Ahern, Jerry - The Savage Horde

She had shown him the right "winder" then. The gun—he had told her what it was—was something she'd already recognized. It was a lever action Winchester, the caliber .-. She had watched cowboy heroes using them in every Western film she'd ever seen.

Another brigand truck—the truck cut a sharp curve through the back yard, across Mary MuUiner's vegetable garden, a man in the truck bed waving—it wasn't a rifle, but a torch. Sarah snapped off a three-round burst, the man's body crumpling, the torch falling from his hands and to the ground, the body doubling forward and rolling off the truck bed, bouncing once as it hit the ground. Sarah tucked down, a stream of automatic weapons fire hammering through the shot out windows and into the cupboards on the far wall. "Stay down, Annie," Sarah screamed. She could hear the cups shattering in the cabinets, the glasses breaking.

"They mean to burn us," Mary Mulliner gasped, sucking in her breath audibly.

"Yes—they mean to burn us," Sarah nodded.

When this third attack had begun, Sarah had resigned

herself to the fact that there was no hope of victory. She had told Mary to shoot as little as possible. There had been three hundred and seventy-nine rounds of . ammo available when the battle had begun. There was less than half of that remaining, firepower the only means of holding the superior brigand numbers away from the house. Old Tim had had one hundred and three rounds of ammo for the .-. How much he had remaining she couldn't guess. There was an even hundred rounds of . ACP, only one pistol available to handle it—hers. She would save that until the rifle ammo was nearly gone, then use it to repel as many brigands as long as she could. She had decided—she would save at least four rounds—one for the Jenkins girl, hiding with Tim, helping him, Sarah hoped. One for Mary Mulliner. Two for her own children. She had seen what brigands could do to children—young boys, little girls. She had seen them do things to older women. She shivered—she had seen what they did to women like herself. Gang raped, left exhausted and dying by a roadside for the wild dogs to feast on.

She might save five rounds, she thought. She pumped the M-'s trigger. A three-round burst, then another and another. She shattered the windshield of the pickup truck coming dead-on for the back of the house. But the truck was still coming. A man stood up from the truck bed, a torch in his hands. He was swinging it.

Sarah pumped the M-'s trigger—the gun belched two rounds and was empty. The man fell back and the torch was gone from sight.

She sank behind the sink again as a burst of automatic weaspons fire came.

This assault would end soon—she understood their tactics by now. Get the occupants to waste as much ammunition as possible. Dead men were apparently of no concern.

There would be another attack and another—then the

final rush.

She needed a tactic of her own.

"Tim—Tim!"

It was Michael's voice she heard.

"He's dead, Mommie—I think he's dead."

Sarah Rourke felt sick—her first thought was, "Who will replace him in the front of the house?"

"I can fire a gun—Daddy taught me a little."

She closed her eyes. "Take Mary's AR-, Michael— and stay down."

She made the sign of the cross over her chest.

Chapter 21

Michael Rourke sat by the window, Mary Mulliner beside him—he waited. He'd watched his mother do it many times before. He tried thinking about how it must feel.

"Michael—maybe you won't have to kill anybody."

"I killed a man once—maybe a second time. I'm not sure about that."

"But maybe—"

"It'll be all right. The stock for the rifle is too long for me so I can't hold it that well. But it'll be all right."

"You're only a little boy, Michael—"

"I'm eight years old."

"Michael—"

"It'll be all right, Aunt Mary," he told her.

He didn't know if it would be all right. His father had only just started teaching him to shoot seriously. He couldn't remember for certain, but he thought he was five the first time he'd been taken out into the woods behind the house and given a gun to shoot.

He remembered the gun—the Python. His father had cut his left hand holding the gun down in recoil. He remembered what he'd told his father, "Wow—that gun really kicks."

"It's a . Magnum," his father had said.

"Is that a powerful kind of gun?"

"Pretty powerful—you're going to have to be ten or

twelve before I let you try a .—"

"I wanna try a .—"

"Gotta be too careful with a .—any automatic. Keep your fingers out of harm's way. Gotta be older." But he had let Michael try the CAR-. And Michael had liked that, his father complaining, he remembered now, about the ammo cost, then laughing.

Michael reached out his right arm to its fullest extension—he could barely reach the trigger.

There was gunfire—coming from the rear of the house, but from outside.

He squinted his right eye, his left eye shut. He saw a man, coming out of the bushes at the front of the house.

"There's a man there," Mary MuIIiner said. Her voice sounded upset to Michael.

"I know," he told her, trying to keep his own voice calm. He was afraid.

He pulled the trigger.

The recoil hurt his right shoulder and the top edge of the stock hit his jaw and that hurt.

But the man in the bushes fell over. Michael Rourke guessed the man was dead.

Chapter 22

She had begun with three magazines—exactly full. She had fired out ten rounds from one of the magazines, firing on semiautomatic only now in order to conserve ammunition.

She assumed Michael had less than thirty rounds left.

There was the Winchester.

She picked it up, the unfamiliar shape in her hands seeming awkward to her.

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 ..