Survivalist - 22 - Brutal Conquest Read online

  “I am sorry, sir, but—”

  “Be done with this! I must reach Eden City and be able to act.” He’d ordered that clothing be brought for him and hoped that it would also mean a weapon. The Eden origin assault rifle that was with Michael when they found him was nothing he could overtly attempt to hold on to, and his pistols had been left with his family.

  Michael looked at the watch on his left wrist. It was Martin’s watch, similar in size to his own Rolex but digital rather than analog. The case and the band seemed to be made of gold. Although it was obviously quite expensive, Michael preferred his own timepiece. Martin’s watch showed eighteen minutes before the hour. By ten minutes after the hour, if the Eden war machine was punctual, he’d be airborne for Eden City.

  The clothing arrived, military looking. And there was a pistol belt and a holster. Before Michael Rourke could say anything, Gunther Hong announced, “When we took up the chase, Martin, I ordered that some of your things be brought along.”

  “Good,” Michael nodded. The doctor was finished patching up the gunshot wounds and had pronounced Michael’s hands and feet were not frostbitten. Michael announced, “Doctor, out.” Then he looked at Gunther Hong. “This thing with John Rourke and his son and the Russian woman and the others. I do not want John Rourke to become a rallying point for the dissidents of Eden. For that reason, once the rendezvous with the aircraft has been met, I wish for you to take personal charge in the field of efforts to capture or kill John Rourke.”

  “But, I-“

  “You are loyal to me. This is known. You must obey these orders.”

  The blue eyes hardened, not with malice, but with something akin to pride. “Yes, Martin. If it is your will.” Michael Rourke nodded as, with some awkwardness,

  he swung his bare legs over the side of the bed. “Bring me my things. I must prepare.”

  Gunther Hong complied, moving off quickly to the chair and returning with an armful of rather nondescript attire. There was a dark grey Nehru-style jacket, which he had first seen in videotape movies from the 1960’s where people wore clothing variously referred to as “mod” or “kicky.” A maroon turtleneck shirt, tight-looking blue trousers, and short black boots completed the outfit. There was a new set of underwear, too.

  The dressings on his leg were waterproof, and there was time remaining. “I need to shower,” Michael said.

  “In here, Martin,” Hong volunteered, pointing toward a small door off the side of the cabin.

  Michael nodded, taking the clothing and starting toward the door.

  Once inside the bathroom, he stripped away the remainder of Martin’s things, urinated, then entered the shower stall. He washed his hair twice, soaking his body under the steaming water for a very long time. He was still chilled to the bone. On the plus side, his leg wounds were well bandaged and the cut on his head only bothered him when he touched it.

  Senior officers of Eden lived well in the field, he concluded. The bathroom was far from Spartan.

  If he ran out of time, it wasn’t as if the aircraft would leave without him. He was, after all, Martin Zimmer. Michael Rourke smiled at the thought as he continued to enjoy the hot water. If he had to pick one person in the world not to be, it would be Martin Zimmer. Biological brother or not, the man was evil incarnate.

  The key to Michael’s success in the role, however, was to reach Eden City; then, with only a man or two with him, go someplace, anyplace. Lose, neutralize, or kill (if need be) the men and get away. The longer he hung around pretending to be Martin Zimmer, the greater his chances for being discovered.

  Michael toweled dry, then started to dress. Martin Zimmer’s trousers were a litde loose at the waist and tight at the thighs, fashionable men of Eden evidendy into underdeveloped muscles or looking as though their pants were about to rip. The trousers were also beldess. Except for a revolver on a Hip-Grip or the clip-type in-side-the-waistband holsters, this made carrying a gun at the waist rather awkward. The turtleneck was somewhat tight as well, but satisfactory. He slipped into the high-collared jacket with no lapels. As long as he did not attempt to close the garment across his chest, it fit all right.

  There was a hat that presumably went with the outfit. It was reminiscent of hats he’d seen worn by Mao Tse Tung in photographs. Michael Rourke looked at it in disgust, just carrying it in his hand instead of wearing it as he exited the bathroom.

