Ahern, Jerry - The Savage Horde

Chapter 29

The faces—she watched them as they watched her. She held Michael's right hand in her left, the boy saying nothing, but watching the faces, too.

Sarah shifted the weight of her M-, the rifle carried now cross body on its sling, her right fist balled around the pistol grip. She had not seen so many people in one place—crowded together in one place—since before the Night of The War. It mildly frightened her. She had seen other large groups—but she didn't count them people. The brigands—they were less than animals. The Russians—she refused to think of them any more than she had to. But she thought every once in a while of the Soviet major—the man she had met during the resistance escape in Savannah, whom she had met once again in Tennessee.

He had spared her.

She had watched his eyes, seeing something there she had seen in her husband's eyes. And she wondered what he had seen in her eyes.

She shook her head.

"What's wrong, Momma?" Michael looked up at her—he was nearly to the height of her breasts when he stood erect.

"Nothing—just all these people—" She stopped, Pete Crichfield having stopped, even Bill Mulliner's golden retriever, the dog the children had constantly played with at the farm, having stopped.

Bill Mulliner came up beside her. "That fella on the porch—David Balfry—he's the commander."

"The commander?"

"Yeah—college professor before the Night of The War—he's sort of the headman for the resistance in Tennessee here."

She looked beyond Pete Critchfield's massive shoulders. "David Balfry,*' she repeated.

He was her own age, she judged. Tall, straight, lean-featured. Close cropped blond hair, a smile lighting his face for an instant.

"Mrs. Rourke!" It was Pete Critchfield, calling to her.

"Yes, Mr. Critchfield."

"You and your boy come up here and meet David." Sarah left the ragged column, walking closer to the knot of people, still watching her—watching all of the newcomers, she told herself. There were wounds—bandaged, some not cleanly. There were missing limbs, eyes—terrible burns on the faces and exposed hands of some of the people in the crowd. She pushed past, stopping at the porch steps of the farmhouse.

"Mrs. Rourke—I heard of your work in Savannah with the resistance there. It's an honor to meet you," and David Balfry extended his hand. The fingers were long, like the fingers of a pianist or violinist were supposed to be but so rarely were.

She felt his hand press around hers.

She looked into his eyes—they were green. They were warm.

"It's—it's a pleasure to meet you, too—Mr. Balfry."

"It used to be Professor Balfry—now it's just David. Sarah—isn't it?"

"Yes," she told him. She wondered quickly what else he would ask her.

"May I call you Sarah?"

She nodded, saying nothing.

"I understand your husband was a doctor—"

"Is a doctor," she told him, shifting her feet in her tennis shoes.

"Yes—but were you ever a nurse—"

"Not really—but I've done a lot of it."

"Reverend Steel—I think he could use some help with the sick—after you settle in, of course."

"Of course—I mean—yes. I'll help," she told him.

Balfry extended his right hand again, this time to Michael's head, tousling his hair. She felt the boy's right hand tensing in her left, saw him step away.

David Balfry smiled. "We'll get to know each other, son," and he turned to Pete Critchfield. Sarah felt awkward just standing there, but didn't know what else to do.

Michael tugged at her hand.

Something else tugged at her as well.

Balfry looked away from Pete Critchfield once and she thought he smiled at her.

Chapter 30

The landing party had not returned. Rourke, Cole, Gundersen, Lieutenant O'Neal and Paul Rubenstein stood in the sail, watching the dark shore. There was no moonlight, the sky overcast still and the incredibly large flakes of snow still falling, but the temperature still almost warm.

Rourke glanced at the luminous black face of the Rolex on his left wrist, cupping his right hand over it to make the darkness deep enough that the numerals would glow.

"They've been gone for eight hours—supposed to be back two hours ago. If they were my men, Captain Cole, I think I might go looking for them."

"Yeah—well—"

"Yeah—well," Rourke mimicked. He shifted his shoulder under the bomber jacket, the familiar weight of the Detonics pistols there in the double Alessi rig something he was glad to have back again. The Sparks Six Pack rode his trouser belt, the magazines freshly loaded and the ammo from each all hand cycled through his pistols to assure the magazines functioned properly—they did. These six magazines plus the magazines he normally carried, vastly increased his ready firepower. Rubenstein stood beside him, the Browning coming into his hands. He hand cycled the slide, chambering a round off the top of the magazine, then made the mm pistol disappear under his Army field jacket.

ins

"Ready when you are, John," Paul smiled.

"Captain—" It was Lieutenant O'Neal, the missile officer. "Sir, I can get together part of that shore party right now—"

Rourke interrupted him. "Belay that—that's what you say in the Navy, isn't it?"

O'Neal's normally red cheeks flushed as he laughed. "That's right, sir."

"I've got a better idea, I think—if Commander Gundersen approves," Rourke added.

"Cole, Paul, myself—those three other troopers of Captain Cole's—we go in now.

Hit the beach in a rubber boat if you got one, then get up into those rocks. If that recon patrol Hendersen led got nailed, it was probably pretty soon after they hit shore. You save that landing party if we're not back by dawn—and have 'em ready in case we come back sooner with somebody chasing us."

"That sounds good to me," Gundersen nodded. "Captain Cole?" Gundersen raised his eyebrows, as if waiting for Cole to respond.

"No other choice, I guess," Cole nodded.

'Til get the rest of the gear," Rubenstein said, disappearing toward the hatchway leading down from the sail.

"And with your permission, sir," O'Neal volunteered to Gundersen. "I'll get that inflatable geared up."

"You got it," Gundersen nodded.

Rourke stared past Gundersen—the shore was a darker gray line against the near blackness of the water, and in the distance above the rocks which marked the coast was a lighter gray—it was the sky. The water in the inlet was calm—the deck on the sail almost motionless under him.

There were people in the darkness—and Rourke didn't doubt that someone of them at least was watching him from the rocks.

As it always was—despite the elements, the forces of nature—the true danger was man.

Chapter 31

The waves made a soft, almost rhythmical slapping sound against the gunwales of the gray inflatable boat; Rourke crouched in the prow, the CAR-ready, Rubenstein beside him, Cole and his three troopers filling out the center and aft section, two of the three troopers rowing.

There had always been considerable talk about a sixth sense, but nothing concretely proven, at least as far as Rourke considered it. But if there were a sixth sense—and gut feelings had convinced him long ago there were—he felt its activation now.

"I feel something," Rubenstein murmured beside him.

Rourke smiled, saying nothing. Beneath the bomber jacket against the cold, he wore a dark blue crew neck sweater from the submarine's stores—but he still shivered. It wasn't the cold doing it.

There was a whitish outline gleaming ahead—the shoreline where the waves lapped against it now. The tide was high, and this cut the distance to the rocks beyond the beach.