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

system that provides a mounting platform for firearm accessories… in other words… it holds things on guns) , dual thirty round magazines, a suppressor and a top of the line holographic mounted site with night vision. These days, what with all the media hype on mass shootings, people think AR stands for Automatic Rifle, when in fact, it actually stands for ArmaLite Rifle after the company that developed it back in the fifties. I took the AR and a little .380, with two spare mags I slipped inside the jeans I tossed on. I slid into some hiking boots, dropped my cell into my front pants pocket, and went out into the night, shirtless, looking for my dog.

Not much of a moon, just a thumbnail high overhead, stingy with its light. Good. I prefer the dark. I went off road, going over the hill to the west and down to a little valley set between a screen of trees. I moved quiet and fast, calling on my war-time experiential knowledge to guide me, letting instinct lead me to the sound of the shot.

South and west, I heard something, low, like moaning, brought on a warm wisp of breeze that was there and gone. I moved in that direction, hopping over a small tussle of rocks and leaping over a gurgling creek before moving up a slight incline and back toward the road.

A fell of pine trees hid the road as I broached the lip of the hill, but I heard the unmistakable sound of a man, hurt and groaning not far away. I slipped the rifle to my shoulder and looked through the night sight with its guides and little red dot in the center. In the dark of night, with no street lights or headlights from cars to mess with its optics, the picture was brilliant. I saw the silhouette of the man on the ground, moving weakly back and forth. The features of his face were unrecognizable in the green of the scope, but his shape and size were not. It was Jerome.

But then I saw something else, there on the far side of the road.

Max.

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Jerome knew something was wrong. The dog hadn’t left, he was sure of this, but it hadn’t attacked. He let his arms fall to the ground and lay perfectly still. The blood puddling under him was uncomfortable, his pants sticking to his flesh. The ragged wounds were beginning to ache and throb.

Closing his eyes to slits, he tried to hold his breath, feeling the sweat bead on his head and roll down past his ears.

Nothing.

At least ten minutes had passed since the dog struck. What was it waiting for?

He sat up, looked around, seeing only the dark and shadowy form of branches waving in the breeze in the distance.

Time was not his friend here. He stood, pointing the gun out in front of him as he turned in a tight circle. If he could just see it for a second he could end this.

The gun exploded in his hand, metal splinters spraying his arm and face, almost knocking him to the ground. He stumbled and held his numb hand in the other as the unmistakable sound of a ricocheting bullet skipped off the street next to his foot. He jumped back, almost falling again, and ran for the side of the road as two more high velocity rounds chipped against the asphalt just behind him. His ankle twisted in the loose dirt, spilling him face first into the grass and scrub. He hit and rolled, coming up against a spindly aspen. A chunk exploded out the back of the small tree as a .223 round punched through an inch above his face. Jerome rolled away and gained his feet. He ran in a low crouch, cringing each time hot lead sizzled past his ears, cracking against trees as he neared them. A bullet creased his ribs on the left side and the pain made him flinch and trip so that he smacked headlong into another aspen. The shock snapped him back so hard he landed on his butt, the darkness spinning around him.

Pushing with his hands, he tried to stand, but stopped. The low growl sounded directly behind him, followed by a wave of hot breath and a thin line of saliva that slid down the back of his shirt. A ripple of goose flesh tickled up his spine and he actually thought he might wet himself.

All thoughts of grappling with this death machine were gone. The idea of grabbing it and crushing it to him was as impossible as embracing a raging fire. His legs had turned to rubber and his muscles refused to move at all.

Jerome was suddenly a little boy, alone in his room, running from his nightmares and his mother’s men. Helpless and afraid of the monsters that hunted him.

Max scented the Alpha on the hill behind his prey before he heard or saw him. So he held off his attack and waited. The big man eventually stood up and started turning in a circle, and then there was a loud sound and the big man ran straight at Max, tripping and almost landing on him. Max didn’t move. He watched as the big man rolled clumsily across the ground and then got up and started running again. Max followed at a safe distance. He heard the bullets fired from the Alpha’s gun, but none of the missiles came near him so he paid them no mind.

The man fell, hitting a tree. Before he could get to his feet, Max stalked up behind him. He placed his nose against the man’s spine where the vertebra connected to the skull. All he had to do was lunge forward, twist with his powerful neck muscles, and the man would die.

The impulse activated his saliva glands and the genetic drive of centuries pushed him to attack. Only the primal order of the pack kept him in place.

When