'A pack of hungry wild dogs, huh?' Rubenstein said. 'And here we are, meat on the hoof, huh?'
'You've got the idea, Rubenstein,' Rourke said, smiling. 'And, speak of the devil.'
Rourke stopped and turned, Rubenstein beside him now. The howling was louder, and at the end of the street in plain sight, less than fifty yards from Rourke and Rubenstein, stood six dogs. Five German shepherds and one Doberman.
'My God,' Rubenstein muttered.
'The Lord helps those who help themselves, doesn't he?' Rourke said, snatching one of the Detonics pistols into his right hand. His knife was clipped to his shoulder rig, but his left hand was crowded with the Geiger counter, the flashlight, and a bag of spare ammo he had taken from the store.
'Here, hold my stuff,' Rourke rasped.
'You just gonna stand here?'
'Yeah,' he said. 'Until they come at us in a run. Then I'm going to shoot them. Here-take the rifle in case I miss one of em.'
'Oh,' Rubenstein said, taking Rourke's SSG. 'I never shot a gun in my life.'
'First time for everything. Bet you never walked down the street naked before either.'
'Well, yeah,' Rubenstein said.
Rourke smiled, snatching the second Detonics from its holster.
The dogs started edging forward. 'How good a shot are you?' Rubenstein asked, nervously.
'Not bad,' Rourke said. 'Better than average, I guess,' he added.
'Oh. You're not bad. Better than average,' Rubenstein said, laughing. 'Well, listen. I'm glad of that.'
The dogs started breaking into a loping run now, their speed increasing as they approached. 'Must be pretty hungry to attack people who look like they can defend themselves,' Rourke said slowly, raising the Detonics stainless .45 in his right hand, his left hand with the matching gun still hanging limp at his side.
'Must be,' Rubenstein said, taking a step back. The nearest of the dogs-the largest German shepherd-was thirty feet away when Rourke fired. The hollow point round caught the animal square in the chest and it dropped.
Already, Rourke had the second Detonics raised and cocked. He squeezed the trigger. The bullet cut into the second of the German shepherds. The animal yelped once, ran a few paces, and fell. With the pistol in his right hand, Rourke sighted on the Doberman, then fired.
'Missed,' Rourke mumbled, firing then with the pistol in his left hand, catching the Doberman and dropping it instantly.
The pack was less than fifteen feet away now, and Rourke lowered both guns to midway between his shoulders and waist and fired, first the one in his right hand, then, as he brought it back on line, the one in his left. The hot brass burned against his naked chest and thighs. He fired both .45's simultaneously at the last dog, dropping it in mid-air as it sprang toward him. Then he let both pistols drop to his sides.
He took a step forward, then turned to listen to Rubenstein who was saying, 'That was spectacular-I never saw anything like that in my life. It was like a movie or something. You would have made one hell of a great cowboy in the old west, John Rourke.'
Rourke stooped over the nearest dog, studying it. Then he stood, fished in the bag for spare magazines for his pistols and reloaded, saying to Rubenstein, 'That dog has rabies. Watch out for cats, dogs, anything. We gotta get out of here, soon.'
Without another word, they started down the street in their original direction. Rubenstein had slung the rifle across his shoulders.
On the next block, Rourke stopped, staring up and down the street, then pointing. 'Over there. We'll see if there's anything left-might have been looted.'
He started walking toward the clothing store, Rubenstein behind him. There was no glass in the windows; it had blown inward. Rourke glanced down the street. There was a huge hole where, apparently, a gas main had ruptured. Beyond that, at the end of the block, all the buildings were burned.
'Why are some of the buildings left, some only partway burned do you suppose?' Rubenstein asked.
'A firestorm is a funny thing-it feeds on itself, builds its own winds. There's no logic to it. That's why they're so dangerous. Probably,' and Rourke-cautiously because of his bare feet-stepped through the smashed glass door, 'when that plane hit the gasoline tanker truck at the airport, the city was pretty much evacuated. May have been expecting a Soviet missile to be targeted on them. No one to put out the fire, got into the gas system and gas mains blew-then a firestorm. It must have burned itself out fast though.'
'Here,' Rubenstein said. 'Take your flashlight.'
'Thanks,' Rourke muttered, shining the beam along the length of the store. The merchandise seemed untouched. 'Help yourself,' Rourke said over his shoulder, starting toward a table loaded with Levi's.
After ten minutes both men were dressed again-jeans, shirts, boots. And each took a jacket.
Rourke stopped by the cash register and walked behind the counter, going into the smashed display case and snatching a handful of Timex watches. 'Here,' he shouted, tossing a couple of the watches to Rubenstein, then putting two on his left wrist.
'Got any idea what time it is?' Rubenstein asked.
'Doesn't really matter anymore. A watch is just a way of keeping track of elapsed time. When the sun rises, it'll be about seven. Grab yourself a wide-brimmed hat, Paul,' he added. 'That sun on the desert'll be strong tomorrow.'
Rourke snatched a pair of dark-lensed aviator sunglasses and tried them on, then found a dark gray Stetson in his size.
