by Ahern, Jerry
Rourke swung the CAR-forward, still counting his shots, firing rapid two-shot bursts into the running, screaming men and women around him. He was ten yards from the cross now, changing sticks for the CAR, Henderson's screams beyond what could have come from a human, Rourke thought. The flames were licking at the skin of his bare legs, the words Henderson screamed unintelligible save for the agony they expressed.
Rourke slammed the fresh magazine home, working the bolt, turning as three men and a woman rushed him. He pumped the CAR-'s trigger, nailing the nearest of the four, then pumped the trigger again, getting the woman.
The two men came at him in a low rush, Rourke losing his balance as he pumped the trigger, shooting one of the men in the chest, the body rolling away. The second man's hands were on his throat, Rourke stumbling back, hitting the ground hard, the flames there scorchingly hot on his hands, his neck.
The fingers were closing tightly on htm—floaters were crossing his eyes, gold, yellow, green.
Rourke's left hand found the butt of the Sting IA, his fingers jerking it free of the leather. He began stabbing it, into the strangler's right side. In—out.
In—out. In—out.
The grip seemed only to tighten, the colors of the floaters going lighter, unconsciousness coming, his right arm pinned in the sling and useless.
Rourke smashed up with his right knee, feeling it strike the hardness of bone rather than the crushing softness of testicles.
The knife. It was out, his left arm going limp.
He spun his arm downward like a pendulum, feeling the blade bite deep, the stickiness of blood spurt covering his left hand, the weight of the man above him beginning to sag, the grip in the fingers not loosening.
He wrenched the knife free, then using the last strength he had, hammered it downward, contacting the tip of the spearpoint, pear-shaped blade against the bare upper arm, blood gushing as the skin ripped while Rourke dragged the knife down and along the arm's length.
The grip on his neck eased.
He smashed his right knee upward again, hammering with it in short jabs, searching for the testicles—there was a scream, the first sound the man had made—Rourke felt the squish of flesh against his knee.
The grip on his neck loosened completely, Rourke jabbing the knife in again, into the chest, the body lurching back.
Rourke rolled onto his stomach, coughing, gasping for breath, his right arm numb.
His left hand, sticky with the blood, snaked toward the Detonics pistol under his right armpit, found the rubber grip, wrenched the pistol through the speedbreak through the trigger guard and out of the leather, the thumb slipping against the small spurred hammer because of the wetness of the blood. The man was up, hurtling himself forward, the knife still impaled in the right side of his chest, the right arm covered in blood.
Rourke's right thumb swiped again at the hammer, the hammer coming back, Rourke pulling the trigger once,
then once more, then once again, the wildman's body rocking with each slug, spinning, stumbling, then falling over, forward, bouncing once, blood splashing from the arm and the chest as the body impacted.
Rourke, the Detonics still in his left fist, used the fist to push himself up, his right arm starting to get the feeling back. Another man was charging at him.
He pumped the trigger—the Detonics bucked in his hand once, then once again.
Rourke wheeled, half stumbling, coughing still, his throat burning—half from the pressure of the strangler, half from the smell of Henderson's burning flesh, A woman with a machete was rushing him. Rourke fired the last round in the pistol, her body taking the slug, reeling, falling.
The slide still locked back, Rourke jammed the pistol into his belt.
He flexed his right fist as he reached up awkwardly with his left hand to the Detonics under his left arm. His thumb coiled around the front strap of the grip, he ripped, the pistol coming free of the leather. He twisted the gun in his hand, worked the hammer back and .started forward, toward Henderson.
The man Rourke had gutshot was getting to his feet, the torch still in his hand, the arm beyond the hand blackened where the flesh had singed in the heat of the pyre's flames.
The man swung the torch, Rourke stumbling back, firing the Detonics, hitting the wildman executioner in the face twice, the head exploding like an overripe melon hitting concrete.
On the ground near the base of the cross was a machete. Rourke wrapped his still numbed right fist around it, trying to find a way of reaching past the tongues of flame.
