Rourke’s M-16 empty as well, two shots re-mained in the Scoremaster—Rourke fired them off, ramming the gun, slide locked open, into his waistband, drawing the second Scoremaster with his left fist, firing into the attacking cannibals. He started backing away from the doorway, more of them coming, many of them already wounded and bleeding. The second Scoremaster was empty. Slide locked open, he rammed this into his belt as well.
The twin Detonics stainless Combat Masters— both fists found them, ripping them from the double Alessi shoulder rig, his thumbs jacking back the hammers. He was at the air lock doorway, cannibals charging now through the conference room doorway, Rourke’s index fingers twitchingagainst the triggers, bodies going down.
One pistol empty—the second empty now. Rourke turned, stepping through the doorway, throwing his weight against the air lock door, feeling suddenly weight—pushing at it. Then more weight as he threw his body against it—the door was being pushed open against him.
A hand through the space between the door and the frame. The A.G. Russel Sting IA—Rourke stabbed the back of the hand with the small bladed knife, a scream of pain, a spurt of blood, the hand drawn back. Rourke dropped the knife. Behind him—Natalia’s voice. “John, run for it—we can get the second door together.”
Rourke reached down for the Sting IA and ran, diving through the second door, rolling onto the rocks beyond, twisting, clambering to his feet, throwing his weight against the exterior air lock door, Natalia beside him. But the door would not close. “Paull” But Rubenstein was already beside them. “Who the hell’s on the other side of that door?”
“A bunch of determined guys who don’t know any better—rugged outdoor life they lead, all that crap. Now push,” Rourke snarled, leaning into it as he fought the door.
“It’s no good!” Natalia shouted.
Rourke glanced behind him once, chewing down harder on his cigar. “Natalia, start Paul’s bike—then start our bike. Paul—when I count to five, make a run for your bike and—“ “It’s too steep that way,” Natalia interrupted. “We’ll have to cut across the mountain—there’s a better path on the far side that we can ride down.” “You heard her—then cut across. Natalia and I’ll be right behind you.”
“I’ll lay down some fire once you guys get rollin’.”
“Right.” Rourke nodded to the younger man. “Natalia—get the bikes started.” Natalia moved away from the air lock door, Rourke throwing his weight hard against it now— it was the first time he had realized how strong Natalia was, despite her size.
The roar of one of the Harley’s coming to life. The sound of an engine being gunned again and again.
More pressure against the door.
The sound of the second Harley starting, Rourke shouting to Paul Rubenstein.
“Run for it—go on!”
“Count of five?”
“One—two—three—four—FIVE!”
“See ya,” and Paul Rubenstein jumped back from the door, running, Rourke looking back once as the younger man mounted his machine, the engine revving once, then the bike tearing off across the mountain top.
“I’m ready,” Natalia shouted.
Rourke looked back at her—both M-16s were leveled at the doorway. “Now!” Rourke released the door, half stum-bling back, hitting the rock surface, the door flying open, cannibals starting to pour from inside, Natalia’s M- 16s firing over his head, Rourke dragging himself across the rock surface, clear of her guns now, to his feet.
He straddled the Jet Black Low Rider, shouting to Natalia as he rammed fresh magazines into the little Detonics pistols, then stuffed them back in his side pockets. “Now!”
The gunfire ceased, shouts and the bizarre speech of the cannibals filling the air—the pressure of Natalia on the bike, her hands tapping his shoulders, the pressure of her arms around his waist as he gunned the bike, away, the blur of a stone axe as it crossed the edge of his peripheral vision, shouts, the explosive sounds of the Hai-ley’s exhaust system as he let the machine out, the chatter of subgunfire from ahead, Paul Ruben-stein firing the Schmeisser into the air to hold them back.
