Total War

Chapter Twenty-eight

John Rourke leaned back against a rock and stared at the wrecked airplane two hundred yards away. He closed his eyes, and he wanted to put his hands over his ears to shut out the moaning of the injured passengers-the ones he'd worked through the long day to save.

"Mr. Rourke-coffee?"

He opened his eyes. The stewardess-the same one who had helped him at the beginning-was standing beside him, a coffee cup in her hand.

"Yeah, thanks," he said.

"I don't believe the way you were able to get everybody out, Mr. Rourke, then go back for the things in the cargo hold. You're a real, live hero."

Rourke smiled at the woman. "Well, going back into the cargo hold was pure selfishness. I needed the stuff I had there."

"Those?"

Rourke followed her eyes to the twin stainless Detonics .45's in the holster across his shoulders. "Yeah-and the other ones, too. I'm going to have to go into town for some medical help-if I can find it. There isn't much more I can do for most of the people who were injured. And when I leave you people, you may need to defend yourselves. And I need to defend myself when I try making it into Albuquerque."

"Defend ourselves? From what? Surely, no one-"

Rourke cut her off "Let me ask you a question," he said. "Would you have felt comfortable walking around in a high-crime area in Atlanta last night? Or any night?"

"Well-no."

"How about Chicago, New York, Los Angeles?"

"Well-certainly I wouldn't have, but-"

"Now, that's with police, civil courts, the whole shot of civilization. What about with no police, no courts, no laws-no civilization?"

"But-"

"People who'd hit you over the head to steal your money when there might be a cop looking will kill you to steal your food, your medical supplies, your ammunition-when their lives depend on getting it. You understand? Since last night, in almost any area you can think of, there is no law, no protection. The only recourse you have is yourself, or someone who cares enough about you to put himself on the line."

"Is that why you're going for help, Mr. Rourke?" the stewardess asked.

"Somebody has to," Rourke grunted. "I'm going to leave you in charge-with a gun. That Canadian businessman who was sitting next to me-what's his name?"

"Mr. Quentin?"

"Yeah, well he said that he shoots. I'll leave him a gun, too-two of them. If somebody shows up and starts acting funny, shoot first and ask questions afterward. Got it? I'm taking about five or six people in with me-just in case we can't get help to come out here, we'll be able to bring enough stuff back to do something. I make it twenty, maybe twenty-five miles into Albuquerque. We'll be there by dawn. Be back by tomorrow night, late, probably. So just hold out, huh?"

Rourke took the stewardess aside and showed her how to work the Colt Python .357, then left it with her. He gave his CAR-15 rifle to his florid-faced ex-seatmate, along with the snub-nosed Metalifed Colt Lawman .357 revolver, reminding him the stewardess was in charge. Among the survivors, he found five men strong enough and willing to accompany him on foot to Albuquerque. He let one of the five carry his SteyrMannlicher bolt-action rifle. It was cool on the desert with night failing, and he pulled a sweater on over his shirt and the Allessi shoulder rig with his Detonics .45s, then pulled his sportcoat back on over the sweater. He started from the camp with his group. He heard the stewardess running after him.

"Mr. Rourke! I thought you and the other men could use these." She handed him a paper bag.

"Sandwiches?"

"Uh-huh."

"Thoughtful, Miss...?" Rourke had still not bothered to learn the young woman's name.

"Sandy Benson," she said, smiling.

"You have a pretty smile, Sandy,"

Rourke said, then turned and started away from the impromptu camp.

He glanced at his watch, then at the hazy moon. The Rolex on his wrist read eight P.M. Shifting his right shoulder under the water bottle suspended there on a borrowed trouser belt, he looked at the five men with him and then at the open ground in front of them. He guessed they would make four or five miles an hour. With rest stops, they'd be in Albuquerque by sunrise or before.

He walked with the five men in silence for the first hour, making a better pace than he'd thought they would. Then he called a rest stop. The five sat by themselves and made no move to talk with him. He watched them for a while, then tried remembering their names. One was O'Toole. Another, Rubenstein. Then there was Phillips. He couldn't remember the last two names. One of the men-one of the two whose names he didn't remember-said, suddenly, "Are you really coming back, Rourke?"

"That's what I told everybody," Rourke answered quietly.

"Are you for real?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Rourke asked.

"Well, most of those people back there are dying, except for the stewardess you left your rifle with, and the Canadian guy and a few others, maybe."

"Left my rifle with the Canadian. I left the stewardess a revolver," Rourke corrected. "Don't you think we owe it to the people back there to help?"

"What about us?"

"Well, what about us?" The one who had been talking started to get to his feet.

"Well," he said, walking toward Rourke, "I say we don't."

Rourke stood, his back aching. "Then, just don't go back," he said. "We can get along okay without you."

"Yeah," the man said, stopping less than a yard from Rourke. "But that isn't the point. With your guns, we'd stand a better chance."

"I can see where that's true," Rourke said, looking away from the man a moment and nodding his head. "And you figure you need all the help you can get. Like my guns. Right?"

"Right."

"Not right," Rourke said softly, and his left fist hammered forward and into the man's stomach. At the same time, his right knee came up and connecting with the side of the man's jaw. Already, both of Rourke's hands had snatched one of the Detonics .45's from the shoulder holsters. Rourke took a step back. One of the other four men had the stock of Rourke's 550 sniper rifle to his shoulder. Rourke shouted, "You might get off one shot-but while you're working that bolt action, I'll kill all of you unless that first shot is a good one. Your move. I said my piece."

He thought it was Rubenstein, but wasn't sure. The man stepped away from the other three, hands in the air, saying, "Hey-wait. I'm not with them."

A second man, carrot-red hair in his eyes, stepped beside Rubenstein. It was O'Toole. "Me neither!"

Keeping one of the guns trained on Rubenstein and O'Toole, Rourke shouted, "What about it?" to the other two men. He could hear the man he'd decked starting to groan.

The man holding Rourke's rifle started to lower the gun from his shoulder.

"Don't drop it-set it down slowly," Rourke whispered. "Rubenstein," he rasped, hoping he was matching the name to the right face. The man who'd first broken away took a step toward him. "Pick up my rifle. Grab it by the barrel and come here and stretch it out to me. Be quick about it." Rourke watched as Rubenstein walked over, picked up the rifle by the muzzle end, then started toward him. Rourke shoved the Detonics from his left hand into his belt, reaching out with his free hand and grasping the stock of the rifle. He slid the gun through his hand, catching it forward of the trigger guard along the front stock, then slipped his left arm between the rifle and the sling and hauled the synthetic stocked bolt action onto his left shoulder.

The man he'd knocked down was groaning louder now, and Rourke stepped back from him. Then, looking at the four men still standing, Rourke said slowly, "Now-if I were smart, I'd kill all of you right now and save myself headaches later on. Once we get into Albuquerque, anybody who wants to come into this with me and go back for the rest of the passengers can. Anybody who doesn't, just stay away from me. But if you split and if I ever see you again, I'll kill you. Now, you two," and Rourke gestured toward Rubenstein and O'Toole. "Pick up this guy and get him walking. We're moving out, and all you guys are staying in front of me. One wrong move from anybody and he gets a bullet-maybe two just for luck. Questions?"

None of the four men said anything. Rubenstein and O'Toole walked forward slowly and started helping the fifth man off the ground. "All right-let's start walkin'," Rourke said.