Hair of the Dog by Gordon Carroll (reading strategies book TXT) 📗

and hard. I dodged the first one, but the next clipped my forehead and the third hit me in the liver, almost finishing me. I caught his wrist as he tried to pull back for another swing, bent it in and toward me, trying to break the bone. It hurt, I know it did, but he took the pain and caught me between the shoulder blades with a massive punch that felt like it went all the way through me. I kicked into his right leg with both of mine, still maintaining my grip on his wrist, and let my body’s weight flip him over. It was either that or lose his arm. He landed hard on his back, with me on top for a change, and I swung an elbow into his lips. I tried for another, but his speed saved him as he shoved my arm up and over his head. He grabbed my throat with his free hand, his thumb digging into my Adams Apple again. I tried for his eyes with the hand behind his head, but couldn’t quite reach, so I just dug my chin in and flexed my neck muscles waiting him out. We stayed like that for several seconds, both breathing hard, the little girl screaming in the background for me to leave her daddy alone. It broke my heart for her to think that, but there would be time to explain later. I hooked one foot under his thigh, released my bent-wrist lock and elbowed him in the side just below the ribs where they connect with the solar plexus, knocking out his wind. I heard him grunt and he sagged for an instant. I twisted hard and ended up on top of him. I crawled up, pinning his arms like in a school-yard fight, and punched straight down into his face; Wham! Wham! Wham! Each hit sounding meaty and thick, like Rocky punching the cow carcasses in the slaughter house. A split opened over his left eye, blood spraying, his nose mashed in and his lips ruptured. I hit him twice more and then I heard crunching glass behind me. The girl screamed again and the barrel of a gun smashed into my temple, knocking me off Jerome and onto the floor.

A tall skinny black guy, with an open red baseball shirt and a gold chain, stood over me. He held a silver .357 Magnum and pointed it at my face. Grinning, he said, “Thanks for the help,” and pulled the trigger.

Max slid through the back gate, silent as a panther, his big, thick-padded paws rolling with each step, the nails pulled up so as not to make a sound on the concrete walkway. He had flown like an arrow from the car, seeing the three men running to the sounds of the Alpha up ahead, but slowed to a graceful creep, as he rounded the corner. The men stood over and around the Alpha, one of them pointing a gun at his face. Max knew the danger of guns, their loudness, their deadly power. He launched from behind, catching the man with the gun by the throat, his ninety-plus pounds whipping up and around, his inch-long fangs sinking gum deep. Blood flooded his mouth, driving him even further into frenzy. He saw red, tasting the primal life force and completed the roll as the gun fired, the bullet going wide and hitting the floor a few inches from the Alpha’s face. Max let go at the last second and the gunman crashed into the linoleum floor hard, the gun flying from his hand and skittering across the room and under a chair.

Without pause Max turned and bit the closest of the men on the thigh. The baggy jeans slid as he made contact, causing the wound to be mostly a tearing scrape with shredded clothes. But the man reacted as if he had been castrated, screaming in a high pitched voice and jumping back so fast he fell over and dropped his own gun.

The third man fired five rounds at Max, plunking holes in the flooring, but never coming close as the dog darted straight at him.

The Alpha reached the man first, punching him in the groin and then kicking him in the face as he bent over. Max hit an instant later, striking the side of his head with powerful jaws, driving him up and back, taking off his left ear. But the man was tough and grabbed a handful of Max’s jowl as they tumbled together to the floor, destroying another end table and lamp in the process. Max let go of his tentative hold on the man’s face and crushed down on his left shoulder as the Alpha made it to his feet and stomped down on the man’s knee, snapping something vital. All of the fight left him and he curled into a fetal ball, moaning as Max jerked him into the kitchen.

The wild lust of battle took complete control as his primal drives switched from combat to prey and the need to simply fight converted to the need to utterly destroy. His head thrashed back and forth at lightning speed, shredding clothing and flesh and digging to the bone beneath. The man screamed again and then went limp and silent as Max savaged him.

From somewhere far away, Max heard the Alpha’s voice. In his exited state, the sound seemed muffled, as though being spoken through water. He wanted to ignore it, to ignore the command the Alpha spoke to him. To continue to destroy, to shred, to peel the very flesh from the carcass of his vanquished opponent. But the order of The Pack, to obey or die, ran hundreds of generations deep, and as strong as the drive to completely decimate his prey pushed, the need of The Pack overshadowed it and forced his compliance. He pulled himself back with a supreme act of will and obeyed The Alpha’s command to release