"Damn!" he rasped.
The flames were too high, too hot.
He pulled back, Henderson still screaming.
"Think! Think, Rourke—think, damnit," he shouted to the flames, to himself.
"Look out, John!"
Rourke wheeled, the Detonics in his left fist punching forward. It was Rubenstein, visible past the turned forward and down windshield of a jeep, the jeep bouncing and rolling from the far side of the ring of crosses.
Rourke shouted, "Paul—drive her into the base of the cross and jump clear—hurry!"
There was no answer, just something halfway between a wave and a salute, Rourke sidestepping, pulling the trigger on another of the wildmen, this one with a spear. The body lurched back and fell.
Rourke's right hand was working again—it pained but functioned. He dropped the machete, ramming the second Detonics into his belt beside the first one, swinging the CAR-forward, spraying out the magazine into the wildmen as they ran from the oncoming jeep.
The CAR-was empty and Rourke let it drop in its sling, drawing the Python from the flap holster at his hip, double actioning one of the -grain jacketed soft points point blank into the chest of one of the wildmen. He turned, the jeep snaking past him, one of the wildmen clambering onto the hood. Rourke pushed his right fist to full extension, double actioning another round from the six-inch, Metalifed Python, missing, then firing again.
The second shot caught the wildman on the hood of the jeep in the left side, the body rolling off, gone. Rourke jumped back, Paul's jeep crashing through the flames at the base of the cross, Paul jumping clear, rolling, coming up, his subgun firing into the wildmen.
Rourke snatched up the fallen machete from the ground, shifting the Python to his left fist, jumping the flames at the perimeter of the pyre, reaching the cross, Henderson screaming, his legs afire. Rourke dropped the revolver and the machete, lowering his hands into the
damp ground and the light covering of snow, scooping up handfuls, putting them on the flames. There was a dead wildman near him.
Rourke snatched at the animal skin half covering the man, using it like a blanket, swatting at the flames, smothering them, then throwing his body over the animal skin to deny the flames the last of the oxygen they needed.
He pulled back the animal skin, the smell of burnt flesh nauseating him.
He found the machete, hacked with it at the ropes binding the ankles to the stem of the cross. Flesh fell away, stiffened, blackened.
But the legs were free, Henderson moaning incomprehensibly.
Rourke started for the ropes on the leЈt wrist, recoiling for an instant—spikes had been driven through the palms of the hands.
He felt something, snatching up the Python from the snowy ground, firing it point blank into the face of an oncoming wildman.
The big Colt in his left fist, he hacked with the machete in his right—at the ropes tied around the wrists of Corporal Henderson.
There was a gutting hook near the base of the machete—or whatever its purpose, it looked like a gutting hook. Rourke started to work at the massive nail driven through Henderson's left palm—he stopped. He touched his hand to Henderson's neck, then set down the machete. He raised the left eyelid—Henderson had died.
Grasping the machete, raising to his full height, Rourke turned—a wildman raced toward him, a butcher-sized Bowie
knife in his upraised right hand.
It was a sucker move, Rourke thought.
He stepped into the attacker's guard, batting away the knife with the six-inch barrel of the Python, then slashing the machete in a roundhouse swing, severing the
attacker's jugular vein—the life had gone from the body before it plopped to the ground, spurting, splashing as the heart still pumped.
Rourke dropped the machete—Rubenstein's subgun was still firing.
Rourke could hear it.
He pumped the last two rounds in the Python into another of the wildmen, then bolstered the revolver still empty.
A fresh stick for the CAR-from the musette bag—he inserted it up the well, stuffing the empty away.
He worked the bolt, pumping the trigger, taking out two more of the wildmen, using only six rounds.
He let the CAR-hang on its sling, taking'one, then the other of the Detonics .s—he rammed fresh magazines up the wells of both pistols, from the Six Pack on his belt, putting the empties in their places, filling the slots.