  “I have a gun for you, Martin,” Gunther Hong said as Michael reentered the main portion of the cabin. Hong was holding a gunbelt in his outstretched right hand.

  Michael Rourke didn’t react instandy. The clothing he wore—Martin Zimmer’s clothing—was obviously not designed for convenient concealment of a firearm. Nor did people travel openly armed in Eden City. As much as Michael Rourke wanted a gun, he was convinced Martin Zimmer would not have taken it. So he told Gunther Hong, “That is what I have the defense forces for, isn’t it?”

  But he’d be damned if he’d wear the hat.

  They started from the borrowed cabin, toward the rendezvous with the aircraft, Michael presumed. As they moved through the bowels of the mobile fortress, men everywhere at their assigned tasks, Michael pondered something that had disturbed him from the very moment he first realized who Martin Zimmer was. Did Zimmer cultivate the near worship of John Rourke as some sort of evil joke?

  There were statues everywhere in Eden, most particularly the one of his father—Martin’s father, too—atop The Retreat. John Rourke’s face was on the coinage, the stamps, even the health certificates. Why? And why did Martin Zimmer conceal his own face from all but a few?

  6

  Snow fell heavily from a low, overcast grey sky. There was little wind. Each step was difficult, the terrain beneath their feet rocky and uneven, yet masked with more than a foot of reasonably fresh snow.

  In the distance, to the east, the cloud cover was continually rent by chain lightning over the rift valley.

  They were on the trail. That was pure luck, of course, intersecting the trail after the first climb, but a little luck—of the good kind—seemed long overdue them. Natalia and Annie stayed with twenty-three of the women rescued from the fortress of the Land Pirates. John Rourke and Paul Rubenstein carried the twenty-fourth woman, injured during the crash of the helicopter, between them on a litter.

  This woman had the same chances for survival that the other women had. If shelter and food could be found soon, she would live. Otherwise, she would not.

  To have used their radios to contact Allied Intelligence, assuming with all the electrical activity not far away in the rift valley the radios would have worked at all, would have been to invite capture by Eden forces and the Land Pirates.

  The portion of the trail they followed led well west and, technically at least, was not part of Eden. Centu

  ries ago, Before The Night Of The War, it had been known as Arkansas. Because of the starkness of the terrain, nothing looked familiar, and it was frequently necessary to check the compass and the map to make certain they did not stray from the trail.

  No caves or large rock croppings presented themselves, so there was no place for shelter, not just from the cold but also from aerial observation. Because they were well enough away from the rift valley now, the Eden gunships could operate with impunity from the freak electrical storms.

  John Rourke turned around as he heard Natalia calling to him, watching as she came forward with Annie and one of the freed women. She was very thin, with deep circles under dark, fearful eyes. The woman kept her head slighdy down, the result being that her eyes did not meet John Rourke’s as he looked at her.

  Martin Zimmer stood between Natalia and Annie, an evil-looking smile on his face, his hands clasped on his upper arms, rubbing himself for warmth. “Why don’t you just leave her, Dad?”

  “Let’s set the lady down,” Rourke suggested to Paul Rubenstein, ignoring Martin’s suggestion; Paul nodded as Annie and Natalia each helped in gendy lowering the injured woman to the ground. Rourke dr
opped to one knee beside her, reassuring her, “We’re only stopping to rest for a minute. You’re doing fine.”

  She bit her lower lip as she forced a close facsimile of a smile.

  John Rourke walked a few feet from her as Annie began to speak. “Daddy, we were talking back there, and Mary Ann—this is Mary Ann.”

  Again, John Rourke tried to meet the dark, furtive eyes of the woman, but she almost seemed intrigued with studying the toes of her worn cloth shoes instead.

  “Tell them, Mary Ann,” Natalia urged. “Tell them what you told us.

  “I didn’t mean to cause no trouble,” the girl mumbled. John Rourke judged her age to be twenty, if that, but she seemed as careworn as a woman three times her age might be.

  “It isn’t causing trouble if you know something that will help us,” Paul told her. He put his arm around Annie.

