Ahern, Jerry - The Savage Horde

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 turned— 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.

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.