Survivalist - The Web Part 8

He decided to get out. "You will wait for me here." He opened the door. "I can get out myself."

"Yes, Comrade General," the driver answered, turning around.

Varakov smiled. There was no reason to act gruffly toward the young man simply because he was not Leon. "You may smoke if you wish, Corporal,"

Varakov added, stepping outside, then slamming the door.

Varakov snorted, stretched, and started walking toward the slowing-down taxiing aircraft.

Was there a doomsday project that the United States had launched? Was an end finally coming? he asked himself.

He had avoided philosophy-meticulously. Philosophy and generalship were not compatible; they never had been.

He had lived a full life-full because of his achievements, because of the friendships he had made, because of the daughter he had raised-not his daughter, but his brother's daughter, Natalia.

He had done that well, he thought. The thing with Karamatsov behind her, she would grow away from it. She would meet another man. Or had she met him already, the American Rourke?

He shook his head.

He worried over Natalia, and the people like her, the new Russia he had fought all his life to make survive, to make triumphant. "Doomsday," he murmured, thinking once again about the Eden Project.

The plane stopped, the pa.s.sengers' doorway opening immediately. Uniformed Soviet soldiers rolled a ramp toward it; and already framed in the doorway, civilian clothes as rumpled as though he had slept in them, his blond hair tousled in the breeze, stood Rozhdestvenskiy.

Varakov walked the few extra yards toward+he foot of the steps.

Rozhdestvenskiy was already halfway down them.

"Did you learn anything, Colonel?"

The younger man stopped. "I learned it all, Comrade General-all of it."

Then he turned away for an instant, to shout up into the plane. "Those six cartons of doc.u.ments-the seals are to remain untouched, unbroken. They are to be delivered to my car-immediately."

Varakov glanced down the airfield. There was a black American Cadillac waiting, and Varakov a.s.sumed it was Rozhdestvenskiy's car. As the younger officer reached the base of the steps, Varakov extended his right hand- not in greeting, but to Rozhdestvenskiy's left forearm, to hold him there a moment. "Is there a doomsday device?

What is it?"

"Not a device, Comrade General," Rozhdestvenskiy said, not smiling. "And I cannot tell you any more; those are the orders of the Politburo." Then Rozhdestvenskiy added, "I am sorry, sir."

He shrugged off the hand and walked away.

Varakov watched as the first of the red-sealed packing crates was carried down and past him.

The old man's feet hurt.

Glancing at his Rolex, Rourke wiped the steam of the shower away from the crystal.

It was nearly noon, the woman having let him oversleep-or perhaps just the fact of sleeping in a bed in a normal-seeming home had done it to him.

During the night he had dreamed-about Sarah, about Michael and Annie . . .

and about Natalia.

He could not remember the dreams, and he was grateful for that. Dreams were something that could not be controlled, an alien environment that merely happened out of the subconscious. Desires, fears-all of them things he could not manipulate to his own choosing. They had always annoyed him-and if anything did, slightly frightened him.

He turned the water straight cold, the hairs on his chest grayer, he noticed, his body leaner. He shut off the water, opening the shower curtain, s.n.a.t.c.hing the towel, and beginning to dry himself before stepping out into the neat and very feminine-looking bathroom. He glanced once between the shower curtain and the plastic liner; on the lip of the tub was one of his stainless-steel Detonics .s, none the worse for wear apparently.

He noted the bruise on his shoulder in the partially steamed-over mirror, the bruise from his fall from the plane to the road surface. He flexed that arm to work out the stiffness. It would heal, he diagnosed. He smiled-no doctor worth his salt trusted self-diagnosis, but under the circ.u.mstances . . .

Martha Bogen was making him breakfast, despite the hour, so meanwhile Rourke took the Harley from the garage where it had been locked overnight, and following her directions, headed toward the nearest gas station.

He turned the machine now, his hair blowing in the warm breeze coming down the mountain slope, his blue shirt sleeves rolled up, both of the Detonics .s stuffed inside the waistband of his trousers under the shirt. He could see the gas station ahead. There was one car at the self-service island so Rourke turned to the full-service island, shutting down.

He let out the kickstand and dismounted. A smiling attendant in a blue workshirt with the name, "AI," st.i.tched over the heart came from inside the service bays; there was a car inside getting an oil change.

