The Savage Horde s-6

by Ahern, Jerry

  She had watched old Tim load it.

  Sarah Rourke, the M-leaning beside her against the sink cabinet, worked the lever—the hammer cocked.

  She pushed herself up, a phalanx of brigand bikers rushing the house. She squeezed the trigger, the booming of the .- deafening, her ears ringing, her shoulder aching—one brigand biker went down.

  She worked the lever again as she ducked down.

  "Mrs. Rourke—I'm afraid."

  "So am I, Millie—don't worry," Sarah answered.

  She could hear the little girl crying, hear Annie saying, "Mommie'll take care of us—everything'll be okay—you wait and see, Millie."

  Sarah smiled in spite of herself—as Michael was becoming a man before her eyes, so was little Annie growing—but all to die. She bit her lower lip, raised herself up and fired, working the Winchester's lever, firing again, levering, firing again, levering and firing again.

  Each shot had been a hit but the lever was too slow to work.

  She dropped down, picking up the Colt rifle, her bare knees aching on the cold kitchen floor.

  She pushed herself up, pumping the Colt's trigger at the phalanx of bikers. One shot, one dead. Another shot, another dead.

  But they were still coming.

  "Mommie!" It was Michael.

  "The curtains are on fire!" It was Annie, Sarah feeling her heart in her mouth as she saw the girl standing up. And beyond Annie, into the living room—the parlor as Mary Mulliner called it—she could see flames, "Michael—get out of there!" Sarah was on her feet, running, Michael standing up behind the sheet of flame, firing the AR-from the hip, Mary Mulliner crouched on the floor beside him, one dead brigand half through the window, the glass shattering out the rest of the way as Michael fired—two rounds, the body twitching twice, the man's clothes catching on fire.

  The man was screaming.

  Sarah fired the M-, one round to the head. Mary Mulliner'screamed, Sarah wheeling around, Annie and Millie running from the kitchen, Annie holding the ..

  "Mommie!"

  Hands reached out from the kitchen doorway, a massive man in blue denim and black leather right behind them. Sarah fired the M-, shifting the selector to full auto, the burst running from the man's bare sweating midsection and up along his chest in a ragged red line, the eyes wide open, the body lurching back through the" doorway.

  Sarah snatched the pistol from Annie's hands.

  The other ammo—the Winchester. The spare magazines for the . and the M-—all in the kitchen.

  Another of the brigands was coming through the doorway, Sarah pushing the children down as the man raised a shotgun. Sarah fired, the M-coming up empty as the man fell back, the shotgun discharging into the chandelier in the center of the ceiling, Sarah hearing it, feeling the glass as it showered down on her.

  "Mom!"

  Michael's voice.

  She wheeled, Michael firing his rifle, a man coming through the window, the curtains barely gone now as the fire spread to the outside wall, the smoke acrid.

  Sarah started to jerk back the .'s hammer, but Michael was firing again, the body spinning out, the hands—bloodied—reaching for Michael's throat.

  The boy rammed the rifle forward, the flash deflector punching into the center of the already floundering man's face.

  The man fell back.

  "My gun—it's empty, Mommie!"

  "Get over here," Sarah shouted, drawing Annie and Millie against her skirt, holding the children with her left arm. Michael was beside her now, and so was Mary Mulliner.

  The brigands would come—in a second, perhaps two—she would kill her children, kill Millie Jenkins, kill Mary Mulliner—she still didn't know if she could kill herself.

  There were seven rounds in the pistol. Two for Michael and Annie. One for Millie. One for Mary. One for herself—five.

  She had two left to fight.

  The smoke was heavy now, the wind from outside the house that blew through the shot-out windows feeding the flames.

  A brigand—she could see the look of lust in his eyes as he jumped through the window, the flames which caught at his shirt swatted out under his massive right hand.

  She raised the ..

  "Get out of here!"

  "Yeah—later," the man snarled, raising the rifle.

  Saran pulled the trigger. The . Government Model Colt bucked in her hand, the man's face registered shock, surprise. He toppled backward.

