She had two left to fight.
The smoke was heavy now, the wind from outside the house that blew through the shot-out windows feeding the flames.
A brigand—she could see the look of lust in his eyes as he jumped through the window, the flames which caught at his shirt swatted out under his massive right hand.
She raised the ..
'Get out of here!'
'Yeah—later,' the man snarled, raising the rifle.
Saran pulled the trigger. The . Government Model Colt bucked in her hand, the man's face registered shock, surprise. He toppled backward.
Michael had picked up a leg from a broken chair. She didn't know how it had gotten broken. He held it like a club.
'Let 'em come,' he snarled.
'No,' Sarah whispered.
One round was left. She edged back toward the stairwell, to escape the flames, to postpone—the inevitable.
'Mrs. Rourke!'
It was Millie Jenkins. Sarah looked down at her face, then at her eyes, then up the stairwell.
A man at the head of the stairs, a submachinegun in his hands.
Sarah pumped the trigger of the .—once, then once again, the body lurching back, then doubling over, falling, the submachinegun spraying into the wall as Sarah pulled the children close to her.
The body fell at her feet, Mary Mulliner reaching down and picking up the submachinegun.
'It's empty I think,' Mary almost hissed.
Sarah took the submachinegun—she thought it was an Uzi.
It was empty.
She looked at the dead man—no other gun, no spare magazines she could see.
There were not enough rounds left in the . for her to kill herself.
It had to be Michael first—he'd try to stop her otherwise.
She pressed the muzzle of the . to his head as she hugged him to her.
' love you!' She screamed the words.
She started to squeeze the trigger.
'Mrs. Rourke!'
She looked to the doorway beyond the smoldering curtains, a man having gotten through. A young man, carrot red hair. 'You're safe!'
It was Mary's son.
Calmly—Sarah raised the thumb safety on the . and handed the pistol to Mary Mulliner.
Every woman had the right, Sarah thought—at least once. She closed her eyes and fell, her head swimming, bright floaters in front of her eyes.
Chapter 23
Sarah Rourke sat with her blue jeans across her lap, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her bare legs against the wind, the fire licking loudly in front of her.
'We got all your things out of the house—Mom told me where they were.'
'How are the children, Bill?'
'Fine, Mrs. Rourke—Michael's sleeping and so's Annie. Millie's sitting on Mom's lap—but she's all right. Won't go to sleep though.'
Sarah looked behind her at what had been the farmhouse. It was as burned and gutted as her own house in Georgia.
'I'm sorry for your mother's house,' she whispered. 'Sorry I fainted on you, too. But—'
'Hey—I understand it. I'm just a kid—at least I was. But—well, since the Night of The War, I seen a lot, ya know, ma'am.'
'Yes—I know. I have too,' Sarah told him. 'Your resistance people were just like the cavalry—just in the nick of time,' and she forced a laugh.
