The Savage Horde s-6

by Ahern, Jerry

  "No guns unless we have to," Rourke half shouted, flicking the safety on for the CAR-IS. He stepped toward the attacker, the man starting to move, a revolver rising in his right hand, already the sounds of more of the attackers going for Rubenstein and the others coming to him over the sound of the waves, over the whistling of the wind. Rourke's right foot snaked out, cross body, catching the man's gunhand wrist, the revolver sailing off into the darkness.

  Rourke let the rifle slide out of the way on its sling, his left foot coming up, going for the man's jaw. He missed, the body rolling across the sand, coming upright. There was another knife, smaller than the machete, but not by much.

  Rourke grabbed for the AG Russell Sting IA in his trouser band, the small knife coming into his palm, the black skeletonized blade shifting outward in his left hand as the man—he wore a motley collection of clothing and animal skins—made his lunge. Rourke sidestepped, the man steaming past him, Rourke's knife hammering down, the blade biting into flesh somewhere over the right kidney, the body's momentum tearing the blade through and down, Rourke's left wrist hurting badly, the knife slipping from his grip.

  He turned, hearing something—feeling something. Two men—like the first, half in the clothing of "civilized" men and half in animal skins, unshaven, hair wildly blowing in the wind. One had a long bladed knife secured, lashed to a pole—a primitive pike or spear. The second held a pistol.

  Rourke violated his own rule; not bothering with the CAR-, not having the time to get at it, snatching at the i

  Detonics under his left armpit, his right fist closing on the black rubber Pachmayr gripped butt, his right thumb jacking back the hammer, his first finger into the trigger guard as the pistol came on line, twitching against the trigger, the gleaming stainless handgun bucking in his hand, the man -with the pistol taking the impact somewhere near the center of mass, the -grain JHP

  throwing him back into the sand.

  The one with the improvised pike was swinging it, the blade making a whooshing sound as it cut the air. Rourke edged back, hearing more gunfire now from the beach— the light rattle of Paul's Schmeisser, lighter than the shotgun blast he heard following it.

  Rourke edged back, the pike coming again, Rourke dropping to his right knee, scissoring out his left leg for a sweep as the man followed up on his lunge, the blade inches above Rourke's head, Rourke's left leg connecting behind the right knee of the man with the pike. The body started shifting forward, like a deadfall tree in the wind.

  Rourke rolled left, pulling his right leg after him, the body slapping down against the sand, a shout issuing from the man. "Kill them! Kill the heathens!"

  "Heathens," Rourke muttered, rolling again, getting to his feet.

  The man was starting up, his pike coming up, Rourke feigning a kick with his right, half wheeling, snapping out his left combat-booted foot. His leg took the shock, his left knee aching as the toe of his boot impacted against the right side of the man's face.

  Rourke wheeled, two more of the wildmen coming for him. He dodged left, one of the men—a machete in his right hand—bringing the blade down hard through the air, barely missing Rourke's right arm.

  Rourke pumped the Detonics, nailing the second man, this one with a gun.

  He wheeled, the sound of the machete in the air again

  making him do it. The blade arced past his nose, the man's arm at maximum extension. "That's never a good idea," Rourke cautioned him, wheeling half left, snapping his right leg out in a double kick to the man's face, the man falling backward.

  Rourke started down the beach, Rubenstein locked in combat with a man twice his size, Rubenstein's pistol high in the air, over his head, the wildman fighting him holding it there. Suddenly, the wildman doubled forward, Rubenstein half stepping away, rubbing momentarily at his right knee, then pushing the Browning High Power forward, the man starting to rise, both hands clasped to his crotch.

  The muzzle flash against the darkness of the sky, the rocks and the water were brilliant for an instant, the high pitched pop of the mm almost lost in the wind and the noise of the surf, then drowned in the scream of the wildman as he spun out, both hands going to his neck. He fell, Rubenstein turned, backing off from a second man, Rourke starting toward him. The second man had no weapon Rourke could see. He swung his right fist, a classic barroom brawl haymaker.

