Part 4 (2/2)

As he crossed under the rotor blades, he could feel it- his hair was ruined.

Darkness had fallen deeply-he glanced at the black luminous face of the Rolex Submariner he wore-more than an hour ago. Rourke exhaled, watching the steam $n his breath. The Harley's engine rumbled between his legs, running a little roughly with the cold.

A smile crossed his lips; he had been right. He was heading into the heart of the storm, Natalia and Paul away from it. He looked behind him once, into the white swirling darkness, then gunned the Hariey, slowly starting ahead, the snow making the road almost impa.s.sable. . . .

Rourke had stopped a little while earlier to pull up the neck of his crew-neck sweater so that it covered most of his face, and his ears and head. There had been a sudden coldness near the small of his back where his sweater no longer protected him, and his ears had been stiffening with the cold. Now as he pressed the bike along a mountain curve, the visibility was bad, worse than it had been before. The storm only seemed to intensify as he moved along, and the cold increased. He wore his dark-lensed aviator-style sungla.s.ses, to protect his eyes from the driving ice spicules; the backs of his gloved hands were i encrusted with the ice where his fists locked over the handlebars.

Brus.h.i.+ng the ice away from the cuff of his sweater where it extended past his brown leather jacket's cuff, he moved his right hand to roll back the sweater and read the face of his watch. It was early in the evening, and the temperature would still drop for another nine or ten hours or so until just before dawn. As he s.h.i.+fted his right hand back to the handlebars, his weight s.h.i.+fted- stiffness from the cold-and the bike started into a skid.

He was doing barely twenty by the speedometer, the headlight of the Harley dancing wildly across the snow and ice as he took the curve, the Harley almost out of control. His hands wrestled the controls, trying to steer 'the bike out of the skid. His feet dragged to stop it, to balance it.

He let the bike skid out, jumping clear of it, the machine sliding across the road surface as he rolled. The Harley stopped in a s...o...b..nk to the far right of the road; Rourke landed flat on his stomach on the ice and snow.

He looked up, shaking his head to clear it.

He pushed himself up with his hands, slowly rising to his feet, pulling off his right glove, clutching the wrist hole tight in his left fist to retain the warmth inside. Then, with his right hand, he took off the gla.s.ses that had protected his eyes. He realized also that he was tired, fast approaching exhaustion; and with the cold, that could be fatal. He moved slowly, carefully toward his bike. It was in a s...o...b..nk, the snow having cus.h.i.+oned its impact. It appeared totally undamaged.

”Lucky,” he murmured. He reached down and shut off the key, putting the gla.s.ses into an inside pocket of the jacket first. Squinting against the ice, he looked around him; he needed shelter. To his left-to the east-the clouds had a strange glow. Radiation? He shook his head, dismissing the thought. He could be dying at this very instant, he realized, if the snow that fell on him was irradiated. He would worry about that later.

But there was a subtle glow and trails of fire were visible; and as the cloud patterns s.h.i.+fted in the wind, the glow remained, as if it emanated from the ground.

If things had been normal, he would have labeled the glow as the lights from-he verbalized it-”A town-a town. A town.” It looked to be about two or three miles away, but he realized that with the darkness and the snow and the cloud layers the distance judgment he made could have been self-deceptive. , He gloved his right hand again, working his fingerfs which were already stiffening.

There were two possibilities: to fabricate a shelter which would give marginal protection from the wind and no protection from the cold, or to go to the source of the lights. He had pa.s.sed a side road turnoff a half-mile back; it likely led toward the source of the lights. The general direction seemed the same, although mountain roads, winding like Christmas ribbons across the landscape and really leading nowhere, could be deceptive as to direction. But along such a road there would be farms, homes-he decided.

His best chance for shelter was along the side road, though the snow would be heavier there.

He wrest/ed the Harley up, straddling it, starting it, the engine rumbling; his gas gauge was low, very low. Rourke fought the machine back out of the snowdrift and arced it around. If he kept the speed low enough . . .

When more Brigands had started arriving-some sort of conclave she wondered?-she had awakened the children; then as silently as possible, she led them and the horses down on the far side of the rise-away from the Brigand camp, into the mounting storm. As Sarah rode Tildie now, the horse's body white-coated with the snow and ice, she wondered if it had been a wise decision-the right one? What would John have done? Would he have-?

”Mommie?”

She shook her head, smiling as she turned around. ”What is it, Annie? Are you cold?”

”No-I'm letting her hug me-she isn't-”

”I am cold,” Annie interrupted Michael. ”I'm cold. I'm cold.”

”Slow up, Michael,” Sarah told her son, wanting him to rein in Sam.

Michael didn't argue; she guessed he was cold, too. ”Here.” She reined Tildie around, then came up beside her children. She took the blanket which she had wrapped around her and put it around Annie's shoulders, wrapping her and Michael in it, pinning the blanket with her shaking hands across Michael's chest.

”But now you're gonna be cold, Mom,” Michael protested.

”No. I won't lie and say I was too warm before, but I'll be fine. That should be better now,” she said, turning to Annie. She stuffed her hands back into her gloves. She knew it wouldn't really be better; blankets only served to retain body warmth, not promote it, and both of the children were rapidly losing theirs. Again she wished for John to be there. He was a doctor, and among other things an expert on cold-weather survival.

