rein almost as an afterthought. Her feet dangled below the stirrups which
had been set to Michael’s leg length.
“Gotta get you out of here, Sam,” she cooed, stroking his once-black mane
and his red-smeared white neck. “Gotta get out of here.” She nudged the
animal forward with her knees. . . .
It had taken time to find a way up the embankment, one that the exhausted
animal under her could navigate; then she had gone back for Tildie. Sarah
had switched to Tildie’s back and led Sam, his cinch loosened and some of
the mud covering him already flaking away.
By the time she returned to the children, Annie was
shivering uncontrollably and Michael was gone. Her heart seemed to stop,
but then Michael reappeared, more wood for the fire cradled in his arms.
She suddenly noticed he had no jacket—he had given it to Annie.
She warmed Annie with her own body until the shivering subsided to where
the little girl could control it. She talked, not to Annie or Michael, not
really to herself, but just to think. “I lost my rifle. The horses are
exhausted. Those maniacs, the one with the human-teeth necklace and the
others, are probably still out there.”
She heard something which at once frightened her and comforted her. It
would be Brigands; but the sound was lhat of a truck engine. . . .
She left Michael with Annie and the horses, a half mile away, and hid
herself, shivering in her wet clothes, in a bracken of pines not far from
the water’s edge. There was one truck, a pickup, and in the back of it,
she noticed cans of extra fuel. With extra gasoline, she could run the
truck’s heater. It was a Ford, and she had driven Ford pickups often. She
could drive this one.
There were ten Brigands in sight, and if two rode the pickup truck it
matched with the number of motorcycles—eight bikes in all. Holding her
husband’s . automatic in her right fist she wiped the palm of her hand
against the thigh of her wet jeans. She did not know whether gunpowder was
destroyed by water; would the gun shoot at aff, would it blow up on her?
There wasonfy one way to find out.
She started down from the trees, edging closer toward the shore. The
Brigands huddled by a fireside away from the vehicles, their weapons on
the ground beside them or leaning beside tree trunks. She recognized some
of the
guns as Colt-type rifles, perhaps AR-s like the gun she had lost in the
lake.
All would be lost if the key had been removed from the truck. She knew
cars and trucks could be started without keys, but she didn’t know how.
Her track shoes squishing, the bandanna wet over her hair, her body
shivering under the woolen coat, she edged toward the front of the truck.
She ducked, hiding by the grill, listening as one of the Brigands rasped,
“I gotta take a leak—be back in a second.”
She heard gravel crunching—louder, coming toward her.
She pressed her body against the front of the truck; the engine was still
warm and she could feel its heat. The gravel crunching and the sound of
the Brigand’s feet against the dirt were coming closer, becoming louder.
The ., cocked with the safety off, was in her right hand. She held her
breath.
The man passed her, walking off into the trees from which she had come.
She let out a long sigh, then upped the safety on her pistol and peered
around behind the rear of the truck, toward the other Brigands.
They still huddled around the fire—nine of them. She pushed herself up to
her full height and came around toward the driver’s side. The button on
the door was up. Before touching the door, she looked inside. “Thank you,
God,” she murmured. The keys were in the ignition.
She shifted the pistol to her left hand, then with her right hand tried
the door handle. It opened easily, the door creaking slightly on its
hinges. She waited. None of the Brigands turned around.
She started up into the truck, then heard, “Hey—
hey, bitch!”
She glanced behind her, toward the front of the truck. It was the man
who’d passed her, gone into the trees to urinate. In that instant, she
cursed men for being able to do it so fast.
Sarah Rourke shifted the gun into her right hand, worked down the safety
with her right thumb and pointed the pistol straight out between the open
door and the body of the truck. She didn’t say, “Hold it—don’t come any
closer.” An old Sarah Rourke would have said that. She felt it in her
bones. She pulled the trigger, the pistol bucking once in her right hand;
the man’s face exploded in blood.
She dismissed him mentally, climbing aboard and setting down the pistol,
the safety upped again. Her right hand worked the ignition, her left foot
the clutch, her righl foot the gas. She hadn’t driven in so long, she
thought. The engine rumbled reassuringly, then caught.
With her left elbow, she pushed down the door-lock button to give herself
an extra instant while she found the emergency brake.
She heard the creaking of hinges, looked across the seat, and saw a
face—one of the Brigands. “What the fu—” She picked up the pistol as the
man started for his, and she fired. His left eye seemed to explode and the
body slumped away.
She found the emergency brake, released it, and popped the clutch, looking
to her left; there was a man clinging to the driver’s side of the truck.
She kept driving, hearing the man’s muted curses, the hammering of his
fist against the window.
Looking behind her, seeing the angry eyes of the man who held on, Sarah
worked the transmission into
reverse. She accelerated, the rear end of the Ford smashing into the
motorcycles, her body lurching as she stomped on the brakes. She forgot
the clutch; the engine died. The man still hung on, hammering against the
window. She depressed the clutch with her left foot, working the key
again. The engine wasn’t catching. She could hear gunfire, shots pinging
against the hood of the truck. She sucked in her breath, almost screaming;
there was a smashing sound, of glass. She saw what the bullet had hit—the
right-hand outside mirror was gone.
She tried the key again, murmuring, “Please—start— please!”
The engine rumbled to life and she put the stick into first; then as she
started downward pressure on the gas, she popped the clutch, the truck
lurching ahead under her. She glanced into the rear-view—the bikes were a
mass of twisted metal behind her, jammed into the trees like paper clips
into a box.
The man clinging beside her was still hammering on the glass. Another of
the Brigands threw himself toward the hood. Sarah cut the wheel hard
right, and the man slid away.
There was more gunfire, the window behind her head spider-webbing with a
bullet hole, but not shattering.
She kept driving, the man behind her hammering on the glass with his head
now, screaming at her. She had to gel away. A stray bullet could hit the
gasoline in the back of the truck, could kill her—and what would happen to
Michael and Annie.
She couldn’t roll down the window to shoot the man. Instead, she
sideswiped the Ford into the trees, and the man screamed so loudly she
could hear it distinctly.
There was red blood smeared against the driver’s-side
window now as she upshifted and started away; men, visible in the outside
mirror on the driver’s side, were running behind her, firing. But she
didn’t think they would catch her. ,
After leading the Brigands off, she returned for Michael and Annie. Then
she checked the gasoline. It would be enough to get them to Tennessee, to
the Mulliner farm, or close enough at least, she judged.
The children, for the last ten minutes, had been wrapped in the blankets
found in the back of the truck. They were sitting in the truck cab, naked
under the blankets, the heat running full.
She picked up Sam’s saddle and tossed it inside the truck bed, then did
the same with Tildie’s saddle.
She walked over to the animals, hugged Tildie at the neck, and stroked
Sam’s forehead between the dark eyes. “I love you guys,” she whispered,
kissing Tildie’s muzzle, then slipping her bridle. She slipped Sam’s
bridle, then swatted both horses on the rumps, sending them off aiong the
shoreline. She looked after them for an instant, manes cutting the wind,
tails high. She turned away and cried.
The air felt almost warm to her. The wind lashed back her hair as the
borrowed motorcycle rumbled between her legs, her body leaning into it as
she navigated a tight turn, and read a sign, water-stained and half