  Rubenstein blocked it neatly with his left forearm, stepped into the man's guard and launched his right fist forward, the man's head snapping back, Rubenstein's left crashing down across the exposed jaw, the body sagging down to the knees.

  Rubenstein's right knee smashed forward, against the tip of the jaw, the wildman's head snapping back again—there was an audible snapping sound. The body sagged down, lurching forward, still kneeling, not moving—dead, Rourke judged.

  "Come on, Paul!"

  Rourke started toward Cole and his men, the four battling twice that many of the wildmen.

  Rourke slipped the CAR-forward, the safety going off under his right thumb, then the stock telescoping under his hand.

  The nearest of the wildmen turned from Cole and the others, starting for him.

  Rourke was shifting the sling off from his left shoulder. There wasn't time to finish it. His right foot snapped out, catching the man's crotch, the wildmen screaming but not stopping. Rourke wheeled three hundred sixty degrees, free of the sling now.

  As the wildman spun toward him, he arched the butt of the CAR-up, the heel of the flat metal buttplate catching at the tip of the wildman's jaw, the head snapping back, Rourke smashing out with the full flat of the butt for the center of the man's face.

  Rourke wheeled half right as the body dropped away, tucking down his right elbow to recover the stroke, slashing down with the muzzle of the CAR as if there had been a bayonet in place. The flash deflector laid open the right cheek of the man coming at him with the machete. Rourke snapped his left foot out, going into a forward ^thrust, the flash deflectored muzzle punching into the attacker's Adam's apple. The man went down.

  Rourke took the step forward on his right, pivoting, the bayonetless rifle in a high guard position, a wildman with a spear rushing him. Rourke swatted the spear away, taking a long stride out with his right leg, dipping low, snapping the butt of the rifle up in an arc, the toe of the butt impacting against the left cheekbone of the man with the spear, the body falling back as Rubenstein stepped in from the far right, the pistol grip of the Schmeisser connecting against the man's left temple.

  Rourke wheeled, sidestepping as Rubenstein advanced on two of the wildmen, one armed with a riot shotgun, another with an assault rifle. Rubenstein's MP-was already spitting, Rourke snatching the Detonics from his belt, thumbing down the safety and emptying the pistol's remaining four rounds into the two men.

  Rubenstein started forward, Rourke reaching out the right hand which still held the empty Detonics, the slide

  locked back over the spent magazine.

  "Wait!"

  Cole was the only one still fighting—a wildman roughly his own size, blond shoulder length hair falling across his face and half obscuring the irregular beard.

  The man was barehanded—so was Cole, his rifle gone somewhere, the . he'd threatened Rourke with still in his holster.

  The wildman's hands reached out, Rourke not shifting his eyes as by feel he swapped for a fresh magazine in the Detonics, leaving the six pack intact, getting one from his musette bag.

  By feel again, he found the slide stop, thumbing it down, hearing the slide rake forward.

  Cole had the . out of the holster now, the man he fought swatting it away, the pistol discharging skyward. Cole slumped back, making to fire the . again as the blond haired wildman came at him. Nothing happened.

  Rourke pumped the Detonics' trigger once, the wildman's head exploding on the left side, the body sprawling back across the sand.

  Cole was looking up, at Rourke, then down to his gun
. Rourke took four steps forward and stopped beside Cole. He reached down, carefully taking the pistol.

  The slide was only part way into battery, the full metal case -grain hardball round somehow jammed diagonally, bullet pointing upward.

  "Odd," Rourke almost wispered. "Jam like that in a military gun. Wouldn't have happened though if you'd fed that round into the chamber off the top of the magazine." Rourke thumbed the magazine catch release, pulling the magazine out, the half chambered round jamming it. He counted the glimmers of brass in the witness holes, the bottom hole empty only. He jacked back the slide, popping the seventh round out of the breech and into the palm of his right hand. "Like I told

  you." He flashed what he hoped was his biggest smile as he tossed Cole the empty pistol, the magazine and the loose round.

