“Yes/’ and she leaned her head against his chest. “Yes, Father Rourke.”
John Rourke just closed his eyes and hugged the girl for a moment.
“We’re ready,” Natalia said.
Rourke looked at her. “All right.”
“I’ll go first,” Paul announced.
He was already starting to open the doorway Michael covering him with Rourke’s CAR-15.
Then Michael passed through, Rourke hearing him call. “There’s no one waiting for us.”
“There may be a redoubt of some kind further ahead,” Rourke answered.
Madison passed through the doorway then.
Rourke stood alone beside Natalia. She touched at his hand. “If I were a young girl—you would make a fine father.”
Rourke looked at her, smiling. “Just because I let myself age another five years while you slept— well, don’t rub it in, huh?”
And he let Natalia pass through the doorway and he followed her close behind, a De tonics pistol in each hand.
Chapter Forty-Eight
“The last thing I ever expected to see again in my whole life was a golf course,” Paul Rubenstein murmured.
Rourke shrugged—after the indoor pool (Olympic sized) and the sauna and the racquetball courts, an indoor nine-hole golf course hardly surprised him. That it was only nine holes he found curious.
He stepped out onto the perfect green carpet, dropping to one knee—what he felt through the knee of his Levi’s, the touch of his fingertips confirmed. Synthetic grass. It had been called Astroturf before the Night of The War. “I have never seen this place,” Madison murmured, between Rourke and his son.
Rourke looked at her. “This place—the Place-it’s hermetically sealed at most times—at all times really because of the air lock. No dust, no dirt. No reason for maintenance. The pool is bone dry— likely hasn’t been filled for centuries. I bounced one of those racquetballs—the core is dead. It hasn’t been used for a long time.” v “A playground,” Michael murmured.
“The rich capitalist playground.” Natalia smiled. Rourke looked at her. “Yes—isn’t it,” and he reached up to the Alessi shoulder rig, returning the one Detonics pistol he still held, with his left hand closing the trigger guard snap that formed the speed break. “Let’s find that arsenal—then we’ll find their book. If they can’t use what they have, maybe we can. With that door having to be forced open, the hermetic seal is broken. If those cannibals have an ounce of brains among them they’ 11 feel the air circulating between the crack the door left and the wall—and they’ll pry it open and attack. What Michael told us about that one cannibal following him and Madison on a blood hunt—that may be typical behavior. And we killed a lot of them. Now be on the lookout for those guys in the business suits with the cattle prods. Madison—show us the way to the arsenal.” “Yes—where the guns are kept.”
“Yes—where the guns are kept.” She startet ahead, walking beside and slightly ahead of Michael, her right hand locked inside his left, Michael’s right fist balled around the CAR-15’s pistol grip, the Colt assault rifle’s stock collapsed, the scope covers removed.
Rourke felt a hand touch gently at his—he looked into Natalia’s eyes, his left hand closing over her right hand. “He looks so much like you— but he isn’t you,” and she leaned up quickly as she walked beside him, kissing him on the cheek. “I love you,” John Rourke told her, still holding her hand, walking on.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Natalia had opened the doors to the arsenal— not bothering to pick the lock, instead half wheeling right, a double kick to where the two doors joined, the doors splitting inward.
Paul had rushed in, the subgun ready in case the Families had decided the arsenal should be their redoubt.
But the arsenal was empty of people.
“Who were these people?” Natalia whispered.
Rourke didn’t answer her.
“Arsenal—you can say that again,” Paul Ru-benstein whispered.
Rourke looked at him for an instant, then to the
Astroturf before the Night of The War. “I have never seen this place,” Madison murmured, between Rourke and his son.
Rourke looked at her. “This place—the Place— it’s hermetically sealed at most times—at all times really because of the air lock. No dust, no dirt. No reason for maintenance. The pool is bone dry— likely hasn’t been filled for centuries. I bounced one of those racquetballs—the core is dead. It hasn’t been used for a long time.”
“A playground,” Michael murmured.
