He hoped it was Narcan— not something else.
He took the syringe; he wanted a vein for the fastest action possible. He plunged the needle into his flesh. He started counting the seconds. It should take—how
many? He tried to remember. Thirty—thirty seconds or so before he felt it.
Rourke dropped the needle and slumped back on the cot, nausea and cold flooding over him as he closed his eyes. . . .
Rourke opened his eyes to see Martha Bogen, her hair mussed, her face bruised, standing over him, a needle in her right hand held like a dagger.
'No!' Rourke punched his right fist upward into her jaw. He sat up, his back aching, but his hands reaching out to catch the unconscious woman before she hit the concrete floor.
He swept her up into his arms, staggering for a moment under the added weight.
He walked the step toward the cot and, heavily, set her down.
'Martha,' he murmured. He still had to urinate. He looked around the basement. There was a small door and he walked toward it, opened it—a bathroom. He stepped inside and relieved himself.
He felt the cold and the nausea coming. 'Narcan— more Narcan,' he murmured, already staggering. He reached the cot, found the package of syringes, opened the small leather case and took a fresh syringe.
He squatted on the floor, controlling his breathing so the Narcan wouldn't make him pass out. It shouldn't have been that way, he realized. It wasn^t theNarcan, hut the build-up of morphine in his system. He carefully found a spot and gave himself the injection, watching as the liquid dropped along the scale markings beneath the finger flange. Removing the needle, he sat quietly fora moment, feeling the dizziness start to subside.
He waited what he judged to be a full five minutes,
then tried getting to his feet.
Unsteady—but he could stand. He walked over to the small kit. There was one more syringe of Narcan. He closed the kit and took it with him as he started— shakily—toward the basement door. The thought occurred to him—break the blade off the paper cutter, in case more crazies were outside, waiting.
He didn't.
Rourke opened the door, then stepped through. The stairs were dimly lit, a stronger light glowing from the top. He leaned heavily against the wall of the stairwell as he started up, tired still, his muscles aching.
'B complex,' he murmured. If he could reach his bike, he could give himself an injection. Another injection. 'Shit,' he murmured.
He reached the top of the stairs, the library empty through the open door, a light under a green shade glowing from the glass-partitioned office.
He lurched toward it, knocking over a large dictionary stand. He glanced back at it, then stood up straight, catching his breath. He reached the glass partition, then turned the knob of her office door. There was a small closet at the back, behind her desk.
As he opened the door, he started to feel his strength returning. Inside, neatly folded on the top shelf, were his clothes. He looked below. On the floor were his boots. No guns.
He turned to the desk, opening the large side drawer on the left-hand pedestal bottom.
The double Alessi shoulder rig, the twin Detonics stainless ,s. His A.G.
Russell Sting IA knife.
He took up the shoulder rig, snapping one of the pistols out of the holster, then checked it—the chamber was still
loaded, five rounds still in the magazine. He looked up; Martha Bogen was coming toward him.
He pointed the gun at her face. She stopped, then dropped to her knees on the floor and began to cry. 'I didn't want to die alone.'
'Nobody'll have to die; I won't let it happen.'
'You can't stop. it. You'll die, loo. But we'll both die alone.'
Rourke heard a tiny explosion, then a whistling sound. He glanced at his Rolex, still running in the drawer; then he pulled open the curtain over the window to the street. Against the darkness, he could see a skyrocket bursting. It was exquisite.
' told you.' He heard Martha Bogen s voice shout hysterically. 'I told you so, John!'
The fireworks. Rourke remembered her saying they would come just before the explosions, just before the end.
The pickup truck had thrown a part from the engine— she wasn't sure what—and the radiator had burst and the pickup had stopped dead.
For the last three miles, as she judged it, she and the children had walked hugging the side of the farm road— &he had been too tired to cross country. With her, she carried the stolen M-rifle, her husband's .—the gun now covered with a light layer of brown that she considered to be rust—and among her few personal effects the photographs she had taken from the farmhouse on the Night of the War. Her wedding picture with John was among them.
She sat staring at it now, folded, creased, cracked. He wore a tuxedo and she a floor-length white gown and a veil. The children were resting. It was not far to theMul-liner farm now, but they had needed to rest. She felt as though she were entering a new stage of her life, and somehow staring at the wedding photo had seemed necessary before going to the farm.
She put it away, seeing the picture more clearly in her mind than in the photograph. She remembered
