The Savage Horde

by neetha Napew

  waist band. She made to fire—nothing happened.

  She worked the bolt, letting it fly forward. Nothing happened again as she

  fired.

  One of the Russians remained. He was wounded, on his feet, running toward her.

  She looked down at the rifle as she worked the bolt—the bolt wouldn't pick up

  the top round, wouldn't chamber it.

  "Damn," she shouted.

  "Damnit!"

  The Russian was less than ten yards from her, his arms raising as he shouldered

  his assault rifle.

  Sarah dropped the rifle, reaching for the Trapper .45, thumbing down the safety,

  extending the pistol at arms length—she pumped the trigger once, then once

  again, then once again, the Russian's body stopping as though frozen, the

  assault rifle dropping from his hands as he lurched forward. She fired the

  .45—again, then again, the slide locking open, the Russian falling, against the

  fence runners, his body hanging there, inches from her face.

  She pushed the magazine release, taking the empty magazine and pocketing it,

  then finding the second loaded spare Bill Mulliner had given her. She stuffed it

  up the butt of the pistol, thumbed down the slide stop.

  She picked up the malfunctioning M-16 in her left hand, backing away from the

  fence, the cocked .45 in her right fist.

  "Momma!"

  She looked over her shoulder.

  Michael—and someone pulling him into the bushes.

  She started to run, toward the far side of the corral, to the fence, through the

  fence this time rather than over it, the .45 extending ahead of her.

  "Momma!"

  It was Annie's voice this time.

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  She was ready to kill—but the red-haired head that bobbed from behind the

  hedgerow—Bill Mulliner. "Mrs. Rourke—come on!"

  She started to run, the whirring of the helicopter rotor

  blades overhead. Instinctively, she threw herself down,

  __ machinegun fire tearing into the ground on both sides of

  her as she looked up, the underbelly of the green chopper

  passing over her head, the rotor sound fading.

  She pushed herself up, upping the safety on the Trapper .45, running.

  "Sarah—over here!" It was Mary Mulliner.

  She saw Bill Mulliner now—Michael, Annie and Millie Jenkins with Mary.

  "Halt!"

  The accented English—hard to understand, but easy to understand as well.

  She wheeled, depressing the thumb safety—two Soviet soldiers. She pumped the

  trigger of the Trapper .45 once, hearing a burst of gunfire from behind her,

  lighter sounding like an M-16. She threw herself to the dirt, firing her pistol

  again and again, hearing more of the M-16 fire from behind her, the Russian

  nearest her firing his AK-47 wildly as he went down, falling, his head slapping

  against the dirt inches from hers. The second Russian fell—backward, the body

  bouncing once.

  She pushed herself to her feet, turned—Michael and Annie stood beside Bill

  Mulliner. The red-haired boy knelt on the ground, his mother further back in the

  trees.

  Sarah ran toward them.

  "Bill—what—"

  She looked over his shoulder. Millie Jenkins—the girl whose father was tortured

  to death by brigands, whose mother committed suicide after watching it. The girl

  Sarah had never liked—a quiet girl since the death of her parents. Her skull was

  split by a bullet, or perhaps more than one.

  Bill Mulliner cradled her in his arms.

  "Bill—Bill—Bill!"

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  He looked over his shoulder.

  "Ma'am—"

  "We've gotta get out of here," and she picked up his M-16, giving hers to

  Michael. "Don't try, using this—something wrong—maybe the clip." Her husband had

  always told her to call them magazines, she suddenly remembered.

  "Bill!"

  "But ma'am—gotta bury—"

  "Carry her—we'll bury her later—come on—come on— now!"

  She pushed Michael and Annie ahead of her, toward the trees where Mary waited.

  Bill Mulliner was walking—not fast—he held the girl in his arms, blood drenching

  the front of his clothes.

  Sarah Rourke shifted the M-16's muzzle from side to side, running—her lungs

  ached, her shins ached. There were Russians everywhere—she would run for a long

  time still, she knew.

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  Chapter 59

  Cole had remained quiet—stayed to himself. Rourke watched him as they walked,

  having taken the defile rather than the higher ground. He watched him because he

  distrusted him. But at least the fight had silenced him.

  Natalia moved well, but without the usual spring to her step. Rubenstein still

  carried her pack, Rourke having taken her rifle. The woman now walked only with

  the double flap holsters containing the custom Smith L-Frames Sam Chambers had

  given her—these her only burden.

  He watched her now—she seemed cold, the borrowed parka held close around her,

  the hood up, covering the dark, almost black hair which normally fell past her

  shoulders. He missed seeing it.