One pistol in each fist, he started forward—there were still men to save—men with mangled bodies, bleeding wounds—men who hadn't yet been set aflame.
He started firing, killing.
Chapter 36
"No, damnit, Miss Tiemerovna—"
"Natalia," she nodded.
"All right—then no, damnit, Natalia," Gundersen shouted. "I'm not takin' a woman KGB major wearing a bathrobe and an arctic parka into a rubber boat for a shore party to investigate what sounds like a battle royal—got it?"
"Damn you," she shouted.
"Thank you very much for the good wishes—you can stay in the sail if you like—come on, O'Neal—let's launch," and Gundersen started across the missile deck and over the railing side cleats toward the rubber boat.
Natalia screamed after him. "Nyehvozmohznoh!"
Gundersen looked up as he took the ladder. "And what the hell does that mean, lady?" "It is Russian—you are impossible!"
"Thanks again," and Gundersen's head disappeared from sight.
She shivered—she wore a hospital gown under the robe and the arctic parka only covered the upper half of her body, the wind blowing up under the robe.
Almost as if Gundersen could read her mind, she heard him shout, "And get that damn woman a blanket to wrap around herself before her legs freeze!"
"Aye, sir," a voice called back.
"A^e," she snarled.
Chapter 37
He had fought his way to Rubenstein's side, the two men standing now, back to back.
"Gotta move on those crosses," Rourke shouted. "Get some more of them down."
"Of the six I freed," Rubenstein shouted over the steady roar of the high pitched subgun, "only two of them were able to move—one guy on the ground was using an assault rifle I liberated."
Rourke said nothing, eyeing the battleground—there were still dozens of the wildmen, attacking in small packs, sporadic gunfire coming toward them now.
Then, "Let's get outa here—free the rest of the men to carry the ones who can't walk—fight our way back toward the beach."
Rourke started moving, Rubenstein backing as Rourke glanced toward him, covering his back, the barrel of the CAR-radiating heat as Rourke kept firing, the magazine well hot to the touch slightly as Rourke rammed a fresh stick up the well.
"I'm almost outa sticks, John," Rubenstein sang out.
Rourke shouted back, "Let's run for it—beat ya to the nearest cross," then started out at a dead run, keeping low, the CAR-spitting fire. The nearest cross had a man clinging to it who seemed half dead, blood dripping down his wrists and forearms but no spikes driven through the palms of his hands—massive lacerations instead.
"Lemme," Paul shouted, shifting the German MP-back on its sling, putting an open pocket knife between his teeth, then jumping for the cross's spar, reaching it, wrapping his blue jeaned legs around the stem and the man on it, then freeing one hand, sawing at the ropes. Rourke had retrieved his black chrome Sting IA and he hacked with it now at the ropes binding the ankles to the cross's stem.
"One hand to go," Rubenstein shouted.
"Dr. Rourke," the man called down from the cross. "God bless you both!"
Rourke stared at the face of the man strung to the cross—the irony of the words struck him, at once saddened him.
He held the man by the legs as Rubenstein tried guiding him down. The man's sweating, shivering body was covered with clotted blood from lash marks across his chest and back, stab wounds in his thighs and upper arms.
Rourke felt almost ashamed to ask. "Could you handle a gun—even from the ground?"
"Yeah—a gun—yeah," the man mumbled.
"Fine," Rourke nodded, rising to his full height, picking a target with an assault rifle. He started toward the wildman at a loping run, firing the CAR-as the man turned around.
Rourke was beside the body the next moment, wrestling the AR-from the dead man's grasp, searching the body—finding what he sought. Three spare twenty-round magazines.
