Naked Hate — E. Jefferson Clay

Savage ran like fury. An officer was bellowing pointless orders and men were fanning out across the top of the bluff to search for the intruder.Savage had doubled back to the primed but unattended field guns. Sweating and straining, he dragged them out of line so that they were facing each other. Then he crouched behind the end gun, clutching the gunner’s punk and furiously working the vesta until it produced a spark. Not good enough. He tried again and the punk began to smolder.Savage gave an evil grin and a yell of triumph that was swallowed in the flash and roar of four field guns firing on each other and exploding into deadly shrapnel that whizzed across the bluff like grapeshot.He was over the rim already, but the blast wave carried him further. Behind him the bluff was erupting like a volcano of dirt and rock and shredded bodies.