  Michael had picked up a leg from a broken chair. She didn't know how it had gotten broken. He held it like a club.

  "Let 'em come," he snarled.

  "No," Sarah whispered.

  One round was left. She edged back toward the stairwell, to escape the flames, to postpone—the inevitable.

  "Mrs. Rourke!"

  It was Millie Jenkins. Sarah looked down at her face, then at her eyes, then up the stairwell.

  A man at the head of the stairs, a submachinegun in his hands.

  Sarah pumped the trigger of the .—once, then once again, the body lurching back, then doubling over, falling, the submachinegun spraying into the wall as Sarah pulled the children close to her.

  The body fell at her feet, Mary Mulliner reaching down and picking up the submachinegun.

  "It's empty I think," Mary almost hissed.

  Sarah took the submachinegun—she thought it was an Uzi.

  It was empty.

  She looked at the dead man—no other gun, no spare magazines she could see.

  There were not enough rounds left in the . for her to kill herself.

  It had to be Michael first—he'd try to stop her otherwise.

  She pressed the muzzle of the . to his head as she hugged him to her.

  " love you!" She screamed the words.

  She started to squeeze the trigger.

  "Mrs. Rourke!"

  She looked to the doorway beyond the smoldering curtains, a man having gotten through. A young man, carrot red hair. "You're safe!"

  It was Mary's son.

  Calmly—Sarah raised the thumb safety on the . and handed the pistol to Mary Mulliner.

  Every woman had the right, Sarah thought—at least once. She closed her eyes and fell, her head swimming, bright floaters in front of her eyes.

  Chapter 23

  Sarah Rourke sat with her blue jeans across her lap, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her bare legs against the wind, the fire licking loudly in front of her.

  "We got all your things out of the house—Mom told me where they were."

  "How are the children, Bill?"

  "Fine, Mrs. Rourke—Michael's sleeping and so's Annie. Millie's sitting on Mom's lap—but she's all right. Won't go to sleep though."

  Sarah looked behind her at what had been the farmhouse. It was as burned and gutted as her own house in Georgia.

  "I'm sorry for your mother's house," she whispered. "Sorry I fainted on you, too. But—"

  "Hey—I understand it. I'm just a kid—at least I was. But—well, since the Night of The War, I seen a lot, ya know, ma'am."

  "Yes—I know. I have too," Sarah told him. "Your resistance people were just like the cavalry—just in the nick of time," and she forced a laugh.

  "Here," he said, sounding awkward to her. He handed her a gun—it was shiny. A ., small like the ones her husband carried, but different somehow. "This was my Dad's—that's why Mom's crying. Not 'cause of the house, ya see—Dad—he didn't make it during the last raid on the Russians in Nashville."

  She turned the gun over in her hands. As she looked at it, young Bill Mulliner continued talking to her. "Dad was a friend of this guy named Trapper—gunsmith up in Michigan before the Night of The War. Trapper made the gun up for him special. Started out a Colt Combat Commander—the one with the steel frame.

  Them's Smith & Wesson K-frame rear sights—gun's real short in the barrel and slide and the grip�
�a round shorter. Makes it nice to carry. And that's a Colt ambidextrous thumb safety on her—no grip safety—pinned in. That's a special nickel plating Trapper used."

  "But this was your father's gun—you can't give it—"

  "Ma'am—see, I got plenty a guns—and—well—if it weren't for you, my mom'd be dead too. Figure with this on ya, and a regular .—you can use the same clips—"

  "Magazines I think they're called," she smiled, feeling self-conscious at correcting a man about a gun.

  "Yes'm—but you'll always have six extra rounds when ya need 'em. She's a smoothie of a shooter, ya know— and—well—so here," and he handed her a spare loaded magazine for the pistol.

  She looked at the pistol in the firelight. The right side of the slide read "Trapper Gun" and there was a scorpion etched there in the metal, like there was on the flat black grips, barely visible in the flickering of the flames. "Thank you, Bill—I don't know what to say—I, ahh—"

  "You just stay alive with it, ma'am—that's thanks enough and more."

