The Awakening

QO

sounding as he almost whispered. “I was going to kill Madison if I had to.”

“I know that.”

“You would have done the same, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah, I would have—and I wouldn’t have liked it any better. This thing, this thing with your mother and with me, well—“ “I figured we could go exploring together—see what’s out there, you know, and—“ “You’re gonna have a family—“ “That never stopped you,” Michael answered.

Rourke looked away and smiled. “No, it never stopped me. Maybe it should have, son—maybe it should have.”

“If Madison is carrying a child, well, there’ll still be time. Before the child comes, after.”

“What—leave the girls at home? You and me— and Paul—“ “Well, sure. Paul, too—he’s your partner and—“ “Best friend I ever had. You are too, but you’re my son. So that allows me to have two best friends. But whatever happens,” and Rourke lit another cigar.

“Well, don’t get into this thing between your mother and me—it wouldn’t be right

for her to think I’d turned you or Annie against her. I never wanted—“

“Doesn’t she realize why you did it—I mean, I know. You set things up so Natalia

and I would, ahh—“

“Am I that transparent?” Rourke laughed.

“Yes, you are—yes.”

Rourke nodded. “I guess I am. But it didn’t work, did ü?”

“You were willing to give up Natalia for your love for Momma.” “You mean I was willing to give up one woman I love for the other woman I love—that doesn’t say a whole hell of a lot for me, does it?”

“But all that time you searched for us and you never—“ v

“No,” Rourke laughed. “I wanted to—God, did I want to. But as long as there was

a chance your mother was alive…”

“I don’t—“

“Your mother and I,” Rourke said softly, exhaling a cloud of the gray cigar smoke, watching it dissipate on the air, then staring at the glowing tip and the ashes as they formed there. “We fell in love with each other—we’re still in love. At least I am. And she is, too—yeah. But, ahh, we were never—well, we were never really friends. I knew this couple once—the guy was a writer. He and his wife—you never saw two people so much in love. But they were buddies, pals—friends. The friendship and the love coexisted. I, ahh, your mother and I—we never—“ and Rourke inhaled hard on the cigar. “What about you and Natalia? Are you friends?”

Rourke looked at his son. “We’re friends. It’s your mother’s play. I’ll do what she wants.”

“What about Natalia if, ahh—“

“Ahh, what?” Rourke smiled. “I don’t know. I

woke up from that second period of cryogenic sleep, ya know? Annie had this dream—said it’s only the second time in her life she remembered a dream, and that she saw you in danger. We oughta listen to that kid more. But I woke up,” Rourke sighed, exhaling the cigar smoke again, watching tt again as the wind caught it and made it dissipate. “Your mother was heartsick—and I decided I’d never try playing God again. I mean I didn’t try this last time—I just tried to do what was right, what was best for all of us. Well, I did that, ya know,” and Rourke snorted loudly, his sinuses bothering him suddenly. “I did what—what I thought and, well, shit,” and he inhaled on the cigar again and opened his eyes wide against the wind. And he felt his son’s hand on his shoulder.

Chapter Forty-Six

Annie Rourke hitched up her skirt as she clambered over the rocks, getting to her feet again, letting her skirt fall, straightening the webbed pistol belt at her right hip, the Detonics Scoremas-ter there in the military flap holster. She could see for miles from here. She had started coming here as a little girl and she had never stopped. She didn’t remember their home at the farm. Perhaps someday they would go back to where it had stood and something she would see would jog loose a memory—she hoped that it would. But the Retreat was the home she had grown up in, was the home in her heart. She dropped to her knees, gathering her skirt under her, leaning back, sitting finally, not taking her eyes off the mountains and the valleys between them. r She was cold as the wind picked up and she hugged her arms to her, huddling more in the quilted coat she had made.

She had never known the company of adults of her own sex—and she wondered if she and Paul came together, would they sometime, someday be drawn apart. She thought of her mother.

The Retreat was not Sarah Rourke’s home. It never would be. She hated it—that was obvious, Annie realized.

She thought of her father and her mother—and she was frightened. She had known nothing else—that Sarah Rourke and John Rourke were husband and wife and that it was forever for them.

Annie Rourke was very cold now. She closed her eyes and saw Paul Rubenstein’s face and couldn’t imagine feeling toward Paul what her mother now felt toward her father. But then for an instant she could imagine it—and she was afraid. She was very afraid and she sat there and stared out at the mountains again, wanting Paul Ruben-stein to say he loved her, to hold her.

Chapter Forty-Seven

The interior air lock door had not taken as long as the exterior door which had been covered with rock.

“I have it, John,” Natalia announced.

Rourke watched her for a moment, then stared at the dismantled locking device.

“They never intended their retreat to be unoccupied.”

“It was never made to be opened from the outside.” Rourke nodded to her. He looked at his son, Madison standing beside him. “You said this second holy book is some sort of diary.” “It looks like that—one of the videotapes had a diary featured in the story, and I read about diaries.”

Rourke nodded. “All right. So we get this second holy book and break the seal and read it.”

“That is forbidden—even to ones like your-selves,” Madison whispered. John Rourke put his hands on the girl’s shoulders, then smiled at her. “Michael tells me the Bible is very important to th£ people here—at least to some of you.”

“That is true.” Madison nodded somberly. “It is all that we read.” “Then isn’t it presumptuous for men—like the ones who head the Families—isn’t it presumptu-ous for men to add to it, to change it, with some secret book they won’t even read themselves but that supposedly gives them the authority to commit murder every time the population goes over some magic number, year in, year out, to create people like the ones you call Them, to create people who aren’t people anymore, at all?”

“But—“

“I look at the story of Adam and Eve rather differently than most people do. If their aim was to seek knowledge, I don’t see it as a sin. To play games with the devil—that’s wrong. But to want to know, to understand—knowing isn’t evil. It’s what you do with the knowledge. We’ll find that book—you think Natalia’s good on doors, wait ‘til you see her with a safe. We’ll read that book and then we’ll know what really happened here and how to help all the Madisons and all the other people here—or at least we’ll be better able to try. All right, sweetheart?”

“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 (Olym-pic 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 Ru-bens 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 card-board 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 major-ity 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 Super-posed 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.

“Even a very special woman. No—there’s a vault around here, and if it were important enough to remove this stuff from the vault, then whatever they put in the vault must have been even more important. Stand back,” and Rourke waited as Natalia, Michael, Madison and Paul Ruben-stein stepped away from the glass. Rourke stepped back, sidestepped, selecting the spot, then wheeled half right, bending into a double Tae Kwon Do kick into the glass, snapping his foot away, wheeling as the glass shattered, shards of it falling, collapsing. “What do you do?”

Madison asked, her voice alarmed-sounding. “With those guys outside—we’ll need more equipment than we have. This js called liberat-ing.”

“John explained it to me once—a long time ago,” Paul Rubenstein told her. “Before the Night of The War, taking something just because you needed it was stealing. But since then, taking something you need to stay alive is survival. Soil’s liberating.”

