The Nightmare begins Page 2
seems to have been saturated. According to that Arizona kid I got on the radio
before we crashed, the San Andreas fault line slipped and everything north of
San Diego washed into the sea and the tidal waves flooded as far in as Arizona,
and there were quakes there. Albuquerque was abandoned after the
firestorm—except for the injured and dying and the wild dogs—you remember them.
We shot it out with that gang of renegade bikers who butchered the people we'd
left back at the plane while we went to try and get help. Now how would you
evaluate all that?"
"No civil authority, no government—every man himself. No law at all."
"You're wrong there," Rourke said quietly. "There is law. There's always moral
law—but we're not violating that by taking things here that we need in order to
survive out there. And the obligation we have is to stay alive—you want to see
if your parents made it, I want to find Sarah and the children. So we owe it to
ourselves and to them to stay alive. Now go and see if you can find something to
use as a sack to carry all this stuff. I'm going to take some of this baby
food—it's full of protein and sugar and vitamins."
"I have a little—I mean had—a little nephew back in New York—that," and
Rubenstein's voice began noticeably tightening, "that stuff tastes terrible."
"But it can keep us alive," Rourke said, with a note of finality.
Rubenstein started to turn and go out of the trailer, then looked back to
Rourke, saying, "John—New York is gone, isn't it? My nephew—his parents. I had a
girl. We weren't serious but we might have gotten serious. But it's gone, isn't
it?"
Rourke leaned against the wall of the trailer, his hands flat against the wood
there, closing his eyes a moment. "I don't know. You want an educated guess, I'd
say, yeah, New York is gone. I'm sorry, Paul. But it was probably quick—they
couldn't have even tried to evacuate."
"I know—I've been thinking about that. I used to buy a paper from a little guy
down on the corner—he was a Russian immigrant. Came here to escape the mess
after the Russian revolution—he was just a little boy then. He was always so
concerned with his manliness. I remember in the wintertime he never pulled his
hat down over his ears and they were red and peeling. His cheeks were that way.
I used to say to him, 'Max—why don't you protect your face and ears—you're gonna
get frostbite.' But he'd just smile and not say anything. But he spoke English.
I guess he's dead too, huh?"
Rourke sighed hard, then bent forward to look into an open box in front of him.
He already knew what was inside the box, but he looked there anyway. "I guess he
is, Paul."
"Yeah," Rubenstein said, his voice odd-sounding to Rourke. "I guess—" Rourke
looked up and Rubenstein was already climbing out of the trailer. Rourke
searched the remaining boxes quickly. He found some flashlight batteries,
bar-type shaving soap prepacked in small mugs and safety razors and blades. He
rubbed the stubble on his face, took a safety razor, as many packs of blades as
he could cram in the breast pocket of his sweat-stained blue shirt and one of
the mugs and several bars of soap. He found another consignment of
ammunition—158 grain semijacketed soft point .357s and took eight boxes of
fifty. With it were some .223 solids, and he took several hundred rounds of
these as well. He carried what he wanted in two boxes back to the rear of the
trailer and helped Rubenstein climb inside with the sack to carry it all. They
crammed the sack full and Rourke jumped down to the road, boosting the sack onto
his left shoulder and carrying it toward the bikes. Rourke, as Rubenstein
climbed down from the truck, said, "We're going to have to split up this load."
As Rourke turned toward his bike, he heard Rubenstein's voice and over it the
clicking of bolts— from assault rifles. Without moving he looked up, heard
Rubenstein repeat, "John!"
Slowly, Rourke raised to his full height, squinting against the glare through
his sunglasses. A dozen men—in some sort of uniform—were on the far side of the
road. Slowly, Rourke turned around, and behind him, on Rubenstein's side of the
road beside the abandoned truck trailer, were at least a half-dozen more. All
the men carried assault rifles of mixed heritages—and all the guns were trained
on Rourke and Rubenstein.
"Caught you boys with your fingers in the pie, didn't we?" a voice from
Rubenstein's side of the road shouted.
"That's a damned stupid remark," Rourke said, his voice very low.
"You men are under arrest," the voice said, and this time Rourke matched it with
a face in the center of the men by the trailer. Fatter than the others, the
man's uniform was more complete and military appearing. There was a patch on the
man's left shoulder, and as Rourke tried to decipher what it stood for he
noticed the duplicate of the patch on most of the uniforms of the other men.
"Who's arresting us?" Rourke asked softly.
"I am Captain Nelson Pincham of the Texas Independent Paramilitary Response
Group," the fat man said.
"Ohh," Rourke started, pausing. "I see. The Texas Independent Paramilitary
Response Group—the T-I-P-R-G—Tiprg. That sounds stupid."
The self-proclaimed captain took a step forward, saying, "We'll see how stupid
it sounds when you boys get shot in just about a minute and a half. Official
policy is to shoot looters on sight."
"Is that a fact?" Rourke commented. "Whose official policy is it—yours?"
