"Michael," she said, looking at the boy with a smile on her lips.
He smiled back at her, saying, "Why are you smiling like that?"
"I love you." She looked over at Annie. "And I love you, too."
"We know that," the boy said, starting to laugh.
"I know you know," she laughed. Then she pulled up on Tildie's reins and said over her shoulder to the children, "Come on kids—"
She stopped, reining in, the internal terror gripping at her again, thinking, "Come on—
where?" Shaking her head, she let out on the reins, moving her knees against Tildie's warm flanks again. "Come on," she said aloud, starting the mare down into the valley.
They rode in relative quiet for more than an hour as she judged it by the sun still far to the east. After she had left the Mulliner farm she had tried heading into Georgia. But there had been Brigands, too many of them, she'd thought, to wait it out or skirt around them. She had made the decision then to turn East into the Carolinas, trying to reenter Georgia as she judged she had almost two days ago, nearer the Atlantic Coast. She had convinced herself that perhaps Savannah still existed as an entity, too important as a seaport to bomb from existence. She reined in on Tildie again, staring now across the low valley, then back behind her into the hills. Before the War, she thought, the sound of an automobile or truck engine had been familiar, sometimes comforting. She had liked it when someone had stopped by the farm unexpectedly— at least most of the time. There would be the rumbling, humming noise, and she would look out the window of her studio or through the kitchen windows and see a familiar vehicle pulling up the driveway. Since the War the sound of engines had meant only one thing to her— Brigands.
"Children!" she almost shrieked. "Hurry up!" She kicked her heels into Tildie's sides, bending around in the saddle, watching Michael as he dropped low over his horse's neck, and Annie as she slapped her tiny hands against her horse's rump. The two children moved their mounts ahead. "Hurry," she called again, her right hand moving from Tildie's mane to the butt of her husband's Government Model .45 jammed in the waistband of her faded Levis. In the valley where they rode, they were in the open, exposed.
She could pinpoint the source of the sound now, just over the hills leading down into the valley. The only shelter up ahead was a farmhouse. "Over there!" she finally shouted, wishing the children could make their animals move more quickly, wishing she hadn't let Annie try riding by herself. The girl wasn't yet five, wouldn't be for four more months. "Come on, children," she said again, staring back toward the hills, the engine sounds getting louder, more well defined. Trucks, many of them— and there was another sort of sound. She had ridden with John on his motorcycle, she had heard motorcycles ever since the War, and she heard them now.
"Brigands," she almost screamed to the children. "Hurry! For God's sake—" And under her breath as she drew in on the reins, Tildie backing up a step, the children almost even with her now, Sarah whispered, "For our sake!"
She stared toward the hills, the engine noises getting louder, then turned her head quickly, watching the children's mounts heading toward the farmhouse. She drew in tight on Tildie's reins, loosing the modified AR-15 from the saddle thongs, slinging it across her back.
"Come on, girl," she snapped, heeling into the horse, bending low over its flowing mane as the dark hairs whipped her face in the wind, tears coming to her eyes because of it.
Sarah passed Annie's horse, swinging her right hand out and swatting the horse on the rump. Then she snatched at the reins, leading out the left rein as she pulled ahead on Tildie. Glancing behind her, first at Annie, then to the hills, Sarah thought she saw the profile of a truck or car coming into view. She shouted to Tildie, "Giddup! Come on, girl!" Michael was already starting to rein in, the farmhouse just ahead.
"Michael!" Sarah shouted. "Get your horse inside— hurry!" Sarah, as Michael began dismounting, reined in old Tildie, swinging easily from the saddle, shifting the AR-15 on her back, snatching out with both hands for the reins of Annie's horse. She hauled the animal down, then grabbed the little girl from the saddle. "Run— into the house." Sarah pushed Michael ahead of her, holding the reins now of all three horses.
Michael was struggling with the farmhouse door. Sarah almost pushed the boy aside, throwing her weight against the door as she tried turning the knob, the rough unpainted wood scratching against her hands. But the door gave and she hurried Michael through, Annie after him. She could see over to the brow of the hill now— they weren't trucks. They were tanks, with red stars on their sides. "Russians," she rasped, swatting the horses in through the door ahead of her. She stepped through the door, swinging it shut, collapsing against it.
Sarah Rourke heard Michael call out, "Momma!" She spun on her heels, the .45
automatic in her hand, her thumb pushing down the safety. Two ideas came to her as one— how conditioned she had become to danger, to defending herself and the children from it; and who was the man with the bloodstained shirt, a revolver falling from his limp right hand as he collapsed onto the floor from a cot in the corner. He had what she'd learned was a South Georgia accent as he rasped, "I'm with the Resistance...
As Sarah started toward him across the floor, she realized there were Russians outside her door— but there was a new, unwanted responsibility within.
Chapter 5
John Rourke watched as the needle of the Harley's fuel gauge hovered near the "E"— he made it another ten miles before he reached the site of the strategic fuel reserve, one of the sites pinpointed on the map given him by Samuel Chambers, the President of United States II. Rourke had memorized the map, then destroyed it, later reproducing a copy and storing it at the Retreat where Paul Rubenstein memorized it as well. This was the first time Rourke had found it necessary to tap into the fuel reserve supply— finding gasoline, stealing it, trading for it as he had gone along. But this was the farthest he had been from the Retreat as well.
He had taken the auto ferry as far as he dared toward Savannah, abandoning it and leaving the girl in as secure a spot as he could find. He did not want the injured girl to slow him as he made his way to the gasoline supply, nor would he unnecessarily endanger her. As best he knew, Soviet troops honeycombed the Savannah area, using it as a primary southeastern port facility now. And there were Brigands, as the earlier encounter attested. Rourke had left the woman the little Colt Lawman two incher as last ditch protection, as well as food and water in case something went wrong. There was a rise ahead and Rourke took the bike up, then over it. Checking the black-faced Rolex Submariner on his wrist, he made it another ten minutes before he reached the site given the current terrain— and remembering the map he didn't foresee the terrain improving. It was uneven, untraveled. All in all, Rourke reflected, a smile crossing his lips, the perfect location for a strategic oil and gas reserve. Off the beaten path, accessible by motorcycle or the heaviest of trucks. Rourke pitied the fuel tanker drivers who had traveled the rough road to bring the gasoline there originally.