Still more than two yards away, Rourke hurtled the M-through the air, 'Paul!'
Rubenstein caught it, wheeling, his High Power getting stuffed into his trouser band, the M-spitting fire into three men running toward the cross, handgnns blazing.
'The Schmeisser was out, John,' Rubenstein called.
Rourke nodded, saying nothing, dropping to his knees again beside the injured man.
'Here—use this,' and Rourke gave him the Ml carbine and the spare, clipped together magazines.
He pushed himself to his feet, getting beside Rubenstein, stuffing the spare magazines, for the AR-into the side pockets of Paul's field jacket.
'We'll be back for you,' Rourke shouted, starting toward the next cross, twenty-five yards away. As they reached it, Rourke dropped, Rubenstein beside him, heavy gunfire—assault rifles, shotguns, handguns, coming from the base of the next cross.
Rourke ducked behind the stem of the cross he was near, the rifle to his shoulder again, squinting under the scope across the sights, pumping the trigger once, then once again, then pulling back, one of the bodies dropping.
'Damn them,' Rubenstein shouted. Rourke looked toward the next nearest cross.
One of the wildmen was firing up at the crucifixion victim, the body twisting, lurching with the impact of each slug, then slumping— dead.
There was one more man—a cross fifty yards away on Rourke and Rubenstein's left—plus the man hung above them. Blood dripped onto the back of Rourke's hand—he looked up. The man who hung there was dead, a gaping hole in the right side of his head.
Rourke pushed himself up to full height, keeping as well behind the stem of the cross as possible, shouting to Paul, 'Keep down!'
Rourke started to fire, emptying the stick toward the men at the base of the next cross, the CAR-coming up empty, Rourke ramming a fresh magazine home, firing it out, the men at the base of the cross starting to break up, running in different directions. Two of them ran toward the last cross—one man still lived hanging there.
Rourke started to run. 'Come on, Paul.' He reached to the shoulder rig, grabbing out one of the Detonics pistols with his left hand, the Detonics in his left, the CAR-in his right held just by the pistol grip. There was gunfire everywhere—as if somehow more of the wildmen were coming out of the woods. As Rourke raced toward the last cross, firing the CAR-into the wildmen's group, he could see that more were coming—perhaps late arrivals for the 'fun' of the torture, perhaps from other camps nearby.
He stopped at the base of the cross, ramming another magazine into place for the Detonics he'd fired out, the CAR-empty, hanging on the sling at his side. He grabbed the second Detonics, one pistol in each hand, at hip level, firing toward the attackers.
Paul was already starting to climb the cross. Rourke heard him shout, 'This one's dead.'
Rourke glanced up once, then brought the pistol in his left hand to eye level, snapping off a shot at a wildman getting too close.
'Paul—get the men you released earlier—if any of them are left—meet me at the far side. I'll get the guy with
the carbine.'
'Right!'
Rourke glanced at Rubenstein once as the younger man jumped to the ground, then started to run.
Rourke ran as well. He was out of ammo for the CAR-. There were only a few loaded magazines left for the Detonics pistols, the guns in each hand nearly empty.
He slowed his run, ducking down, catching up a riot shotgun on the ground.
His right fist wrapped around the pump, the Detonics from his right in his belt, he snapped his right hand down then up, the pump tromboning a round into the chamber, the spent plastic high brass shell popping out of the ejection port.
Rourke tossed the shotgun up, catching it at the small of the stock, his fist wrapping around the pistol grip. He started to run again, firing out the Detonics in his left hand, then wheeling toward three of the attacking wildmen rushing toward him.
The riot shotgun—a Mossberg—in his right hand, he snapped the trigger, the gun bucking violently in his hand, the muzzle climbing. He slapped at the fore-end with his left hand, pumping it as one of the men went down. He fired the second round, jacking the slide again, chambering another round. He fired as the second man went down, nailing a third. He tromboned the Mossberg once more—the shotgun was empty.
A wildman was racing toward him with a spear made from a pole or piece of pipe and a long bladed knife.
Rourke flipped the shotgun in his hands, starting a baseball bat swing, hitting the spear carrier full in the face with the butt of the riot shotgun, then dropping it, running. Ten yards to go until he reached the injured man with the Ml carbine who fought from his knees at the base of the cross from which he had been hung.
Five yards to go, the man taking a hit, then another and another.
The Detonics in Rourke's right fist barked twice, one of the wildmen going down.
He fired again, hitting a second man in the chest, the body flopping back, spinning out and falling, the slide of the Detonics locked back, empty.
Rourke reached the man with the carbine, prying it from his hands, inverting the jungle clip. He pulled the trigger, three rounds firing when one should have.
The gun had been modified for selective fire.