He started back toward Rubenstein and the injured soldier—two of the wildmen blocked him, Rourke firing a short, two round burst from the CAR, downing the nearer man, the second man rushing him. Rourke sidestepped, snapping up the rifle butt, smacking against the side of the man's face. He wheeled half right, raking the flash deflector down like a bayonet across the exposed right side of the neck. The man sank, Rourke dropping got his knees beside the first man, firing his CAR-, assault rifle fire leveled at him now from the far side of the ring of crosses. Two of the wildmen—Rourke hitched the rifle he held to his shoulder, firing, one of the two men down, the second pulling back. Rourke grabbed up the Ml carbine the dead man near him had carried, searched the body under the rags and animal skins, found two thirty-round magazines in a jungle clip and was up and running again.
Still more than two yards away, Rourke hurtled the M-through the air, "Paul!"
Rubenstein caught it, wheeling, his High Power getting stuffed into his trouser band, the M-spitting fire into three men running toward the cross, handgnns blazing.
"The Schmeisser was out, John," Rubenstein called.
Rourke nodded, saying nothing, dropping to his knees again beside the injured man.
"Here—use this," and Rourke gave him the Ml carbine and the spare, clipped together magazines.
He pushed himself to his feet, getting beside Rubenstein, stuffing the spare magazines, for the AR-into the side pockets of Paul's field jacket.
"We'll be back for you," Rourke shouted, starting toward the next cross, twenty-five yards away. As they reached it, Rourke dropped, Rubenstein beside him, heavy gunfire—assault rifles, shotguns, handguns, coming from the base of the next cross.
Rourke ducked behind the stem of the cross he was near, the rifle to his shoulder again, squinting under the scope across the sights, pumping the trigger once, then once again, then pulling back, one of the bodies dropping.
"Damn them," Rubenstein shouted. Rourke looked toward the next nearest cross.
One of the wildmen was firing up at the crucifixion victim, the body twisting, lurching with the impact of each slug, then slumping— dead.
There was one more man—a cross fifty yards away on Rourke and Rubenstein's left—plus the man hung above them. Blood dripped onto the back of Rourke's hand—he looked up. The man who hung there was dead, a gaping hole in the right side of his head.
Rourke pushed himself up to full height, keeping as well behind the stem of the cross as possible, shouting to Paul, "Keep down!"
Rourke started to fire, emptying the stick toward the men at the base of the next cross, the CAR-coming up empty, Rourke ramming a fresh magazine home, firing it out, the men at the base of the cross starting to break up, running in different directions. Two of them ran toward the last cross—one man still lived hanging there.
Rourke started
to run. "Come on, Paul." He reached to the shoulder rig, grabbing out one of the Detonics pistols with his left hand, the Detonics in his left, the CAR-in his right held just by the pistol grip. There was gunfire everywhere—as if somehow more of the wildmen were coming out of the woods. As Rourke raced toward the last cross, firing the CAR-into the wildmen's group, he could see that more were coming—perhaps late arrivals for the "fun" of the torture, perhaps from other camps nearby.
He stopped at the base of the cross, ramming another magazine into place for the Detonics he'd fired out, the CAR-empty, hanging on the sling at his side. He grabbed the second Detonics, one pistol in each hand, at hip level, firing toward the attackers.
Paul was already starting to climb the cross. Rourke heard him shout, "This one's dead."
Rourke glanced up once, then brought the pistol in his left hand to eye level, snapping off a shot at a wildman getting too close.
"Paul—get the men you released earlier—if any of them are left—meet me at the far side. I'll get the guy with
the carbine."
"Right!"
Rourke glanced at Rubenstein once as the younger man jumped to the ground, then started to run.
Rourke ran as well. He was out of ammo for the CAR-. There were only a few loaded magazines left for the Detonics pistols, the guns in each hand nearly empty.
He slowed his run, ducking down, catching up a riot shotgun on the ground.
His right fist wrapped around the pump, the Detonics from his right in his belt, he snapped his right hand down then up, the pump tromboning a round into the chamber, the spent plastic high brass shell popping out of the ejection port.
Rourke tossed the shotgun up, catching it at the small of the stock, his fist wrapping around the pistol grip. He started to run again, firing out the Detonics in his left hand, then wheeling toward three of the attacking wildmen rushing toward him.
