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turing its heart and lungs in a single devastating moment. Its head snapped back, and its good eye glazed. The body shuddered as life departed, and Ryan was able to drop the lifeless corpse into the dirt at his feet.
“Nice,” J.B. said admiringly. “Very nice.”
“Thanks, friend.” He stooped to pick up the fallen dagger and grip it ready for the next wave of attacking dogs.
“Getting real close,” Krysty said, stooping to clean her own blade in the dry earth by her boots. “If they all come together, we’ll go down.”
It was undeniably true.
Over the years Ryan had seen a few vids from before the long winters and read some books as well. One or two were adventure stories, where the hero always seemed to have a plan. Right at that moment, Ryan didn’t have any real plan at all.
Kill as many of the dogs as possible. Even take a few sec men along to the chilling. Live for an hour or so before buying the farm yourself.
Wasn’t much of a plan.
Half a dozen of the pack appeared, muzzles foaming, red-eyed, on the edge of the clearing. They were hesitat-ing, cautious, as they scented and then saw the dead dogs. Ryan, Krysty and the Armorer faced them, knives blood-slick and ready, knowing it wouldn’t be easy to hold off so many of the killer animals at once.
“Back-to-back,” Ryan said. “Don’t let ’em get in be-hind us.” He paused a moment. “For as long as we bas-tard can.”
The dogs sniffed uncertainly at the trampled ground, edging closer to their prey. The open space reeked with spilled blood, and it quietened the animals, their howling
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sinking to low growls. In the woods beyond them, the noise of horsemen and shouting came nearer.
Ryan licked his lips, tasting his own sweat. It wasn’t going to be long now. He was conscious, not for the first time in the past few hours, that he had fled the ville of Front Royal to save his life. Now, within a day or so of his return, after twenty years, he was going to lose it.
A whip cracked, and it seemed to trigger the cross-breeds. Like greyhounds loosed from the slips, they charged simultaneously. Ryan braced himself for the shock of the attack.
The burst of automatic gunfire scattered the dogs in a heap of kicking, biting, mewing flesh. Ryan’s keen ear heard about a dozen rounds, continuous fire. Only one animal escaped the burst, and it turned tail and ran back toward the huntsmen.
“Thanks, Jak,” J.B. shouted, grinning at Ryan and the woman. “One of the M-16s. Once you’ve heard it, you never forget.”
The fourteen-year-old albino boy appeared like a ghost from the thick brush. He held the smoking rifle in his right hand, and his lips were parted in a broad smile.
“Found this in hand of dead sec man. Didn’t want no more.”
“Thanks, Jak,” Ryan said. “Now they know we’ve got a blaster, it’s a different game. They’ll hold the dogs back and press us in toward the river. Trap us there. Spare ammo?”
“No. Bitch, ain’t it?”
Krysty pulled at Ryan’s sleeve. “I can hear them, lover. You’re right. Calling the hounds in. I can hear your brother ‘screaming for sec men to come in after us. No takers. Not with half a mag left in the blaster.”
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“Without the dogs, we could…” Ryan checked him-self. “No. They’d… Fireblast! Best we got. Follow me.”
“Where?” J.B. asked.
“Gas store,” he threw back over his shoulder as he ran toward the northeast, farther into the Oxbow Loop.
“killed how many?”
“A dozen of the bravest dogs, Baron Cawdor. Some with knives, others with Trooper Rogers’s stolen blaster.”
“And he’s chilled by the twisting, turning, whoreson Ryan?”
“Throat opened, my lord,” the sergeant said. He’d known things were going wrong ever since that mum-bling dotard had turned up and broken off his rotting tooth. Then the embarrassment of the puppy being splashed all over the main hall of the ville. Now it was going from bad to much, much worse. A dozen hounds butchered. The best of the pack. And signs that the baron was about to slip over the edge into one of his trank-fueled rages.