Ahern, Jerry - The Savage Horde

Five yards to go, the man taking a hit, then another and another.

The Detonics in Rourke's right fist barked twice, one of the wildmen going down.

He fired again, hitting a second man in the chest, the body flopping back, spinning out and falling, the slide of the Detonics locked back, empty.

Rourke reached the man with the carbine, prying it from his hands, inverting the jungle clip. He pulled the trigger, three rounds firing when one should have.

The gun had been modified for selective fire.

Rourke pumped the trigger, one wildman down, then another and another.

He looked to the man on the ground beside him, trying to prop the man's head up against his thigh.

"Cole—Cole—"

"It's me—John Rourke," he rasped.

"Yeah—know that—Cole—ain't who he says he is—ain't Cole—you did me good, you and the other guy—did me—" The man coughed once, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, the eyes open wide, staring, reflecting the light from the bonfire.

Rourke thumbed them closed, then got to his feet, running, firing out the thirty-round magazine in the carbine.

He was nearly at the far edge of the circle of crosses, could see Rubenstein with two other men, Rubenstein and one of the men half carrying the third between them.

The carbine came up empty as Rourke pulled the trigger for a short burst on one of the wildmen.

He had a rifle. It was a lever action. Rourke snatched it up, no time to search pockets for loose ammo. He cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger, nothing happening, then found a target. The last three fingers of his right hand in the lever, the first finger locked against the trigger guard, he started working the action, keeping his trigger finger stationary to automatically trip the trigger as the lever closed.

The rifle bucked in his hands, Rourke eyeing the brass as it ejected as he worked the lever forward—some type of pistol cartridge—likely . Magnum he guessed, not having time for a closer look.

He jerked back on the lever as a machete-wielding man raced toward him. The rifle bucked again, the body of the man with the machete folding forward at the waist, tumbling then still on the ground.

Rourke started to run again, levering the rifle at targets .of opportunity, at last the tubular magazine coming up empty.

But he was beside Rubenstein.

"You got any ammo left for that AR?"

"Empty—"

"Makes an okay club," Rourke shouted, wheeling, lashing out with the lever action's barrel, catching a knife wielding wildman in the face. Rourke inverted the gun, to use it as a club, another man rushing them, but Rubenstein had the AR turned around and was halfway through his swing. The buttstock connected, the man's head snapping back.

Rourke started to run—"Let's get outa here—up into the rocks."

He slowed, two of the wildmen approaching, spears in their hands, both men crouched low.

Rourke swung the lever action, feigning, one of the spears snapping out toward him as he sidestepped, the .rifle in his hands crashing around, impacting against the man's neck. Rourke backstepped, a shot nailing the second man. It was Rubenstein with the Browning.

"Still got a little left for this!"

"Save 'em till we need 'em!" Rourke started to move, stopped, the man on Rubenstein's far side taking a hit in the leg, going down.

"You get the other guy out," Rourke shouted, running back to the second trooper.

"I'll get this one."

Rourke dropped to his knees beside the man, the knee apparently hit, blood pumping from it between the man's interlaced fingers. Rourke shifted magazines in his pistols—counting the half spent magazines, he judged he had three dozen rounds left.

"Lean on me," Rourke rasped, hauling the man's left arm across his shoulders, holding the left wrist in his left hand to keep the man up, a Detonics pistol in his right hand.

The wildmen were-consolidating—at least Rourke judged it as that looking behind him.

Had the men who tortured their victims on crosses had the slightest amount of organization, he realized full well he and Rubenstein would have been dead in the first minute of battle.

But they seemed intent on personal bloodletting rather than victory, using their knives rather than guns—they were insane, he thought absently as he hobbled under the added .weight of the wounded man.

The man was talking. "My knee—my knee—Jesus help me—my knee!"

"Not much farther," Rourke !ied, reaching the base of the rocks—but the rocks were still there to climb, Rubenstein now only a few yards ahead, helping his wounded man up into the rocks.

There would be little chance to run for it, but run for it they must, Rourke realized—to the beach, and hope that Lieutenant O'Neal would have dispatched another boarding party.

He heard a high pitched scream—a woman's voice. "Kill the heathens!"

Heathens—despite it all, a smile crossed his lips as he ran.

Chapter 38

"Captain—the gunfire's pretty much died out."

"Hope those men haven't died out with it, O'Neal," Gundersen panted, pulling himself up over a breadloaf-shaped rock and starting for the next one.

Gundersen judged the distance remaining to the height of the rocks as some twenty yards—twenty yards that could well take another five minutes to traverse.

"O'Neal—take your men and spread 'em out—both ends of the rocks. We get up there and there's an ambush waiting for us, don't want 'em having too easy a time of it."

"Like a pincer movement, sir—"

"Don't give me that Army crap," Gundersen laughed, panting, his breathing coming hard. He realized now—shifting his weight to pull up over another rock—what a soft life it was to be a submariner.

O'Neal was shouting orders, the men of the landing party fanning out. Gundersen silently wished he had Marines with him—he'd used Marines in a shore party once and despite the massive Navy-Marine Corps rivalry, he considered them consummate fighters.

He was nearly to the top of the rocks, to the ridgeline there and he stopped, leaning against a slab of flat rock, taking the Government Model . from the shoulder holster strapped across his chest, jacking back the slide. He still wished he hadn't lost the Detonics.

He raised the thumb safety, then turned toward the rocks again, inhaling deeply, resigning himself to the last part of the climb. As he started it, he shouted to O'Neal and the others, the words coming in gasps because of his breathlessness.

"We reach the—reach the top—con-consolidate on me and on O'Neal—consolidate on us before fanning out." He didn't know if that was proper tactics, but he didn't want his men too scattered. He reached up with his left hand,-then his right, the pistol in his right hand scraping across the rock. "Kiss off the finish," he murmured, peering up over the ledge.

He could see Rourke, Rubenstein and two men—the men looked butchered and half dead—running, limping, pursued by what seemed like a hundred men who looked even more terrifyingly feral than the prisoners brought back to the submarine. They brandished knives, guns, torches. And faintly, as the running bands came even closer, he could hear shouts—savage cries. "Kill the heathens!"

"Holy cow," he swore. "Christ—"

Chapter 39

Rourke dropped the man to the ground, turning toward the mob, a Detonics pistol, freshly loaded, in each hand.

"Paul—we can't haul these guys any further!"

"I know," Rubenstein's voice came back, sounding odd.

"If I don't get out—and you do—"

"I'll get back—I'll find them—I swear it to God, John—"

"And Natalia—"

"I'll take care of her—"

The younger man was beside him now—no rocks to hide in, nowhere to run, out in the open, the savage horde of wildmen running toward them brandishing spears, clubs, knives, a" bizarre assortment of guns—and the torches lighting the night, their glowing brilliance leaving floaters on the eyes as Rourke watched.