'Till 'er up?"

"Yeah. I've got an auxiliary tank-fill that, too," Rourke rasped.

"Check your oil?"

"Yeah. Check my oil." Rourke nodded. He looked at his bike. Miraculously, after the air crash, then the skid on the icy mountain roads, there were no visible scratches, no visible damage.

"Y'all related to someone round here?" The attendant smiled.

Rourke shrugged mentally. "Yeah. My sister's Martha Bogen. My name's Abe."

v "Well . . . hey, Abe." The attendant smiled. "I'm happy for Martha. It woulda been sad."

Rourke started to ask why, then nodded. "Yeah-sure would," he agreed.

"Nice lookin' machine y'all got here," Al said.

"Thanks." Rourke nodded. "Nice looking town. Cold as a witch's-Real cold outside. You got funny weather."

"Yeah. Just a little pocket here, I guess. We was always fixin' to get together with them fellers at the National Weather Service and maybe find out why, but never did get around to it."

Pointedly, Rourke said, "Well, there's always tomorrow," and smiled.

"Hey, there you go." Al laughed. "All set." He withdrew the nozzle and started to replace the gas cap.

Checking the pump, Rourke reached into his pocket for his money clip. He handed the man a twenty.

il get some- "Keep the change." Rourke smiled, remounting the Harley, starting it, and upping the kickstand.

"Say . . . thanks, Abe." Al waved.

"O.K." Rourke nodded. They were all insane, he decided, as he started back into the street. . . .

"You're a good cook," Rourke told her, looking up from the steak and eggs nearly finished on the blue-willow plate in front of him.

"I don't usually get the chance." She smiled. "Living alone and all."

He smiled back at her. "You haven't lost your touch."

She turned back to the sink and shut off the water, then turned back to him, wiping her hands on her ap.r.o.n. "You haven't asked me any questions yet."

"You promised it'd all be made clear. I'm waiting for you, I guess." He smiled. He had questions, but wanted to hear her answers first somehow. "I gather that because I'm supposed to be your brother, it's a.s.sumed I'll go along with whatever's going on here?"

"That's right," she said, smoothing the ap.r.o.n with her hands, then sitting down opposite him. She poured more coffee into the blue-willow cup, then set the electric percolator down on the table top on a large trivet. "I called work-told them I'd be in late. They understood, with my brother coming to town and all."

Rourke forked the last piece of steak, then looked at the woman across from him. "Telephones?"

"Um-hmm." She nodded, smiling.

He looked on the table at the folded newspaper. "May I?"

"We're probably the only town this size in America with a daily newspaper," she said with a definite air of pride, handing it to him.

He opened the paper. The headline read: HALLOWEEN FESTIVITIES SET FOR TONIGHT. A heading on a column read: SCHOOL BOARD ELECTION RESULTS TALLIED "School board election?"

"Day before yesterday." She smiled.

"And yesterday was the Fourth of July."

"Um-hmm." She nodded, fingering back a wisp of dark hair with a touch of gray in it.

"And tonight's Halloween?"

"For the children-they love it so." She smiled.

"Tomorrow night Thanksgiving?"

"Yes."

Rourke sipped at his coffee; she had drunk from the same pot so he trusted it. He trusted nothing else in the town.

Sarah Rourke put a fresh piece of wood into the freestanding stove; it had been converted from propane, she guessed. There were plenty of chairs and table legs remaining and the weather seemed to be moderating slightly.

She stood up, letting the children continue to sleep in the bed. She had thrown the bodies overboard, and all of the bedding. Because of the fresh air, the mattress hadn't taken on the smell of the bodies, of the dead man and woman. They had worn wedding rings, and Sarah a.s.sumed they had been husband and wife.

The ice had melted sufficiently on the deck of the houseboat, and she could walk there-with care. She leaned against the rope railing; the ice there had completely melted and the rope was wet beneath her fingertips.

She stared out onto the lake, wondering what horrors lay ahead on the sh.o.r.e.