  Rourke turned away, under his breath muttering, "Shit—"

  Chapter 32

  Sarah kept her eyes closed. She could hear Michael breathing, hear Annie snoring a little as she always did. She heard nothing from Millie but had checked a few moments earlier—the girl had always been a sound, unimaginative sleeper.

  She was alone in the small tent except for them—except for her thoughts. She kept her eyes closed tight, but could not sleep.

  There had been no word through Bill Mulliner—no word of John. She had asked David Balfry and he had promised to put out feelers that very night—to see if her husband had contacted the resistance or if U.S. II knew his whereabouts.

  "David Balfry," she murmured.

  He was a handsome man, by any woman's standards, she thought.

  She wondered why he had smiled at her.

  She rolled over, the blankets on the hard, damp ground not so uncomfortable she couldn't sleep—since the Night of The War she had slept under far worse conditions.

  She made herself think of the refugees—in the morning, Reverend Steel would be back and she'd begin helping him as a nurse—She couldn't stay forever at the refugee center.

  She would take up the search for John if no news came of his whereabouts. She would do that.

  John was strong—David Balfry—he was strong, too. She remembered the way his hand had felt. It had been a long time since a man had held her hand like that, no matter how brief.

  She closed her eyes tighter, rolling onto her back again. She mentally reconstructed her husband's features. His eyes—they could see through you, she remembered. His forehead was high, but it had always been high, his hair thick, healthy, dark. There had been gray hair on his chest—prematurely gray, she had realized then and told herself now. She thought of the hardness of his muscles when he held her in his arms.

  She opened her eyes, staring up at the tent beyond the hazy darkness, the grayness.

  "John," she whispered, barely hearing her own words, feeling them more. "I need you. now—"She realized what her hands were doing—and she kept them there, closing her eyes.

  Chapter 33

  Rourke understood it now—why no one had come in response to the shots.

  The chanting and screaming would have drowned out any noise.

  The wildmen chanted, men and women, dressed in the same curious mixture of tattered conventional clothing, animal skins and rags.

  The shore party Cole had risked did the screaming. Men—all of them hung on crudely made crosses of limbs and scrap timbers—were being tortured in a variety of ways. Pyres were set about the bases of each cross and Rourke watched now as one of the wildmen reached a faggot into the bonfire which crackled loudly in the wind in the center of the ring of crosses, the ring of crucified men and their torturers.

  The faggot glowed and sparked in the wind—it was now a torch. , "Holy shit," Rubenstein murmured, Rourke feeling the younger man's breath beside him.

  "You might say that," Rourke observed.

  "What are we gonna do?" It was Cole's voice, his whisper like a blade being drawn across a rough stone.

  "That's an odd question for you to ask me," Rourke noted, not looking at Cole, watching the progress instead of the wildmen who held the torch. "We left one man dead on the beach—well, that isn't really true. We sent his body back with the other two and the two prisoners. And one of your two men was wounded. Now even if Lieutenant O'Neal had his shore party in the boats, should still be ten minutes before they'd even hit the beach. Then another fifteen minutes' climb up here. I'd say that leaves only the three of us."

  "The three of us against them," Cole snarled. "You're crazy—there must be a hundred of 'em—all of 'em with guns and more of those damn knives."

  Rourke turned and looked at Cole, then at Paul Rubenstein. "I guess that doesn't leave three of us then—'nly leaves two of us. You guard the rear, Cole—your rear. Looks like you're pretty damned experienced at it anyway."

  Rourke pushed himself up over the rocks, feeling Cole tug at him. He looked back at the man.

  He didn't have to say anything. Paul whispered, "What he meant was—save your ass—seems you got a lot of practice at it."

  Rourke finished moving across the rocks, hearing Rubenstein beside him as he slipped down onto the grassy expanse below, hiding in the shadow there while he watched the man with the torch stop in front of one of the crosses. "Ohh, boy,"

  he whispered to himself.

  Chapter 34

  Rourke's left hand snaked out through the darkness, in his right the A.G.

