Stargate Atlantis: Emerald Isle

Chapter 6 - Attack

John strode along, the wind whipping his hair, enjoying the exercise, enjoying the temporary freedom from fishing, snaring rabbits and searching the forest for edible plants.

Rodney had unwittingly given them a few days grace; setting off on the forest path one morning to check their traps he had suddenly heard something very large crashing through the undergrowth toward him, squealing and snorting as it came. His wide, horrified eyes had met the small, maddened eyes of something that looked very like a wild boar, bristled and tusked and ferociously angry.

Rodney's combat training had fortunately kicked in and his hand had found its way to his Beretta even while the rest of him froze in fear. He had discharged all fifteen rounds into the beast before he was even aware he was firing. It was dead, but it's furious momentum had carried it crashing into Rodney, barreling him over so that when John, alerted by the gunfire, came tearing along the path, P90 in hand, he saw Rodney's body on the ground beneath a huge, brown animal.

John recalled how terrified he had been that Rodney was dead, but then he had heard frantic cries of: "Get it off me!" and had thankfully pulled his friend out from under the carcass.

It had been a challenge getting the large body back to the beach and even more of a challenge butchering it and making the best use of the meat. They had enjoyed feasting on it and had debated the different methods they might use to preserve some of the meat at least for a week or so. Rodney favoured soaking it in seawater and then hanging it up to dry. He thought it might result in a bacony effect. Anyway, they knew they didn't have the resources to preserve it for long and should eat as much of it as they could within a few days.

John had decided to use his freedom from food-production to spend some time on reconnaissance of the surrounding area. Rodney had decided to carry on his experiments in wilderness charcuterie.

John had set out in the early light, heading south. He had climbed the gently sloping headland and looked back over the wooded valley. In the distance he could just see the hillfort, almost hidden behind the crest of an intervening hill. He guessed it was about ten or eleven klicks to the north east, maybe two and a half hours walk, depending on the terrain.

He walked round the coast to the south for an hour or so. There was a series of small, rocky inlets and then a small island with a turbulent strait separating it from the mainland.

Turning north again he made good time back to the bay, stopped for lunch with Rodney (more wild boar) and then decided to head further north.

He started on Rodney's forest path and then veered off, making a new trail through the woods and then up into the hills beyond. He climbed the first in the range, a gentle, easy climb of not more than eight hundred feet. Again he could see the hillfort, past the intervening peak. He could also see quite a way up the coast, but the curve of the land prevented him from seeing the island fort.

He headed back, deciding to climb the steep northern headland. He didn't expect any more of the island to be revealed from that vantage point; it was there to be climbed and John liked climbing.

The sun was low by the time he reached the top of the headland. It plunged, a sheer drop down to the white peaks of waves breaking on half submerged rocks. Looking back over the land John could see plumes of steam rising from the far volcanic shore. They had felt no more tremors since the loss of the Stargate; the gate's activation must have triggered the instability.

John sat down and leant against a rock. He took out his canteen and drank and then took out some of the ubiquitous wild boar meat and chewed. It was tough, but tasty. John felt his eyes grow heavy. He should head back before it got dark.

He woke with a start, his instinct for danger on full alert. He leapt up and stood, listening, looking around, out into the dusky twilight. For a moment he could see or hear nothing, but a faint creak as of wood scraping against wood drew his eyes to the sea where, through the gloom, he could see five, no six long, sleek ships with raised prows and sterns, like the Viking ships of Earth.

They moved almost silently, like ghosts through the night and John knew with certainty that this was why the people of this island lived in well-defended settlements: raiders from the sea.

He watched as the ships moved north. Were they going to raid the island settlement? Then a movement drew his eyes down into the bay. There was a ship gliding up toward the beach! They'd seen the fire! It was nearly at the shore!

John turned and ran headlong back the way he'd come, over the tussocky grass of the high clifftop, and steeply down, swerving between rocky outcrops, slipping and skidding on the short-nibbled patches of turf. He ran as fast as he ever had in his desperation to reach Rodney before it was too late.

His booted feet pounded, his breath came in gasps, he reached the area where they'd set the snares and looked down over the beach. There were about thirty raiders, all tall and tough-looking with long, plaited beards and axes in their belts.

They had lit torches and were searching the beach. John's eyes flicked here and there until he spotted one of the men, a limp form draped over his shoulder, heading towards the ship.

John knew his only chance was surprise. He would have to make as much noise as possible and rely on the fact that these people had never heard a P90 before.

He scrambled down the cliff-face, heedless of scrapes and knocks to elbows and knees. Then he stood, beyond the range of the torches' light, took a deep breath and roared as loud as he could while firing the P90 in a wide arc above the heads of the raiders. The deafening rattle and flash of the discharge stopped them in their tracks. Some cried out in alarm, some ran towards the ship, others started towards John. He gave another burst over their heads, realised that the bolder men were not going to be easily deterred and fired a few single shots directly at them. One man went down, howling and holding his leg, another clutching his arm. The raider who was carrying Rodney dropped him and he lay where he fell, a small, huddled shape on the sand.

John fired above their heads again and as they turned and began running for their ship, taking their wounded comrades with them, he ran forward, roaring and firing in a continuous stream. One man, nearly at the ship, turned and taking an axe from his belt, threw it in John's direction. John felt a blow to his right shoulder, but carried on firing and roaring until the raiders had scrambled onto their ship and begun to row their way out of the bay. He sent a few bursts into the ship's hull so that they'd have plenty of evidence of the damage they'd receive if they returned.

John stood, his chest heaving in and out, his ears ringing from the gunfire. A dropped torch flickered on the sand next to him. By its light he could see Rodney, still motionless, face down on the sand. John staggered over and dropped to his knees by his friend. He turned Rodney over, supporting his head in his lap. There was blood all down the left side of Rodney's face and a large lump just below his hairline, but he was breathing. John checked him for other injuries but could find none.

John became aware that his arm was hurting and looked down, blinking in surprise at the blood soaking the sleeve of his jacket. He knew he had limited time to get Rodney to their cave before the adrenaline wore off and he felt his injury fully. He gripped Rodney under his arms and dragged him up the beach, his wound beginning to throb in time with his heart. Leaving Rodney in the recovery position, John went back and gathered three torches that had been abandoned on the beach. He added them to the fire and then sat down hurriedly as his head began to spin. He leant against the wall of the cave and fumbled in his tac vest for a pressure bandage, then clumsily tied it round his upper arm as tightly as he could. Hopefully it would stop the bleeding; he would clean and dress it properly later.

He looked at Rodney, who hadn't stirred. John took an antiseptic wipe from his first aid kit and slowly, painfully cleaned the blood away from the cut and from Rodney's face. He stuck two butterfly strips over the cut to close it. Rodney still hadn't moved.

John knew he should clean and bandage his own wound properly. He would have to have a go at stitching it, which he wasn't looking forward to. His head spun again and the biting pain was making him feel sick. He would lie down, just for a while, next to Rodney.