  O'Neal walked beside him. "Doctor Rourke—how much longer?"

  "We should be able to see Filmore once we get over the rise—then maybe a couple

  of hours more."

  "I don't think the major is gonna make it that long."

  Rourke nodded, then added, "Neither do I—once we get out of the defile, we can

  rest for a while—maybe take a few hours to sleep. She needs it—all of us do."

  He glanced at his watch—it would be dark in less than an hour—a good time to

  rest. He judged them still having ten minutes more walking time in the

  defile—that would leave plenty of time to set up camp and post sentries.

  But as yet, there had been no sign of the wildmen—only the sixth sense that they

  were out there. This had kept him driving them all throughout the day.

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  "Think those crazy people know we're here?"

  "Yeah," Rourke said through his teeth.

  "Think they're gonna attack?"

  "Yeah—maybe not for a while yet—if they waited this long—" He stopped—in the

  fading reddish sun he caught the glint of steel in the rocks. He kept walking.

  "O'Neal—without having your people change their pace—without anything—tell them

  to be ready for it—we've got company."

  O'Neal started to look up. "Don't—up in those rocks to our left—gonna spring it

  on us when we reach the end of the defile—maybe just before."

  Rourke quickened his pace, but only slightly, leaving O'Neal gradually more and

  more to his rear, catching up with Natalia and Rubenstein.

  "Here," he rasped through his teeth, Natalia turning to look at him, her eyes

  wide, staring, "Carry your rifle—gonna need it."

  Paul glanced toward him, never changing his pace. "Up in the rocks? I saw

  something catch the sun."

  "Rifle maybe—I figure they're up there."

  "Wonderful," Rubenstein groaned.

  "John—if you have to—I'll slow you—"

  "Shut up," he smiled, walking past her then as she took her M-16.

  Cole and one of his troopers led the ragged column. Rourke—slowly—caught up with

  him.

  "Cole—up in the rocks—got company. Don't act differently—just keep walking." />
  "Aww, shit—if we hadn't brought the woman we woulda been outa here by now—"

  "Shut up and listen. These guys weren't following us— probably got Filmore Air

  Force base ringed—that's a good sign—must mean somebody's alive in there. We

  just cut in on the wildmen—they weren't following us."

  "I feel like I'm playin' cowboys and Indians—"

  "Yeah, well—good similarity, I guess. When the shoot-

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  ing starts, you and your private there—take up positions on each side of the

  defile and start pumping up into the rocks—I'll take the others through, then

  Rubenstein and I will set up covering fire from the other side of the defile for

  you and your man to get through—then we try for Filmore as fast as we can."

  "What're ya gonna do about the woman—"

  "Carry her if I have to—she's my responsibility. You just do what you've gotta

  do and it'll work out."

  Rourke slowed his pace, risking a glance up into the rocks—he saw movement, but

  indefinite movement—he wasn't certain.

  The reflection could have been from a natural cause—a hiker could have left a

  bottle up in the rocks ten years earlier, rain washing it clean enough to catch

  the sun.

  But he didn't think so—instinct again.

  He looked ahead as he slowed enough for Natalia and Paul to catch up with him.

  The defile narrowed into a wide "V" shape as they reached the height of the

  rise—if he were setting an ambush, it would be there. There was no way to get

  out of the defile except through the V-notch.

  "John—"

  He glanced to his left, Natalia beside him. "What is it?"

  "I feel them—up there, waiting."

  "Yeah—me, too," Rubenstein said, at his right.

  "When it comes—Paul—you get Natalia through—"

  "I can take care of myself—"

  ' 'Paul—you do what I say—then set up on the other side of the defile. As soon

  as I get through with O'Neal and his men. Natalia—you stick with O'Neal—Paul and

  I'll be covering—''

  A gunshot, a heavy caliber—a hunting weapon rather than an assault rifle—echoed

  across the defile. A scream-O'Neal was shouting, "They got one of my men!"

  Rourke flicked the safety off the CAR-15, pulling out the buttstock, bringing

  the rifle to his shoulder, the scope

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  covers already gone. "Run for it," he shouted, firing up into the rocks.

  "Come on, Natalia!" Rubenstein shouted. Rourke didn't look. He spotted something

  move in the rocks, laying the Colt three power scope on it, tripping the

  trigger.

  A man's shape threw itself up beyond the scope's reticle, then flipped over the

  edge of the rocks. Rourke shifted the scope, searching for another target,

  gunfire from around him hammering up into the rocks, the powdering of granite

  evident everywhere as he searched for a target. He found one—a man with a scoped

  bolt action rifle—perhaps the sniper who'd killed one of O'Neal's men. Rourke

  opened fire, a two round semi-automatic burst, the body twitching once, then

  once again, the rifle falling into airspace, the body tumbling after it.