  Russell black chrome Sting IA he'd retrieved from the dead body on the beach.

  The left hand grasped a handful of hair, jerking the head under it back, the right hand plunging the knife down into the voicebox to stifle any scream. He pulled the knife, then raked it once ear to ear as the body fell back toward him—just in case.

  He'd killed the man to avoid having someone directly at his back.

  He stepped out of the shadow of the trees now and into the meager glow of the fire, some hundred yards away still from the ring of crosses.

  The wildman who held the torch stood beneath the cross of one of the shore party—Rourke thought vaguely—at the angle he wasn't able to be sure—that it was Corporal Henderson.

  It stood to reason—make an example of the leader and burn him first.

  Considering what Henderson had done, Rourke had at least a twinge,of desire to let the man die. But that wasn't his way—and he knew it wasn't.

  Rourke glanced at the Rolex as he rolled back the cuff of the bomber jacket and the sweater beneath it. It had been five minutes—time enough for Paul to be in position on the far side of the ring of crosses. He discounted any help from Cole completely.

  It was time.

  Rourke started forward, searching his pockets for the Zippo lighter which bore his initials, finding it, lighting the chewed stump of dark tobacco in the left corner of his mouth.

  He put the light away, swinging the CAR-forward. While he'd been up in the rocks, he'd reloaded the spent and partially spent Detonics magazines. Counting the six pack, he had twelve magazines, including the two in the guns—seventy-two rounds. He carried six spare magazines for the CAR-, plus the one already up the well—no loose ammo for these. The Python was at his right hip, -grain JHPs loaded, three speedloaders ready, plus the loose ammo in the dump pouches on his belt.

  If it took him one shot per man—and woman— around the crosses and they all stood perfectly still while he shot so there would be no chance of a miss, he'd have plenty of ammo to spare.

  Rourke smiled to himself—somehow, he doubted things would work that way.

  The CAR-slung cross body under his right arm, he stopped walking, less than twenty-five yards from the nearest cross—the one on which Henderson was hung, the one before which the wildman stood holding the torch.

  Rourke balanced the rifle butt against his right hip, pulling the trigger once, firing into the air.

  The chanting stopped, the screaming didn't.

  The faces of the wildmen and their women turne
d— toward him.

  His voice little above a whisper, Rourke rasped, "You can stop all this or you're dead—your play, guys."

  That was something else he doubted would work that way.

  Chapter 35

  "Kill the heathen!"

  The man with the torch shouted it, Rourke already lowering the muzzle of the CAR-, his trigger finger moving once, gutshooting the man where he stood.

  The screaming was louder now, drowning out the screams of the crucifixion victims—but the cries from the wildmen and their women—"Kill the heathen!"

  Rourke had the CAR-to hip level now, pumping the trigger in rapid, two-shot semiautomatic bursts. Men and women ran everywhere, screaming, some running toward him, some running blindly like trapped animals. He could hear small arms fire from the far side of the ring of crosses—Rubenstein, he hoped.

  As a wedge in the wildmen opened he could see something more immediate. The wifdman he'd gut shot had somehow crawled toward the pyre beneath the cross on which Henderson was hung—and the pyre was beginning to burn.

  He started to run, toward the cross, the flames licking higher, fanned it seemed by their own heat, higher pitched than the screams and curses and threats of the wildmen the scream from Henderson—Rourke could see the man's face, orange lit and shadowed, as the flames seemed sucked up toward his flesh.

  "Help me!"

  Rourke spun half left, pumping the CAR-'s trigger again, putting down a man rushing him with a machete. He pumped the CAR-again, a woman with a revolver. Red flowers of blood blossomed on her chest as she stumbled back.

  Hands reached for him, Rourke sidestepping, a bear-sized man grasping at him.

  No time to shoot, no way to swing the CAR-'s muzzle on line, Rourke hammered out hard to his right with the rifle's butt, doubling the man forward. Rourke's right knee smashed upward, catching the face midway between the lips and the base of the nose, blood spurting as the shout issued from the mouth that now looked like a raw wound.