“J.B.!” he cried as he raised his .357 Magnum Colt Python and thumbed back the hammer.
The creatures weren’t fleeing in a panic before the noise of the propellers, and they weren’t short, unless you compared them to a buffalo. The pack of mutie coyotes ran with their necks bent, their heads lowered to catch the scent. As they loped around the curve of shoreline, now that their prey was in sight, they were deadly quiet, like shadows on all fours. “J.B.!” the teen shouted again, and opened fire.
The big handblaster barked and bucked against his two-handed grip. A single coyote at the front of the bunch screamed and twisted in agony, throwing itself into the air. The pack kept coming. Jak fired again, crumpling the lead coyote, who tumbled under its onrushing followers, causing them to stumble and yelp, and leap out of the way.
“God’s truth,” Doc groaned as he looked away from the gunship, over his shoulder at what was coming toward them, “we are well and truly in the soup!”
J.B. spun and fired his 12-gauge. As he pumped the slide, he shouted, “Chill the bastards. Get them before they’re on us or they’ll rip us apart!”
The companions turned their backs on the hovering aircraft and unleashed a torrent of blasterfire at the onrushing horde. Death from above was no longer their primary concern. Though they dropped coyote after coyote with volleys of well-aimed shots, there seemed no end to the pack. And the twice-normal-size creatures could cover twenty feet in a ‘ single bound. Before they knew it, the beasts were in among them, circling, leaping, snapping at their faces.
Mildred seized the hairy throat of an attacker, jammed the muzzle of her ZKR pistol into its open maw, and blew its brains out the back of its skull. Before she could throw the creature aside, another had her by the seat of the pants, shaking its head wildly, trying to pull her to the ground. The coyote dragged her backward, down to one knee. It released her and lunged, open-jawed, for her unprotected nape.
Jak’s right arm moved in a blur. His leaf-bladed throwing knife hit the coyote in midair. It was hurled so hard that the point drove in one eye socket and out the other. The coyote landed on Mildred’s back and tumbled off, all four legs kicking weakly.
Ringed by dead coyotes, Krysty dumped a cylinder of spent casings into the dirt, and reached for her last, full speed-loader.
His shotgun empty, unwilling to use his Uzi in such close quarters with his friends, J.B. swung the M-4000 by its barrel, beating back the snarling animals that feinted and lunged at him, seeking the chance to go for his throat.
“Enough!” Doc cried, dropping his LeMat and unsheathing the sword from his cane.
The old man waded into the churning mass of waist-high devils, slashing left and right with the blade. He gave no thought to piercing hearts or bowels; there were too many for that. His goal was to draw them away from his companions, to inflict as much pain in the shortest possible time and thereby drive off the creatures.
Pain, he gave them. In spades.
The point of finest Toledo steel opened their flanks and split the hide of their backs. The mutie coyotes tried to get at him, circling around and around. Doc’s blade trimmed a set of ears tight to a skull, opened a second grinning mouth beneath the first. Every lunge of dog beast, he parried with cold steel. And for every lunge, a beast paid dearly.
At last, the coyotes lost heart and gave up. Yapping, the badly dinged survivors slunk off with their tails between their legs, their behinds low to the ground. Every few yards they looked back over their shoulders to make sure they weren’t being pursued by the two-legged demon in the frock coat.
Exhausted, bloodied, their weapons empty, the muddy field of battle strewed with dead foes, the companions once again turned to face the waiting aircraft.
” Morituri te salutamus ,” Doc said, sweeping a deep bow with his sword outstretched.
“What’d he say?” J.B. asked, his eyes locked on to the barrels of the cannons that held them pinned.