He stopped beside the body of the Viking, and let both pistols drop to his sides. He could see Rubenstein, at the opposite side of the camp, standing, the gun in his hands silent. He squinted, his head aching from the wound on the side of his neck. The basin was a sea of fallen bodies and fallen motorcycles. At the far edge of the camp, he heard the sound of an engine gunning to life and looked up. There was a lone biker, wrestling his machine away from the camp, a trail of dust behind him as he started out of the basin.
Rourke looked down to the ground, snatched up a twelve-gauge shotgun which one of the bikers had dropped. Tromboning the pump and chambering a round, Rourke hauled the nearest motorcycle from the ground, straddled it, and started the engine. From behind him, he could hear Rubenstein shouting, 'Rourke-what are you doing?'
Rourke headed the motorcycle after the one survivor of the camp and shouted back, 'I'm not finished!'
He passed the perimeter of the camp and started picking up speed. The biker's dust trail faded ahead of him. The basin was far longer than it was wide, and at the distant end, toward which Rourke headed, was a steep hill.
Through the dust, Rourke could see his quarry starting up the hill, the bike slipping and the man going down. He jumped up and got the bike under him and tried the hill again. Rourke bent low over the Harley, the wind ripping at his face and hands and hair. His lips were drawn back, his teeth bared, the riot shotgun in his right fist against the controls.
The biker was halfway up the hill, and the bike started collapsing under him again. Rourke skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust at the base of the hill, letting the bike drop to the ground. He snapped the riot shotgun to his right shoulder. He squinted down the sights and muttered the word, 'Die!' Then he pulled the trigger.
The biker's hands went to his back, and he fell forward, then slid down the hillside on his face. His body slammed to a halt at the base of the hill, less than ten yards from where Rourke stood.
Rourke dropped the riot shotgun into the sand and started walking back toward the camp. He could see a dust cloud, coming in his direction, a single man on a motorcycle. As the bike neared him, Rourke made out Rubenstein's face and stopped, switching loads in his .45's as he waited.
Rubenstein slowed the bike. Obviously, he was still having a hard time still controlling it. He stopped, and the machine nearly skidded out from under him.
Rourke waited a moment until the dust settled. Then he walked over to Rubenstein and his bike. Rubenstein, very softly, asked, 'Are you finished now?' Rourke nodded his head, saying, 'We've got a long ride ahead of us. But I'm finished for now.'
The End
Special Preview of the Survivalist #2
The Nightmare Begins
'I've been meaning to ask you,' Rubenstein began, wiping his red bandana handkerchief across his high, sweat dripping forehead. 'Out of all those bikes back there at the crash site, why did you take that particular one?'
Rourke leaned forward on the handlebars of his motorcycle, squinting down at the road below them, the intense desert sun rising in waves, visible despite the dark-lensed aviator framed glasses he wore. 'Couple of reasons,' Rourke answered, his voice low. 'I like Harley Davidsons, I already have a Low Rider like this,' and, almost affectionately, he patted the fuel tank between his legs, 'back at the survival retreat. It's about the best combination going for off-road and road use-good enough on gas, fast, handles well, lets you ride comfortably. I like it, I guess,' he concluded.
'You've got reasons for everything, haven't you, John?'
'Yeah,' Rourke said, his tone thoughtful, 'I usually do. And I've got a very good reason why we should check out that truck trailer down there-see?' and Rourke pointed down the sloping hillside and along the road.
'Where?' Rubenstein said, leaning forward on his bike.
'That dark shape on the side of the road; I'll show you when we get there,' Rourke said quietly, revving the Harley under him and starting off down the slope. Rubenstein settled himself on the motorcycle he rode and started after. Perspiration dripped from Rourke's face as he hauled the Harley up short and waited at the base of slope for Rubenstein. Lower down, the air was even hotter. He glanced at the fuel gauge on the bike-just a little over half. As he automatically began calculating approximate mileage, Rubenstein skidded to a halt beside him. 'You've gotta watch those hills, pal,' Rourke said, the corners of his mouth raising in one of his rare smiles.
'Yeah-tell me about it. But I'm gettin' to control it better.'
'All right-you are,' Rourke said, then cranked his bike into gear and started across the narrow expanse of ground still separating them from the road. Rourke halted a moment as they reached the highway, stared down the road toward the West and steered his motorcycle in the direction of his gaze. The sun was just below its zenith and as far as Rourke was able to tell they were already into Texas and perhaps seventy-five miles or less from El Paso. The wind in his face and hair and across his body was hot, from the slipstream of the bike as it cruised along the highway, but it still had some cooling effect on his skin-already he could feel his shirt, sticking to his back with sweat, starting to dry. He glanced into his rear-view mirror and could see Paul Rubenstein trying to catch up.
Rourke skidded the Harley into a tight left, realizing he was almost past the abandoned truck trailer. He took the bike in a tight circle around it as Rubenstein approached. As he completed the 360 degrees he stopped alongside the younger man's machine. 'Common carrier,' Rourke said softly. 'Abandoned. After we run the Geiger counter over it we can check what's inside-might be something useful. Shut off your bike. I don't think we're gonna find any gas here.'
Rourke unstrapped the Geiger counter from the back of his Harley and gave it to Rubenstein. He watched as the smaller man carefully checked the truck trailer; the radiation level proved normal. Rourke walked up to the double doors at the rear of the trailer and visually inspected the lock.
'You gonna shoot it off?' Rubenstein was asking, suddenly beside him. Rourke turned and looked at him. 'You've gotten awful violent lately, haven't you? We got a prybar?'
'Nothin' big,' the other man said.
'Well,' Rourke said, drawing the Metalifed Colt Python from the holster on his right hip, 'then I guess I'm going to shoot it off. Stand over there,' he gestured back toward the motorcycles. Once Rubenstein was clear, Rourke took a few steps back and on angle to the lock, raised the Magnnaported six-inch barrel on line with the lock and thumbed back the hammer. He touched the first finger of his right hand to the trigger, his fist locked on the Colt Medallion Pachmayr grips, the .357 Magnum 158-grain semi-jacketed soft point round slamming into the lock, the mechanism visibly shattering. Rourke holstered the revolver. As Rubenstein started for the lock, he cautioned, 'It might be hot,' but Rubenstein was already reaching for it, pulling his hand away as his fingers contacted the metal.
