.

Dumping the empties and the two unfired rounds from the right-hand revolver into her right palm as she stroked the ejector rod, she huddled behind the pipes; the gunfire coming more steadily now. In a pocket of her coat she had a half-dozen Safariland Speed Loaders. She s.n.a.t.c.hed them, ramming the bullets into the charging holes, the center of the loader actuating against the ejector star, the cases freed and spilling into the charging holes. She slammed the cylinder shut, fired the gun in her left hand-four shots, a scream.

There was more gunfire.

Then from her far right, she heard the small-caliber, high-pitched belching of the Schmeisser. "Paul," she said.

She speed-loaded the revolver for her left hand, then holstered it, the gun in her right hand firing as she pushed herself up, running from the concrete sewer pipes toward the bridge support, firing at the nearer of the two a.s.sault rifle-armed figures. The body went down, its gun still firing. "Wounded," she murmured. Whoever Paul had been shooting at was on the far side of the bridge support. And Paul's gun had stopped firing.

She reached the lean-to. Rubenstein was locked in combat with three men.

She heard Paul's subgun discharge though" she couldn't see it; one of the men fell back, stumbling into the fire, his body and clothes now aflame.

Natalia fired her revolver once into the man's head to put him out of his agony. Then having taken two steps closer to Paul, she half-turned, balancing in the snow on her right foot. Her left foot snaked out, giving a double savate kick to th# head of the nearest of the two remaining men.

The man fell back against the bridge support, and she could see Paul now, his right arm bound up in the sling for his subgun, his left hand holding back the knife of his opponent, clutched around the man's right wrist.

The subgun fell away; Paul's right fist hammered up, into the midsection of the vastly larger man.

Natalia's instincts told her something.

She wheeled, emptying the revolver in her right hand into two men charging for her. She wheeled again. No time for the revolver in her left hand, she dropped the Metalife Custom L-Frame from her right fist, s.n.a.t.c.hing in the same motion for the Bali-Song knife in the right side hip pocket of her jump suit.

Her thumb flicked open the lock as her right arm hauled back. The closed knife sailed from her grip as she threw her arm forward. From beyond the windbreak, a man advanced against her with an a.s.sault rifle. The stainless-steel Bali-Song glinted in the firelight as it rotated in the air, the handle halves splitting open.

The man with the a.s.sault rifle stopped in his tracks, both hands out at his sides, the rifle falling from his grip. The handle slabs of her knife were flat against the front of his coat, making a horizontal line. The body sagged, then fell forward, into the fire, and Natalia, as she s.n.a.t.c.hed the revolver from her left holster, could smell his flesh burning on the wind.

Rubenstein! She could see him, his left hand still locked on the knife wrist of the man he fought. Suddenly his right arm hauled back, then flashed forward, his bunched-together right fist smas.h.i.+ng into the nose of the larger man. The man's knife hand went limp; the knife fell.

As the man fell.back, Rubenstein s.n.a.t.c.hed at the pistol from his belt, firing the High Power almost point-blank into the man's midsection as the body stumbled, then collapsed.

"Two outside, maybe," she snapped, the revolver sailing from her left hand into her right as she rounded the edge of the bridge support.

She ran hard, reaching the far side, making the corner. An a.s.sault rifle at the shoulder of one of the two men there started opening up, its flashes blinding against the snowy darkness. She stabbed the revolver forward in her hands and double-actioned it twice. The man's head shuddered under the impact of the slugs, his body falling, as the a.s.sault rifle fired uselessly up into the night sky.

She wheeled. Firing the L-Frame again at the last of the two, she heard the chattering of Paul's submachine gun as well. The body of the last of the attackers rolled, twisted, lurched under the impact of the slugs hammer- ing at it; then it was still. "Too bad," she said.

She heard Paul's voice. "Yeah-what a waste of human life."

"That, too," she told him. "But with all the bullet holes, none of their coats will do us much good for added warmth." She started back toward the windbreak, saying, "Check that they're all dead while I get my other gun and the knife." She felt very cold, and realized Paul probably thought her colder. "If any of them aren't dead-tell me," she added.

She sat down, picking up her gun, not yet ready mentally to retrieve the Bali-Song knife. The gun was undamaged. Automatically, she emptied the revolver of the spent cases, then reloaded it with one of the remaining Speedloaders. She loaded the second revolver as well, holstering both guns; then, her hands trembling, she lit a cigarette.

"Tired!" she screamed.

John Rourke looked at the Rolex; the exterior of the crystal was steamed so he smudged it away with his right love, then studied the time. It was eight-thirty. A good time for a party, he thought-the shank of the evening.

He leaned against the pine trunk, staring down into the valley, the wind behind him now) the sweater pulled down from covering his head, his leather jacket unzipped and wide open. The Bushnell Armored Xs focused under his hands as he swept them across the valley floor. A town-a perfect town, nothing changed. A blue-gra.s.s band was playing in the town square, strains of the music barely audible in the distance; children played behind a crowd of spectators surrounding the band; a car moved along the far side of the town, its lights setting a pattern of zigzags in the shadows where the streetlights didn't hit.

For an instant only, Rourke questioned his own sanity, then dismissed the idea.

He was sane; it was what he saw that wasn't sane.

He took out one of his dark tobacco cigars, rolling it across his mouth between his teeth to the left corner, then letting the Bushnell binoculars dangle down from the strap around his neck. He found his lighter, and flicking the Zippo, touched the tip of the cigar nearly into the flame.

Drawing, he felt the smoke in his lungs as he inhaled.

He and Natalia and Paul had often talked about it-a world gone mad; but beneath him now, on the valley floor, was a world that hadn't changed. Was that madness? He closed his eyes, listening to the music. . . .

Comfortable with his leather jacket open^-he would have worn it now if he had been hot because it concealed the twin stainless Detonics .s-he rode the Harley into the town, his Python and the hip holster hidden in his pack, the CAR- still wrapped in the blanket. At least it would take a reasonably knowledgeable curious person to determine that it was a gun.

He could hear the music more clearly now as he pa.s.sed a small school; the facility would handle perhaps three hundred students, he decided. From the high ground inside the lip of the valley, he had seen most of the town in relief against the valley floor, but the details had been lost. Now he could see it more clearly. No evidence of looting, bombing, fire,s-nothing that showed there had ever been a war. The Night of the War hadn't touched this place.

He felt like Hilton's very British hero, entering Shangri-La and leaving the storm behind him.

"The storm," he whispered to himself. Both literally and figuratively, a storm.

He stopped his Harley-Davidson Low Rider for a stop sign; a police car was across from him at the other side of the four-way stop.

Rourke ran his fingers through his hair, then gave the cop a wave and a nod as he started. The police prowl car moved slowly, the policeman lighting his dome light, looking but saying nothing as Rourke pa.s.sed the vehicle.

Rourke chewed down on the burned out stub of his cigar now. Reaching the end of a storybook residential street, he turned left after slowing for a yield sign, a public library on his right as he started toward the lights of the square. A young girl wearing a dress sat on the steps of the library building, with a boy of the same age sitting beside her, the two talking.