“It’s still stealing,” Rourke interrupted, “but in a good cause.” Michael already was reaching through the opening broken into the glass—his Stalker, his Predator. Michael checked both guns.

“Empty.” “At least they know how to do that.” Rourke nodded. Michael slipped the Predator into the trouser band of his Levi’s.

“I wonder where the hell they put the rest of my stuff?”

“We’ll find it—liberate some ammo for your-self.” Michael reached into the case again, having handed off the Predator to Madison who seemed somehow frightened of holding a gun. Rourke already knew his son well enough—she would get over this fear quickly enough. Guns of themselves were nothing to fear—only some of the people who use them; guns could just as easily be an instrument to eradicate fear.

He watched his son—three Smith & Wesson Model 629s, eight and three-eigths, a six, and a four.

“Don’t you think you’re overdoing it a little?” “I like .44s—but you were right, I needed to add something that loads a little faster. These’ll do for now.”

Rourke only shook his head. “Look in that bin at the far end of the room. See what they have—

maybe holsters or whatever.” All three of the stainless Smiths were wearing the factory walnut and they wouldn’t reload that much faster without speedloaders. He shrugged.

Natalia was taking a Walther P-38 from the cabinet. “One extra pistol will do me nicely. I’ve used these before. But I’m going to pick the locks on those chains and get us some extra M-16s,”

and she turned to Madison. “Would you like to help me, darling?”

“All right.” Madison followed after her, Mi-chael already by the bins at the far end of the room.

“Pachmayr grips, Safariland speedloaders, boxes of spare magazines for all the mazagine-fed weapons.”

“Good—take what you think we’ll need and get Pachmayrs onto those Smith revolvers. Natalia’s got a screwdriver. And take plenty of speed-loaders.” Paul, standing beside Rourke, remarked, “These people had good taste.” “Take a couple of extra pistols for yourself, Paul—and a couple of M-16s. If we can avoid getting down to stone axes again, I’d just as soon.” “You’d just as soon,” Rubenstein laughed.

Rourke watched as the younger man took two blued commercial Browning High Powers, these like the battered military model Rubenstein carried, old enough to have the cone hammers rather than the spur type hammers similar to those on the Colt Government Model.

Rubenstein started toward the bins, Rourke still standing before the shattered case. They would return what they had taken if the situation warranted it—as much as he joked about it, liberating was still a form of stealing, even when necessary. But he knew what he would “borrow” at least. He had given his to Annie. And there were two here—Detonics Scoremaster .45s, the cone hammered, flat mainspring housing stainless steel Detonics counterpart to the Colt Gold Cup.

He took the two pistols into his hands—they were factory original except that the once sharp corners of the high profile Bo-Mar rear sights had been rounded off. As he closed his fists over the Pachmayr gripped butts, the beavertail grip safeties deactivated.

There was a good feel to the guns. He would regret having to return them, but he would.

He started toward the bins, to find spare magazines if there were any.

Chapter Fifty

John Rourke stood in the doorway between the arsenal room and the corridor, Natalia watching him. The two stainless steel Scoremasters were positioned, each butt rightward in his trouser band and under his pistol belt—she had watched as he’d tested then loaded the dozen or so spare magazines he had found, then stuffed them into his musette bag. He carried an M-16 now in addi-tion to his CAR-15.

She looked at Michael—John’s near-identical duplicate. He had found his own M-16, the one he had taken from the Retreat, a second one carried on his left side now. She had taken a second M-16 for herself as well. Michael’s liberated Smith & Wesson pistols he now carried—all three of them, in two wide cartridge looped belts, the belts crisscrossing at his hips, holsters for them to match. Safariland, like her own.

Madison carried two M-I6s, but the girl carried them only to carry them, knowing nothing of guns yet, looking incongruous in the gray maid’s uniform and small white apron with an assault rifle under each arm. She was a pretty girl—but she was seemingly bewildered by the newness of her relationship with Michael, bewildered by Mi-chael’s father, and his father’s friends, and by the terror she had seen. Natalia blamed the girl not at all for the latter, and the other sources of the girl’s bewilderment would pass with time. They had passed for her, Natalia remembered.

Paul had found a double holster rig for the two Browning High Powers and wore this now, having added an M-16. But the assault rifle slung across his back, the Schmeisser, as he called the MP-40, he grasped in his hands. Natalia started toward the doorway now, her liberated P-38

in what she recognized as a German police full flap holster added to her belt with the L-Frame Smiths.

She had taken one other thing from the arsenal—a Randall Model 12 Smithsonian Bowie. The blade was eleven inches long, two and one quarter inches deep, the stock three-eighths inches thick. She had seen them before the Night of The War and with her penchant for knives had always wanted one. At least this was hers to borrow. Made for a large man, weighing she judged a good two pounds, the leather washed handle was large enough that she could hold it with two hands comfortably and thus wield it like a short sword. This hung in its scabbard behind thebuttof theL-Frame on her left side.

She stopped at the doorway. “Now what, John?”

Rourke nodded. “Paul—you take Madison and her M-16s there and go back near the doors where we hid the bikes. Any sign of the guys from outside, open fire and we’ll be there—we should hear gunfire well enough anywhere in the com-plex. It doesn’t seem they were too concerned with deadening sound when they built this place. Natalia and Michael and I’ll go through the complex—find that book Michael talked about and look for the vault these gun cases were removed from. Between the book and the vault, we should have our answers.”

“All right—you guys be careful, huh?”

Rourke clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Aren’t we always?”

“Yeah, well, if there weren’t two ladies present I’d tell ya about that.”

Natalia watched Paul turn to look at Madison. “You ready, Madison?”

“Yes—“ but she looked past Paul at Michael. “Be careful, please.” Michael leaned past Paul and kissed her quickly on the lips. Paul took her hand and started back along the corridor with her.

“Which way do we go now?” Natalia asked, looking at Michael. “Just to the end of the corridor—double doors, like a conference room. It’s where the Ministers talked to me. Where they had the wall safe with the second holy book,” and he looked at his father. “What about this room—you always taught me never to leave any guns behind.”

Natalia smiled. “Paul and I took care of that— the M-16s don’t have any firing pins, neither do the semi-automatic pistols. The shotguns and the revolvers we didn’t have time for.”

“It’ll have to do,” John Rourke announced. “So—let’s find that second holy book.”

John Rourke started into the corridor, Natalia beside him, Michael—as she looked back—coming behind.

Chapter Fifty-One

She had picked the lock in less than a minute and John Rourke—wearing his heavy leather gloves—had opened the doors, remembering Mi-chael’s experience with the electrified door han-dles. So far, there had been no sign of anyone from the Families or from the servants. No one.

Rourke walked through the doorway into the conference room.

“There—over there’s the safe, behind that,” and Michael stared toward it.

