The Savage Horde

Chapter 25

Rourke, Paul Rubenstein and Natalia sat, their eyes transfixed as were the eyes of the submarine's complement not on duty—to the television monitors in the crew mess. It had been the same with San Francisco when they had passed the ruins—watching a city where once people lived now an underwater tomb. With this city it was doubly difficult—a young seaman first class had been born there, lived there—his mother, father, two sisters and wife and son had died there.

But he had insisted on watching—and now he wept.

Not one of the men touched him; Rourke, feeling perhaps like the rest of them, not knowing what to say, to do.

Natalia—wearing a robe borrowed from the captain, moving slowly, her left hand holding at her abdomen where Rourke had made the incisions—stood. Rourke started up after her, but she shook her head, murmuring, "No, John," then walked. She supported herself against the long, spotlessly clean tables, moving to alongside the weeping man.

"I am sorry—for your family—and for you," she whispered, Rourke watching her, watching all the others watching her.

The young man looked up. "Why'd you and your people wanna kill us—we coulda talked it out—or somethin'?"

"I don't know, sailor—I don't know," she whispered.

He looked at her, just shaking his head.

She moved her hands, touching them lightly to his shoulders. He looked down, his neck bent, his shoulders slumping. Natalia took a step toward him, leaning against him to help herself stand, her arms folding around his neck, his head coming to rest against her abdomen.

She closed her eyes as he wept.

Rourke breathed.