"It's the official policy of the Paramilitary Provisional Government of Texas."
"Try saying that sometime with a couple of beers under your belt," Rourke said,
staring at Pincham.
"Drop that sidearm," Pincham said. "That big hogleg on the belt around your
waist. Move, boy!" Pincham commanded.
Out of the corner of his eye Rourke could already see hands reaching out and
taking Rubenstein's High Power from the holster slung to his pants belt. The
Schmeisser, as Rubenstein still called it, and Rourke's CAR-15 and
Steyr-Mannlicher SSG were still on the bikes. Rourke slowly reached to the
buckle of the Ranger Leather belt at his waist and loosened it, holding the
tongue of the belt in his right hand away from his body. One of the troopers
stepped forward and grabbed it, then stepped back.
"Now the guns from the shoulder holsters— quick," Pincham said, his voice
sounding more confident.
Slowly, Rourke started to reach up to the harness, then Pincham shouted, "Hold
it!" The captain turned to the trooper nearest him and barked, "Go get those
pistols—move out!"
The trooper walked toward Rourke. "You sure you don't want to talk about
this—you're just going to shoot us?" Rourke asked softly.
"I'm sure," Pincham said, his face breaking into a grin.
Rourke just nodded his head, keeping his hands away from the twin stainless
Detonics .45s in their double shoulder rig. The trooper was in front of him now,
between Rourke and Pincham and the rest of the men on the trailer side of the
road. The trooper rasped, "Now—take out both those shiny pistols, mister. Just
the right arm, the left hand the left one. Nice and easy, then stick 'em out in
front of you with the pistol butts toward me."
"Right," Rourke said quietly. As he reached up for the guns, he said, "To get
them out of the holsters, I've got to jerk them a little bit."
"You just watch how you do it, mister. No funny stuff or I cut you in half where
you stand." Rourke eyed the H-K assault rifle in the man's hands.
Rourke reached for his guns, his hands moving slowly. He curled the last three
fingers of each hand on the Pachmayr gripped butts of the Detonics pistols and
jerked them free of the leather. Rourke eyed the trooper, who was visibly tense
as the guns cleared, and slowly brought them forward in his hands, the butts of
the guns facing toward the "soldier."
"That's a good boy," the trooper said, smiling. The trooper took his left hand
from the front stock of his rifle and reached forward for the gun in Rourke's
right hand.
The corners of Rourke's mouth raised in a smile. Rourke's hands dropped to waist
level, the twin stainless .45s spinning on his index fingers in the trigger
guards, the pistol butts arcing into his fists, his thumbs snapping back the
hammers and both pistols firing simultaneously, one slug pumping into the
trooper's throat, the second grazing his shoulder as it hammered past and into
the chest of the soldier closest to Paul Rubenstein. Rourke pumped two shots
into the men on the far side of the road and dove toward the trailer, rolling
under it, firing both pistols into the men flanking Captain Pincham. Out of the
corner of his eye, Rourke could see Rubenstein—almost as if in slow motion. The
smaller man had done just what Rourke had hoped—he'd grabbed up an assault rifle
from the man nearest him whom Rourke had shot down and now had the muzzle of the
weapon flush against Pincham's right cheekbone. Rourke stopped firing as he
heard Rubenstein shouting, "Hold your fire or Pincham gets his!"
Rourke crawled the rest of the way along under the truck and got his feet on the
other side, two rounds each still in the twin .45s. He leveled them both across
the road, ignoring the men near him. "Your show, Paul," Rourke almost whispered,
catching Rubenstein's eye.
He watched the younger man nod, then heard him shout, "Now everybody get out
from cover and throw your rifles to the ground—move it or Pincham gets this.
Move it!"
Rourke watched as Rubenstein shoved the muzzle of the assault rifle against
Pincham's cheek, heard Pincham shout, "Do as they say—hurry!"
Slowly, the men on the far side of the road climbed out of the ditch they'd
dropped into as Rourke had opened up on them. Rourke watched as, one by one,
they dropped their rifles, hearing the rifles from the man near Rubenstein and
Pincham clattering to the ground beside him. "Gunbelts too," Rubenstein shouted.
Rourke watched as the men started dropping their pistol belts to the ground. His
eyes scanned the ground and he saw his own gunbelt there, then he stepped toward
it and bent down, breaking the thumb snap on the flap over the Python. He shook
the holster free and let it fall to the ground, the Detonics from his right hand
already in his trouser belt, the long-tubed, vent-ribbed Python now in his
right. Thumbing the hammer back, he walked slowly across the road, his long
strides putting him beside the man in the center of the ten men still standing
there. Glancing down to the ground, he spotted the two he'd killed. Sticking the
muzzle of the Python against the temple of the closest man, Rourke almost
whispered, "All right—you guys want to be military—get into the front leaning
rest position. That's like a pushup, but you don't go down. Now!"
