Cole's palms still sweated on the M-16 he held, the bonfires glowing now, the wildmen unmoved since they had first encircled him, his two men and his prisoner.
'Armitage,' he called. 'Yeah, captain—'
'If anything happens— shoot Colonel Teal in the head— a coupla times—'
'Yes, sir,' Armitage nodded.
Cole looked at the man— the casual way he had answered. He had known Armitage for three years. They had trained together in Alabama at the camp there. They had played the war games together, listened to the speeches together. He had been with Armitage the time they had fire bombed the car of the black television reporter.
Cole studied the flaming cross— it amused him. That he should be intimidated by a flaming cross.
'Armitage,' he called out.
'Yeah, captain?'
'You and Kelsoe— get ya some tree limbs— make us a cross, too— you remember how?'
Armitage said nothing for a moment, Cole watching him, then watching as the face lit with a smile, the firelight of the bonfire surrounding them, making his face glow red, almost diabolical looking.
'And light it, Captain?'
'Yeah— and light it, Armitage.'
'Yes, sir!'
Cole watched as Armitage ran over to Kelsoe, Kelsoe producing a hand axe from his belt.
'Show you bastards how it's done,' Cole murmured, looking again at the wildmen.
Chapter Twenty
Sarah Rourke walked through the darkness, Bill Mulliner opposite her and slightly ahead on her right, Michael walking with Annie and Bill's mother, Mary Mulliner. Michael would alert her, she knew, so she concentrated her attention, focused her senses ahead of them— there had been noises, telltale noises only. There were people at the base of the funnel-like defile. But there were Russian troops on the road and staying on the high ground would have meant capture. For this reason only, Bill— Sarah realizing she had coached him— had decided to lead them down into the defile.
Brigands possibly, or more Russians— but possibly more Resistance. They were gambling.
She had come to understand herself more as a woman, she thought, trying to force her attention away from her thoughts and to the task at hand— but unable to.
She had come to understand what she could do— the power she had. Bill— a boy really, little older than Michael— was a man. He was the natural leader. But she had weathered more combat than he had, endured more, had a greater depth of judgment and perception than his years allowed him. She knew that— he knew that.
So she advised rather than attempting to lead, implied rather than ordered.
The same result was achieved— yet Bill had his self respect as a man.
She considered herself lucky to be a woman— there were fewer problems with ego where practical matters were concerned. She was content to respectfully follow his orders— so long as they were orders that followed her own directives, however subtly given.
She understood too some of the things that had caused the tension in her relationship with her husband. He would not be implied to, be coached, be nudged along. He had never once refused to listen to a direct suggestion, an idea. But he had refused oblique direction— and it was unconscious with him, she thought.
They were incompatible— had always been. But had always loved each other.
They stopped as they reached the base of the defile. Sarah Rourke wondered if she would ever see John Rourke again, ever feel his hands on her skin— ever argue with him again.
'Bill—' she almost hissed the name, keeping her voice low.
'This way,' he nodded.
She realized suddenly she had been pointing the muzzle of her rifle in the same direction he had picked— had he read it, realized she had wanted them to go that way because the ground was more even— seeming in the starlight and would be easier to traverse at a dead run if necessary?
She shuddered slightly— power.
Chapter Twenty-One
They had walked along the natural path in the woods for more than a half-hour, she judged, glancing at the watch carried in her jeans pocket. She would have to improvise a band for the Tudor so she could wear it on her wrist. That could come later, she thought— if there were one, a later.
For the last two minutes she had heard the telltale noises again. She had left Michael and Annie with Mary Mulliner, being practical and giving Michael her M-16— Mary was the worst shot Sarah had ever seen. She laughed at herself— before the Night of The War, she herself was the worst shot she had ever seen, would never have touched a gun except to move it out of the way when she dusted the house, would never have left her young son with a loaded gun in his hands.
The Trapper
'Shit,' she murmured. Bill turned, looking back at her, and she shook her head to signify nothing was wrong. Saying a word like that— she would rarely if ever have said it before the Night of The War. It was the people she had associated with since then, she thought— they swore sometimes. And now she did, too.
She kept moving, watching Bill Mulliner as much as she watched the trail and the shadows beyond it where the meager starlight didn't penetrate.
Sarah heard something— she wheeled, something hammering at her, driving her down.
Her thumb depressed the upped safety, the muzzle of the .45 searching a target as though it had become independent of conscious thought.
She found flesh, the pistol rammed against it, her first finger touching at the trigger.
'Sarah!'
The voice was low, a whisper, whiskey-tinged. The breath smelled of cheap cigars— 'Sarah—
it's me—'
She edged her trigger finger out of the guard, finding the safety before she moved anymore. She sank her head against the man's chest. She had never thought she'd be so happy to see the Resistance leader, Pete Critchfleld.
'Pete.' She said the name once and quietly— he was more competent than she. She needed that now.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The wood crackled as the cross burned and Cole felt somehow safer— He watched the wildmen, watching him now, puzzled that he too had ordered a cross erected, but only to burn it.
'When the hell somethin' gonna happen, captain?' It was Kelsoe, crouched beside him, Armitage sitting on the ground near where Teal was handcuffed to the pine tree.
'Soon, Kelsoe— real soon.'
'Soon— they're gonna come down here and cut us up into little pieces, captain.'
'Maybe,' Cole nodded— he looked up at the wildmen on the ridge. 'If they haven't yet— well, maybe they are gettin'—'
'Cole—'
It was Armand Teal. Cole turned, facing him, shifting his position on the ground, his legs stiff from squatting beside the burning cross. 'Yes, colonel?'
'What the hell you plan to offer those lunatics— power. What power?'
Cole stood up, his legs unable to take it anymore, cramping. 'Well— I guess you could call it the ultimate power. The power of the sun. The power to destroy—'
'You're gonna give them a goddamn missile?' Cole shrugged and turned away. There was movement now on the rise, the lines of gaping wildmen separating, forming almost a wedge as Cole watched, a new group of wildmen coming from the center of the wedge— they seemed better armed as best he could judge in the firelight and the light from the torches they carried.
'Throw down your weapons!' It was a voice, loud, powerful-sounding, coming from the opening in the wedge.
'No,' Cole shouted back. 'I come to offer you power— not to surrender myself and be killed!' He was