‘ ‘The rich capitalist playground.” Natalia smiled. Rourke looked at her. “Yes—isn’t it,” and he reached up to the Alessi shoulder rig, returning the one Detonics pistol he still held, with his left hand closing the trigger guard snap that formed the speed break. “Let’s find that arsenal—then we’ll find their book. If they can’t use what they have, maybe we can. With that door having to be forced open, the hermetic seal is broken. If those cannibals have an ounce of brains among them they’ 11 feel the air circulating between the crack the door left and the wall—and they’ll pry it open and attack. What Michael told us about that one cannibal following him and Madison on a blood hunt—that may be typical behavior. And we killed a lot of them. Now be on the lookout for those guys in the business suits with the cattle prods. Madison—show us the way to the arsenal.” “Yes—where the guns are kept.”
“Yes—where the guns are kept.” She started ahead, walking beside and slightly ahead of Michael, her right hand locked inside his left, Michael’s right fist balled around the CAR-15’s pistol grip, the Colt assault rifle’s stock collapsed, the scope covers removed.
Rourke felt a hand touch gently at his—he looked into Natalia’s eyes, his left hand closing over her right hand. “He looks so much like you— but he isn’t you,” and she leaned up quickly as she walked beside him, kissing him on the cheek. “I love you,” John Rourke told her, still holding her hand, walking on.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Natalia had opened the doors to the arsenal— not bothering to pick the lock, instead half wheeling right, a double kick to where the two doors joined, the doors splitting inward.
Paul had rushed in, the subgun ready in case the Families had decided the arsenal should be their redoubt.
But the arsenal was empty of people.
“Who were these people?” Natalia whispered.
Rourke didn’t answer her.
“Arsenal—you can say that again,” Paul Rubens tein whispered. Rourke looked at him for an instant, then to the walls. What he estimated as a hundred M-16s were in racks locked to the wall with retention bars, the bars padlocked. Beyond these, smaller racks, three tiers high, at least fifty Government Model .45s in each of the racks, perhaps a hundred and fifty in all. Beyond these, a solitary glass-fronted rack— Rourke walked toward this and examined what lay beyond the glass. Six Steyr-Mannlicher SSGs, identical to his own rifle which was back at the Retreat.
“My guns!”
Rourke turned around, his son examining the long glass case on the opposite wall. Rourke looked back to the rifle case, his right hand feeling behind it where the case mated to the wall—there was a gap, uneven. “Hrara,” he murmured under his breath.
Then he started across the room. The center of the room—carpeted, which he considered curious—was piled high with wooden and cardboard crates and metal military carry boxes. Ammunition—5.56mm for the M-16s, .45 ACP for the pistols and 7.62mm NATO for the sniper rifles. But there were other boxes as well— commercial ammunition in 9mm Parabellum, .44 Magnum and .357 Magnum, as well as boxes of shotshells, all seemingly twelve gauge, the majority 00 Buck, some rifled slugs as well he noted.
He continued across the room. Natalia stood beside Michael—her attention seeming to shift nervously from the long gun cabinet to the double doors leading back into the corridor.
Rourke looked at the gun cabinet—handguns, an expensive collection, some neatly arranged on fa brie-covered pegs, some just lying in the bottom of the cabinet. “Our friends had interesting tastes,” Rourke remarked to no one in particular. Smith & Wesson and Colt revolvers, Walther and Browning semi-automatics. Along the bottom of the case mixed in with the handguns, several shotguns—Remington 870s and 1100s, Mossberg 500s of various configurations, Browning Auto Fives. There was a closed leather case which Rourke assumed contained a Browning Superposed and extra barrels.
“This room would have been worth a fortune,” Paul Rubenstein said suddenly. “No,” Rourke corrected. “Not this room—at least not originally. This room wasn’t the arsenal to begin with—it was some other room. That case holding the sniper rifles—it was removed from its original mountings. And this one,” and Rourke bent to the side, feelingalong the wall. “This is the same. With the air locks and all, they were security-conscious—you don’t leave an arsenal like this in a room a woman can kick her way into without half trying.” “Thank you, not at all.” Natalia smiled.