The Survivalist #10
By Jerry Ahern
The Awakening
Chapter One
It was another dream, another in the endless succession of dreams, of nightmare fantasy and reality, of happiness and pleasure—another of the dreams. He had long since become aware of them, viewing them from the peculiar position of observer yet at once participant. He had even learned to control them. When a scene in the dream would be violent, when he was against insurmountable odds, he would stop the dream, go back several scenes and provide an additional weapon for himself, extra explosives, some added means of escape. He tried that when he came upon an electrified fence—like the one that had sur-rounded the Womb—and for some reason despite his precautions, the electrified fence was sending a charge through his body. The funny thing of it was that the charge was not killing him—but did one ever die in dreams, he wondered? In fact, the charge was almost pleasant. He felt the tingling sensation in his body—as if it were somehow animating him rather than destroying him. He considered this, in the surreal way in which dreamers can consider anything—why was it pleasant?
Enough of this dream.
He opened his eyes.
John Rourke opened his eyes.
He could breathe.
He closed his eyes—but he realized at one level of consciousness that it was not a dream now. He was at last awake.
John Rourke realized he was alive.
To sit up was impossible yet—he felt only the tickle of the electrical charge, the sensation of light touching his eyes, his eyes unused for five centuries. The sensation of the rising and falling of his chest.
There was no danger of falling asleep.
But with his eyes dosed, he felt his body awakening, never more aware of his body in so physical a way—it was like orgasm, only with the entire body as its focal point.
Alive…
Rourke sat up, the lid of the cryogenic chamber rising in rhythm with his body. He turned his head—he had been practicing that. The monitoring lights still glowed on the five other cryogenic chambers, still sealed. They too were alive—Sarah, Michael, Annie, Paul—and his eyes rested on Natalia. He closed his eyes. She was beautiful even in her sleep as the swirling clouds of the bluish gas drifted across her face. But he missed the surreal blue of her eyes. John Rourke looked to his right.
His Rolex Submariner—he picked it up and as he did the sweep second hand started to move again. He would have to ascertain the correct time, the correct date. Slowly—not moving well yet—he placed the watch on his wrist and closed the flip-lock clasp in place to secure it there. Beside the watch—the twin stainless Detonics .45s.
He remembered now.
There had been the fight with the last Soviet helicopter. He had killed Rozhdestvenskiy and Rozhdestvenskiy’s submachine gun—it was an Uzi, Rourke recalled for some strange reason—had fired into the chopper. The chopper had exploded and Rourke had dived for the escape tunnel. He remembered a wound to his left forearm, a rock chip. He had cleaned the wound, dressed it while he had gone about the rest of his business in preparing the Retreat. The world had been dying outside.
He had removed the bandage just before entering his chamber, just before injecting himself with the cryogenic serum.
The hypodermic needle—it lay on the floor beside the chamber now as he looked down. And he looked at his arm. The wound was healed and there was no scar. His pistols. Rourke had cleaned them, leaving them unloaded. He picked up one of the pistols— the lubrication was still in evidence. He was naked from the waist up, and bootless and sockless.
Slowly, he began to move his legs…
Rourke’s feet were over the side now, the pair of rubber thongs beside the chamber, the thongs that he had worn while cleaning the guns, securing the Retreat. He remembered that. He placed his feet in them and tried to stand—slowly.
He could stand, but he leaned against the cryogenic chamber for support. He started to walk, the twin Detonics’ Combat Masters in the hip pockets of his beltless Levi’s— his pants felt a little large on him at the waist. Weight loss, he supposed, the body burning energy however minutely for higher brain func-tions and the like.
There was a mirror in the bathroom—he started toward it, not having to urinate yet, but knowing that he should try to get his body working again. Water. He was suddenly cot ton-mouthed, thirsty. He continued toward the bathroom, up the three low steps, the steps hard going, hard to balance on, but he reached the bathroom.
Rourke activated the electrical pump for the water system, hearing it come on, turning on the cold water—air sputtered through the pipe, mak-ing loud noises, then a trickle of water from the tap, a murky yellow color, more air, a bubble of gas, then water, clean looking.
He let it run for a time, looking up to see himself in the mirror. His hair was a little longer than he remembered it. He could cut it himself. He had taught himself to do that. He had a beard that looked the equivalent of two weeks or so of growth—he’d grown beards before, sometimes involuntarily in the field. His eyes were clear. Wrinkles that had been at their corners were now gone.
The scar on the base of his left ear lobe where a bullet had nicked him—the scar was gone.
He had suspected the cryogenic process might serve to restore and rejuvenate the body, from the data he had seen. He felt, somehow, younger. Rourke sat down on the toilet, the lid down, to rest while the water ran… He had drunk watei after first testing it for purity—it was as pure as it had been. The underground stream had not failed him. He had cooked a meal of cream of wheat and lightly toasted whole wheat bread. He had one cup of black coffee—he had barely made it to the bathroom in time, but the results had been normal, healthy.
In the area beyond the confines of the living section of the Retreat he had constructed a ballistic test chamber. With boxes of ammunition selected at random and the twin Detonics pistols—he wore a shirt now and a belt, the belt notched in tight against his newer thinness—he went to this section of the Retreat. The primary generators hummed, working perfectly. He would detail-inspect them later.
But defense—it might be important.
Four boxes of Federal 185-grain JHP .45s. He selected one round from each box, having first more closely inspected his guns, removing excess lubrication. He fired the four rounds into the test chamber, the chronograph reading showing the proper muzzle velocity, the functioning of guns and ammunition combined as perfect as ever.
He loaded the magazines for both pistols, reinserting them, working the slides, lowering the hammers over the live rounds, He loaded the half-dozen magazines from the black leather Milt Sparks Six Pack, the Six Pack already on his belt. Rourke inserted the Detonics pistols into the double Alessi shoulder rig, settling the holsters on his body—the familiarity of the weight. He returned to the main portion of the Retreat— his little A. G. Russell Sting IA black chrome—he positioned this inside his trouser band behind his left hip bone. And the bone was easier to find with the loss of weight. Socks and boots. There would be time for a shower later. He found boot socks, pulled them on, then a pair of combat boots. He pulled these on, lacing them up.
His bomber jacket—before putting himself to sleep he had saddle soaped it. He pulled it on now, his gloves in the side pocket—they were still soft, supple. He pulled on the gloves.
Not a cigar—not yet.
His dark-lensed aviator-style sunglasses—he placed these in the inside pocket of his coat.
He had no idea if it was day or night outside. He had been awake for nearly five hours.
He checked the charge for the battery units for one of the Geiger counters.
Adequate.
John Rourke started for the escape tunnel.