“Bullshit—like John’d say— “ and then his eyes lit behind his wire-framed glasses, smiling— “But you can drive the pickup—”
She only nodded—men were insane....
They had gotten the truck ready quickly—Nata-lia had, forcing Paul to rest on the couch in the Great Room of the Retreat, hoping against hope that he would fall asleep. She could disable his bike and hers so he couldn’t follow her, and he would be forced to rest. But he hadn’t fallen asleep—and they drove, together, away from the Retreat now, down the mountain—she thought of it as Rourke’s mountain but supposed on some map of northeastern Georgia somewhere it had a different name. But that didn’t matter—it was his mountain. He had bought the property, forged the Retreat with his own hands, stocked it—he had prepared.
She felt a smile cross her lips—he was always prepared—almost.
And she felt something else at the thought—her love for him.
And it was, like he had said, “home”—now, for-ever. Whatever happened with Sarah, whatever happened with the world—she would be with John Rourke, however he wanted her with him. It was still a long drive to the hidden F-111 prototype and the cache of arms and ammunition and supplies. The road was best built for foot travel, horse-back or motorcycles—even the four-wheel drive of the truck was hard pressed, she realized, driving down from the Retreat, the Retreat doors secured again with their weights and balances locking system, the interior secured with its combination sys-tems. The truck’s lights were out and she drove by the intermittent moonlight. Thunder rumbled, illuminating the high, scat-tered clouds, the clouds seeming to be a rich blue when lit by the lightning.
Beside her, Paul Rubenstein was asleep.
She yawned, rolling the window of the camou-flage-painted Ford pickup truck all the way down, forcing her eyes to stay open, putting her head partly out the window so the cold night breeze would help keep her awake.
She thought of a line by the American poet Robert Frost—”... miles to go before I sleep.” Her favorite poets were Russian poets—but his words and thoughts seemed good to her.
Chapter Fourteen
She couldn’t take her eyes off the guns—he only wore the double shoulder holsters, the ones he had always worn. The leather of the harness seemed a little dirty, but from so long on the trail, searching for her—her eyes shifted up to his eyes, flickering in the dull burn of the bare bulb suspended from the ceiling over the small card table in the far corner of the underground shelter. Michael slept, and so did Annie—getting them to sleep had been hard, with their father newly returned. But she had convinced them that the next day, going to their new home at their father’s Retreat would be full of excitement and wonder—she had not been able to convince herself. She was nervous—John had told her about the death of Bill Mulliner—and she had wept more than she had thought she could. All that was fine, decent—all that was good. It was being de-stroyed forever. Mary Mulliner sat by the edge of the card table, between Sarah and John. At each side of the table, one dominated by John, sat men of the Resistance, Pete Critchfield opposite John, his cigar more foul-smell-ing than the one her husband puffed. To Rourke’s right sat Tom—he had told her a little about his first encounter with her husband. To John Rourke’s left—to her left though she sat back from the table, was Curley, the radio oper-ator.
She watched her husband’s eyes. Watched his lips as he took the cigar from his teeth, turning his face toward her, his eyes flickering toward Mary Mulliner, between them.
“Mrs. Mulliner—before we talk here—well—”
“Bill is dead,” Mary Mulliner said, her hands awkward-looking on her trousered thighs—Mary had never been anything of a modern woman, Sarah thought, trying to remember if ever before had she seen the older woman wear pants. She didn’t think so. And the hands just rested cupped inside one another between her thighs now.
Sarah Rourke heard John Rourke clear his throat. “He died—well, very bravely. He was trying to save some other Resistance people who’d been shot up by Brigands—I don’t think he was in a lot of pain—he—”
Mary Mulliner began to cry—to sob, heavy sobs. Sarah slid from the folding card table chair to the floor beside Mary’s chair, on her knees, reaching up to fold her right arm about the older woman’s shoulders. The woman’s head rested against her right shoulder, Sarah hugging her to herself. Her husband began again to talk. “The last things he said—well—he told me, Bill did—Tell my mom I love her— and tell Mrs. Rourke good-bye.’ “
Sarah looked into her husband’s eyes—she cried, her throat tight, so tight she could barely breathe.
Chapter Fifteen
It had taken better than an hour for Sarah to calm Mary Mulliner, and to calm herself, her throat sore-feeling, her eyes burning, her sinuses strangely clear as she had returned to the Sam-sonite card table around which her husband, John Rourke, the de facto Resistance leader, Pete Crit-chfield, the black man, Tom, and Curley sat. The air was blue-gray under the glow of the bulb with the cigar smoke. At the far end of the under-ground shelter—like a huge concrete basement—she could hear the rhythm of the bicycle generator being pedaled.
She was happy it wasn’t Michael.
“Sarah—glad you’re back,” Pete Critchfield nodded. “Pull up a chair.” Her husband stood, pushing a chair for her as she sat. Tom started to stand—neither of the other two men moved. “I’m tryin’ to convince your husband here to throw in with all of us in the Resistance against the Com-mies, rather than take you away from us.”
John Rourke said nothing. Critchfield cleared his throat loudly, cigar smoke filtering from his nostril.
“What about it, John?” Sarah asked him.
He looked at her— a stern look. “I’m getting you and the children to safety at the Retreat. The weather, the thunder and lightning—all of it. Something’s happening and I need to find out what so we can prepare for it and survive it. After all that, if there’s a chance, sure—I’ll help the Re-sistance. My friend Paul will help—but you and Michael and Annie. I don’t want you having any part of it.”
“Yeah—I don’t mean to interfere between a man and his wife, John, but—well, hell— “Critchfield started.
John Rourke turned his eyes away from her and stared across the table at Critchfield—Pete Critchfield fell silent.
Tom spoke. “What Pete means, man—your lady there. She’s one of us. Fights better than a lot of us—especially me,” and Tom laughed. “She’s good with a gun and all, but so’s your son, I hear. But more than that—she’s well—hell—a strong lady, and smart. We lose her and well—even the boy, and little Annie—she keeps us goin’—but we lose Sarah here, man—I mean, I know she’s your wife and belongs with you, but—we can’t get somebody else—nobody—ain’t nobody’ll replace her to us, ya know?”
Sarah looked at Tom—his eyes coal-black, the whites slightly yellowed, were warm, deep against his dark chocolate skin—and he smiled at her. She felt her lips raise in a smile, then looked at her hus-band. He wasn’t looking at her.
She couldn’t see John’s face other than in profile, saw the cigar, unlit, clamped tight in the left corner of his mouth. His lips were drawn back, his teeth so white she sometimes wondered if he were really human. He had shaved before the meeting, before the meager meal from their stores. His face looked chiseled in stone, like she imagined some-how God should look—or if not God, some god. His voice was low, a whisper—barely audible so that you strained to listen to him, the result that his words were always heard, always under-stood—and the feeling behind his words.