  "We can't stay here anymore, can we?" she said, still holding the gun, wrapping the blanket more tightly around her.

  "No, ma'am—there's a big refugee camp not too far from here—should be safe from them brigand vermin. You and Mom and the children are gonna be okay there. Least ways ya should be."

  She leaned across to the boy, still holding his dead

  father's gun. She kissed the boy on the cheek.

  "Mrs. Rourke," he drawled.

  She leaned back against the side of the log that was being fed slowly into the fire, feeling the pleasant warmth. She closed her eyes. But she didn't let go of the pistol.

  Chapter 24

  Colonel Nehemiah Rozhdestvenskiy picked up one of the rifles at random. There were dozens ranked along the wall, more still in crates. He personally liked the M-—not as well as the Kalashnikov pattern rifles, but liked it nonetheless.

  And for the coming situation, American-made arms would be the best choice. He turned to the junior officer beside him—a Captain Revnik. "Captain—you must see to it that each of these rifles is thoroughly inspected. There is no use in storing arms which are defective. Any rifles which prove defective must be detail stripped and the defective part found, discarded or repaired and the rest of the parts binned according to type for use as spares."

  "Yes, Comrade colonel," Revnik beamed. Rozhdestvenskiy disliked too much enthusiasm. "And the same with the pistols, Comrade colonel?"

  ' 'Yes—but only the . automatics—the Smith & Wesson revolvers will not be inventoried since there is no need to house . Special ammunition as well as .. One standard pistol will suit our needs more than adequately. And of course each officer will have his own individual weapon." He patted the Colt Single Action Army under his uniform tunic.

  "There must be adequate supplies for all needs, but most especially for the weapons—the individual weapons. For the five thousand M-s we will need there must be

  five million rounds of .mm military ball ammo—loaded in the eight hundred round steel containers will be best. These can then be sealed with wax as I've outlined in the master plans for the Womb. One million rounds of the . ACP

  ammunition for the one thousand pistols-This can be packed in greater bulk and likewise sealed. I'd suggest metal oil drums perhaps and the original boxes—again, all military ball ammunition,"

  "Yes, Comrade colonel."

  Rozhdestvenskiy nodded, stepping away from the wall where the rifles leaned and towara the catwalk. He looked below him—men moving equipment—portable generators, arc lights. More men—crates being unloaded from large trucks onto smaller trucks which could be rolled directly aboard the waiting C-s on the airfield two miles away.

  "Work goes apace," he commented, leaning on the catwalk railing, swinging his body weight back and forth, feeling what he saw, feeling the power surging up in his blood. "But the pace must be quickened. If all the items are not secured in the Womb in a very, very short period of time, captain—all will have been for naught."

  "Yes, Comrade colonel—Comrade?"

  "Yes, captain?"

  "May I ask, Comrade colonel—why is this being—"

  Rozhdestvenskiy felt his smile fade. "The survival of the race, Comrade—the survival of the race."

  Rozhdestvenskiy said no more.

  Chapter 25

  Rourke, Paul Rubenstein and Natalia sat, their eyes transfixed as were the eyes of the submarine's complement not on duty—to the television monitors in the crew mess. It had been the same with San Francisco when they had passed the ruins—watching a city where once people lived now an underwater tomb. With this city it was doubly difficult—a young seaman first class had been born there, lived there—his mother, father, two sisters and wife and son had died there.

  But he had insisted on watching—and now he wept.

  Not one of the men touched him; Rourke, feeling perhaps like the rest of them, not knowing what to say, to do.

  Natalia—wearing a robe borrowed from the captain, moving slowly, her left hand holding at her abdomen where Rourke had made the incisions—stood. Rourke started up after her, but she shook her head, murmuring, "No, John," then walked. She supported herself against the long, spotlessly clean tables, moving to alongside the weeping man.