Rourke stepped back, guiding the man closest to him down to the ground. The ten
got to their knees, arms outstretched, then balanced on their toes as they
stretched their legs, supporting themselves on their hands. "First man moves
dies," Rourke said quietly, starting back across the road.
He could hear Rubenstein shouting similar commands to the men with Pincham on
the trailer side of the road. Rourke looked at Rubenstein, hearing the younger
man say, "What do we do now?"
"You want to kill them?"
"What?"
"Neither do I, especially. Why don't you get the bikes straight in a minute here
and we can take these fellas for a walk a few miles down the road, then let 'em
go. Let me reload first—keep them covered." Rourke jammed the Python in his
belt, changed magazines on both of the .45s and reholstered them. He caught up
his pistol belt from the dirt and slung it over his shoulder, the Python back in
his right fist. Already, Rubenstein had begun dividing the loads for the bikes.
"You guys got any vehicles around here?" Rourke asked Pincham. The captain said
nothing. Rourke put the muzzle of the Python under his nose.
"Yes—on both sides of the road."
"Any gas cans?"
"Yes—yes," Pincham snapped.
"Much obliged," Rourke said, then, shouting, "Paul—go over there and get some
gas for the bikes. Take that thing you call a Schmeisser in case they left
someone on guard. Did you leave anyone on guard?" Rourke asked, lowering his
voice and eyeing Pincham.
"No—no-nobody on guard!"
"Good—if anything happens to my friend, you get an extra nostril."
"Nobody on guard!" Pincham said again, his voice sounding higher each time he
spoke.
After a few moments, Rubenstein returned with the gas cans, filled the bikes and
mounted up. Rourke walked Pincham toward his own bike. Already, some of the
troopers were starting to fall, unable to support themselves on their hands.
"Barbarian," Pincham growled.
"No," Rourke said quietly. "I just want them good and tired so they can't get
back here fast enough to follow us. It's either that or we disable your
vehicles. And I don't think you'd like being stranded out here in the desert on
foot. Right?"
Pincham, biting his lower lip, only nodded.
"All right—captain," Rourke said. "Order your men onto their feet and get 'em
walking ahead of us—you bring up the rear. Anyone tries anything, it's your
problem." Rourke started his bike as Pincham got his men up, formed them in a
ragged column of twos and started them down the road toward El Paso.
As Rourke and Rubenstein followed along behind them, Rourke glancing at the
Harley's odometer coming up on the second mile, Pincham—walking laboriously,
close in front of him—said, "Mister— you killed three of my men."
"Four," Rourke corrected.
"If I ever catch sight of you, you're a dead man."
"There's some great baby food back there in the truck in case you fellas get
hungry," Rourke responded, then to Rubenstein, "Let's go Paul!" Rourke gunned
the Harley between his legs and shot past Pincham and his column, Rubenstein on
the other side close behind him. Past the paramilitary troops now, Rourke
glanced over his shoulder—some of Pincham's men were already sitting along the
side of the road. Pincham was standing there, shaking h
is fist down the road
after Rourke.
Rubenstein, beside Rourke, was shouting over the rush of air. "I saw that trick
in a western movie once—with the pistols, I mean."
Rourke just nodded.
"What do they call it, John, where you roll the guns like that when someone
tries taking them?"
Rourke glanced across at Rubenstein, then bent over his bike a little to get a
more comfortable position. "The road-agent spin," Rourke said.
"Road-agent spin," Rubenstein echoed. "Wow!"
Chapter Four
Varakov was pleased that he had ordered the intelligence briefing to be in his
office at the side of the long central hall. The desk was closed in the front,
and with the chairs arranged in a semicircle no one could see his feet. He
wiggled his toes in his white boot socks and leaned back in his chair. "There
are several other priorities aside from the elimination of political
undesirables," he said flatly.
"Moscow wants—" the KGB man, Major Vladmir Karamatsov, began.
"Moscow wants me to run this country, keep armed rebellion from getting out of
hand—some resistance cannot be avoided in a nation where everyone owns a gun—and
try to get the heavy industry restarted. That is what Moscow wants. How I
choose to accomplish that is my concern. If Moscow eventually decides I am not
doing my job properly, then I will be replaced. This will not," and Varakov
crashed his hamlike fist down on the desk—"be a fiefdom of the KGB. Intelligence
is to serve the interests of the Soviet people and the government— the
government and the people are not holding their breath to serve the interest of
intelligence. The Soviet is facing famine, a shortage of raw materials and most
of our heavy industry has been destroyed by American missiles. If we cannot get
this new land we have acquired to be productive, we shall all starve, have no
more ammunition for our guns, have no spare parts. Most of American heavy
industry is intact. Most of ours is gone. Our primary responsibility is to man
the factories with work battalions and develop productivity. Otherwise, all is
lost."
Varakov looked around the room, his eyes stopping a moment on Captain Natalia
Tiemerovna, also KGB and Karamatsov's most trusted and respected agent. "What do