Michael moved the M-16 forward, opening his mouth to shout, to order them—then trie pain. At first he could locate the origins. The small of his back, the center of the back of his neck—the word he remembered abstractly was “nape”—and where his right arm joined his shoulder.
The M-16 fell from his hand, on its sling, his body twitching uncontrollably, the pain flooding him now, Madison screaming, “Michael!” the pain, Michael Rourke falling to his knees, feeling something he had never felt before, everything in his field of vision fuzzy suddenly and green and a cold sweat on his skin, the feeling of nausea in his stomach. He sagged forward, rolling on the rock floor of the cave, trying to make his right hand respond and find the pistol grip of the M-16. Through the green wave washing over him he saw Madison being dragged through the opening in the rock wall on the opposite side of the cave.
She screamed again, and he heard it as his eyes closed and his head struck against the rock and the darkness flooded his consciousness. “Michael!”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
In the intervening day, she had seen her mother four times. Four times her mother left the room her father had built for he and his wife to share, entered the bathroom and then returned to the room.
She sal at her sewing machine, her left foot on the pedal that gave the machine its electrical power, her left hand feeding the material beneath the needle, her right hand giving added tension to the thread, working the hand wheel on the side of the machine as she hemmed the blue floral print skirt she had been making for the last several months. She did most of her sewing by hand—it consumed more time and the supply of fabric was not inexhaustible, but she wanted this finished now so she could wear it when Paul returned. Annie looked up from the machine, her mother standing in front of her. Sarah Rourke wore a man’s shirt—Michael’s or their father’s. It was blue chambray and there were at least three dozen of them. Her mother’s hands were inside the pockets of a pair of blue jeans. On her feet she wore no shoes or socks. “Let’s talk, Ann.”
Ann—no one called her that. “I can make us some tea—you’ll like it.”
“You make the tea, I’ll make some lunch. I’m hungry.”
“I can—“
“I know you can—but I’ll make it.”
Annie flicked off the light on the sewing machine and stood up… “He likes you—I don’t mean Paul. I mean, that’s obvious, but I mean your father.” Sarah Rourke was stirring sliced potatoes in a frying pan. She had taken meat from the freezers. “Why’d you look at me so oddly when I took out the meat?”
“There isn’t very much meat, Momma, and Michael and I always saved it for special occasions, I was thinking I’d make a roast when Daddy and Paul and Natalia got back with Michael—like a special occasion. It’ll be the first time the whole family—“ “The whole family,” her mother repeated. “Yes, just the six of us. A father and mother who collectively aren’t ten years older than their children’s ages combined. The four of us, plus Paul and good old Natalia, the KGB major. Paul’s very nice. I’m surprised at the friendship between Paul and your father. Your father never really made friends. He raised you to mate with Paul.” “I know that—but that’s not why I feel the way I do, and if Paul feels the same way, that isn’t why for him either.”
“You’re probably right. And he raised Michael for Natalia—that’s obvious.”
“He was trying to—“
“Did your father ever ask me?”
“The potatoes will burn.”
“No, they won’t, I’ve been doing this a hell of a lot longer than you have. He never asked me. I took the sleep expecting to wake up at the same ion time everyone else awakened. Not to wake up twenty years after my children did, not to find them already grown just so Natalia and Paul wouldn’t be forced to marry or whatever it is people can do when there are only six people alive on earth.” She cut off the burner and began shifting the potatoes into a serving bowl, then took a potholder and checked the oven for the meat. “Your father never cheated on me—never once. I’m sure of that. But he cheated me, cheated me more than he ever could have if he’d cheated on me.”
“But we—“
Sarah turned around, her eyes staring, harder than Annie had ever seen them. “If you marry Paul Rubenstein, if you and Paul have children—how would you feel closing your eyes and seeing them as children, then opening your eyes the next instant of consciousness and seeing them fully grown, missing all the years in the middle. How would you feel? Who told you what to expect when you were growing up—from your body, I mean? Who taught you everything you didn’t teach yourself?”
“Well, Daddy did, but—“
Sarah Rourke whispered, “You finish dinner— I’m not hungry.”
“But…”
Annie watched her mother walk away, to the bedroom, but Sarah Rourke didn’t look back.
It wasn’t as Annie had planned it—it wasn’t that way at all.
Chapter Thirty
John Rourke dismounted the Harley. By taking a route through the mountains that he and Paul Rubenstein had learned of by accident in the weeks following the Night of The War, he had saved two days of travel. Natalia dismounted as well. All about them were telltale signs of a camp. A fragmentary motorcycle tread.
Burned wood from a fire, and signs of a fire being meticulously put out.
“He’s been here, all right,” Paul volunteered.
Rourke looked at the younger man, but only nodded. Rourke studied the partial tread print, looking up from it, ahead, then taking off in a long-strided jog, his eyes scanning the ground through the dark-lensed aviator-style sunglasses, a cigar, unlit, clamped between his teeth in the left corner of his mouth.
Another tire impression—he stopped running, dropping to his knees to examine it. “Natalia, bring up my bike. Paul, cut an arc of about one hundred eighty degrees about a hundred yards ahead of me—ninety degrees on each side of where I’m at now.”
“Tracks—right.”
Rourke stood to his full height, taking the Zippo in his right hand, flipping it in his hand, not opening it, not really intending to light the cigar as yet. He glanced skyward, then confirmed the time with his watch. Three hours of daylight remained. If he could second guess Michael’s route as he had earlier, they might be able to cut through the mountains again in such a way as to intercept Michael’s next campsite before total darkness. He was trying to cut the gap of time between them. Rourke felt a smile cross his lips—he realized, chronologically less than a decade older than his son, that he’d already done that.
“Ready.”
He looked at Natalia, then looked away as he mounted the machine.
Chapter Thirty-One
He had lost count of the hours, and realized he had lost count of the days. The cattle prods they had used—his body ached as he moved. He had been away from the Retreat—how many days? He shook his head to clear it, dismissing the question until a later time.
Cautiously, before assessing his surroundings, he felt under his shirt beside his left hipbone. The revolver—it was still there. As he sat upright, his back screaming at him with the pain, he felt inside his left sock—the A.G. Russell knife was still there.
Michael Rourke looked up, unable to keep the smile that he felt coming from etching across his face. He was alive. He was armed. He assessed his surroundings as, with difficulty, he stood. An ordinary-seeming room, but there were no windows. A door—it seemed made of metal. He approached it, about to touch it to confirm—but he stepped back. With their penchant for electricity, he was uncertain. He looked upward—there seemed to be no observation cameras in evidence, no microphones. Perhaps the room—almost a khaki color for walls, ceiling and the linoleum-covered floor—was just that, a room. Nothing more.
Perhaps too they expected him to walk out of it. He licked his lips, reaching down to his sock, removing the Sting IA. Gently, he tossed the all-steel knife against the door. It clattered to the floor. There was no evidence of electricity. He picked up the knife, stepping back from the door again.
He threw the knife—gently, again—this time the knife bouncing against the doorknob, sparks of electricity sputtering into the air. Michael Rourke stepped back.
After a long moment, he picked up his knife. Quickly, he resheathed it, concealing it, then dropped to the floor. He began to unlace his right combat boot. His father had told him the story of the last seconds before fire had engulfed the planet, of the climb to the top of the mountain which held the Retreat, of using the double magazine pouch like a heavy leather glove to insulate his hand. The boot off now, Michael placed his right hand inside it, flexing the leather so he could grip with it.