Survivalist - 15.5 - Mid-Wake (11 page)

“Whowas Benjamin Franklin?” Kerenin asked her.

“Afamous American; what they called a ‘founding father.’ “

“Aturkey—it is another bird?”

“Yes.”

“Tellme about the guns.”

“I wasin Florida,” she told him. “And it was discovered that the Florida peninsula was about to fall into the sea. An artificial fault-line had been created during the Night of the War. John allowed himself to be captured in order to save as many people as possible by alerting the Cuban—”

“Ahh—Cuba.Our historic ally.”

“Whatwas I…” Her head wasn’t aching as badly, but she was feeling mildly nauseous.

“AboutJohn Rourke coming to save people in this place called Florida.”

“Hecame and no one wanted to believe him. And I realizedthat I had to. And I helpedhim and there was a massive evacuation. Why was I tellingyou this?”

“Aboutyour guns.”

“ThePresident,” she said slowly, “of U.S. II gavethem to me because he said he couldn’t give a medal to me even if he had one.”

“Howdid you escape the Americans?”

“No—theAmerican President gave the guns to me and let me go. There were some people who wanted to—to hurt me. John didn’t let them.”

Shedidn’t hear Kerenin’s voice for a moment, then, “Major Tiemerovna. Tell me. How is it that you came to sleep for five centuries as you said earlier?”

“Vladmirhad the Womb planned then Rozhdestvenskiy took it over.”

“Ido not understand,” he said.

Shewas very tired. She tried to tell him. “After John killed Vladmir—”

“Butyou say your husband is still alive. Is this another Vladmir?”

“No—everybodythought that Vladmir was dead but some of his KGB Elite Corps personnel took him to the Underground City and—”

“Isthis the Womb?”

“No,“she answered and the nausea swept over her and she felt herself falling… .

JohnRourke opened his eyes. He remembered seeing Natalia and then Sarah and the baby and … The fear. Kerenin had said that the ultrasonics would make fear possess them. John Rourke had learned his greatest fear’s identity. That he would be powerless to prevent the destruction of those whom he loved. Natalia, his wife and their unborn baby, Annie and Paul, Michael. He closed his eyes and an involuntary paroxysm moved along his spine.

Therewas no need to open his eyes to confirm that he was in a hospital or infirmary. In five centuries, the smell of disinfectant had changed precious little from the days when he had been fresh out of medical school and worked in hospital emergency rooms. That was where he had first met Sarah, only to meet her again years later and marry her.

Hissecret fear. He knew that it was about to become

realityunless he could prevent it. To be powerless to defend the lives of the ones he loved, called family.

JohnRourke tried to move. Every muscle in his body seemed to come instantly alive and simultaneously hurt.

Heremembered now.

Somesort of decompression chamber or something like it. A tube and outside he had seen Natalia and he had shouted to her not to speak. That he was alive meant that she had evidently spoken.

Rourkeopened his eyes and sat up. There was no guard at the foot of the bed. Hence, there would be a guard outside the door.

Hewas naked except for a hospital gown. Something else that hadn’t changed in five centuries.

Timewas of the essence, as the expression went, but a movement too fast might well cause him to pass out. So, very slowly, John Rourke began to move his legs toward the edge of the bed. If he could kill the guard or guards outside the room door, then he could steal a uniform and a weapon, perhaps more than one weapon, then commence to turn things around in one manner or another.

Hisfeet were just over the edge of the bed. The door opened. In the doorway stood two uniformed guards with Sty-20 pistols aimed at him, and between them a medical technician with what passed these days for a hypodermic. Medication? Sedation? Execution?

Hiswatch was still left to him. He had read a novel once in which the hero used his Rolex wristwatch as an improvised set of brass knuckles. But a diving watch might prove invaluable if indeed there were some means of escape, and any value the Rolex would have possessed as a weapon would be essentially lost after its first use. And there were three of them but only one Rolex.

Rourkeasked in German, “What is this?” And he gestured to the facsimile hypodermic.

“Ido not understand your German language,” the medical technician said in the same, curiously sterile Russian Rourke had heard used by all his captors.

