The Savage Horde

Chapter 44

Rourke pushed himself up, firing, Rubenstein's fire team under heavy assault rifle fire from the rocks above, on the last leg of the fight toward the beach—a fight it appeared they might lose, Rourke realized. There would be enough firepower to hold the wildmen back until they reached the surf, but unless a fireteam remained behind to cover the withdrawal, it would be hopeless—the boats would be shot out of the water.

Rourke pumped the Ms trigger, even three-round bursts nailing anonymous figures in the darkness, snow still falling in heavy flakes, the skin of his bare hands on the M-'s pistol grip cold.

"Come on, Paul!"

Rubenstein's three men hit the beach, Rubenstein still in the rocks, firing.

- Rourke ordered his own men. "Those three—join 'em and set up a firebase to cover loading the boats," and Rourke started to run, back into the rocks, Rubenstein pinned down now.

As he reached the edge of the rock field, he looked up—the wildmen were coming, seemingly uncaring of their own lives, coming. Rubenstein's rifle was blazing a hundred yards up in the rocks, glints of ricocheting bullets striking sparks in the night on the rocks around him.

Suddenly, Rubenstein's rifle stopped.

"Changing sticks," Rourke rasped, upping his pace, clambering over the rocks.

There was still no fire from Paul's position.

"Paul!"

Rourke screamed the name.

"Paul!"

"Go back, John—I'm outa ammo!"

Rourke quickened his pace still more, running across the flat rock surfaces, jumping from one to the next, then climbing again, narrowing the distance to fifty yards. He began firing, at targets of opportunity, shadows among the rocks, running as he fired, to draw the enemy fire and give Paul the chance to run for it.

"Paul!"

The younger man—Rourke could see him, up, running, one of the wildmen hurtling himself from the rocks. Rourke wingshot him with a three round burst, the body missing its landing, its purchase, falling, tumbling across the rocks, a scream echoing as the body soared past him.

Paul had his rifle inverted, the buttstock forward, swinging it, two more of the wildmen coming for him. Rourke watched as Rubenstein swatted one of the men away, then fired as the second man made to shoot, the body sprawling back.

"Paul!"

"Save yourself," Rubenstein shouted as he jumped, missed his footing and skidded.

Rourke couldn't see his friend for an instant, then the younger man was up again, running, the rifle gone somehow.

Rourke made to fire, one of the wildmen leapfrogging to the rocks less than three yards behind Paul, a machete in his upraised right hand.

The M-sputtered once and it was empty.

"Shit!" Rourke rasped—it had been his last loaded magazine.

He started up into the rocks, still brandishing the rifle, but the rifle all but useless.

Heavy fire—too heavy, was coming from the beach below, up into the night toward the ridgeline.

"Fools," he snapped—they would burn up the last of their ammo.

He glanced behind him once, into the surf—one of the boats was already away.

"Paul! Hurry it up!"

"I'm trying, damnit!" Rubenstein stopped on the flat slab of rock, Rourke watching as the younger man wheeled, his hands reaching out, shoving at the chest of the machete wielding wildman, throwing him back, off balance, the man falling.

Rourke had scrounged all the ammo from partially expended magazines—he had nine rounds left, all in the Detonics pistols, six in one, three in the other.

He reached for the Hghest loaded gun now, dropping the M-into the rocks, hearing as it skidded away and fell. He thumbed back the hammer with his left hand, aiming the Detonics as one of the wildmen came up on Paul, Rubenstein less than ten yards away, the wildman holding an assault rifle. Rourke fired, the man going down.

"Get his gun! Get his gun, Paul!"

Rourke started edging back, covering the younger man as he disappeared among the rocks a moment, then returned with an M-and two magazines, jumping from the nearest rock, now less than three yards from Rourke.

The younger man started to shoulder the rifle, Rourke shouting, "Save it—we'll need it later!" Rourke started to run, retracing his steps along the recks, slippery under foot as the snow continued to fall.

Two boats were away now—Rourke could see them battling the rolls and swells trying to get off the beach.

He stared out to sea—the dark silhouette of the submarine was visible, perhaps two hundred yards from shore—a good rifleman or a leader with good men under him could lay down a field of fire into the rocks covering the withdrawal from the beach—perhaps O'Neal would get to the decks in time, or Gundersen. At the distance, accuracy would be nil, but heavy concentrations of fire aimed high enough to provide against bullet drop—it might work. He jumped the last rock, half sprawling into the sand as a burst of assault rifle from above powdered the rock beside him.

Rubenstein was firing, a three round burst, then another, a scream coming from the darkness as Rourke pitched himself to his feet and started to run to join the fire teams.

He looked behind him once—the wildmen were filling the rocks—coming, inexorably coming.