Survivalist - 10 - The Awakening by Ahern Jerry

Author:Ahern, Jerry [Ahern, Jerry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-One

He had lost count of the hours, and realized he had lost count of the days. The cattle prods they had used-his body ached as he moved. He had been away from the Retreat-how many days? He shook his head to clear it, dismissing the question until a later time.

Cautiously, before assessing his surroundings, he felt under his shirt beside his left hipbone. The revolver-it was still there. As he sat upright, his back screaming at him with the pain, he felt inside his left sock-the A.G. Russell knife was still there.

Michael Rourke looked up, unable to keep the smile that he felt coming from etching across his face. He was alive. He was armed. He assessed his surroundings as, with difficulty, he stood. An ordinary-seeming room, but there were no windows. A door-it seemed made of metal. He approached it, about to touch it to confirm-but he stepped back. With their penchant for electricity, he was uncertain. He looked upward-there seemed to be no observation cameras in evidence, no microphones. Perhaps the room-almost a khaki color for walls, ceiling and the linoleum-covered floor-was just that, a room. Nothing more.

Perhaps too they expected him to walk out of it. He licked his lips, reaching down to his sock, removing the Sting IA. Gently, he tossed the all-steel knife against the door. It clattered to the floor. There was no evidence of electricity. He picked up the knife, stepping back from the door again.

He threw the knife-gently, again-this time the knife bouncing against the doorknob, sparks of electricity sputtering into the air. Michael Rourke stepped back.

After a long moment, he picked up his knife. Quickly, he resheathed it, concealing it, then dropped to the floor. He began to unlace his right combat boot. His father had told him the story of the last seconds before fire had engulfed the planet, of the climb to the top of the mountain which held the Retreat, of using the double magazine pouch like a heavy leather glove to insulate his hand. The boot off now, Michael placed his right hand inside it, flexing the leather so he could grip with it.

He thought suddenly of Madison. If they had killed her, he would kill them-it was very simple, very logical.

He remembered, as they had lain together after discovering each other, she had asked him what the white flakes which fell from the sky had been and he had explained the crystalline structures which when examined were never at all like any other. He had explained that some had theorized that perhaps as they fell, the flakes may indeed have fallen into certain patterns and that the infinite variety came about from the constant melting and refreezing they underwent as they passed through different temperature layers, or fell upon the warm ground to partially melt and then refreeze. She had stopped him, laughing, telling him that she thought they made his hair and his eyebrows look pretty. What did one call them, she had asked. Snow, he had told her.

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