The Cutthroat Cannibals (16 page)

There were many large dogs, and these seemed to prey on the smaller ones like sharks on fish. They leaped about high in the
air—dobermans, shepherds, even a few mastiffs here and there, jumping back and forth wildly like African dancers acting out
a Busby Berkley routine. They attacked the smaller dogs, the collies and dachshunds, the poodles and miniatures, knocking
them down like bowling pins, grabbing them in their teeth and throwing them high in the air like bloody beachballs so the
animals tumbled back to earth with high-pitched squeals of terror. Yet again, when they touched down—if they were still alive—they
joined in the racing circle again around the blazing tree like some sort of canine Mecca.

As the narrow sky above started turning a dark shade of purple, Stone could see even deeper into the bloody spectacle. In
front of the blazing tree stood three dogs, side by side like kings, rulers, emperors of the fur. They were immense animals,
each a worthy example of its breed. A doberman, a labrador—and one of Excaliber’s own—a pit bull, with a back that a table
could be rested on. The three dogs, in sharp contrast to the rest of the maddened bloodthirsty animals, seemed completely
possessed of their faculties and watched coldly as the procession circled around them. From time to time they turned to one
another, and though Stone couldn’t hear anything above the deafening din of the snarling and screaming animals, he swore they
were “discussing” the situation.
That
, more even than the horrors he saw evolving below, gave Stone chills that only a corpse should have to endure.

As his eyes roamed the blood party he saw behind a tree one final piece of the canine ritual that his eyes had missed thus
far: a wading pond of blood. The smaller dogs that had been decimated, annihilated and ground up into burger had been thrown
back here. And after dozens had been deposited the ground had become saturated with a pool of thick blood, nearly fifteen
feet in diameter, bubbling away like a little volcano. As the concentric spinning circles of creatures came around the back
of the tree they rushed to the red lake and lapped it up, drank in great gulps of the thick liquid. Many ran through the red
stuff, played in it, rolled around and around so that when they emerged they were coated, painted in the color of life—and
death. They were monstrous dripping mops of red fur as they rushed back out and rejoining their racing comrades.

Stone and the Indian turned and looked at one another with expressions of pure horror on their faces. Stone saw real fear
on the brave’s face now. Even Indians have their breaking point. Cracking Elk put his lips to Stone’s ear. “There is also
the opposite of the Hawk Dog, the Vulture Dog. Like those below. We must leave—now. This is an evil, evil place. If they find
us they’ll—they’ll—.” The Indian didn’t have to convince Stone. He was ready to dive back in the fucking river to get away
from this crew.

But they had barely pulled back a foot down the slope when they heard a loud barking coming from just feet away. Both men’s
heads turned as one and in the now violet rays of the new morning they could see a dog six yards to the right, perched on
the very edge of the precipice that looked down over the demonic scene of canine sacrifice and blood worship. It was Excaliber.

“Shit,” Stone groaned to himself. If the worst thing that could possibly happen were to happen, this was it. And even as they
watched, the pit bull let loose with a howling challenge to the massess below. Its head rose up to the slowly lightening sky
so it formed a perfect silhouette, as did the two men still perched on their elbows at the very edge.

And that was enough. For suddenly one of the three giant dogs in the center of the bloody scene saw the shapes on the rise
above them. It rose up on its hind paws, a terrifying vision nearly seven feet high with the burning branches of the tree
behind it, and let out with its own screaming howl of pure authority. The entire dance of death stopped in its tracks and
every single dog was instantly silent, even those bleeding from gaping wounds in their sides. They all feared The Three even
more than pain or death itself. And as Stone’s heart fell right down into his stomach, where it proceeded to boil itself in
digestive fluids, the three leaders pointed with their heads up at the intruders and let out with a combined howl of challenge
that echoed back and forth along the valley walls like thunder. And then every fucking dog that could still move came in one
great mass of teeth, paws, and burning bloodthirsty eyes straight toward Martin Stone and his favorite animal.

