Free Survivalist - 12 - The Rebellion by Jerry Ahern

men—neither of them was armed except with handguns. At the distance, she doubted their ability to hit with them except by accident.
    She wheeled to her left, starting into a dead run—but something hammered at her legs and she fell, hacking into
    the darkness with her knife. “Jees—she cut me! Cut me!”
    Natalia’s left hand hammered up and out, the heel of it contacting bone. There was a groan, and the weight rolled off of her.
    She pushed herself to her feet, but arms reached out for her. The knife in her right hand hacked through the darkness. There was a scream of pain—something was coming toward her face and she dodged, feeling something slamming against the left side of her head. She started losing her balance, falling. Hands—her right arm was twisted back and around and she felt her grip go and the Bali-Song fall away.
    “Bastards!” she screamed, her left knee catching one of the men in the crotch, her left hand straight-arming another man in the face—but her left wrist was caught in a grip that felt solid as a vise and her arm was wrenched back. Hands grabbed at her legs, dragging her down, the weight of a man crushing her down. Her left arm was pinned to her side. Her right arm was twisted behind her— a little more pressure and she knew it would break. Hands held her ankles pinned.
    A voice—she couldn’t see the face clearly. “Hell, this cable‘11 be as good as a rope—good enough for her.”
    And then a voice she recognized—the one Dodd had called Haselton. “I’m doin’ it. Mona and I were going to be married—I’m doin’ it!”
    “Then do it!” Natalia screamed at the attackers surrounding her.
    Dodd’s voice—from the edge of the knot of humanity crushing and twisting her. “For God’s sake, you’re supposed to be the cream of humanity—and you’re a mob. For God’s sake, don’t do this thing!”
    Natalia was dragged to her feet. Her right knee found a target. “Fuck you!” The voice was washed with pain. A hand slapped at her and her head sagged back and she felt her knees buckling.
    She was being pulled—she didn’t know to where, but when she tried using her feet even to walk, the pressure on her right arm was increased and she screamed, “Stop it!”
    But the pressure didn’t decrease.
    The cable—it was snaked around her neck now. “Tie her to the back of Rourke’s truck. Drag hang her!” And then: “Fun’s over!”
    She closed her eyes. It was John Rourke’s voice.
    Natalia opened her eyes. The light from the camp backlit him and in silhouette now, she could see the Detonics .45s in his hands.
    “Dr. Rourke, I can handle—”
    “Shut up, Captain.” Natalia felt the cable loosen slightly at her throat. “Let her go. Help her up and let her walk over here. First person who does otherwise dies—end of story.
    “John,” she whispered. The pressure on her arm was eased—then gone. The noose of cable fell from her neck to her chest. She sat up, took the noose from her body and threw it down.
    She tried to stand up—she looked at her skirt and mechanically began dusting it off as she stood there, her knees weak.
    “I’ve got Natalia’s Bali-Song, John!”
    It was Paul Rubenstein’s voice.
    She heard John Rourke shout to him. “You should be in bed, Paul.”
    “Coverin’ this end with my Schmeisser instead, John.” She heard the familiar and now very reassuring sound of the German MP-40’s bolt being drawn back, open.
    “Give my friend some room.” It was Sarah’s voice from the far side to Natalia’s right. “Go over to John. Natalia— can you walk?”
    “Yes, yes, I can walk.” Natalia nodded. Her throat ached and her right arm felt as though somehow it weren’t an arm at all but a tooth gone bad very suddenly and very
    painfully.
    She started—slowly—toward John Rourke, seeing faces now as the glare of headlights washed at a tangent across the crowd surrounding her. She could see John Rourke’s face now, half in shadow, half