Then Rourke was even with Rubenstein’s bike, Rubenstein’s machine charging ahead as well, the twin exhaust systems deafening in the clear, thin air. Ahead the mountain seemed to evaporate, to drop away. “To the left—hurryl” It was Natalia shouting from behind him, Rourke twisting the Harley’i fork, balancing it out with his combat-booted feet, wrenching the bike into a hard left, following along the edge of the flat expanse of rock. “Just ahead—a sharp right and you’re clear of the mountain top, John!” Rourke nodded, clamping the cigar tighter between his teeth, squinting despite the dark-lensed aviator-style sunglasses he wore, Natalia shouting loud now. “Twenty yards—then turn.” Rourke slowed the Harley, then Natalia shouted, “Here!
Here!”
Rourke wrenched the bike right, blind, not seeing the trail, but trusting Natalia as he had so many times before. The Harley lurched under him, bounced. Before them, running steeply downward but not so steeply as to be unnavigable, was a trail, the valley spreading out below.
Rourke slowed the bike again, balancing the machine with his feet as the trail dodged right then left then right. He glanced back once—Paul Rubenstein was coming along the trail and the cannibals were already gone from sight. John Rourke remembered to breathe then.
Chapter Sixty-One
They had intercepted Michael and Madison in the valley, Natalia’s route across the mountain and then down, despite a greater distance, faster than Michael’s navigating the bike down the steeper trail by walking it. They had ridden long into the night, the moon bright, traveling on until nearly dawn to be far gone from the Place and the ones Madison had called Them. A sparse meal—Madison had tried meat again and Michael had patiently explained to her that the meat of domestic animals or wild game was all i lght to eat. She had not eaten much, John Rourke had noticed.
They had slept a few hours, Rourke, his son and Paul Rubenstein each taking a two-hour shift on guard, then taking to the trail again without breakfast, by midmorning.
They settled into a schedule, reaching the Retreat the prime objective, stopping once to leave the route and locate one of the strategic fuel sites to gas up the Harleys and the spare gas canisters, then to move on. John Rourke and his son had agreed—to return to the wooded area where Michael had found the parachute, then to fan out and search for the wreckage of the aircraft to learn its source.
But after Christmas,
They had ridden hard through the day, and long into the night now, the Retreat so close and the date December twenty-fourth. Christmas—always a time Sarah had at once enjoyed and found somehow sad. John Rourke had no desire to make this Christmas sadder. ‘s They had crossed the remains of a paved road and started up the long mountain road toward the main entrance of the Retreat, John Rourke rolling hack the cuff of his bomber jacket to read the face of the Rolex—it was smudged with the light snow as soon as he rolled back the cuff and he wiped this away to better read the watch face. It was nearly midnight—and very soon, before it was actually Christmas morning, they would be “home”. He felt a smile cross his lips. “Home,” he murmured.
“John!”
It was Natalia’s voice from behind him, muffled sounding, his back shielding her from the wind.
“What is it?” he said over his shoulder, slowing the Harley Low Rider under them.
“For a moment—stop and look up there.”
Rourke slowed the Harley even more, making a wide arc with it, Michael with Madison behind him stopping just ahead of them, Paul stopping beside them. “We’re almost home, Dad—what’s up?”
Paul Rubenstein stopped beside them, laugh-ing. “You didn’t remember to wish me happy Hanukkah, but I’ll wish you Merry Christmas anyway.” Rourke reached out and clasped his old friend on the back. “Happy Hanukkah then.”
“You can remember me on May Day,” Natalia laughed, “but look up there—all of you.”
The snow was a shower, the sky surprisingly clear, a wide opening in the clouds to the east.
Light. One. Then another, then another, and still more, pinpoints, moving, “The radio—we can signal them!” Michael shouted. ^”Holy shit—the Eden Project, it’s gotta be,” Paul Rubenstein murmured. “Yes.” John Rourke nodded. “I doubt they’ll be able to read our signal—but, maybe, we can try to—“ But the clouds covered the opening in the sky now and the pinpoints of moving light were no longer visible. Had the atmosphere been the way it was when the Eden Project fleet had left the Earth five centuries earlier to travel in cryogenic sleep to the edge of the