H
AVING two hundred snarling, snapping, salivating dogs lunging up at you with a hatred that only crunching your bones in half
will release was not exactly the way Martin Stone felt like starting the day. The only good thing was that as hard as they
tried, as hard as they flung themselves against the mountain slope a hundred feet below the men and their errant dog, the
dog pack just couldn’t get up the thing more than twenty or thirty feet at most before tumbling back to earth with painful
yelps as they bounced along the rocks below them.

The dogs had come into the valley from the far side, nearly two miles around to get back to the river’s edge. But as the three
leaders joined in a howl in unison they got the entire pack to stop its useless scramblings at the wall and led them at full
speed off in the opposite direction. The migration, barking and howling away like a locomotive made of fur, exited through
the woods.

“Damn dog!” Stone snarled over at the pit bull as the three of them shot down the hill they had just climbed. “Why couldn’t
you have stayed back in camp chewing on your fucking bat or something?” But Stone could see, as he looked at the dog with
its front legs straight and stiff as it slid on its ass right down the sandy hill, that the pit bull looked a little green
around the gills too, realizing—after the fact—that perhaps it hadn’t done the cleverest thing back up there. Not that repentance
was going to help matters.

They all hit the bottom of the slope at just about the same time, and with the dust still rising around them they took off
down the shoreline, one Indian, one crutch-swinging cripple, and one overmacho dog shooting along the sand like gazelles in
full flight. The image of those wild dogs with fangs glistening in the dawn light was all that any of them needed to fuel
their strides.

It was rough going. Either they had to run along the rocks near the tree line, or by the river on the sand that was so soft
that their feet kept sinking down two or three inches as if into snow. The three of them hopped back and forth from one to
another as they got alternately exasperated with each mode of travel. As they ran the dawn fell fully from the sky with a
sudden explosion of vibrant color. Off in the distance they could hear the barking and howling of the blood-maddened pack,
and though it wasn’t yet close it sure as hell wasn’t moving off.

The pain was agonizing every time Stone put any weight on the broken leg. But finally figuring out the use of the crutch after
a few days practice, he was able to get his leg and the branch in some sort of synchronization with one another so that he
was galloping right along like a bionic racehorse, nearly keeping up with the Indian. The pit bull took up the rear, running
just behind Stone, stopping every few minutes to check out just what the hell was happening behind them. Its ears pivoted
as it sniffed suspiciously at the wind, checking out the surroundings for danger.

Thus it was the dog that caught the forward squad of attackers coming in at twelve o’clock. The pit bull had just slowed to
make a danger check, turned to take a look over its shoulder, and nearly busted a gut. For shooting along like rocket cars
rather than something made of muscle and blood were just under half a dozen greyhounds. They were thin, all bone and legs,
but huge, and tearing like a pack of cheetahs. The animals were the fastest dogs yet bred, and they flew in with such speed
that even Excaliber, which considered itself something of a quick draw, had only a chance to let off with a single warning
bark to the men ahead before it turned to face the first comer.

Usually the pit bull’s tactics were to charge into the enemy, but it had barely gotten its front legs in gear when one of
the suckers came flying right into it like a defensive back trying to take it out. The pit bull, seeing that it couldn’t charge,
froze its body solid as a rock as it saw the mass of flying fur, the jaws open wide waiting for contact. Setting its front
legs and aiming its head down, the dog made an almost immovable object as the lead greyhound soon found. It ran right into
the solid wall of fur and snapped down hard with its jaws, only to find itself munching empty space. Then it was flying through
the air right over the pit bull, soaring past with its scrawny long legs pumping the air like a swimmer who doesn’t know how
to swim.

Stone and Cracking Elk heard the pit bull’s warning bark and stopped in their tracks, both men’s eyes opening wide as the
band of greyhounds came flying along the beach, their long legs taking bounding leaps a good ten to twelve feet at a time.
If the rest of the pack was right behind them, then Stone and his crew were all dead. But if it was just a forward scouting
party—and the greyhounds were probably twice as fast as the rest—then they might have a chance. Might! For already two of
the magnificent animals were wading into Excaliber, the rest tearing ass toward the two men. And the huge black-faced son
of a bitch in the lead was coming straight at Stone, looking at his face like it was the King-Sized Super Greyhound Meat Treat,
the canine’s favorite.