Themedical technician came closer. Rourke lowered his

head,as if groggy, and it was partially true. At the far left corner of his peripheral vision he could see the medical technician nearing him, the two guards ever so slightly lowering their pistols.

JohnRourke accelerated his breathing. He needed oxygen in his system. His fists balled tight.

Themedical technician said, “Poor fellow. If you could only understand that I am not going to hurt you. A vitamin shot—relax.”

JohnRourke respected his own profession, no matter who practiced it, as long as it was practiced with compassion. He would not kill this one.

Hefelt the man’s hand at his left upper arm.

JohnRourke moved his right hand.

Hecaught the medical technician’s right wrist. Rourke was to his feet, twisting his body a half turn left, snapping the medical technician fully around, Rourke’s left forearm at the man’s throat, both guards reacting, the muzzles of their Sty-20s rising, Rourke hearing the pneumatic pops as he threw the medical technician toward them, then leaped over the bed, rolling, to his bare knees hard on the cold floor, the medical technician impacting the two guards.

JohnRourke was up, moving, his left hand smothering the Sty-20 of the nearest of the two guards, sweeping the weapon downward and away from his own body plane, his right fist crossing the guard’s jaw hard, slamming the man against the closed door behind him. Rourke’s right hand closed over the guard’s gunhand wrist and he snapped the gun hand upward, Rourke’s body twisting, his right shoulder beneath the man’s right arm near the elbow. Rourke threw his weight to the floor, the sound of the forearm and elbow snapping almost as loud as a pistol shot, the Sty-20 clattering to the floor.

Rourkeflexed his knee toward an upright position, his left elbow hammering back and left, searching for a target. He found what felt like an abdomen, wheeling half left as he let the first guard fall, screaming. Rourke’s right arm snapped back and forward, the heel of his right hand

impactingthe second guard at the base of the nose, breaking it, driving the bone through the ethmoid bone and into the brain, the man’s brown eyes locked open in death as his body snapped into the door.

Themedical technician—he was starting to his feet, despite at least one instantly visible dart from an Sty-20 in his right chest. Rourke’s left fist curled into the front of the man’s uniform, drawing him up, Rourke’s right fist gently but firmly crossing the man’s jaw. Rourke eased him to the floor.

Heturned around. The first guard was moving. John Rourke reached down to him, to kill. But there was no reason. He raised to his full height and his bare left foot snapped out, the edge of it catching the first guard at the tip of the chin, the man’s head snapping back. Alive.

Rourkeglanced at his watch. Less than a minute. If there were a guard in the corridor still … But already, Rourke had one of the Sty-20s in his right fist, visually and tactilery feeling for the controls. Magazine release. Gas-cartridge release. Safety. He slowly dumped the magazine. It was transparent plastic and there were nineteen rounds left in this one—Sty-20, he realized. The rounds loaded in the magazine looked almost like conventional 9mm Parabellum cartridges, but where a primer should have been there was what appeared to be a gas-inlet valve of diminutive proportions. The gas cylinder somehow charged the individual shells as they were fired—or perhaps as they were chambered, but that was doubtful. Then some mechanism—there was no time to be more precise—caused the gas in the charged cartridge to be released, propelling the dart, which was evidently contained in some sort of sabot, down the barrel (rifled), the excess gas opening the action and ejecting the spent shell. There was a shell casing on the floor near his feet. He replaced the magazine and turned the pistol toward the bed and fired at the pillow. The plopping sound. No recoil at all.

Hewould have preferred a real gun.

Hetook up the second pistol, checked its magazine.

Onemissing as well. He assumed from his observations that the guns were normally loaded with a twenty-round magazine and it was habitual to keep one round in the chamber.

Neitherguard carried anything on his gunbelt which looked like a spare magazine or spare gas cylinder.

Rourkeglanced at his watch, his internal clock confirming what the Rolex revealed in analog form—another thirty seconds elapsed. He could not hope to escape in the hospital gown. A quick search of the only cupboard in the room revealed his Levis, freshly washed as he had been. He put down the Sty-20s near him on the bed, quickly ripping away the hospital gown, skinning into his freshly washed underpants, his Levis, his shirt, not buttoning it, zipping the fly of his jeans. To have taken one of the guard uniforms would have been impossible, both men several inches shorter than he, the medical technician the tallest of the three Russians and skinny as a wraith. Rourke stuffed his socks into his pockets, stepping into his combat boots, lacing them up only high enough to stay on, then tying them. He grabbed his handkerchief. There was nothing else.

