The End is Coming

Chapter Thirteen

She was exhausted, but she was careful—not to show it. Because Paul Rubenstein seemed even more exhausted and the seriousness of his wound sustained at the hands of the Wildmen was some-thing that worried her. It would heal well, but there had been much blood loss—the Wildman’s spear had impaled Rubenstein’s arm, and it had been some time before medical treatment had been available. She killed the red light switch and stepped in be-hind Paul, into the Retreat.

“No need to close the inside door,” Paul told her, leaning heavily against the natural rock beside the interior entrance door, the lights on in the Great Room now, his hand beside the switch. “Welcome home,” he told her, looking at her, smiling.

“Paul—why don’t I change your bandages—and make you comfortable—there’s nothing that heavy that I can’t load it into the truck— “

“Bullshit—like John’d say— “ and then his eyes lit behind his wire-framed glasses, smiling— “But you can drive the pickup—”

She only nodded—men were insane....

They had gotten the truck ready quickly—Nata-lia had, forcing Paul to rest on the couch in the Great Room of the Retreat, hoping against hope that he would fall asleep. She could disable his bike and hers so he couldn’t follow her, and he would be forced to rest. But he hadn’t fallen asleep—and they drove, together, away from the Retreat now, down the mountain—she thought of it as Rourke’s mountain but supposed on some map of northeastern Georgia somewhere it had a different name. But that didn’t matter—it was his mountain. He had bought the property, forged the Retreat with his own hands, stocked it—he had prepared.

She felt a smile cross her lips—he was always prepared—almost.

And she felt something else at the thought—her love for him.

And it was, like he had said, “home”—now, for-ever. Whatever happened with Sarah, whatever happened with the world—she would be with John Rourke, however he wanted her with him. It was still a long drive to the hidden F-111 prototype and the cache of arms and ammunition and supplies. The road was best built for foot travel, horse-back or motorcycles—even the four-wheel drive of the truck was hard pressed, she realized, driving down from the Retreat, the Retreat doors secured again with their weights and balances locking system, the interior secured with its combination sys-tems. The truck’s lights were out and she drove by the intermittent moonlight. Thunder rumbled, illuminating the high, scat-tered clouds, the clouds seeming to be a rich blue when lit by the lightning.

Beside her, Paul Rubenstein was asleep.

She yawned, rolling the window of the camou-flage-painted Ford pickup truck all the way down, forcing her eyes to stay open, putting her head partly out the window so the cold night breeze would help keep her awake.

She thought of a line by the American poet Robert Frost—”... miles to go before I sleep.” Her favorite poets were Russian poets—but his words and thoughts seemed good to her.