Sarah Rourke shifted the gun into her right hand, worked down the safety with her right thumb and pointed the pistol straight out between the open door and the body of the truck. She didn't say, 'Hold it—don't come any closer.' An old Sarah Rourke would have said that. She felt it in her bones. She pulled the trigger, the pistol bucking once in her right hand; the man's face exploded in blood.
She dismissed him mentally, climbing aboard and setting down the pistol, the safety upped again. Her right hand worked the ignition, her left foot the clutch, her righl foot the gas. She hadn't driven in so long, she thought. The engine rumbled reassuringly, then caught.
With her left elbow, she pushed down the door-lock button to give herself an extra instant while she found the emergency brake.
She heard the creaking of hinges, looked across the seat, and saw a face—one of the Brigands. 'What the fu—' She picked up the pistol as the man started for his, and she fired. His left eye seemed to explode and the body slumped away.
She found the emergency brake, released it, and popped the clutch, looking to her left; there was a man clinging to the driver's side of the truck.
She kept driving, hearing the man's muted curses, the hammering of his fist against the window.
Looking behind her, seeing the angry eyes of the man who held on, Sarah worked the transmission into
reverse. She accelerated, the rear end of the Ford smashing into the motorcycles, her body lurching as she stomped on the brakes. She forgot the clutch; the engine died. The man still hung on, hammering against the window. She depressed the clutch with her left foot, working the key again. The engine wasn't catching. She could hear gunfire, shots pinging against the hood of the truck. She sucked in her breath, almost screaming; there was a smashing sound, of glass. She saw what the bullet had hit—the right-hand outside mirror was gone.
She tried the key again, murmuring, 'Please—start— please!'
The engine rumbled to life and she put the stick into first; then as she started downward pressure on the gas, she popped the clutch, the truck lurching ahead under her. She glanced into the rear-view—the bikes were a mass of twisted metal behind her, jammed into the trees like paper clips into a box.
The man clinging beside her was still hammering on the glass. Another of the Brigands threw himself toward the hood. Sarah cut the wheel hard right, and the man slid away.
There was more gunfire, the window behind her head spiderwebbing with a bullet hole, but not shattering.
She kept driving, the man behind her hammering on the glass with his head now, screaming at her. She had to gel away. A stray bullet could hit the gasoline in the back of the truck, could kill her—and what would happen to Michael and Annie.
She couldn't roll down the window to shoot the man. Instead, she sideswiped the Ford into the trees, and the man screamed so loudly she could hear it distinctly.
There was red blood smeared against the driver's-side
window now as she upshifted and started away; men, visible in the outside mirror on the driver's side, were running behind her, firing. But she didn't think they would catch her. , After leading the Brigands off, she returned for Michael and Annie. Then she checked the gasoline. It would be enough to get them to Tennessee, to the Mulliner farm, or close enough at least, she judged.
The children, for the last ten minutes, had been wrapped in the blankets found in the back of the truck. They were sitting in the truck cab, naked under the blankets, the heat running full.
She picked up Sam's saddle and tossed it inside the truck bed, then did the same with Tildie's saddle.
She walked over to the animals, hugged Tildie at the neck, and stroked Sam's forehead between the dark eyes. 'I love you guys,' she whispered, kissing Tildie's muzzle, then slipping her bridle. She slipped Sam's bridle, then swatted both horses on the rumps, sending them off aiong the shoreline. She looked after them for an instant, manes cutting the wind, tails high. She turned away and cried.
The air felt almost warm to her. The wind lashed back her hair as the borrowed motorcycle rumbled between her legs, her body leaning into it as she navigated a tight turn, and read a sign, water-stained and half knocked down. There had been a museum there; it was now a barracks.
Natalia gunned the Kawasaki ahead. The response didn't seem like that of Rourke's bike. Rourke, she thought.
She wondered if he had found them yet. Were they back in the Retreat, picking up their lives together? And Paul—she smiled. He was a good man, a good friend to them both.
'Both,' she repeated into the wind, not hearing it because of the slipstream. Words like both, or us—they were meaningless to her now.
The shore of Lake Michigan seemed remarkably peaceful to her—she watched the smallish whitecaps far off beyond the parkways, liking her view, but sorry for it. She squinted her eyes tight shut, then opened them, realizing how tired she was. She had not wanted to stay with the Soviet troops who had found her with Paul. She had driven with them toward Gary, Indiana, then
borrowed the motorcycle, taking something called 'Skyway' and winding her way toward South Lake Shore Drive through what remained of Chicago. The buildings stood, but not a tree grew, not a blade of grass; not a dog yelped in the streets. There were no children. The neutron bombing had seen to that.
She followed the drive north, toward the museum that Varakov so religiously preserved, despite the fact that her uncle used it as his headquarters. And the KGB headquarters were there as well. She wondered, almost absently, if Rozhdestvenskiy had arrived yet from the Soviet Union, to replace her late husband. There had been rumors that he had, and unconfirmed though they had been, she hadn't doubted them.
She almost missed the turnoff, left into the small drive past the museum; not bothering to stop, she slowed so the guards could identify her.
She made a left onto the southbound drive, then a fast left into the museum parking lot, past more guards. The guards saluted, Natalia only nodding.
