The End is Coming

Chapter Twenty-one

She leaned against the fuselage of the plane, the prototype F-111. One more crate remained, M-16

rifles. She looked skyward—the horizon was pink-tinged, thunder rumbling in the east, streaks of lightning across the pink line between day and night.

She could hear Paul coming back from the cam-ouflaged Ford pickup—and she turned to watch him. He moved like a man twice his age, his left arm stiff at his side. Natalia turned quickly away from him, to the crate of rifles, reaching out for it, drawing it to-ward her—it was only twenty feet or so to the truck and perhaps—

“Hey— what the hell are you doin’?”

“I’m trying to move the crate—what’s it look like, Paul?”

She felt him shove past her, felt, heard the pain it caused his arm as they made contact. His right hand was beside hers on the crate’s rope handle, wrenching the crate away from her at an awkward angle.

“I take one end, you take the other—just like we’ve been doing,” he said, not looking at her.

“I can do it—your arm—”

“Bullshit—your abdomen, probably still weak from the surgery—all I need is for you to rupture that area where John operated—now get out—”

Her left hand went against his chest as she turned to face him, shoving him back. “All I need is for you to die—get your arm bleeding again. Bullshit to you, too, Paul!”

She was screaming at him.

She stopped.

Rubenstein leaned forward, against the fuse-lage. He was laughing. Natalia, too, felt herself begin to laugh. “What do you say we just leave this crate of rifles, huh?” he smiled.

“What do you say we just carry it like the other ones—hmm? That’s a better idea.”

“Yeah—it is a good idea—and you’re a good lady,” and then he turned to face her fully, and as his right arm moved out to her, she leaned her head against his chest.

Without his strength—not the physical kind, despite her sex she was his equal in physical stam-ina and endurance, though he was better in agil-ity—life would have been sadder for her.