  "I am sorry—for your family—and for you," she whispered, Rourke watching her, watching all the others watching her.

  The young man looked up. "Why'd you and your people wanna kill us—we coulda talked it out—or somethin'?"

  "I don't know, sailor—I don't know," she whispered.

  He looked at her, just shaking his head.

  She moved her hands, touching them lightly to his shoulders. He looked down, his neck bent, his shoulders slumping. Natalia took a step toward him, leaning against him to help herself stand, her arms folding around his neck, his head coming to rest against her abdomen.

  She closed her eyes as he wept.

  Rourke breathed.

  Chapter 26

  Rourke stood in the sail, the snowflakes thick and large, the temperature barely cold enough for them, he thought. They melted as they reached the backs of his hands on the rail, the knit cuffs of his brown leather bomber jacket, occasionally one of the larger flakes landing on his eyelashes—he would close his eyes for an instant and they would melt.

  The flakes melted down from his hair, the melted snow running in tiny rivulets down his forehead and his cheeks—he could feel them.

  Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna shivered beside him and he folded his arm around her to give her warmth.

  The submarine was moving—through the fjord-like cut in the land and toward the new coastline—it was north central California and beneath the wake the sub's prow cut were the bodies of the dead and cities they had lived in.

  ' Rourke thought of this—he could not avoid thinking of it ...

  There was a bay that had been carved at the far end of the inlet, Commander Gundersen on the sail beside Rourke, Rubenstein and Natalia, in constant radio contact with his bridge for depth soundings of the fjord—it had been created by the megaquakes that had destroyed California beyond the San Andreas faultline on the Night of The War. There were no charts.

  'I'm running even at eighteen feet below the waterline—shit,'' and Gundersen looked away from Rourke, snapping into the handset, "Wilkins—this is it—we get ourselves hung up—bad enough we can't dive. All stop, then give me the most accurate soundings you can all through the bay—wanna channel I can stay over where I can dive if I have to. Once you've got that, feed in the coordinates and back her up—you got the con."

  "Aye, captain," the voice rattled back.

  Gundersen put down the set. "You've been avoiding Captain Cole."

  Rourke nodded, saying, "You didn't want a fight on board ship."

  "Well—the time has come, hasn't it—let's all get below and talk this out so we know what the hell
we're doing, huh?" Gundersen didn't wait for an answer, but retrieved the handset, depressing the push-to-taik button. "Wilkins—Gundersen.

  Get that Captain Cole sent over to my cabin in about three minutes."

  "He was just up here looking for you, skipper."

  "Terrific—well—tell him I'm looking for him."

  Gundersen started below, cautioning. "Watch your step, miss," to Natalia. She nodded, starting down the hatchway after him.

  Rubenstein caught at Rourke's arm. "We really gonna go through with this?"

  "Cole wants those warheads—whether it's just carrying out his orders or for some other reason. Only way we can know is to be there with him when he gets them."

  "I was afraid you were gonna say that."

  Rourke felt himself smile. "Come on—watch your step. Slippery."

  Rubenstein nodded as Rourke looked away—there was more to watch your step about than ice on the sail, Rourke thought.

  Chapter 27

  The weather had turned cold again—spring was gone. She wondered if it were forever.

  The refugee camp a short distance away had been eight days away. She stood now on a low rise, seeing it in the distance. Eight days—large Soviet forces moving into factory towns along the way, brigand concentrations— days of waiting in caves and in the woods—days of rain, of cold.

  She shivered, reaching her hands up to tug at the bandanna that covered her hair, to pull it lower over her ears. She folded her arms around herself, hugging herself—but the cold would not go away.

  "We can rest here," the gruff-voiced resistance leader announced. Gruff-voiced, she thought, but a warm man, a good man. Pete Critchfield, Bill Mulliner's father's second in command and now the leader by default. But he seemed a good leader, she thought.

  She looked behind her—Annie and Millie Jenkins rode the mule, Michael walked beside^

  "Stop for a while," she breathed—"the camp's in sight, but a little distance yet."