“Wait, Michael—it may be electrified,” Natalia called after him. Rourke joined them, eyeing the doorway, still wearing his gloves, gingerly touching at the wood carving and exposing the safe. Rourke drew the Gerber knife from his left hip and touched the tip to the safe door, to the combination lock, to the handle—there was no sparking as there would be if it were electrified.

“Go to work,” Rourke told her.

“1 don’t have my stethoscope.”

“I have mine on my bike.”

“But I won’t need it for a little wall safe,” she finished. Rourke nodded, turning away from the safe to study the murals—the Night of The War, the holocaust when the sky took flame, although he imagined the latter was largely based on supposi-tion and the terrified tales of any who had been caught outside and made it inside as the sky had caught fire. The candles on the table near the largest of the two large chairs. He approached these, removing his right glove, touching at the wax at the top—it was still warm. “They didn’t leave here too long ago,” he announced. He felt the chair—the seat was still warm. “Hmm,” he murmured.

He looked at the walls again—at the massive wooden carving on the rear wall.

“Hmm.”

“I have it,” Natalia called.

Rourke turned back to look at her standing beside the wall safe. In her right hand she held the small book which Rourke assumed to be the one of which Michael had spoken.

“That’s it,” Michael confirmed, as if reading Rourke’s thoughts. Rourke smiled at the pos-sibility.

“It’s a diary. I used a cover identity for six months once as an American housewife—I used one of these as a prop. These locks can be opened with a bobby pin.”

“Do you have a bobby pin?” Rourke asked her, smiling, standing beside her now.

“I may in my purse.”

“Nevermind, “ he interrupted. He withdrew the Gerber from its sheath. “These things can be opened this way, too.”

He pried gently with the Gerber’s tip where the two portions of the lock met.

“Have you opened many diaries, John?”

He laughed. “Don’t forget—espionage was my racket too for a few years,” and the lock popped.

He handed the book to Michael. “Your dis-covery. Read it—unless you don’t want to.”

Michael took the diary, saying nothing, then opening it. Rourke walked over to the nearest of the chairs at the conference table, drawing the two stainless Detonics Scoremaster .45s from where they were nestled against his abdomen, placing them on the conference table beside him. Michael began to read. “We have committed an unspeakable crime against God and against humanity.”

Michael looked up from the diary. John Rourke thought that instant that secrets were rarely kept secrets to hide their beauty.

Chapter Fifty-Two

Michael continued to read. “I have set forth here an account of our actions taken in order to survive after the horror of the burning in the sky. It is a brief account because I cannot bring myself to dwell on the details lest I should weep—“ “A rather quaint style, isn’t it?” John Rourke observed. “I’m skipping some more of his recriminations —here—here—“ and Michael began again to read from the diary. “When the flames seared the sky, it was evident to all of us that in order to live, the survival retreat erected by our employers—“ “Their employers,” Natalia whispered.

“Let him go on,” Rourke told her. He took a cigar from inside his battered brown bomber jacket and lit it in the flame of his Zippo—there was no ash tray but the fact didn’t bother him.

“The survival retreat erected by our employers would have to be hermetically sealed by means of the air locks for some time. Food supplies immediately began to dwindle despite the best rationing methods instituted by our employers and augmented by the kitchen staff. After several weeks, a volunteer from among the servants was sent out through the air locks to see if the atmosphere was safe. He was never heard from again. There was an attitude among us, those who served, that life had ceased having meaning. Although we were brought to our employers’

survival retreat prior to the bombings and missile strikes, our families and loved ones and friends were not. There were a few fortunates among us whose entire immediate family was in service, and therefore not excluded from the survival retreat. After several weeks, the rationing now quite severe, the air quality poor, another volunteer set forth. Likewise, he was never heard from again. It seemed clear that two choices confronted the persons living in the survival retreat, masters and servants alike—to either die a slow death or commit suicide. But it was one of the employers who struck on a third alternative, though it was never ascertained which of them, for indeed he may well have been killed in the fighting—“ “Oh, my God,” Natalia murmured.

Michael looked up a moment, then back to his diary. “The employers decided to exile their servants to whatever lay beyond the hermetically sealed doors. It was, as discussion amongst us later brought forth, only a logical extension of their view of us, their servants. For, after all, did we not exist to fulfill their needs? This then—survival— was a need like any other. “They awakened us while we slept, most of us in our pajamas or nightgowns forced from the quarters below and assembled at gunpoint on the golf course. We were then herded like animals into a pen in the swimming pool which had never been filled. We were held there, as two at a time our numbers depleted. But those taken away never returned. And suddenly, the whispered fate of these our co-workers began to spread throughout those of us who remained. Our co-workers, in some cases members of our families—they had been sent to their deaths through the air lock doors. One of our number—a brave soul—shouted this to our employers, that we, the servants, were being systematically executed. The employer—a boy of fourteen—nearest him shot him in the face with one of the rifles taken from storage in the arsenal vault. A cry went up. One of the butlers clambered up the side of the swimming pool to disarm the young murderer. One of the employers shot him, then smashed in his skull with the butt of a rifle. One of the parlor maids screamed, running toward the ladder leading from the pool. She was kicked back. More of our numbers then— it had begun. We started from the pool, many of us dying before ever reaching the level of those who would systematically murder us. There was fight-ing, shouting and much killing on both sides. I myself picked up a rifle and killed my employer with it, and then in a fit of rage shot his oldest son, shot his wife, shot his youngest daughter. His oldest daughter fell to her knees at my feet and wept. I did not shoot her. After the employers had been subdued, it was decided that indeed their decision to reduce the population of the survival retreat had been the only valid choice for survival. So the population was reduced. The bodies pushed through the air lock were some of the employers. The surviving employers were locked in their quarters and guarded. That night, I made love to my employer’s eldest daughter whose life I had spared and throughout it, I felt that she laughed inside herself at me.”

Michael looked up from the diary. “I can’t read any more of this.” Natalia—abruptly—took the diary from Mi-chael’s hands. She continued after a moment— Rourke presumed spent locating Michael’s place —to read. “Several weeks passed and we soon realized that the employers had needed us. We had not needed them. But still, there were very few of us. Selected younger members of the employers’ families—the woman whose bed I shared among them—were taken under tutelage and shown how best to prepare meals, to tend the gardens which grew beneath the artificial light, to clean what needed to be cleaned about the survival retreat of which we now were the masters. The chief butler among us was skilled with mathematical compu-tations and with the cooperation and intelligence of the chief gardener, the food supply’s yield was calculated. Twenty-four of the new masters— among these myself—had survived. More than one hundred of the former masters, the employers, remained. But by best estimates, only one hundred people could be supported by the garden without overtaxing the soil, without overusing the grow lights. Realizing that only one hundred could survive, those of us who now held sway drew random lots from among the more than one hundred of our employers. Twenty-nine names were selected, among these the oldest and least fit to work, to survive. In the dark of night when the lights were turned off, by candlelight we moved through the corridors—at gunpoint, we forced these selected ones toward the air lock doors. And then we turned them out to die.”

