The Savage Horde

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.

The riot shotgun—a Mossberg—in his right hand, he snapped the trigger, the gun bucking violently in his hand, the muzzle climbing. He slapped at the fore-end with his left hand, pumping it as one of the men went down. He fired the second round, jacking the slide again, chambering another round. He fired as the second man went down, nailing a third. He tromboned the Mossberg once more—the shotgun was empty.

A wildman was racing toward him with a spear made from a pole or piece of pipe and a long bladed knife.

Rourke flipped the shotgun in his hands, starting a baseball bat swing, hitting the spear carrier full in the face with the butt of the riot shotgun, then dropping it, running. Ten yards to go until he reached the injured man with the Ml carbine who fought from his knees at the base of the cross from which he had been hung.

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.