She urged Tildie forward, telling Michael, ”Stay here a minute. I'm going up that rise to see where we are^ maybe.”

f ”We can come,” Michael insisted.

”AH right-but stay well behind me-no sense wearing out Sam more than you have to.”

She rode toward a tall stand of pines, the modified AR- across her saddle, cold against her thighs. If a Brigand conclave was on, then there would be Brigands traveling through the area, toward it.

Urging Tildie up the rise with her knees, her left hand holding the reins, she clutched the AR- pistol grip in her gloved right fist. ”Come on, Tildie-just a little while longer,” she cooed. Sarah glanced behind her once- Michael and Annie were coming, slowly, as she wanted them to.

Michael, like his father, stubborn, arrogant, but reliable-a man she could count on more than he knew.

She was tempted to call out to the children, telling Michael to save Sam the haul up the rise, but she didn't, lest there be Brigands nearby she couldn't see.

Her eyelashes were encrusted with ice, the sleet and snow blowing against her face. She reached the top of the rise, reining Tildie back. ”Whoa-easy,” she cooed again.

Beyond the rise was the Savannah River and suddenly, she knew where she was. Lake Hart well would be nearby-in the distance, she could see the Hartwell dam. John had taken her there once with the children for a tour of the dam structure, and several times she had gone to the lake itself with John and the children-swimming.

The thought of plunging her body into water now chilled her. She trembled, then trembled again, remembering John's hands on her once as they'd lain by the lake, their bodies wet and mostly naked, the children splas.h.i.+ng in the water at its edge.

She turned to call out to Michael that everything was all right. Tildie reared; Sarah was thrown back in the stock saddle, a gunshot punching into the snow by the animal's front hoofs.

Sarah glanced to her right. Out of the pines were coming men and women, ragged, running, snow-covered, rifles and handguns in their hands, curses coming from their lips-and threats.

”s.h.i.+t!” she screamed, wheeling Tildie, fighting -tc control the animal, and swinging the rifle up as she reined the horse under her. Her stiff-with-the-cold righl thumb worked the selector to full auto position; her first finger twitched against the trigger. A short burst fired across her saddle; flowers of red blotched the ice-encrusted chest of the lead man. The man lunged toward her and the horse, an ax in his hands. They weren't Brigands; they were starving men and women, people who-she fired again, at another man starting to fire a shotgun. Sarah shot him in the face and neck, then screamed, ”Michael-get Sam going. Get Annie out of here!”

Sarah dug her heels into the frightened horse she rode; Tildie leaped ahead, back down the rise. A woman was lunging for her, out of the trees, a knife in bony hands held like a stake that was to be driven into someone's heart. Sarah pumped the AR-'s trigger again. The woman's body rocked back, spinning, then falling, a ragged line of red across the threadbare clothes covering her body.

She knew what they wanted now-the horse for food, the weapons for defense, her life and the children's lives/ ”Michael-get out of here,” she shouted again, kneeing Tildie onward.

The pine boughs to her left shuddered, and in the darkness against the whiteness of the snow, she could see a man coming out of the trees, running toward her. She recognized what he had in his right hand-a machete.

He threw himself toward Tildie, into the animal's path. Tildie rearing under her, Sarah reined up, as the machete sliced toward Tildie's neck.

The reins came away in Sarah's hands. She reeled back as the man sliced his blade again. Her left hand, still clutching at the useless reins, reached downward, s.n.a.t.c.hing at Tildie's bridle. Sarah kneed the animal.

”Come on, girl!”

Tildie leaped forward. The man hacked with his machete, but fell aside at the impact of the animal. Then he was on his feet and running after her as Sarah glanced back. She loosed the bridle, s.n.a.t.c.hing at a generous handful of flowing ice-encrusted mane, and digging her heels into the bay mare's sides, coaching her. ”Up, Tildie-up, girl.' The animal responded, charging ahead and down the rise.

Ahead of her now, she could see Michael's horse, Michael and Annie aboard it. The thought suddenly startled her-Michael's horse. It was John's horse. Two figures wrestled against the front of the animal, reaching for the reins. Michael edged the animal back from them. She saw something flash against the snow, heard a scream; Michael had a knife. Where had he gotten it?

One of the two figures fell away, the second dove toward the two children in the saddle.

Sarah hauled back on Tildie's mane, the animal slowing, skidding along the snow on its haunches. Sarah's right hand brought the rifle up to her shoulder, her finger reached for the trigger. ”Help my aim, G.o.d,” she breathed, twitching the trigger as Tildie settled; the man, reaching for Michael and Annie, spun, fell.

”Get going, Michael!” Sarah screamed. Sam spurred ahead as she saw Michael kicking at him with his heels. Sarah dug in her knees, and Tildje started after him.

There was a burst of gunfire from behind her now, and Tildie started to slip on a patch of ice beneath her. Sarah felt the animal going down, perhaps wounded; she threw herself free of the animal's bulk, into the snow. Her back ached as she impacted, the rifle skittering across the ice, back toward Tildie.

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