“Not tonight, you bastard,” Stone screamed, letting his own voice challenge the howls and barks of the attackers. He swung
his branch around just as the greyhound leaped, its jaws opened like a bear trap. Only Stone’s stick hit the center of its
face first. The whole nose and jaw of the animal just sort of disintegrated in a mucky mess of blood, fur, and teeth. Stone
let the animal fly past him, slamming into the ground with a horrible wet thud, without even a second glance. The dead were
the ants’ problem, the living were his.

Cracking Elk had run forward to help Stone, but found two of the overtoothed attackers doing their airborne thing toward him.
But the Indian was tough, very tough—he had killed many animals and a few men in his life. He moved with an equal lightning
speed, ducking under the lead dog as it came at him. He slammed the machete straight up so it ripped right into the stomach
of the animal, slicing it from chest to crotch as the flying dog’s own motion did the cutting. Organs, intestines, all kinds
of slurping and throbbing pieces of meat came flying out over Cracking Elk, covering his head and shoulders. When the dog
came down on the ground ten feet past him, the jarring landing ripped out whatever the hell else was left inside—lungs, pancreas,
heart. The dog slapped down into the dirt with a sickening wet splat like a pancake thrown from a skyscraper.

But the brave didn’t have time to admire his handiwork. The second greyhound was at him, its jaws coming right at the Indian’s
neck. It was only by lifting his shoulder fast at the last instant that the Indian was able to take the blow in his upper
arm rather than his throat. Not that that felt too great either. The teeth sank deep into the muscle and the bone, the greyhound
setting there like a snapping turtle around a fish. Cracking Elk fell to the ground in a tumble of fur and blood. Suddenly
his knife was knocked from his hand and he knew that the jig was close to up. He tried to push the creature off but it was
too strong, too wild. Suddenly it loosened its grip on his shoulder for an instant, turned, and came down right toward his
face, the snapping jaws gushing with saliva and his own blood as they came toward him.

But at the very instant the brave was preparing to go to the Not-So-Happy Hunting Grounds he heard a loud
thwack
, felt a shuddering, and suddenly the dog was dead weight on top of him. As he slid it off, the brave saw Stone, the stick
hefted in his hands, turning away again to meet the next crazed canine that was coming in like he was on a kamikaze mission.
Whatever spell the three lead dogs had over these animals was unreal. They were willing to do anything, including giving up
their lives, to carry out the orders of the pack’s top brass. Was this how it was going to be: mutant dogs with super intelligence?
Stone prayed it wouldn’t be, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it all as yet another pair of thrashing jaws was heading
for his nose.

Excaliber meanwhile had his teeth full. It wasn’t that on a one-on-one he couldn’t have taken on these dudes all fucking day,
but the bastards didn’t want to fight fair. The first one came at him and he disposed of it quickly with two sharp bites to
the throat artery, leaving it lying in a pool of its own hot blood. Then the next two came in together, one from each side,
both of their jaws open to the max like anacondas preparing to swallow a whole cow. But the dog had plans of his own. He charged
at the one on his left, then slipped down to the ground so he slid under it as the flying brick wall of fur came at him. It
was the oldest trick in the book, but it worked every fucking time. Dogs weren’t prepared for strategy, for flanking, for
slipping punches. But that was the only way Excaliber knew how to play the game—with no rules.

The two attackers met head on, their jaws closing on each other’s faces. And as the pit bull stood back with a most satisfied
look, they bit away at one another for a good four or five seconds before the bloody animals realized what they were doing.
By the time they swung their attention back to the pit bull, he was the hunter and
they
the hunted. He rushed around them in a circle trying to tie up their feet, make them dizzy. In a flash like a rattler striking,
he lunged in and slammed his teeth around one of their front paws. With a single bite the bone cracked like a piece of balsa
wood and the pit bull spat it out, jumping backward before the second dog could make a move.