Survivalist - 06 The Savage Horde by Jerry Ahern

Author:Jerry Ahern [Ahern, Jerry]
Format: epub
Publisher: Jerry Ahern

The shout, somehow oddly not quite human.

Ill

Rourke wheeled, snapping the CAR-15's muzzle forward, ramming the flash deflector into the face of the man, man?, coming for him. The machete dropped from the right hand as the body reeled.

"No guns unless we have to," Rourke half shouted, flicking the safety on for the CAR-IS. He stepped toward the attacker, the man starting to move, a revolver rising in his right hand, already the sounds of more of the attackers going for Rubenstein and the others coming to him over the sound of the waves, over the whistling of the wind. Rourke's right foot snaked out, cross body, catching the man's gunhand wrist, the revolver sailing off into the darkness.

Rourke let the rifle slide out of the way on its sling, his left foot coming up, going for the man's jaw. He missed, the body rolling across the sand, coming upright. There was another knife, smaller than the machete, but not by much.

Rourke grabbed for the AG Russell Sting IA in his trouser band, the small knife coming into his palm, the black skeletonized blade shifting outward in his left hand as the man, he wore a motley collection of clothing and animal skins, made his lunge. Rourke sidestepped, the man steaming past him, Rourke's knife hammering down, the blade biting into flesh somewhere over the right kidney, the body's momentum tearing the blade through and down, Rourke's left wrist hurting badly, the knife slipping from his grip.

He turned, hearing something, feeling something. Two men, like the first, half in the clothing of "civilized" men and half in animal skins, unshaven, hair wildly blowing in the wind. One had a long bladed knife secured, lashed to a pole, a primitive pike or spear. The second held a pistol.

Rourke violated his own rule; not bothering with the CAR-15, not having the time to get at it, snatching at the

Detonics under his left armpit, his right fist closing on the black rubber Pachmayr gripped butt, his right thumb jacking back the hammer, his first finger into the trigger guard as the pistol came on line, twitching against the trigger, the gleaming stainless handgun bucking in his hand, the man -with the pistol taking the impact somewhere near the center of mass, the 185-grain JHP throwing him back into the sand.

The one with the improvised pike was swinging it, the blade making a whooshing sound as it cut the air. Rourke edged back, hearing more gunfire now from the beach, the light rattle of Paul's Schmeisser, lighter than the shotgun blast he heard following it.

Rourke edged back, the pike coming again, Rourke dropping to his right knee, scissoring out his left leg for a sweep as the man followed up on his lunge, the blade inches above Rourke's head, Rourke's left leg connecting behind the right knee of the man with the pike. The body started shifting forward, like a deadfall tree in the wind.

Rourke rolled left, pulling his right leg after him, the body slapping down against the sand, a shout issuing from the man.

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