  The girl did not speak.

  John Rourke queried, “Is it something about where we are or—what?”

  Her lips were cracked, the bottom one swollen a little as if she’d been struck. He’d noticed before the crash that many of the women kept by the Land Pirates for slavery and sex appeared physically abused beyond overwork and malnutrition. Mary Ann said, “My pa always tol’ me to keep my mouth shut.”

  “I don’t know about your father’s motivation for that, Mary Ann,” Rourke began, “but being silent is inappropriate under the circumstances. We’re all in this together, and if you know something that will enable us to get out of this more easily, you should tell us. Do you understand?”

  She was drawing in the dirt with her toes, swaying her body back and forth to some sort of unheard rhythm. But she nodded her head. Her fingers played with the tattered fabric of her dress. She didn’t look up as she spoke. “I come from ‘round here, mister.”

  John Rourke said nothing for a moment.

  Mary Ann continued. “Over that ridge, I think. Ain’t sure. Maybe’s the town.”

  “Town,” John Rourke repeated. He doubted her description of the place as an actual “town.” Aerial photos he’d studied indicated isolated collections of buildings,

  but there were no large human habitations within at least fifty miles of their current position. Still, if she were right, some small hamlet on the other side of the ridge might be possessed of a vehicle or even horses.

  Even the smallest vehicle or a solitary horse would allow them to make contact with Allied Intelligence and get real help. There was a Resistance movement within Eden, of course, and there were personnel affiliated with it in the Wildlands as well.

  “Let her take you to her little town. It will make you easier to find,” Martin laughed.

  Annie straight-armed Martin in the chest, knocking him onto his rear end in the snow. “Why don’t you act like a human being?” she snapped.

  John Rourke looked at Mary Ann. “Do you have people in your town? A family, I mean?”

  Uh-huh.”

  “Do you think somebody there might be able to loan us a vehicle or a horse? Just for a little while, Mary Ann?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And your town is just over that ridge? Not much further than that?” Mary Ann nodded. John Rourke nodded.

  Then he looked back toward the remainder of the women. The twenty-two all huddled together for warmth a few yards away would cover the distance that he judged to the ridge and over in perhaps a hard day’s march. He could cover that distance much more quickly.

  And he wondered about Mary Ann… .

  His enormous body was resplendent with weapons, guns and knives. The uniform of the Land Pirates was no uniform at all. But this man, flanked by two other men of lesser height and bulk and not nearly so well-armed, was uniformed. He wore a coat with an enormous cape, which to Michael was reminiscent of Basil Rathbone’s habitual attire as Sherlock Holmes in the video movies John Rourke had collected at The Retreat.

  This man was obviously the leader of the Land Pirates.

  The Retreat’s video collection, which was temporarily unavailable to them, might best be described as eclectic. Michael Rourke’s father had everything, from the profound to the frivolous, from science to drama to comedy. There were a number of the Sherlock Holmes films featuring Rathbone and Nigel Bruce. The giant Land Pirate further brought to mind the Sherlockian image because of the pipe he smoked, large bowled with a recurving stem. But, beyond the pipe and coat, nothing else was remotely civilized or gentlemanly. His overall appearance was otherwise closer to that of a dirty-looking grizzly bear. And the image of a bear was certainly more appropriate to his size.

  The apparent leader of the Land Pirates was enormous.

  “Elmo Babinski wants to apologize for what has happened, Martin. He says his men failed miserably.”

  That was the name supplied to them by Allied Intelligence. Michael quickly ran the few facts he possessed through his mind. Like the preponderance of the Land Pirates, although many were German and an almost equal number were of Second City Chinese extraction, Babinski was of Soviet origin, likely from the Underground City. Mentioning his name in the Wildlands supposedly struck terror in even the bravest heart, because Babinski, it was reported, seemed to enjoy cruelty.

  Babinski stood now on the deck of the mobile fortress, his sheer bulk almost blocking the entrance to the waiting aircraft.

