She could see it—the shoreline, a muddy bank. She reached out her right arm, almost losing Annie, catching at the girl, the little girl saying, 'I'm frightened, Mommie!'
'I am, too,' Sarah cried as she saw the shoreline move rapidly away from her. Glancing to her right, she saw the opening in the dam growing wider by the instant. The
houseboat was now batting against the sides of the dam, then suddenly was sucked through, lost.
She reached out her right arm again; Michael was trying to tow her. She wanted to tell him to save himself—so at least one of them would survive.
'Michael!' 'Keep going. Come on, Momma!' he shouted, water splashing across his open mouth, making him cough. Sarah was reaching, pulling, tugging, reaching, pulling, the shoreline still speeding past as she was pulled down by the current; but the shoreline somehow looked closer.
Michael was pulling at her, pulling at Annie—she couldn't understand what drove him.
She kept moving her arms, not really conscious of them anymore, not knowing if it was doing any good.
Left arm, right arm, left arm . . . She wanted to sleep, to open her mouth to the water.
She kept moving, her legs too tired now to push her.
Something hard, harder than the water hit at her face and she looked up—red clay, wet and slimy and . . . she wanted to kiss it.
Her left arm reached out, then her right, dragging Annie. The little girl was coughing, almost choking. Sarah slapped her on the back. 'Annie!'
Annie slumped forward into the muddy clay and rolled onto her back, crying—alive.
'Michael!'
He wasn't there—he wasn't—'Michael!' She screamed, coughing, getting to her knees, slipping in the mud. She saw a dark spot on the water, staring into it.
His hair—dark brown, like his father's. 'Michael!!' she screamed, tears rolling down her cheeks. Jump in and save him—yes, she thought. But if she died—Annie?
'Mich—' His head went below the surface and she died, but it was up again and his arms waved above the surface and he was coming toward her.
Sarah waded out into the water which thrashed around her waist. She tugged at the thong holding the saddlebags to her, loosed it awkwardly, then hurtled the bags to the shore, shouting to Annie, 'Stay there, Annie!'
'Is Michael alive?'
Michael reached toward her and Sarah snatched at his hand. The boy came into her arms, both of them falling; then Sarah pushed them up toward the shore. Michael coughed.
'He's alive, Annie,' Sarah whispered.
Michael hugged her, coughing still, and then Annie's arms were around her neck and the little girl was laughing and Sarah was laughing too. She whispered, 'Thank God for the Y.M.CA. pool!'
Rourke sat sipping the coffee.
'So when the war broke out—well we were always pretty cut off from the outside world, but we knew about it. The television reception here was never very good, but we lost the television stations, then the radio stations we could get. We knew ... all of it, as it happened. We sat up through the night in the town square, most of us, and we could see the lights on the horizons around the valley. We knew what was happening. We all sort of decided that living in a world that had been destroyed wouldn't be living at all. All but six families—and they left. They're probably dead now. See, we don't raise much more than what we have in truck gardens. The gas stations had just gotten their supplies before the war took place, and with no one going anywhere, well, we didn't use much gas. A lot of us—mostly everybody—just walk to work and such.'
'So you decided to keep things going—just like before,' Rourke told her.
'More or less.' She smiled, sipping at her coffee, then pouring fresh coffee for Rourke. 'At least to try.'
'But—'
'But we realized it couldn't last forever. We only had so much. So we worked it out carefully—all of us. We all did. We were always close-knit—'
'You're not from here,' Rourke said flatly, sipping his coffee.
'No. I'm not. It was my husband who was born here. He went away to medical school. We married and he brought me back here with him.'
'How did (he town live?' Rourke asked her. 'I saw that factory—'
'That's only been here the last seven years. It was all cottage industry before that. The factory makes some sort of equipment for the space program or the defense department; the people who work there never were quite sure.
'It doesn't make anything, anymore,' Rourke said soberly.
'The factory is still running—'
'Making what?' Rourke heard himself snap.
'What they did before—everything is like it was before.'
'That's useless. That's insane! For what purpose?' Rourke asked her. 'I mean—O.K., the holiday thing is pretty obvious. Make everyone happy as long as you can—but then what? What'll you do when the food runs out
