The Savage Horde

Chapter 48

The "drink" had devolved to a glass of orange juice; Natalia sitting in her borrowed bathrobe beside Rourke in the officers' mess, Rourke feeling the pressure of her left hand on his right thigh through the blanket he had wrapped around him over his wet clothes. He sipped at his coffee—it was hot, almost scaldingly so—good to feel in his throat and stomach.

Gundersen walked in, sitting down, removing his cap and setting it on the table.

"Doctor Milton says Paul Rubenstein is going to be fine—Rubenstein remembers trying to grapple with that wildman who overturned the boat—the butt of the man's machete took care of him. Milton doesn't think there's anything serious but he's keeping Rubenstein confined to bed for the next twenty-four hours just in case of mild concussion. Said you could check, but there really wasn't the need."

"He need any help with—"

"The wounded—Pharmacists Mate Kelly is patching up the lesser wounds, and Milton seems to feel he has the more serious cases under control. Those two survivors of the crucifixions—lots of cuts, bruises, lacerations—the only serious wound was Cole's man who got it in the knee—that knee's gonna keep him out of action for a long time, but should heal satisfactorily—at least that's Milton's preliminary diagnosis."

"Good," Rourke nodded.

Rourke looked across the table, at the far end to his left—Cole sat there, smoking, nursing a cup of coffee.

Rourke said nothing to him.

"Gentlemen—and major," Gundersen began. "We're going to have to find another area to try another penetration. The boat's ammo stores are seriously depleted, and more importantly the manpower. We lost six dead, have fourteen wounded in all."

"What about the wildmen we took prisoner?"

"Disassembled their cot springs, used them to slash their wrists—Milton nearly saved one of them, but the blood loss was too great." Gundersen sighed hard.

"Suicide—what kind of people are these with such total disregard for their own lives—those attacks—they were suicide charges—I heard about them from the men in Korea years ago."

Rourke lit one of his dark tobacco cigars, his lighter too wet still to use, using a match instead. "Did Milton check the bodies for abnormal radiation levels?"

Gundersen nodded, then, "He thought of that too—maybe a death wish because they figured they were dying anyway. He autopsied one of the men while the battle was going on out there—aside from bizarre diet—nuts, berries, things like that, the man was perfectly normal. Physically," Gundersen added.

Cole, his voice odd, detached sounding, interjected, "We've still gotta get to those warheads—the hell with those wildmen or whatever they are—"

"Barbarism," Rourke interrupted. "Civilized men sunk to barbarism—so short a time. Some religion—has to be. They kept shouting, 'Kill the heathens.' Kept shouting it over and over. Half civilized, half savage—that business with the crosses, then burning people. My guess there's some leader who organized these people—survivors of the Night of The War, maybe a religious cult before then."

"There were many crazy religious cults in California—warrior religions and things like that," Natalia murmured. "Before the Night of The War—in KGB, there were plans to infiltrate some of the cults, perhaps use them to start civil unrest—Vladmir—"

"Vladmir?" Gundersen asked.

"My husband—he is dead. He—he, ahh—he believed that if the people of the United States could be made to fear their own homes, the safety of their own beds, they would be that much easier to conquer. Some agents were sent out—perhaps—" She let the statement hang.

Rourke looked at her, saying nothing, then knitting his fingers on the table, the cigar clamped in the left corner of his mouth. "It appears we have to go around or through these wildmen. Have to send a small, well-armed force to penetrate to that airbase. If there is any surviving complement there, we can use their help. Like as not they're under siege by these wildmen, too. If there was a neutron strike, there could have been some personnel in hardened sites or using hardened equipment who survived. Hopefully for our sake, Armand Teal was one of them. He was a good man. For an Air Force officer, a good ground tactician as well. We could use his help if we ever hope to get those warheads out." Rourke looked at Gundersen, saying, "I've got equipment to clean—the salt water. After that, I gotta sleep. I'm no good to anyone the way I feel now. If you can find another inlet further up the coast, then just surface to let us out, then dive again, maybe go to another inlet, attract a lot of attention, maybe we can slip through, past the bulk of the wildmen."

"Wildmen—Jesus," Gundersen nodded. "It's hard to imagine—"

"People are afraid," Natalia told him. "Afraid, and fear does a great deal.

During the Second World War, people were easily reduced to depravities—informing on their friends and families, consuming human excrement to survive—''

Rourke interrupted her. "What she's saying is perfectly valid. Take the basic kernel of a fanatically violent religious cult—the cult offers a family, an ordered society, some element of protection. After the war—if you didn 't join the cult, you'd be an enemy of the cult—a heathen, like they shouted at us. Either join or die. And apparently to lose in battle and still live is the ultimate sin, or close to it."

"But such savagery/' Gundersen said, his voice incredulous.

"The vikings—at least some of them—I read once they'd set their beards on fire as they ran into battle to show their ferocity, their obsession with taking enemy life was greater than preserving their own. These people are like that.

Wtldmen is more than apt—savage."

Gundersen held his face in his hands for a moment, then looked up, at Rourke, then at Natalia. "Have all of us done this—with our technology? Have we—ohh,"

and he sighed.

"I think it was Einstein," Natalia began.

"It was," Rourke nodded slowly, his voice little more than a whisper.

"He said that he didn't know what the weapons of World War Three would be when he was asked once. But he said the weapons of World War Four would be stones and clubs."

Rourke looked at her, felt the momentary increase of pressure of her hand on his thigh. "Maybe," he said, his eyes closing, his head resting in his hands, his voice a whisper, "the dark times—or whatever they'll be called—maybe they've already begun."