  “His security sucked, and you know it,” Michael told Gunther Hong. “Maybe I should tell him to kiss my ass.”

  “Martin! Remember, please, that we need his manpower. If you offend him now, I don’t know—”

  “Remember this,” Michael told Hong in his best Martin Zimmer voice. “If he did not fear me, he would not be here.” Michael increased his stride, Gunther Hong keeping up with him, until he stopped a few feet from Elmo Babinski and the two underlings. The wind that swept across the main deck of the fortress was bitterly cold, and whatever warmth he’d regained in the hot shower was long gone. “So.” That was all Michael said, staring directly into Babinski’s face.

  Babinski’s eyes were overly large and a muddy brown in color, and they went with the bear image very nicely. The eyes flickered, the stare wavering. “I came to say I’m damned sorry.”

  “You do not know how right you are,” Michael nodded.

  Babinski’s body seemed to tense, and for a moment, Michael thought he had overplayed his hand. But then Babinski said, “Anyway, I’m sorry, Martin. We’ll help your men get that dirty bastard Rourke and I’ll bring you his fuckin’ head on a stick if you want it.”

  “Fine. You do that. I am very cold and wish to board my aircraft. Good hunting.” Michael started forward but Babinski did not move. Michael stopped and looked up at him. “Well?”

  Babinski, his voice so low Michael could barely hear it above the keening of the wind, said, “I will kill John Rourke for you, Martin.”

  Michael said nothing. Babinski stepped aside. As Michael climbed the ramp toward the fuselage, he realized his fists were clenching.

  7

  Mary Ann would not walk abreast of them. And Natalia wondered if it were the girl’s upbringing, or her period of slavery at the stronghold of the Land Pirates, or both, which made her so deferential to men.

  Natalia walked beside John Rourke. They set a vigorous pace. Despite her emaciated appearance, the rescued girl, Mary Ann, was oddly enough able to match it. And Natalia reasoned that it might well be that the girl ran on some sort of mental ether, just because returning home to family and loved ones would soon be a reality.

  The girl was out of earshot, in any event. Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna had been at once waiting for and dreading the opportunity now presented to her. But she used it. “I need to talk with you, John.”

  “I always liked talking to you, and I suspect I always will. But there’s nothing you have to say to me, okay?” He looked at her and smiled.

  They had been walking for well over an hour, and as Natalia looked back, she could no longer even see the lightning over the rift valley. By now, Paul and Annie,
along with Martin Zimmer and the other women, would be moving again, following them. John had made the right decision. Go on ahead, find transportation of some sort, see if transportation could be brought back for the women, or at the least bring clothing and food. While one of them did that, the other could go for help.

  Natalia began to speak again. “Everyone thought—” “Look-“

  “Let me say it, damnit, John,” Natalia almost whispered. “All right.”

  “I was alone. You and Sarah were in the Sleep again. I never had any intention of taking the Sleep again myself. I told myself that maybe it was Fate or something. Can you imagine how awkward I felt? I was in love with you and you were in love with me and there was Sarah. You loved her and she became my friend? I mean, I was—There was just—”

  John told her, “I understand. I approve—”

  “Damnit, John! You approve? We didn’t take the Sleep, Michael and I, so you could approve or disapprove. We took it so we could tell you. You would wake up sometime in the future and find out what happened to me and to Michael, and who knows what you would think. I owe you an explanation You do not owe me approval. I was lonely. Michael was there—”

  “Look” John interrupted.

  “No. You look, John. It’s not that I attached myself to Michael because you were no longer around. Don’t ever think that. I love you. But I love Michael. I did not realize that until after you were gone. And then I had a choice. I cannot be like you. I’m not that good. Maybe I’m too human. My life was meaningless. And there was Michael. And when he made love to me the first time—”

  “I don’t want to hear it, all right?” John said.

  “No. You have to, so you will understand. I was afraid. I was terrified that I’d be telling myself it was you making love to me, like I had always wanted you to. But, when it happened, it was Michael. In reality and in my mind. I never gave myself to anyone like that before and-“

  John stopped walking, his hands going to her arms,