Natalia looked up, almost whispering, “I wish I had cigarettes.” Rourke watched her eyes as they flickered back to the diary. “The population began by natural means to grow and there was little illness. Again, from among the employers there were names selected. The employer’s daughter whom I had made my wife had borne me a child and though her name was selected, my wife’s name was set aside and another was chosen. As the years passed and it was realized that the earth outside our home beneath the ground might never be restored to where it could support life, those of the original group of servants who survived as the new masters formed the Counsel of Ministers in order to assume the awesome responsibility of determining who would live and who would go through the doors to their death, this to spare the greatest numbers any guilt. Voluntarily, our segment of the population was limited to twenty-four, mean-ing that seventy-six of our former employers, now our servants, would be permitted. When a child was born to us, the new masters, our population would be one or perhaps two too great. When a child was born to the new servants, their popula-tion would be too high as well. It was at these times that the Counsel of Ministers—Ministers because we prayed for guidance in our choices and prayed for the remission of our continual sins—we would determine from among the new servants who would die. It could not be done by lot—the gardeners were important, too important often to die. The lower classes of servants were used—the tailors, the seamstresses. Fibrous plants were grown and their bounty converted to cloth from which clothing could be fashioned with great skill. Slippers were worn because there was no leather for shoes. Life continued among both classes while inexorably, birth would come and death would be selected. No longer could only the old or infirm be selected to go, but from among the young. “I write this as I lay in the bed of my death—and I welcome death as death has come to be welcomed by all of our class, for death saves another life from . i being taken. And this is my consolation, that when my death comes, there will be ninety-nine only among all who dwell here and when a new child is born, no one will need to go. May God forgive me and all like me for what I was forced to do.”

Natalia closed the book.

John Rourke looked at his son. “They don’t know of this—the Ministers? They don’t know what is contained in the diary?”

“I think the old one does—he carries a key. It’s his badge of office. He told me he didn’t know—“ Natalia interrupted. “If this diary has been locked for nearly five centuries, and John opened it by prying the lock with his knife, then why are there fresh scratches near the keyhole?”

Rourke looked at her.

Michael whispered, “He did read it—the old one read it.” John Rourke closed his eyes. He spoke. “The old one you talked of—he revered the diary too much to destroy it. You told him of the aircraft and the pilot. You told him about us—the Retreat. All his life, he thought he’d been carrying out some preordained mission of murder based on some holy book. Now he finds it’s the diary of a murderer and that all he’s been doing is carrying out a tradition of killing the innocent.”

“His mind might—“

Rourke looked at his son. “That weapons vault is the only place they could be—all the people from here. I think I know what we’ll find once we locate it.” And John Rourke felt Natalia hold his right arm very tightly as he picked up the twin stainless Scoremasters from the conference table.

Chapter Fifty-Three

Paul Rubenstein stayed near the inside of the air lock, listening—but there was no sound from outside. Behind him, he heard Madison speak. “The woman with Michael’s father—she cannot be his mother. She is too young. Michael’s father seems too young—he looks almost not at all older than Michael.” Paul looked at her and smiled. “That’s a long story. Michael’s mother is at our place—our Retreat. And Natalia is John Rourke’s friend.” “But Michael’s father and the woman Natalia— they look at each other like Michael looks at me, like I look at Michael.”

Rubenstein shrugged. “I told you—it’s a long story. But you’re right—I know the look. There’s a girl—Michael’s sister. Her name is Annie. You’ll like her, Madison—and she looks at me that way.” and he smiled inside himself, feeling the smile as it crossed his lips. “That probably sounds real peculiar. Well, but—“ “I think that you are a good man. That is what she smiles at.”

Paul Rubenstein studied her face a moment. Then he replied, “Thank you—very much,” and he looked away rather than feel more embarrassed than he already felt. That no one came through the doors as yet somehow frightened him more than if dozens of the cannibals were attacking. And what had become^of the people who lived here?

He shivered, shaking his shoulders, flexing the muscles there to shake off the feeling.

The Schmeisser in his hands, he crouched beside the door. “Madison—remember, keep a lookout behind us.”

“I remember,” the girl answered.

Flexing his shoulder muscles had not gotten rid of the feeling.

Chapter Fifty-Four

John Rourke spoke as he ran, Natalia and Michael flanking him as they turned from one corridor into the next. “Think about it. Once they realized the ones they called Them were outside, when the Ministers and the rest of the uppercrust died, they wouldn’t consign their bodies to be eaten. Assuming that the air was at least mar-ginally breathable at least a century ago, that accounts for moving the arms from the vault. They’re using the original vault which would have been sealable as a burial chamber for the Families. If your husband or wife or child died, could you send their body through the air lock to be ripped to pieces?” “But where is it?”

Natalia asked, panting. Rourke’s own body, he realized, was tiring more rapidly because of the prolonged exposure to the thinner air—Natalia’s as well. But Michael, who had lived in the thinner atmosphere for fifteen years, in this heavier atmosphere inside the Place, more like the atmosphere that had once been upon the surface of the earth, seemed to thrive. They stopped at the mouth of a corridor they had not yet explored.

Rourke stared along its length—a massive gray steel door at the far end.

“The vault,” Natalia whispered.

Michael started—very slowly—walking around it, saying, “If they knew we had found our way inside and that the air lock’s integrity was broken and that the cannibals would—“ He let the sentence hang.

“A fear built for a century,” Natalia whispered.

“They’d look at it as a final decent act—the old one and the other Ministers,”

Rourke added. Rourke held the liberated M-16’s pistol grip in his right fist. He

looked at his son. “When the cannibals had Madison before you tried to get her

out, were they about to—“

** “No,” Michael answered quickly.

“Did Madison say why she wasn’t a breeder?”

“No, she—what the hell are you—“

“I don’t know yet—I’m thinking out loud. Forget about it,” and John Rourke walked ahead. If it were nothing with Madison—he suddenly remembered during the fighting. He had given one of the cannibals a knee smash and ie had had virtually no effect.

He stopped at the vaultdoor. His gloves were on but he wouldn’t risk it—he took the black chrome A.G. Russell Sting IA from inside his trouser band, gently tossing the knife toward the door. There was no sparking of electricity. He picked up the knife, re-sheathing it.

He touched the flash deflectored muzzle of the M-16 to the combination dial, then to the opening handle of the vault door, holding the M-16 by the synthetic buttstock only. There was no sparking of electricity either time. He looked to his right—double doors, the kind that swung inward and outward, but a chain looped through the door handles and drawn tight, a padlock on the chain. “Natalia—work on cracking the vault. Mi-chael—keep her covered. Call me when it’s open.”

“Where are you going?” his son called from behind him. “What are—“ “Do as I said,” Rourke answered softly.

