The End is Coming

Chapter Twenty-two

Mary Mulliner stood beside the entrance to the bunker, the children pressed against her as she hugged them, John Rourke stood next to Sarah Rourke, beside the dented light blue pickup truck Pete Critchfield had scrounged for them—like Rourke’s own pickup, which he imagined by now Natalia and Paul had used to empty the F-l 11 and ferry the supplies to the Retreat, this too was a Ford. It was a “loan,” but both Rourke and Critchfield had known the likelihood of the truck’s being re-turned was remote to the point of nonexistence.

Rourke held his wife’s right hand in his left, his right hand holding the scoped CAR-15. The golden retriever belonging to Mary Mulliner ran between Sarah and where Mary and the children stood—it yelped.

It looked like a good dog, Rourke thought.

He let go of his wife’s hand, to glance at the black-faced Rolex Submariner he wore. It was nearly eight-thirty.

The Harley was packed, ready.

“I know,’” Sarah told him softly. “But she loves them—always acted like a grandmother to them, or an aunt. I can’t just say—”

But then Mary Mulliner’s voice, from across the yard, cut her off. “John Rourke—I don’t know if you know what you got here. These two chil-dren—and this boy of yours is more of a man than most men I’ve ever heard tell of. And your wife—she’s been pinin’ for you, John Rourke. Keep her good.”

“Yes, ma’am—I intend to,” Rourke nodded.

Then Mary Mulliner started across the yard. Michael and Annie hugged against her hips as she walked. The dog was barking maddeningly.

“Hush,” she hissed to the dog, and the golden obeyed, stretching out at her feet as she stopped a yard away from Rourke and his wife. “The dog—misses Bill, I guess,” and she started to smile, then burst into tears. Sarah folded the older woman in her arms and hugged her tightly. Rourke watched, felt his children tugging at him. Affection, he suddenly realized, had always been hard for him.

He closed his eyes as the golden retriever started barking again.