Natalia looked back once. “It’s very steep seeming—but it can be walked without difficulty, you’ll find. We’ll each need help getting the bikes over the door flanges here and beyond.”
“Natalia can help me after I help her, John,” the younger man volunteered. “Ml take care of it on this end—Natalia, be careful,” Rourke told her matter-of-factly.
Natalia smiled, nodding. Rourke stepped to the other side of her bike, helping her roll the Harley over the inside air lock flange—the air lock was similar to the type found on a submarine and, Rourke theorized, likely bought from surplus or manufactured to naval specifications in the same factory. Natalia’s bike was through, Rourke helping Rubenstein then. He heard Paul Rubenstein’s voice from beyond the interior air lock door. “Wait up a minute—have Michael wait—crowded in here—too crowded.” “Right,” Rourke called back—he looked at his son, standing beside Madison. “You two are next,” he told them. And then Rourke heard another sound—almost too low to hear but his hearing had always been good and he had always trained himself to listen for sounds that shouldn’t be there.
This was such a sound—almost impossible to discern, it was the guttural cry of
one of the cannibals and it came from beyond the conference
%
room doors and somewhere inside the Place.
Chapter Sixty
Michael had pushed Madison through the inside air lock door and swung his M-16 forward so rapidly that momentarily Rourke had been shocked by his son’s instant apprehension of the danger. He was learning, John Rourke thought. Rourke started toward the conference room doors, running now, the M-16 in his right hand. He called to his son, his voice a rasping whisper,
“Don’t open lire—don’t make any loud noises. Let’s keep ‘em searching for us long enough to get everyone through. You go back—get Madison on the back of one of the bikes and ride like hell.”
“I’m staying with you. We’re—“
“Fighting together, that’s just what we’re doing. But the more people we have to get through that air lock the longer it’ll take. Just do as I say— I’m not plannin’ to wait around any longer than I have to. Have Paul ride with you—Natalia can be the last away. She’s gonna have to wait for me— we’re sharing the same bike.”
His son’s brown eyes could only be described by one word, Rourke thought—intense. Michael Rourke extended his right hand. “Dad—“ Rourke took his son’s hand in his, then folded his arms around him. “I love you—now get out of here.” v He felt the pressure of his son’s arms embrace him for a moment, then Michael was starting in a long-strided run back toward the air lock. “If you aren’t following us in five minutes—well, Paul can carry double on his bike too and I’ll be back, Dad.”
Rourke smiled at his son. “I know you will— now hurry,” and Michael started the last bike through the interior air lock door.
Rourke worked the selector of the M-16 to auto, waiting. Rolling back the knit cuff of his battered brown bomber jacket, he glanced at the luminous black face of the Rolex Submariner—he would give Michael and the others three minutes only. No more would be needed.
Rourke reached into his inside jacket pocket— he clamped the cigar, unlit, between his teeth, biting down hard on it, waiting. The shouts, the cries—they grew louder now.
Footsteps behind him—Rourke wheeled, the M-16 low, his finger nearly touching the trigger.
“Natalia—what the hell are—“ “Paul and I decided. Michael and Madison can make it on their own—Paul’s outside with the bikes.”
Rourke shook his head, then turned back to the doorway, Natalia taking the opposite side, an M-16 locked in each fist. “When they come,” Rourke told her, “empty your guns down the center of the corridor and run for it. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Agreed—I love you.”
“I love you too—what the hell we’re gonna do about it, I don’t know.”
“Sarah will change her mind.”
“I don’t think so—but she’s still my wife.”
“I understand that—I always have. It doesn’t change how I feel.”
“I know that,” Rourke told her. “I’m sorry—“
“For the way you are? Don’t be—don’t ever be, John. If someday—well, then we will. But I don’t need that to love you, do you know that?” “Yes,” Rourke almost whispered. “I’m glad you’re with me.” He saw them—the first of the cannibals as they raced along the corridor from where the corridor bent. “Don’t shoot yet,” Rourke commanded. “I want the whole corridor full of them.”
Natalia didn’t answer. Rourke shifted the M-16 from his right fist into his left. With his right hand, he drew one of the recently liberated Detonics Scoremaster pistols, jacking back the hammer, the chamber already loaded in this pistol as well as its twin still tucked into his belt. More of the cannibals, the cannibals filling the corridor. “Now!” Rourke shouted, pumping the M-16’s trigger in a three-round burst, Natalia stepping into the doorway, both M-16s spitting fire from her hands, the Scoremaster in Rourke’s right fist bucking again and again, waves of the cannibals going down, stone clubs launched toward them, falling just short of the doorway. “Empty!” Natalia shouted.
fi
“Run for it—I’ll cover you!”
Rourke’s M-16 empty as well, two shots re-mained in the Scoremaster—Rourke fired them off, ramming the gun, slide locked open, into his waistband, drawing the second Scoremaster with his left fist, firing into the attacking cannibals. He started backing away from the doorway, more of them coming, many of them already wounded and bleeding. The second Scoremaster was empty. Slide locked open, he rammed this into his belt as well.
The twin Detonics stainless Combat Masters— both fists found them, ripping them from the double Alessi shoulder rig, his thumbs jacking back the hammers. He was at the air lock doorway, cannibals charging now through the conference room doorway, Rourke’s index fingers twitchingagainst the triggers, bodies going down.
One pistol empty—the second empty now. Rourke turned, stepping through the doorway, throwing his weight against the air lock door, feeling suddenly weight—pushing at it. Then more weight as he threw his body against it—the door was being pushed open against him.
A hand through the space between the door and the frame. The A.G. Russel Sting IA—Rourke stabbed the back of the hand with the small bladed knife, a scream of pain, a spurt of blood, the hand drawn back. Rourke dropped the knife. Behind him—Natalia’s voice. “John, run for it—we can get the second door together.”
Rourke reached down for the Sting IA and ran, diving through the second door, rolling onto the rocks beyond, twisting, clambering to his feet, throwing his weight against the exterior air lock door, Natalia beside him. But the door would not close. “Paull” But Rubenstein was already beside them. “Who the hell’s on the other side of that door?”
“A bunch of determined guys who don’t know any better—rugged outdoor life they lead, all that crap. Now push,” Rourke snarled, leaning into it as he fought the door.
“It’s no good!” Natalia shouted.
Rourke glanced behind him once, chewing down harder on his cigar. “Natalia, start Paul’s bike—then start our bike. Paul—when I count to five, make a run for your bike and—“ “It’s too steep that way,” Natalia interrupted. “We’ll have to cut across the mountain—there’s a better path on the far side that we can ride down.” “You heard her—then cut across. Natalia and I’ll be right behind you.”
“I’ll lay down some fire once you guys get rollin’.”
“Right.” Rourke nodded to the younger man. “Natalia—get the bikes started.” Natalia moved away from the air lock door, Rourke throwing his weight hard against it now— it was the first time he had realized how strong Natalia was, despite her size.