  Rourke brought his rifle down, starting to run, Paul and Natalia already ahead

  of him, running, but slowly, nearing the defile's V-notch, Cole and his private

  already in the notch, firing up into the rocks, O'Neal's men running toward the

  notch as well.

  "Keep 'em moving, lieutenant!"

  O'Neal shouted something Rourke couldn't hear, automatic weapons fire coming

  down on them from the rocks. Rourke was nearing the V-notch now, rock faces on

  both sides of him, bullets impacting there, ricocheting, whining, rock chips

  pelting at him, the dust from the rocks thick as automatic weapons fire hammered

  into the rock walls.

  Rourke dropped behind a fallen rock—a boulder-sized chunk of granite, jagged at

  the top, the CAR-15 coming up to his shoulder. He snapped off three shots toward

  the rocks, not having clear targets in view, gunfire hammering into the boulder.

  He pushed up, acquiring a target in the scope, firing, shifting the scope as the

  body started to fall from the rocks.

  He fired again, missing, gunfire coming back at him. He ducked down, a long

  burst hammering into the boulder

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  above his head and the rock wall. He pushed up, finding his target with the

  scope, working the CAR-15's trigger in and out and in and out—two shots, then

  another two shots, then another, the figure in the rocks spinning, falling back,

  out of sight.

  Rourke got to his feet, O'Nea! and the others past him now, Cole and his private

  hunkered down in the V-notch, firing up into the rocks. Rourke ran past them,

  throwing himself through, rolling, the rocks on both sides seeming to explode

  with ricochets and dust.

  "John—over here!"

  Rourke saw him—Rubenstein. Rourke pushed to his feet, half ran, half threw

  himself toward the protection of three massive boulders, dragging himself behind

  them.

  Rubenstein had Natalia's M-16, firing up into the rocks.

  Rourke snatched a fresh magazine for the CAR-15 from his musette bag, dumping

  the partially spent one, ramming it into his belt. He whacked the base of the

  magazine, seating it, then threw the rifle to his shoulder, firing up into the

  rocks at the wildmen. One man in his scope—one man dead. He shifted the scope. A

  woman, or a tall, long-haired man who seemed very thin. Rourke fired, the body

  falling from sight.

  "Cole—you and your man!" Rourke shouted over the gunfire.

  The fire from Rubenstein's M-16 increased, Rourke feeling the hot brass pelting

  at him, feeling it against his neck, feeling one of the empties sliding down his

  shirt front.

  He kept firing. Another wildman under his scope—he shot the man twice, the body

  tumbling from the rocks, a scream echoing across the defile.

  "Here we come," Cole shouted, Rourke glancing away from his scope, seeing Cole

  and the Army private running. Rourke looked back to the scope, finding another

  target, firing, firing again, the target going down.

  "They're through—come on, John," Rubenstein shouted.

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  "Get going," Rourke rasped, glancing to his left as Paul was up and running,

  firing a burst half over his shoulder into the rocks.

  Rourke dropped the partially shot out magazine, stuffing it into his belt,

  inserting a fresh thirty up the well. He started to run, turning every few

  steps, pumping shots up into the rocks. Beyond the V-notch there had been a

  rocky trail, narrow. He ran along it now, firing out the magazine in the CAR-15,

  the trail taking a sharp bend to his right and down, gunfire hammering into the

  rock wall to his right as he took the bend.

  He stopped, the ricocheting sounds of bullets hitting granite stopping—he was

  out of range.

  He looked ahead of him.

  A valley.

  Natalia sat on her haunches, Paul stooped over beside her, her face pale, her

  head between her knees. O'Neal's left arm was streaming blood, but he stood

  erect. One of O'Neal's men lay on the ground, the front of his peacoat stained

  and wet with blood.

  In the va
lley beyond the trail and stretching below them—Rourke walked forward,

  toward the edge of the trail—he could see the outline of a fenced military

  enclosure—Filmore Air Force Base. There were small craters in the far side of

  the valley—to the north. Nothing grew in the valley—brown trees, brown grass—he

  couldn't hear a bird chirp.

  "Radiation seems okay—what the hell happened?" Rubenstein asked, suddenly beside

  him.

  Rourke looked at the younger man. "Neutron bombs—the craters are from the impact

  areas."

  "John—" Natalia, pale, closing her eyes as she spoke, turned her face up toward

  the sky, her voice odd sounding. "Why did they stop shooting—why aren't they—"

  "Following?" He interrupted. "Everything that was here is dead—maybe some