'Think! Think, Rourke—think, damnit,' he shouted to the flames, to himself.
'Look out, John!'
Rourke wheeled, the Detonics in his left fist punching forward. It was Rubenstein, visible past the turned forward and down windshield of a jeep, the jeep bouncing and rolling from the far side of the ring of crosses.
Rourke shouted, 'Paul—drive her into the base of the cross and jump clear—hurry!'
There was no answer, just something halfway between a wave and a salute, Rourke sidestepping, pulling the trigger on another of the wildmen, this one with a spear. The body lurched back and fell.
Rourke's right hand was working again—it pained but functioned. He dropped the machete, ramming the second Detonics into his belt beside the first one, swinging the CAR-forward, spraying out the magazine into the wildmen as they ran from the oncoming jeep.
The CAR-was empty and Rourke let it drop in its sling, drawing the Python from the flap holster at his hip, double actioning one of the -grain jacketed soft points point blank into the chest of one of the wildmen. He turned, the jeep snaking past him, one of the wildmen clambering onto the hood. Rourke pushed his right fist to full extension, double actioning another round from the six-inch, Metalifed Python, missing, then firing again.
The second shot caught the wildman on the hood of the jeep in the left side, the body rolling off, gone. Rourke jumped back, Paul's jeep crashing through the flames at the base of the cross, Paul jumping clear, rolling, coming up, his subgun firing into the wildmen.
Rourke snatched up the fallen machete from the ground, shifting the Python to his left fist, jumping the flames at the perimeter of the pyre, reaching the cross, Henderson screaming, his legs afire. Rourke dropped the revolver and the machete, lowering his hands into the
damp ground and the light covering of snow, scooping up handfuls, putting them on the flames. There was a dead wildman near him.
Rourke snatched at the animal skin half covering the man, using it like a blanket, swatting at the flames, smothering them, then throwing his body over the animal skin to deny the flames the last of the oxygen they needed.
He pulled back the animal skin, the smell of burnt flesh nauseating him.
He found the machete, hacked with it at the ropes binding the ankles to the stem of the cross. Flesh fell away, stiffened, blackened.
But the legs were free, Henderson moaning incomprehensibly.
Rourke started for the ropes on the leЈt wrist, recoiling for an instant—spikes had been driven through the palms of the hands.
He felt something, snatching up the Python from the snowy ground, firing it point blank into the face of an oncoming wildman.
The big Colt in his left fist, he hacked with the machete in his right—at the ropes tied around the wrists of Corporal Henderson.
There was a gutting hook near the base of the machete—or whatever its purpose, it looked like a gutting hook. Rourke started to work at the massive nail driven through Henderson's left palm—he stopped. He touched his hand to Henderson's neck, then set down the machete. He raised the left eyelid—Henderson had died.
Grasping the machete, raising to his full height, Rourke turned—a wildman raced toward him, a butcher- sized Bowie knife in his upraised right hand.
It was a sucker move, Rourke thought.
He stepped into the attacker's guard, batting away the knife with the six-inch barrel of the Python, then slashing the machete in a roundhouse swing, severing the
attacker's jugular vein—the life had gone from the body before it plopped to the ground, spurting, splashing as the heart still pumped.
Rourke dropped the machete—Rubenstein's subgun was still firing.
Rourke could hear it.
He pumped the last two rounds in the Python into another of the wildmen, then bolstered the revolver still empty.
A fresh stick for the CAR-from the musette bag—he inserted it up the well, stuffing the empty away.
He worked the bolt, pumping the trigger, taking out two more of the wildmen, using only six rounds.
He let the CAR-hang on its sling, taking'one, then the other of the Detonics .s—he rammed fresh magazines up the wells of both pistols, from the Six Pack on his belt, putting the empties in their places, filling the slots.
One pistol in each fist, he started forward—there were still men to save—men with mangled bodies, bleeding wounds—men who hadn't yet been set aflame.
He started firing, killing.
Chapter 36
'No, damnit, Miss Tiemerovna—'