Takingup both pistols, he started for the door, placing the left one under his right arm, not trusting the safeties of these unfamiliar weapons sufficiently to attempt a holsterless waistband carry even for a few seconds.

Thedoor opened easily under his left hand, John Rourke running his fingers back through his hair, taking the second pistol into his fist and cautiously peering into the corridor.

Therewas some movement to his left, none to his right, and what appeared to be a dead-end corridor. This was evidently not a hospital but infirmary or infirmary wing habitually reserved for prisoners—-the thought of why that was so did not cheer him.

Tohis left was the way to go. He stepped into the corridor and started walking along on the near side to take advantage of the doorways he passed as marginal cover if that became necessary. Both pistols were along his thighs,

heldclose. Hospitals were busy places, and busy people were generally poor observers, and, not expecting to see a man carrying two pistols, would be less likely to notice if they were carried unobtrusively. He hoped. John Rourke kept walking.

Itwould clearly be a case of shooting his way out—to where, he was not certain. But once he was noticed, that would be the only way. Eighteen rounds in one pistol, nineteen in the other, including the chambered rounds. He had no idea of range or practical accuracy, but he doubted either was substantial, certainly in conjunction with the other. He kept moving, having gone half the length of this portion of the corridor, toward the technicians who moved about near what appeared to be a nursing station.

Hepassed a doorway and the door opened. A man— perhaps a doctor but more likely an orderly from the sheer bulk of the man’s muscular arms. The man started to open his mouth to shout, reaching for John Rourke’s throat. Rourke fired each pistol as he took a step back, both from the hip, one dart entering the man’s left cheek, the second impacting above the right clavicle.

Theshout started to come, then died a gurgling death as the man’s body slammed hard against the door frame and slipped into a rather ungainly-looking kneeling position. The sedative effect of the darts apparently was directly related to adrenalin, and this man’s rush had not come quickly enough to keep him going.

Rourkenoted the shooting characteristics of both handguns when fired at hip level and kept going, stepping over the man.

Hewas another two doorways down when he heard the scream from behind him. He wheeled toward the sound. A woman in a hospital gown. To have shot her with one of the sleep darts would have been purposeless and, if she were a patient as indeed she appeared to be, possibly fatal if conflicting drugs were already in her system or she had some cardiovascular difficulty. Instead, John Rourke broke into a dead run.

Shescreamed again.

Hekept running, nearing the nursing station now, two men and a woman starting toward him from its far side. He shot the woman—the rational way to save on ammunition, which would run low shortly—hopefully convincing the two men he would shoot them too.

Hereached the end of the corridor, turning left away from the nursing station, hoping for a stairwell or even an elevator shaft.

Therewas a stairwell, but there were a half-dozen uniformed guards running from it, each of them with an Sty-20 in his fist. Rourke opened fire, downing one of the men instantly with a shot from each pistol, pumping two from the pistol in his right fist into a second man, a third man lunging for him, Rourke backstepping and firing point blank into the man’s neck with the pistol in his left fist. Rourke felt something stinging at his left thigh. He shoved the pistol from his left hand into his trouser band, no time for precautions now, tearing the dart from his leg, firing the pistol in his right hand three times into the chest of an oncoming guard. Another dart hit him in the right forearm, Rourke already feeling the effect of the drug as he kept firing, downing another man, tearing out this dart.

Thesixth man fired from point-blank range too, a clean miss. Rourke did a double tap with each pistol, and he didn’t miss. The man staggered, reeling toward the stairwell, falling and disappearing over the railing. Rourke dropped to his knees.

Heshook his head, to his feet now, moving toward the stairs. His head ached and he felt suddenly cold and nauseous, sweat breaking out from his palms, over his upper lip. He inhaled, trying to fight it with oxygen. He fell to the floor, just turning his shoulder into the fall in time to avoid taking the impact with his face. He rolled onto his back. Three or four hospital personnel were advancing toward him—he couldn’t be certain, his vision blurring.