Rourke followed them, stopping just outside the door. There were dozens of bodies in the yard, seventy-five or more, Rourke judged. Rourke walked over to the priest. “Father, I’m going to have to get back to the plane now.”
“Yes. I have been waiting all afternoon for you to say this. I knew you would have to return to the airplane. May God go with you.”
“You’d better get those bodies buried, Father. Soon.”
“I will do what I can.”
“Move them and burn them, then,” Rourke advised.
The priest stared at Rourke. “They will be buried. I know most of these people. They were Catholic. They must be buried as Catholics.”
“If I could, I’d hang around and help,” Rourke said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“You have helped-and God bless you for it.”
Rourke took the priest’s outstretched hand, then turned to go. “I’m coming, John,” Rubenstein said.
Rourke turned to him, holding his hat in his hands, saying, “After all this time, I don’t know what we’ll find out there, Paul.”
“I know that,” the smaller man said. “I’m going with you anyway.”
Rourke just nodded, turned, and started toward the main doors, Rubenstein behind him. It was dark again by the time Rourke and Rubenstein reached the edge of the city. The howling of the wild dogs in the distance grew louder with the failing darkness.
Much of the residential section here had not been burned, but was deserted. “Where’d you suppose everyone went?” Rubenstein said.
“Up there,” said Rourke, pointing toward the mountains on the other side of the city. “For some reason, whenever there’s disaster, people always think of going to the mountains. Santa Fe is probably a giant refugee center by now. Doesn’t look like there were any hits up there, either.”
“Why don’t we go to Santa Fe for help, then?”
“Too far to walk, and if the town is still functioning, I’d guess they don’t have any doctors, nurses, or medical supplies to spare.”
“How come you’re a doctor but you run around with guns?”
“That’s a long story.”
“I got the time,” Rubenstein said.
“Well, briefly, I studied to be a doctor, went all through college and medical school, even interned. But then I started watching what was happening in the world and said to myself that as a doctor, all I’d be able to do would be to patch things up for other people. Maybe in the CIA or something like that, I thought, I could keep things from needing to be patched up for a while longer. After a few years in covert operations, down in Latin America, mostly, I saw that wasn’t possible. I’d always been into guns-hunting, the outdoors, the whole nine yards. Started getting interested in survivalism. I was a weapons expert already, found myself writing articles and books on it, started getting into the technical side of survival. Wrote about that, too. Because of my degree, I wound up doing a lot of seminars on survival medicine, stuff like that. I traveled all around the United States, parts of Latin America, the Mideast, Europe-teaching survivalism, weapons training. Anyway, here I am.”
They walked on in silence for a few minutes, then Rourke stopped Rubenstein as they passed a house on their left. It seemed totally intact. There was a garage at the end of a long driveway, the door closed all the way.
“Look at that,” Rourke said, “and see if you’re thinking what I’m thinking.”
He didn’t wait for Rubenstein to reply, but started sprinting toward the garage, up the driveway. He stopped at the garage door and tried it. Locked.
Reaching under his leather jacket, he snatched one of the Detonics pistols from its shoulder holster. “Now I’ve got a lock I’m gonna shoot-get out of the way,” he said.
He aimed at the lock and fired once. The lock and most of the handle fell away. “Go find something to pry at this door with,” Rourke said.
In a moment, Rubenstein was back, but empty handed.
“What’s the matter?”
“I found something better than a prybar. The side door was unlocked.”
“Did you look inside?”
“Yeah. The prettiest ’57 Chevy you ever saw. It’s up on blocks, but the tires are there.”
Rourke followed Rubenstein into the garage. A tarpaulin was draped half over the gleaming fire-engine red and chrome vintage car. “Look for some gas,” Rourke almost whispered.
Ten minutes later, they had found three two-gallon gas cans and were beginning to put the wheels on the car. Working now on the last wheel, Rourke said, “Here,” then handed Rubenstein one of his pistols. “Take this and look around the block. See if you can find any more gas. That’s the gun I used on the door. It’s only got five rounds left in it. If I hear you shoot, I’ll come running.”
Rourke tightened the last of the lug nuts, then started working on the garage door, pulling the chains taut and pushing up until he had released the locking mechanism. He slid the overhead door up and clear of the frame, then walked back to the Chevy. He searched under the front seat and found the ignition key. Then he slid into the front seat and put the key in the ignition. He got out again, took the one water jug he’d brought from the church for himself and Rubenstein to use and checked the battery. He had to pour most of the water into it. He opened the radiator cap-the radiator seemed full when he shone his flashlight inside and he muttered, “Thank you.”
Getting back behind the wheel, Rourke tried the ignition. The car groaned a few times. He smashed his fist against the steering wheel. If the battery were dead, it was hopeless. He turned when he heard a sound at the side door. It was Rubenstein.
“I found one more can of gas next to a power mower down the street.”
“Good,” Rourke muttered. Then, “If this battery doesn’t turn this over, you can go out and check for a battery and tools to change it with. Keep your fingers crossed,” he added.
He took the key out of the ignition, looked at it and whispered, “Come on baby-this’ll be the ride of your life.”
He put the key into the lock and turned the ignition. The engine coughed and then roared as he stepped on the gas pedal.
Rubenstein shouted. Rourke looked up at him, squinted his eyes against the flashlight he held. “You’re takin’ that cowboy hat awful serious, aren’t you?” Then, “Come on, Paul, pour in that gas and let’s get out of here.”
The smell of exhaust fumes was thick in the garage, despite both open doors, by the time Rubenstein threw down the empty gas container and ran around the front of the two-door hardtop and climbed in beside Rourke. Rourke looked over at him and smiled. “Let me guess. You’ve never stolen a car before-or ridden in a ’57 Chevy? Right?”
“Yeah,” Rubenstein said. “How’d you know?”
“Intuition,” Rourke laughed, hauling the big long-throw gearshift into first. “Intuition.”
The needle on the speedometer was bouncing near twenty as Rourke slowed at the end of the long driveway. He let up on the clutch again and made a hard left into the street, sliding the stick back into second as he reached the end of the block, then cutting a hard right onto what had been a main street. He raced through the street, then turned onto one of the major arteries.
“You just ran a-” Rubenstein started, but then fell silent, smiling to himself.
“I don’t know about you,” Rourke said, “but right now I’d be happy if a cop pulled me over for a ticket.” He glanced at Rubenstein and the smaller man nodded.
A moment later, Rubenstein said, “Hey-this thing’s got a tape deck.”
“Wonderful,” Rourke said. “Check the glove compartment and see if he’s got any tapes.”
“One,” Rubenstein said a moment later, then inserted the cartridge.
As the music began, the men looked at each other. “The Beach Boys?” Rourke said.
“You gotta admit,” Rubenstein said, touching the dashboard, “the music goes with the car.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Sandy Benson hitched up the skirt of her stewardess uniform and climbed over the rock out-cropping, then edged along the large flat rock, stopping and holding her breath to listen. She didn’t hear anything. After a moment, she whispered, “Mr. Quentin, are you out there?”
“Shhh,” he hissed. “Up here.”
She looked to the top of the large, flat rock, then climbed back along it and over the rough out-cropping again. Squinting in the darkness, she could just barely make out his silhouette. “Mr. Quentin?”
“I’m coming down,” he whispered. She could hear him shuffling toward her, and, soon, he was close enough so that she could make out his features.
As the Canadian approached her, Rourke’s CAR-15 slung from his right shoulder, she asked, “Any sign of them, Mr. Quentin?”