Rourke stopped a good fifty feet from the in chained double doors. He shouldered the M*16, the selector set to semi. He sighted on the chain link rather than the lock, firing.

“What are you—“

“Never mind!” It had been a miss. He fired again, connecting, but the chain didn’t break.

“You want the chain broken—just tell me about it,” Michael called from behind him.

Rourke lowered his rifle, then nodded. “I’m sorry I lost my temper. So use your cannon and break the chain.”

Michael stood beside him now, the Magnum Sales Stalker extended in both fists before him.

“Hold your ears, Natalia,” Rourke called, covering his own ears. The gleaming stainless steel revolver bucked once in Michael’s hands and he lowered it a moment, then raised it again to sight through the scope. The revolver fired again. Michael turned to his father. Rourke took his hands from his ears. “You watch yourself with that thing shooting indoors—gonna mess up your hearing.” “What?” and Michael laughed. “I couldn’t hear you.”

Rourke feigned a punch toward his son’s midsection, Michael dodging, laughing. Rourke felt two things inside himself as he walked toward the double doors, the lock shattered and obviously so—gladness for having Michael, and a sickness for what he thought he would find beyond the doors.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Rourke stood in the center of the room. Michael had gone back to Natalia.

There was a single stainless steel surgical table. Beside it was a covered tray.

He lifted the covering from the tray, folding back the white cloth.

He closed his eyes.

The Ministers had many sins. v

He opened his eyes.

He turned away and left the room, but some-thing caught his eye as he did and he stopped. Rourke walked toward a nearly emptied surgical cabinet. The top shelf held a large mortar and pestle.

The middle shelf was empty as was the lower shelf. There was fine dust in the bowl of the pestle— Madison had spoken of never experiencing medi-cal treatment. Michael had said the old one seemed to consider it a sin to attempt to prolong life. It was possible that the Ministers cheated on this, but Rourke doubted it.

Then there was only one other answer.

He shook his head and walked from the room.

He could see Natalia—she was on her knees by the combination dial for the vault.

Rourke kept walking, feeling very tired. He stopped, beside Natalia, handing

Michael his M-16. “Stand up—and hold me—please,” and he watched her eyes as she

looked up at him, as she got from her knees, as she looked at him again, then

her arms folding around him and Rourke leaned his face against her head. His

voice sounded off to him. “I thought we were through with it, ya know? With all

this insanity. Karamatsov is gone. Rozhdestvenskiy is gone. I thought it was all

gone with them. I really did. And then these cannibals—“ Rourke felt Natalia’s

hands touch at his neck—their coolness, their softness. “I really thought that

after all of this—“ and he laughed, holding her body tight against him. He felt

Michael’s hand on his shoulder. “I really—“

“Dad, what—“

Rourke licked his lips. He looked up, at his son, and at the woman he had not been supposed to love but did. “Inside that room—it’s a very basic surgery. I found tools—the kind you’d only use for one thing. And then evidence they were making pills—and two empty shelves. We’re going to open that vault—and every single person from here—“ “I found the combination. All I have to do is—“ “I’ll do it. Don’t come in unless I tell you to.”

“I can—“

“Please,” Rourke whispered, and he stepped away from Natalia a single step. He leaned his lips to her forehead, touching her there. Then he turned to the vaul’t door. He placed his left hand on the handle. “You want your rifle, Dad?” Michael asked.

Rourke only shook his head. He worked the handle downward hard, then pulled on the vault door, swinging it open. “Don’t go inside,” he Ol whispered, going inside.

The overhead light bulbs—he imagined they had found a way of making their own filaments and reusing the bulbs—were bright. He could see clearly. Nearly one hundred people—seven men in three-piece business suits and red bedroom slip-pers; seven women in elaborate re-creations of high fashion dresses from five centuries ago (but they too, incongruously, wore the red slippers); a half dozen children, two boys and four girls, in fashionably expensive looking clothing from five centuries ago, wearing diminutive versions of the red slippers; roughly seventy-five men and women and children in gray slippers, the men wearing the off-white jackets of busboys, the women in severe gray maids’ uniforms, the children dressed iden-tically to the older members of their caste. Infants as well. A few of the business-suited men were missing—the ones from the fight in the cave and the attack of the cannibals, Rourke surmised. Those men were dead. And so was everyone in the room.

Rourke dropped to his knees beside the body of a dead little boy—one of the servant class, a descendant of one of the former masters who had begun it all five centuries earlier. Rourke’s right hand reached out to the boy, the boy sitting against the back of a man, a woman’s head resting in the boy’s lap. Rourke closed the boy’s eyes, and then he closed his own… “Dad!”

Rourke didn’t open his eyes. “Stay outside with Natalia, son,” and then he opened his eyes and he stood, staring down at the dead clustered around him. He began to walk the length of the vault, stepping over the dead, stopping to examine a dead child or a dead woman or a dead man to be certain—but they were all dead.

He found the old one, knowing it was the man Michael had spoken of. The watch chain—Rourke held up the key, letting it sway a moment pendulum fashion. Rourke shook his head, then bent to the man-he replaced the key and closed the man’s eyes.

The far end of the room—he started toward it now. Cloth bags were there—the shapes were enough to show him, stacked one atop the other. Generations of the Families.

He looked at the old one. “For what?” John Rourke whispered.

He would not have expected an answer even if any of them had remained alive. There was a dead woman near his feet as he stopped near the vault door, her eyes dull but once pretty he knew. He looked at her right hand as he closed her eyes—the skin was rough textured from toil. If it were a symbol of poetic justice for the sins of her ancestors—if all of it were that, John Rourke thought. He shook his head, “Aww, shit,” and he stood up and walked back to the living.

Chapter Fifty-Six

“They’re all dead—mass murder or mass sui-cide, I don’t know which,” Rourke told them as he walked, again Natalia and Michael flanking him. “The surgery was used for castrations—the Coun-sel of Ministers realized what they had done sending people out into the outside world. Some of them survived by eating the others and there was no other way for the Ministers to reduce their population without sending out surplus people. So, they castrated the men. The reason we only saw men outside was because of the few who were strong enough to stay alive and be accepted into the cannibals—the ones Madison calls Them— none were women.” And he looked at Natalia. “Even if you were out there, with no weapons, no martial arts training—you wouldn’t have had a prayer.”

“I disagree,” Natalia said flatly.

Rourke put his right arm around her shoulders for an instant, then found her left hand and held it as they continued walking. “Likely the cannibals had enough sense left that when their numbers began dwindling, they’d let new members in—and the food was less needed. Population control for the outside world as well. Involuntary—just like it was inside. You said,” and he looked at Michael, “that one or two of them shouted ‘meat’ as they attacked. They were probably some of the more recent acquisitions to the tribe—they still retained some language that was recognizable. There isn’t any village—they wander, eating what they can off the land and waiting for their ration of meat. And they were never disappointed. Never at all. But they can’t reproduce sexually at all. And with their meat supply gone, some of them will starve to death and the rest of them will just die off naturally. Ten years from now, maybe twenty— none of them will be left. It’ll be as if none of them ever existed. A five-centuries-old tribe, which split in two, completely extinct—except for Madison. Some of them—some of them out there now. Some of them still probably have language abilities, but using language like we know it would have been so rare that it just ceased being necessary. Some of them—we could probably talk with them, bring the language back to them.”

