Sitting with Michael a few feet away, not comprehending how the girls had slept through the gunshot, she began, "Well—sometimes death is awfully hard for people to accept. Do you understand?"
"Well," he had said, knitting his brow, "maybe a little."
"No—" Sarah said, looking down into the darkness and then back at her son's face. "See, if all of a sudden on Saturday morning—before the war—I had told you that you couldn't watch any cartoon shows at all and never explained why, told you you'd never see a cartoon show again, how would you have felt?"
"Mad."
"Sad, too?" she asked.
"Yeah. Yeah, I would have been sad."
"And probably the worst part of it making you mad and sad would have been that there wasn't any reason why—huh?"
"Yeah—I'd want to know why I couldn't watch TV."
"Well, see when Mr. Jenkins died, I guess his wife—Mrs. Jenkins—just couldn't understand why he had to die. And losing someone you love is more important than missing cartoon shows, right?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"Well, see, once somebody is dead you never get him back."
"But in church they said that after you die you live forever."
"I hope so," Sarah Rourke said quietly.
Chapter Fourteen
"I never ate something so bad in my life," Rubenstein said, starting to turn away from Rourke to spit out the food in his mouth.
"I'd eat that if I were you," Rourke said softly. "Protein, vitamins, sugar—all of that stuff, including the moisture—is something your body is craving right now. Just reading a book burns up calories, so riding that bike all day, especially in this heat, really draws a lot out of your body."
"Aww, God, but this tastes like cardboard."
"You eat much cardboard?"
"Well, no, but you know what I mean."
"It doesn't taste good, but it's nutritious. Maybe we'll find something better tomorrow or the next day. When we get back to the retreat, you can stuff yourself. I've got all the Mountain House freeze-dried foods—beef stroganoff, everything. I've got a lot of dehydrated vegetables, a freezer full of meat—steaks, roasts, the works. I've even got Michelob, pretzels, chocolate chip cookies, Seagrams Seven. Everything."
"Ohh, man—I wish we were there."
"Well," Rourke said slowly, "wishing won't get us there."
"What I wouldn't do for a candy bar—mmm…"
"Unless you're under high energy demand circumstances, candy isn't that good for you. Sugar is one of the worst things in the world."
"I thought you said you had chocolate chip cookies," Rubenstein said.
"Well—you can't always eat stuff that's healthy for you."
"What kind of chocolate chip cookies are they?" Rubenstein asked.
"I don't remember," Rourke said. "I always confuse the brands."
"I found your one weakness!" Rubenstein exclaimed, starting to laugh. "Bad at identifying chocolate chip cookies."
Rourke grinned at Rubenstein, "Nobody's perfect, I guess."
Rubenstein was still laughing, then started coughing and Rourke bent toward him, saying, "Hold your hands over your head—helps to clear the air passage."
"This—pukey—damned baby—baby food," Rubenstein coughed.
"Just shut up for a minute until you get your breath," Rourke ordered. "Then let's get a few hours' rest and get started before first light again. I'd like to put on as much desert mileage as we can during darkness—want to make Van Horn and beyond tomorrow."
"What's at Van—Van Horn?" Rubenstein asked, coughing but more easily.
"Maybe food and water and gasoline. Good-sized town, a little off the beaten track, maybe it's indecent shape still. At least I hope so. Knew a guy from Van Horn once."
"Think he's still there?" Rubenstein said, speaking softly and clearing his throat.
"I don't know," Rourke said thoughtfully. "Lost touch with him a few years ago.
Might have died—no way to tell."
Rubenstein just shook his head, starting to laugh again, saying, "John, you are one strange guy. I've never met somebody so laid back in my whole life."
Rourke just looked at Rubenstein, saying, "That's exactly how I'm going to be in about thirty seconds— laid back. And sleeping. You'd better do the same." Rourke stood up, starting away from the bikes.
"Takin' a leak?" Rubenstein queried.
Rourke turned and glanced back at him. "No—I'm burying the jar from the baby food. No sense littering, and the sugar clinging to the sides of the glass will just draw insects."
"Ohh," Rubenstein said.
Chapter Fifteen
Karamatsov paced across the room—dawn was coming and lighting it, drawing long shadows through the shot-open windows. "We must find Chambers—he would still be in Texas. This is his power base, and the militia units we have heard of and observed would be satisfactory troops around which he could organize armed resistance."
"Perhaps he is only hiding," Natalia observed, leaning back on one elbow on the long sofa where she had slept the remainder of the night after securing the house.
"I doubt it, Natalia. He must strike while the iron is warm—"
"Hot," she corrected.
"Yes—hot. He must, though. Once our forces are settled into position in strength his task will be more difficult. Once we are able to organize a national identity system, collect all firearms, etc., his task will be virtually impossible. He must act now!" and Karamatsov hammered his fist down on the wall behind him.
"What we gonna do, boss?" Yuri said, grinning.
Karamatsov glared at the man, but continued speaking, ignoring the lack of formality. "We are going to split up—that is what we are going to do.
Natalia—you and Yuri will take an aircraft into the western portion of the state—it is desert there. Travel by jeep back to Galveston. We will all rendezvous there at our command center near the coast. Equipment and fortifications should be finished within days there at any event. Radio communications will still be impossible, so unless a perfect opportunity presents itself to get Chambers, try nothing on your own, but instead run down as many leads as possible concerning his whereabouts and anticipated movements.
Questions?"
"What about identities?" Yuri's voice sounded more serious now.
"We don't have time to manufacture anything new—simply use the papers you have with you to best advantage. Unless you run into a skeptical, organized force there shouldn't be any difficulty. I wish I could offer more advice. Any other questions?"
Natalia said nothing, but uncoiled herself from the couch, standing, pressing her hands down along the sides of her coveralls. Karamatsov looked at her and watched as she ran her long fingers through her dark hair. "Natalia—I wish to speak with you a moment." Karamatsov caught Yuri's eyes glancing quickly, almost furtively at him. Natalia turned to face him and smiled, her long mouth upturned at the corners into a smile, the tiniest of dimples appearing there as if by some magic.
He turned and walked to the corner of the room, then looked back as Natalia walked toward him, the other already leaving for the front yard. "What is it, Vladmir?" she asked, the sound of her voice almost something he could feel.
"Nothing, really—I just wished to tell you to be careful. That's all. These surviving Americans are crazy. All of them with guns, so ready to use them."
"Was there anything else?" she asked, her eyes intent on his.
Karamatsov put his hands on her shoulders and drew her toward him, felt the curves of her body pressing against him. "Yes—we can be together at the headquarters. I couldn't sleep last night—do you know that?" Without waiting for her to answer, he moved his hands to her face and drew her mouth up toward his, kissing her, his hands moving down then and cradling her body against him. He bent and touched his lips to her throat, hearing her voice whispering in his ear, "Vladmir—I so want this all to be over. We can be together, now that we have won."