The Nightmare begins

Chapter Five

The red-orange orb of sun was low on the horizon at the far end of the long straight ribbon of flat highway reaching toward El Paso, still some ten or more miles away, as Rourke figured it. He turned his bike onto the shoulder and braked, arcing the front wheel to the side and resting on it, looking down the road. He didn't bother to turn as Rubenstein pulled up beside him, overshooting Rourke by a few feet, then walking the bike back. "Why are we stopping, John?"

"We're about eight or ten minutes out of El Paso. It doesn't look like it was hit. But it wasn't what you might call the gentlest town in the world before the war, I remember. Juarez is right across the bridge from it over the Rio Grande."

"We going into Mexico?"

"No—not unless I can't avoid it. Those paramilitary troops we locked horns with were bad enough to worry about and they're on our tail by now again. Probably had a radio, right?"

"Yeah," Rubenstein said, looking thoughtful a moment. "Yeah, I think they did."

"Well, we might have a reception waiting for us up ahead. But in Mexico we could have federal troops on our tails—they do their number a hell of a lot better.

With the guns and the bikes and whatever other equipment somebody might imagine we had, we'd have everybody and his brother trying to knock us off to get it. I don't know if Mexico got caught up in the war or not, but things might be awful rough down there."

"Well," Rubenstein said, "maybe we should skip El Paso entirely."

"Yeah, I've thought of that," Rourke said slowly, still staring down the highway. He lit one of his cigars and tongued it to the left corner of his mouth. "I thought about that a lot on the road the last few miles. But I haven't seen any game since we got started, have you?"

Rubenstein looked at him, then quickly said, "No—me neither."

Rourke just nodded, then said, "And that baby food I snatched isn't going to make more than a day's rations for both of us. And you're right, it does taste kind of pukey. We need food, we're almost out of water and we could use some more gasoline. I wouldn't mind scrounging some medical instruments if I could find them. I've got all that stuff at the retreat, but it's a long way getting there still."

"You never told me," Rubenstein asked, staring down the highway trying to see what Rourke was staring at so intently. "Why do you have the retreat? I mean, did you know this war was going to happen, or what?"

"No—I didn't know it," Rourke said slowly. "See, I went through medical school, interned and everything. I'd always been interested in history, current events, things like that." Rourke exhaled a long stream of gray cigar smoke that caught on the light breeze and eddied in front of him a moment before vanishing into the air. "I guess I figured that instead of training to cure people's problems, maybe I could prevent them. Didn't work out though. I joined the CIA, spent some years there—mostly in Latin America. I was always good with guns, liked the out-of-doors. Some experiences I had with the company sort of sharpened my skills that way. I married Sarah just before I got out. I was already writing about survival and weapons training—things like that. I settled down to writing and started the retreat. The more friction that developed between us, the more time and energy I poured into the retreat. I've got a couple of years' worth of food and other supplies there, the facilities to grow more food, make my own ammo. The water supply is abundant—I even get my electricity from it. All the comforts—" Rourke stopped in midsentence.

"All the comforts of home," Rubenstein volunteered brightly, completing the sentence.

"Once I find Sarah and Michael and Ann."

"How old is Michael again?"

"Michael's six," Rourke said, "and little Annie just turned four. Sarah's thirty-two. That picture I showed you of Sarah and the kids is kind of off—but it was a kind of happy time when I took it so I held on to it."

"She's an artist?"

"Illustrated children books, then started writing them too a couple of years ago. She's very good at it."

"I always wanted to try my hand at being an artist," Rubenstein said.

Rourke turned and glanced at Rubenstein, saying nothing.

"What do you think we'll run into in El Paso?" Rubenstein asked, changing the subject.

"Something unpleasant, I'm sure," Rourke said, exhaling hard and chomping down on his cigar. He unlimbered the CAR-15 with the collapsible stock and three-power scope and slung it under his right arm, then cradled the gun across hs lap. He worked the bolt to chamber a round and set the safety, then started the Harley.

"Better get yours," he said to Rubenstein, nodding toward the German MP-40

submachinegun strapped to the back of Rubenstein's bike.

"I guess I'd better," the smaller man said, pushing his glasses up off the bridge of his nose. "Hey, John?"

"Paul?"

"I did okay back there, didn't I—I mean with those paramilitary guys?"

"You did just fine."

"I mean, I'm not just hangin' on with you, am I?"

Rourke smiled, saying, "If you were, Paul, I'd tell you." Rourke cranked into gear and started slowly along the shoulder. Rubenstein—Rourke glanced back—already had the "Schmeisser" slung under his right arm and was jumping his bike.