“Isn’t there anything we can do?” Michael asked. “For Them—nothing. Their religion, their lifestyle, their ritual—all of it tied to receiving the human sacrifices. And they won’t have that anymore. We could try to teach them other ways— but they wouldn’t let us.” He had locked the vault door and taken Michael’s revolver and from a safe distance shot off the combination dial. It could never be opened without torches or explosives. “We have to get all the useful stuff from here that we can carry, then make it away from here.”

“Madison told me there were rumored to be other exits from here.” “I could look for them—if we could find another way out, we could avoid another battle with the people outside. I don’t—“

Rourke looked at Natalia. “Agreed—there’s been enough death. Meet us back at the arsenal room—and be careful.”

Natalia started to turn off and Rourke reached out to her. She looked back at him. “One hour or less,” and she glanced to the gold ladies’ Rolex on her left wrist, her left hand held in his right.

“Agreed—one hour.”

Rourke watched after her a moment and then tapped his son on the shoulder.

“You’re a strong young man—that means you can carry a lot of stuff to the bikes.

Come on.”

Rourke started toward the arsenal room, his son beside him.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

She felt bone weary—the travel and the exertion through the thinner air had sapped her strength, she knew. But she forced herself into the gentle run as she moved along the corridor toward the conference room, one of the M-16s held at high port in her balled fists.

She stopped, before the conference room doors.

She started through, inside, past the conference table and the still-open safe, slowing now, stop-ping before the rear wail of the conference room. She had seen executive quarters in all parts of the world—the Kremlin, Washington, the corpora-don boardrooms of New York, Zurich. There was always a secret way in and out.

“Always,” she whispered.

As she began examining the wall surfaces, she thought of John Rourke—of his sadness. He had wanted for the world to be changed, for the evil to be gone from it. He had always, she knew, considered her naive. She smiled at the thought— for once she was the realist.

Evil was as intrinsic to life as good.

Her left hand stopped—she found a seam. Her right hand had the Bali-Song, the knife flicking open in her hand, the tip of the Wee-Hawk blade following the seam now, scratching the paint ever so slightly, but giving the seam in the wall greater definition.

She dropped to a crouch, wiping the blade clean on the carpet, flicking the handle half to close the knife, thumbing closed the lock as she squeezed the handles tight together. She pocketed the Bali-Song, feeling down the length of the wall to the floor, a smile something she could feel on her lips as she found the floor seam, following this as well—she had found the door. She followed the seam out to where it stopped.

Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna had one task remaining as she glanced at her ladies’ Rolex—

more than a half hour remained before the rendezvous with John and Michael. She only had to find a way to open the secret door.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

With Michael, Rourke had emptied the arsenal room of all that the bikes could conceivably carry. He had taken no more M-16s—there was an abundance of the rifles and the ammo for them already stored at the Retreat, nor had he taken .45s, and for the same reason. The six Steyr-Mannlicher SSGs were the only long guns he considered potentially useful from the arsenal, spare maga-zines for these as well and several canisters of .308 to feed the sniper rifles.

.44 Magnum ammo for Michael and 9mm Parabellum for Paul Ruben-stein and for the Walther P-38 pistol Natalia had selected. A half dozen boxes of .880 ACP for Natalia’s stainless PPK/S

American, the silenced pistol she had carried in the final assault against the Womb. A stainless steel six-inch Python from the pistol cabinet, then considering, a second one, as well. Perhaps for Annie, perhaps just to hold in reserve.

He had sent Michael on alone with the last batch of weapons and ammo for them, working fever-ishly to deactivate the weapons Natalia and Paul had not had the time to take care of earlier. To reactivate them, a machinist with gunsmithing abilities would be needed—he doubted any of the cannibals would qualify. He replaced the last of the revolvers—the firing pin removed—in the cabinet, dropping the firing pin with the others in the musette bag at his left side. He turned when he heard the sound of fingers rapping against a door frame, one of the Detonics Scoremasters coming from his trouser band into his right fist. But it was Natalia.

She was smiling. “I found our door. Another air lock. It looks as though it was never used. I opened it. It leads out on the far side of the mountain— there’s a valley beyond, I climbed up some distance. I got our bearings. We can ride through the valley and then go directly south for perhaps a day and then turn east and intersect our original trail here. It should even save us a day’s travel time and the path down from the doorway isn’t so steep that we can’t walk the bikes.”

“What can I say?” Rourke smiled.

“I know what you’ll say. Go get Michael and Paul and Madison and meet you by the doorway.”

“Where is it?”

“In the back wall of the conference room.”

Rourke started toward the doorway. “We’ll get the others together—come on,” and he took her hand in his and started into the corridor.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

“Madison showed me the hydroelectric power plant for this place—it was only a matter of time. No one had repaired or serviced the generators for so long some of the parts were starting to seize with rust. They would have lost their electrical power here in another year at the most. And the backup generator was so heavily greased it wouldn’t have functioned,” Michael announced, walking beside his father.

Rourke only nodded, turning into the corridor which led toward the conference room. He glanced back once—Michael was wheeling one of the Harleys, Paul another and Natalia a third. Madison—like Rourke—was festooned with ar-mament, bringing up the rear.

“When we reach those doors, Natalia, you go first to lead the way—I’ll leave last in case anything goes wrong inside here,” Rourke or-dered. They were at the conference room doors now and Rourke stopped, letting Michael roll the Low Rider past him, then letting Natalia and Paul do the same with the other two bikes. As Madison passed through, looking nervously behind her, Rourke fell into step with her. “Relax,” he told her. “The worst is over—you and Michael will be happy together.”

“But this place—the Place—I—“

“It’s all right now—don’t worry, you’re safe,” and he stopped near the head of the conference table, Natalia pulling open the inside air lock door, Paul Rubenstein helping her.

Natalia looked back once. “It’s very steep seeming—but it can be walked without difficulty, you’ll find. We’ll each need help getting the bikes over the door flanges here and beyond.”

“Natalia can help me after I help her, John,” the younger man volunteered. “Ml take care of it on this end—Natalia, be careful,” Rourke told her matter-of-factly.

Natalia smiled, nodding. Rourke stepped to the other side of her bike, helping her roll the Harley over the inside air lock flange—the air lock was similar to the type found on a submarine and, Rourke theorized, likely bought from surplus or manufactured to naval specifications in the same factory. Natalia’s bike was through, Rourke helping Rubenstein then. He heard Paul Rubenstein’s voice from beyond the interior air lock door. “Wait up a minute—have Michael wait—crowded in here—too crowded.” “Right,” Rourke called back—he looked at his son, standing beside Madison. “You two are next,” he told them. And then Rourke heard another sound—almost too low to hear but his hearing had always been good and he had always trained himself to listen for sounds that shouldn’t be there.

