Read Online Survivalist - 17 - The Ordeal by Jerry Ahern - Free Book Online
Authors: Jerry Ahern
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shape, then a third pair of eyes, the
first pair’s attendant form now fully defined. Rourke edged back. If it would be life or death, he would use a gun, but it would have to be that.
Three more materialized through the snow, making six in all. They were coming for him. He wondered if they smelled the same fear he smelled, which was his own.
Coming.
John Rourke moved as the pack leader, larger, as anticipated, sniffed at the snowy ground, as if scenting something which wasn’t properly there but seemed to be there all the same. And then the creature wheeled directly toward him, fewer than a dozen yards away.
Rourke’s right hand tightened on the shaft of the makeshift spear.
The creature lunged, Rourke’s right arm upthrusting, the Sting IA that was the point of his weapon penetrating the creature beneath the sternum, the animal’s own weight carrying the blade through to rip open the abdominal cavity, Rourke ducking left and down, rolling, the feral beast’s body tumbling into the snow inches from where Rourke had stood, the spear shaft gone now, the animal rolling in agony.
The second of the wolves hinged for him, Rourke’s right hand going for the 629. As the animal’s arc of motion brought him within reach, Rourke’s right arm arced outward, backhanding the six-inch piece of stainless steel pipe which was the revolver’s barrel across the animal’s face. Rourke wheeled right, made a saber thrust with the Crain knife, in and withdrawn as the animal yelped in agony and fell.
A blur of motion. He saw it, reacted, then felt the impact and smelled the odor as a third animal’s body crashed against his own. It was on him, Rourke’s right hand moving, ramming the muzzle of the revolver into the gaping wound of a mouth, no way to use the knife properly, but instead crashing the skull-crusher that was formed out of the double buttcap at the base of the pommel into the right side of the animal’s head,
Rourke’s right knee smashing up into the trunk.
The animal rolled away, Rourke to his feet, wheeling half right, as the animal made to lunge again, Rourke’s left leg snapping up and out, the toe of his left combat boot impacting the apex of the animal’s drooling muzzle, sending it rolling away into the trees, yelping maddeningly.
The fourth animal and the fifth were coming for him, Rourke thrusting with the LS-X, catching one of the creatures in the torso and gutting it, averting his face as the spray of blood started. The fifth animal was on him and Rourke stumbled back, falling, the animal’s jaws snapping over his left arm, but catching clothing, not flesh—this time. Before it could bite again, Rourke crashed the butt of the 629 down over its skull, between the eyes, then as he was able to move his left arm, rammed the knife in through the right side of the creature’s neck.
Rourke was on his knees, the blood-dripping Crain knife balled tight in his left fist, the revolver in his right. The sixth wolflike dog—where was it?
Suddenly his breath was gone and he was gasping, falling, the revolver spilling from his right hand, the knife slipping away between the fingers of his left. The creature rolled over him, Rourke looking up just in time to see it impact, roll, then twist upward and lunge. John Rourke, choking, eyes tearing, scooped two handfuls of snow and flung them toward the animal’s face as he forced himself to his knees, then fell away left. The creature’s concentration seemed broken for only seconds. And as the animal came for him, Rourke bent forward, shrugging his parka from his shoulders, flinging it over the animal and blanketing the creature with it for an instant. His hands reached to the double Alessi rig, but grabbed at the harness halves instead of the twin stainless Detonics pistols the holsters themselves held.
As the animal shook itself free of the coat, Rourke was on it, praying the harness coupling would hold, looping it over the
creature’s head, then throwing his
first pair’s attendant form now fully defined. Rourke edged back. If it would be life or death, he would use a gun, but it would have to be that.
Three more materialized through the snow, making six in all. They were coming for him. He wondered if they smelled the same fear he smelled, which was his own.
Coming.
John Rourke moved as the pack leader, larger, as anticipated, sniffed at the snowy ground, as if scenting something which wasn’t properly there but seemed to be there all the same. And then the creature wheeled directly toward him, fewer than a dozen yards away.
Rourke’s right hand tightened on the shaft of the makeshift spear.
The creature lunged, Rourke’s right arm upthrusting, the Sting IA that was the point of his weapon penetrating the creature beneath the sternum, the animal’s own weight carrying the blade through to rip open the abdominal cavity, Rourke ducking left and down, rolling, the feral beast’s body tumbling into the snow inches from where Rourke had stood, the spear shaft gone now, the animal rolling in agony.
The second of the wolves hinged for him, Rourke’s right hand going for the 629. As the animal’s arc of motion brought him within reach, Rourke’s right arm arced outward, backhanding the six-inch piece of stainless steel pipe which was the revolver’s barrel across the animal’s face. Rourke wheeled right, made a saber thrust with the Crain knife, in and withdrawn as the animal yelped in agony and fell.
A blur of motion. He saw it, reacted, then felt the impact and smelled the odor as a third animal’s body crashed against his own. It was on him, Rourke’s right hand moving, ramming the muzzle of the revolver into the gaping wound of a mouth, no way to use the knife properly, but instead crashing the skull-crusher that was formed out of the double buttcap at the base of the pommel into the right side of the animal’s head,
Rourke’s right knee smashing up into the trunk.
The animal rolled away, Rourke to his feet, wheeling half right, as the animal made to lunge again, Rourke’s left leg snapping up and out, the toe of his left combat boot impacting the apex of the animal’s drooling muzzle, sending it rolling away into the trees, yelping maddeningly.
The fourth animal and the fifth were coming for him, Rourke thrusting with the LS-X, catching one of the creatures in the torso and gutting it, averting his face as the spray of blood started. The fifth animal was on him and Rourke stumbled back, falling, the animal’s jaws snapping over his left arm, but catching clothing, not flesh—this time. Before it could bite again, Rourke crashed the butt of the 629 down over its skull, between the eyes, then as he was able to move his left arm, rammed the knife in through the right side of the creature’s neck.
Rourke was on his knees, the blood-dripping Crain knife balled tight in his left fist, the revolver in his right. The sixth wolflike dog—where was it?
Suddenly his breath was gone and he was gasping, falling, the revolver spilling from his right hand, the knife slipping away between the fingers of his left. The creature rolled over him, Rourke looking up just in time to see it impact, roll, then twist upward and lunge. John Rourke, choking, eyes tearing, scooped two handfuls of snow and flung them toward the animal’s face as he forced himself to his knees, then fell away left. The creature’s concentration seemed broken for only seconds. And as the animal came for him, Rourke bent forward, shrugging his parka from his shoulders, flinging it over the animal and blanketing the creature with it for an instant. His hands reached to the double Alessi rig, but grabbed at the harness halves instead of the twin stainless Detonics pistols the holsters themselves held.
As the animal shook itself free of the coat, Rourke was on it, praying the harness coupling would hold, looping it over the
creature’s head, then throwing his
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