After disposing of the bodies, she had gotten the houseboat belayed to a large tree trunk growing near enough to the water, then she'd brought Michael and Annie down the rise with the horses. She had usedTildie and Sam as draft animals to tow the houseboat along the water's edge, toward a better and more even piece of sh.o.r.eline and to a jetty nearby. There children and animals had boarded. The animals were now tethered in the center of the main room of the houseboat-the carpet destroyed and the animals cramped, but warmer. Then with Michael and Annie, she had rigged an anchor from a heavy deadfall tree the horses had towed down. She had planned to pole the boat away from the sh.o.r.eline if possible and had been in the process of searching for something with which to do the poling when Annie had pressed a switch on the engine controls-the engines had rumbled to life for an instant. Sarah had dried off the battery terminals, then started the engines again; this time the engines caught. Twin inboards, she had determined, and the fuel gauges read over half full. She had used the engine power to bring them to the center of the lake, and had dropped the anchor there for a safe night- the first she had spent in- She lurched forward, against the railing, hearing a tearing sound, the breaking of wood, the straining of metal. Behind her, the anchor rope had broken. She stared dumbly at where it had been, then down at the water.

There was a current. There hadn't been a current.

She ran into the main cabin. Finding her saddlebags and s.n.a.t.c.hing the binoculars from them, she ran back on deck and focused the binoculars toward the dam at the far end of the lake.

"Jesus!! No!" She screamed the words. The dam had burst. The deck under her rocked; the horses inside the cabin whinnied, screaming, too, if animals could scream.

Annie's voice rang out to her. "Mommie!"

The houseboat, the warmth, the safety, the possibility of transportation it had offered, was being swept toward the dam in a rapidly increasing current.

Sarah Rourke stared skyward a moment at the gray clouds moving on a stiffening wind. She shouted, "Enough, G.o.d-enough!"

Rourke reached down and picked up a can of peaches. It was one of six cans left on the grocery-store shelf, the cans pushed forward, the empty portion of the shelf to the rear and out of casual sight. He was beginning to understand. The peaches, the cereal boxes-even the gasoline he had purchased for the Harley-all "pushed to the front."

As they walked outside-Martha had purchased a can of coffee inside-Rourke said to her, "I think I see it. Leave everything perfectly normal as long as possible, and then-"

"That'll take care of itself." She smiled. "Walk me to the library."

"All right," he nodded. He glanced at his wrist watch as they walked.

Seeing children strolling down the street with books in packs on their backs or stuffed under rheir arms, he thought of Michael and Annie. She would have been- It was three-fifteen in the afternoon. "School's out for today?"

"Yes." She smiled, saying nothing more.

Rourke kept walking with her, in silence, his leather jacket warm to him, but necessary to hide the shoulder rig with the twin Detonics .s. His Harley was,relpcked in ihe garage, his other weapons w.ith it except for the Black Chrome Sting IA which was in its sheath inside the waistband of his Levi's on his left side.

"You don't need your guns," she said, as if she'd been reading his mind.

"No one would hurt you. You're my brother.'

"But I'm not your brother," he murmured, leaning down to her, smiling, as a group of children pa.s.sed and waved, calling her "Mrs. Bogen."

"But that doesn't matter." Martha Bogen smiled, then looked at the children. "Hey Tommy, Bobby, Ellen- hey." And she kept walking.

Rourke slopped before they reached the library-the post office down the street from it. An American flag flew from the staff in front of it; a small garden was planted at the base of the staff.

"That's a pretty sight, isn't it-John?" She smiled.

"Yes," Rourke said. It was all he could say.

He felt something b.u.mp against him and looked down. A liltle child, a black mask covering the upper portion of his face, a white straw cowboy hat partially covering carrot red hair. "Sorry, mister," the little boy called out, running past him.

A woman, perhaps twenty-five, was walking after the little boy. She nodded to Martha Bogen and called after the child, "Harry-you take that mask off until tonight. You can't see where you're going!"

Rourke looked after the little boy, saying absently, "I grew up on that guy, him and his friend. Listened to him on the radio, then television."

Martha Bogen said, "Remember-it's Halloween."

"Halloween," Rourke repeated. "Right."

He followed her inside the library. As he had by now expected, there were teen-agers in the library, working on reports, it appeared; volumes of encyclopedias and other reference books were spread messily on several of the library tables. An older woman, white-haired, worked at the card catalog.