This was such a sound—almost impossible to discern, it was the guttural cry of

one of the cannibals and it came from beyond the conference

%

room doors and somewhere inside the Place.

Chapter Sixty

Michael had pushed Madison through the inside air lock door and swung his M-16 forward so rapidly that momentarily Rourke had been shocked by his son’s instant apprehension of the danger. He was learning, John Rourke thought. Rourke started toward the conference room doors, running now, the M-16 in his right hand. He called to his son, his voice a rasping whisper,

“Don’t open lire—don’t make any loud noises. Let’s keep ‘em searching for us long enough to get everyone through. You go back—get Madison on the back of one of the bikes and ride like hell.”

“I’m staying with you. We’re—“

“Fighting together, that’s just what we’re doing. But the more people we have to get through that air lock the longer it’ll take. Just do as I say— I’m not plannin’ to wait around any longer than I have to. Have Paul ride with you—Natalia can be the last away. She’s gonna have to wait for me— we’re sharing the same bike.”

His son’s brown eyes could only be described by one word, Rourke thought—intense. Michael Rourke extended his right hand. “Dad—“ Rourke took his son’s hand in his, then folded his arms around him. “I love you—now get out of here.” v He felt the pressure of his son’s arms embrace him for a moment, then Michael was starting in a long-strided run back toward the air lock. “If you aren’t following us in five minutes—well, Paul can carry double on his bike too and I’ll be back, Dad.”

Rourke smiled at his son. “I know you will— now hurry,” and Michael started the last bike through the interior air lock door.

Rourke worked the selector of the M-16 to auto, waiting. Rolling back the knit cuff of his battered brown bomber jacket, he glanced at the luminous black face of the Rolex Submariner—he would give Michael and the others three minutes only. No more would be needed.

Rourke reached into his inside jacket pocket— he clamped the cigar, unlit, between his teeth, biting down hard on it, waiting. The shouts, the cries—they grew louder now.

Footsteps behind him—Rourke wheeled, the M-16 low, his finger nearly touching the trigger.

“Natalia—what the hell are—“ “Paul and I decided. Michael and Madison can make it on their own—Paul’s outside with the bikes.”

Rourke shook his head, then turned back to the doorway, Natalia taking the opposite side, an M-16 locked in each fist. “When they come,” Rourke told her, “empty your guns down the center of the corridor and run for it. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Agreed—I love you.”

“I love you too—what the hell we’re gonna do about it, I don’t know.”

“Sarah will change her mind.”

“I don’t think so—but she’s still my wife.”

“I understand that—I always have. It doesn’t change how I feel.”

“I know that,” Rourke told her. “I’m sorry—“

“For the way you are? Don’t be—don’t ever be, John. If someday—well, then we will. But I don’t need that to love you, do you know that?” “Yes,” Rourke almost whispered. “I’m glad you’re with me.” He saw them—the first of the cannibals as they raced along the corridor from where the corridor bent. “Don’t shoot yet,” Rourke commanded. “I want the whole corridor full of them.”

Natalia didn’t answer. Rourke shifted the M-16 from his right fist into his left. With his right hand, he drew one of the recently liberated Detonics Scoremaster pistols, jacking back the hammer, the chamber already loaded in this pistol as well as its twin still tucked into his belt. More of the cannibals, the cannibals filling the corridor. “Now!” Rourke shouted, pumping the M-16’s trigger in a three-round burst, Natalia stepping into the doorway, both M-16s spitting fire from her hands, the Scoremaster in Rourke’s right fist bucking again and again, waves of the cannibals going down, stone clubs launched toward them, falling just short of the doorway. “Empty!” Natalia shouted.

fi

“Run for it—I’ll cover you!”

Rourke’s M-16 empty as well, two shots re-mained in the Scoremaster—Rourke fired them off, ramming the gun, slide locked open, into his waistband, drawing the second Scoremaster with his left fist, firing into the attacking cannibals. He started backing away from the doorway, more of them coming, many of them already wounded and bleeding. The second Scoremaster was empty. Slide locked open, he rammed this into his belt as well.

The twin Detonics stainless Combat Masters— both fists found them, ripping them from the double Alessi shoulder rig, his thumbs jacking back the hammers. He was at the air lock doorway, cannibals charging now through the conference room doorway, Rourke’s index fingers twitchingagainst the triggers, bodies going down.

One pistol empty—the second empty now. Rourke turned, stepping through the doorway, throwing his weight against the air lock door, feeling suddenly weight—pushing at it. Then more weight as he threw his body against it—the door was being pushed open against him.

A hand through the space between the door and the frame. The A.G. Russel Sting IA—Rourke stabbed the back of the hand with the small bladed knife, a scream of pain, a spurt of blood, the hand drawn back. Rourke dropped the knife. Behind him—Natalia’s voice. “John, run for it—we can get the second door together.”

Rourke reached down for the Sting IA and ran, diving through the second door, rolling onto the rocks beyond, twisting, clambering to his feet, throwing his weight against the exterior air lock door, Natalia beside him. But the door would not close. “Paull” But Rubenstein was already beside them. “Who the hell’s on the other side of that door?”

“A bunch of determined guys who don’t know any better—rugged outdoor life they lead, all that crap. Now push,” Rourke snarled, leaning into it as he fought the door.

“It’s no good!” Natalia shouted.

Rourke glanced behind him once, chewing down harder on his cigar. “Natalia, start Paul’s bike—then start our bike. Paul—when I count to five, make a run for your bike and—“ “It’s too steep that way,” Natalia interrupted. “We’ll have to cut across the mountain—there’s a better path on the far side that we can ride down.” “You heard her—then cut across. Natalia and I’ll be right behind you.”

“I’ll lay down some fire once you guys get rollin’.”

“Right.” Rourke nodded to the younger man. “Natalia—get the bikes started.” Natalia moved away from the air lock door, Rourke throwing his weight hard against it now— it was the first time he had realized how strong Natalia was, despite her size.

The roar of one of the Harley’s coming to life. The sound of an engine being gunned again and again.

More pressure against the door.

The sound of the second Harley starting, Rourke shouting to Paul Rubenstein.

“Run for it—go on!”

“Count of five?”

“One—two—three—four—FIVE!”

“See ya,” and Paul Rubenstein jumped back from the door, running, Rourke looking back once as the younger man mounted his machine, the engine revving once, then the bike tearing off across the mountain top.

“I’m ready,” Natalia shouted.

Rourke looked back at her—both M-16s were leveled at the doorway. “Now!” Rourke released the door, half stum-bling back, hitting the rock surface, the door flying open, cannibals starting to pour from inside, Natalia’s M-16s firing over his head, Rourke dragging himself across the rock surface, clear of her guns now, to his feet.

