The other two Outlaws looked at the crumpled Ace and turned to Banzai, fear in their eyes. Banzai pointed to a skinny man with an eyepatch.
"You, Bone. You can run fast. Make it up that slope."
"But I only got a shotgun."
"So pick up Ace's rifle and ammo. Move it!"
"How can I run fast and pick up that stuff, too?" he pleaded. "Besides, I can't hardly see out of this one eye of mine..."
"Can you see this?" Banzai put a .44 Magnum to Bone's face. "Now move it!"
Slinging his shotgun over his back, Bone darted from the parking lot and sprinted across the road. He snatched at the M-16 of the dead biker. The sling tangled with the dead man's arm. Bone tugged at it desperately, dragging the body to the curb before the sling pulled free.
A slug smashed Bone's right knee. He spun backwards onto the embankment, screaming. He held his knee as blood gushed between his fingers, and yelled at the others: "I'm hit! I can't run, get me out of..."
Another slug slammed him back. "Get me out of here, ohhhhhhhhhhh..."
Then his left shoulder exploded. Both arms hung limp, blood pouring from the sleeves of his jacket. Another slug bounced him off the embankment. Yet another slug hit the gore that had been his right shoulder. Thrashing like a fish, he rolled into the road and then lay on his belly, yelping.
Banzai sighted over the eight-inch barrel of his .44 Magnum and fired a shot into Bone's head. The slug flipped the broken biker onto his back. He lay bloodied against the curb, arms and broken legs akimbo. The vast hole where his face had been stared back at Banzai.
Keying his walkie-talkie again, Banzai's voice shook: "Horse. We need rockets. Send another bunch of guys with some rockets. We need..."
"What the fuck's going on!" the voice screamed from the radio. "You got them trapped. Now you need rockets? What kind of jerk-off are you? You got grenades, use them!"
"We still need more men. I've lost three guys already. We need the rockets to knock down the building."
"Okay, they're on their way. Use your grenades, rip the place up. The rockets will be there in four minutes."
Pulling a fragmentation grenade from his jacket pocket, Banzai crept up between two parked cars. He motioned the biker behind him to follow. The biker carried an antique Thompson submachine gun with a drum magazine.
"Put a burst in there when I stand up to throw. I'll tell you when." He watched the warehouse door, now open six inches. A muzzle flashed fire. Another weapon fired from one of the small windows. Banzai jerked the pin from the grenade. "Okay, right now!"
The biker behind Banzai stood up and fired the Thompson, which jumped awkwardly in his hands. He waved the muzzle back and forth, the .45 caliber slugs crumpling the thin corrugated metal of the warehouse.
Banzai swung his arm back to throw. The biker behind him fired the clumsy Thompson point-blank into the back of his head.
"Jesus, Banzai! I'm sorry!"
The live grenade fell at the fool biker's feet, then rolled under the car. In panic he dropped to his hands and knees, grabbing for the grenade. It rolled beyond his reach. He stood up; slugs ripped past his head. He reached for his Thompson. Suddenly the grenade exploded, shockingly fierce; it tore away both his feet, also the hand grasping the Thompson.
The mutilated man fell to his knees almost on top of the mangled body of Banzai. More slugs punched into the cars. In shock and panic, the biker rose again and staggered backward on his shortened legs. He fell in the center of the parking lot, wailing, blood spurting from the stumps of his legs and wrist.
Firing from behind an oil drum, a biker with a braided beard heard the grenade explode. Squinting through the thick, stinking smoke, he saw a shadow fall back screaming. He called out: "Banzai! Hey, you all right?" There was no answer. Slugs pounded the 50-gallon steel drum. Oil drained from the many bullet holes. "Banzai!"
Still without an answer, the biker squatted low against the drum. He jammed shells into the tube of his riot shotgun. He came to the end of his bandolier. He had eight shots in his shotgun, three more in the loops of his bandolier. Then he had only his Browning Double-Action. "Banzai," he screamed again. "You hit?"
Leaning out from behind the oil drum, the biker pumped three loads of double-ought pellets into the warehouse door. Then he broke cover and ran weaving and ducking through the equipment yard. He was sprinting for the line of parked cars just barely visible in the pall of burning tires and cars. A 9mm slug tripped him, sending him rolling. He crawled the last few feet.
Blood oozed from his boot. He had a through-and-through wound to his ankle. Behind the protective bulk of a parked pickup, he tried to slip off his heavy boot. He leaned back against the car, panting with pain. He saw a radio lying on the asphalt, probably Banzai's. He reached for it.
"Calling Horse, this is the Frog. I think Banzai's dead. We need help, man. We're all ripped to shit. I don't know who these crazies are, but they're doing it to us. Send us some artillery. I'm almost out of ammo..."
He smelled gasoline. He noticed the car and truck on each side of him sat on their wheel rims, the tires blown apart. Streams of gasoline and oil puddled the asphalt all around the biker.
"... I got to get out of here. I'm sitting in gasoline. Get us some help. I'm shot. I only hear two or three guys still shooting. Horse! Get us some help!"
Putting the radio in his pocket, the biker crawled between the cars. He heard a single rifle slug whap through the car beside him. A tracer flashed by his face like a streak of fire.
The gasoline beneath him burst into flame.
Motorcycles roared around the curve at Lover's Cove and accelerated on the straightway. Approaching the seaplane terminal, the thick smoke forced them to slow. The five bikers heard only sporadic firing. As they pulled into the parking lot, stopping far from the burning cars, they saw something run toward them.
A flaming Outlaw was staggering, thrashing, lurching through the smoke. His eyes were gone, his open mouth a hole of darkness from which came an animal groan.
Charlie pulled his pistol and fired twice into the faceless head. Then Charlie himself flew back, a stream of .308 slugs ripping across his chest. Merciless engagement.
High in the corrugated steel warehouse, near the roofline, a muzzle kept flashing, the points of light bright through the black sooty smoke. The newly arrived bikers had only time to lift their eyes toward the M-60 before the slugs found them. Inaccurate because of the smoke, the stream of slugs sought no targets. The machinegunner simply swept the fire over them, firing indiscriminately.
The .308 slugs smashed knees and skulls, punched holes through the motorcycles, tore through lungs and hearts to destroy the fiberglass LAAW rocket tubes slung across the Outlaws' backs. Slugs pocked the asphalt, found flesh, ricocheted from engine blocks.
One biker, as a slug shattered his leg, threw himself sideways and dragged himself out of the kill zone. He watched as the steady stream of slugs stitched across the parking lot again and again, shooting the dead all over again, spilling entrails, giving corpses sudden movement.
The biker braced himself and struggled to remove the LAAW rocket from his back. He was almost unconscious from his leg's pain. Every move brought agony like he'd never known. He heard shrieking, did not realize his own throat made the sounds. But he got the rocket off his back.
The M-60 had quit. From the area around the warehouse, a shotgun fired: one shot, two shots, then a pause.
Laying still on his back, the one surviving biker from Charlie's rescue squad struggled to deal with the LAAW rocket's extension tube. Finally he pulled it out, and saw the sight flip up.