He straddled the Jet Black Low Rider, shouting to Natalia as he rammed fresh magazines into the little Detonics pistols, then stuffed them back in his side pockets. “Now!”

The gunfire ceased, shouts and the bizarre speech of the cannibals filling the air—the pressure of Natalia on the bike, her hands tapping his shoulders, the pressure of her arms around his waist as he gunned the bike, away, the blur of a stone axe as it crossed the edge of his peripheral vision, shouts, the explosive sounds of the Hai-ley’s exhaust system as he let the machine out, the chatter of subgunfire from ahead, Paul Ruben-stein firing the Schmeisser into the air to hold them back.

Then Rourke was even with Rubenstein’s bike, Rubenstein’s machine charging ahead as well, the twin exhaust systems deafening in the clear, thin air. Ahead the mountain seemed to evaporate, to drop away. “To the left—hurryl” It was Natalia shouting from behind him, Rourke twisting the Harley’i fork, balancing it out with his combat-booted feet, wrenching the bike into a hard left, following along the edge of the flat expanse of rock. “Just ahead—a sharp right and you’re clear of the mountain top, John!” Rourke nodded, clamping the cigar tighter between his teeth, squinting despite the dark-lensed aviator-style sunglasses he wore, Natalia shouting loud now. “Twenty yards—then turn.” Rourke slowed the Harley, then Natalia shouted, “Here!

Here!”

Rourke wrenched the bike right, blind, not seeing the trail, but trusting Natalia as he had so many times before. The Harley lurched under him, bounced. Before them, running steeply downward but not so steeply as to be unnavigable, was a trail, the valley spreading out below.

Rourke slowed the bike again, balancing the machine with his feet as the trail dodged right then left then right. He glanced back once—Paul Rubenstein was coming along the trail and the cannibals were already gone from sight. John Rourke remembered to breathe then.

Chapter Sixty-One

They had intercepted Michael and Madison in the valley, Natalia’s route across the mountain and then down, despite a greater distance, faster than Michael’s navigating the bike down the steeper trail by walking it. They had ridden long into the night, the moon bright, traveling on until nearly dawn to be far gone from the Place and the ones Madison had called Them. A sparse meal—Madison had tried meat again and Michael had patiently explained to her that the meat of domestic animals or wild game was all i lght to eat. She had not eaten much, John Rourke had noticed.

They had slept a few hours, Rourke, his son and Paul Rubenstein each taking a two-hour shift on guard, then taking to the trail again without breakfast, by midmorning.

They settled into a schedule, reaching the Retreat the prime objective, stopping once to leave the route and locate one of the strategic fuel sites to gas up the Harleys and the spare gas canisters, then to move on. John Rourke and his son had agreed—to return to the wooded area where Michael had found the parachute, then to fan out and search for the wreckage of the aircraft to learn its source.

But after Christmas,

They had ridden hard through the day, and long into the night now, the Retreat so close and the date December twenty-fourth. Christmas—always a time Sarah had at once enjoyed and found somehow sad. John Rourke had no desire to make this Christmas sadder. ‘s They had crossed the remains of a paved road and started up the long mountain road toward the main entrance of the Retreat, John Rourke rolling hack the cuff of his bomber jacket to read the face of the Rolex—it was smudged with the light snow as soon as he rolled back the cuff and he wiped this away to better read the watch face. It was nearly midnight—and very soon, before it was actually Christmas morning, they would be “home”. He felt a smile cross his lips. “Home,” he murmured.

“John!”

It was Natalia’s voice from behind him, muffled sounding, his back shielding her from the wind.

“What is it?” he said over his shoulder, slowing the Harley Low Rider under them.

“For a moment—stop and look up there.”

Rourke slowed the Harley even more, making a wide arc with it, Michael with Madison behind him stopping just ahead of them, Paul stopping beside them. “We’re almost home, Dad—what’s up?”

Paul Rubenstein stopped beside them, laugh-ing. “You didn’t remember to wish me happy Hanukkah, but I’ll wish you Merry Christmas anyway.” Rourke reached out and clasped his old friend on the back. “Happy Hanukkah then.”

“You can remember me on May Day,” Natalia laughed, “but look up there—all of you.”

The snow was a shower, the sky surprisingly clear, a wide opening in the clouds to the east.

Light. One. Then another, then another, and still more, pinpoints, moving, “The radio—we can signal them!” Michael shouted. ^”Holy shit—the Eden Project, it’s gotta be,” Paul Rubenstein murmured. “Yes.” John Rourke nodded. “I doubt they’ll be able to read our signal—but, maybe, we can try to—“ But the clouds covered the opening in the sky now and the pinpoints of moving light were no longer visible. Had the atmosphere been the way it was when the Eden Project fleet had left the Earth five centuries earlier to travel in cryogenic sleep to the edge of the solar system and back, the shuttles would never have been visible at all, Rourke realized. “They will find us—or we’ll find them,” Natalia said from behind him. It would be a long night, Rourke knew—listening for radio signals, alternately transmitting, observing in the cold from the top of the mountain to attempt to get a fix on the crafts if they passed overhead again. Coincidence or providence, Rourke wondered. He dismissed the question. Rourke twisted in the saddle to better see Natalia’s face. He took her face in his hands, the wind catching at her hair, her cheeks cold to the touch, her lips drawing out into a smile. “Merry Christmas, John*” He smiled, wondering—but he drew her face toward him, kissing her lips, holding her there.

Chapter Sixty-Two

All was ready, his meager things prepared for the journey—an historic journey, he had told himself.

The old wounds bothered him not at all.

His speed with a gun was fast—very fast. Faster, he wondered? Faster than John Rourke?

The vial of the cryogenic serum he had paid so much to obtain when he had first learned of the Eden Project long before the Night of The War. The gunfight—he had lost.

But some few of his faithful—he would sing their names to the pages of history—they had taken him, found him the best of care in secret and when the inevitability of it had been known, helped him to survive. He closed his eyes tightly, a pressure behind them he could feel, then opening them, staring at the sky—it was already Christmas. And the present he so much wanted to bestow—the gift of death— he could not yet give. “Soon,” he whispered to the morning stars, to the horizon beyond the mountain top where he had forged his plans, begun it all. Footsteps crunched in the snow behind him and he turned around. “All is ready. But there are strange signals coming over the radio—it is perhaps the time. The words are garbled—but I think they are English. It is a signal like none I have ever heard.”

“The Eden Project. So much the better—so much the better.”

“There is no way to be certain.”

“I am certain. When the pain was all that consumed me, it seemed somehow to deepen my perception, to heighten my awareness—I could feel their presence before you spoke of it to me. We leave, then.”

The other man, swathed in arctic parka and ski toque, raised his right hand in salute, “Yes, Comrade Colonel.”

The snow through which he trod had been virgin until he had made his imprint on it, he thought as he walked, the subordinate following him. It would be that way with this new world as well.