George opened up the passenger-side door. “Do you want a Snickers?” he asked Lou.
“Nah.”
“I’ll take one,” said Ivan.
George ignored him and closed the door. Maybe it was more of a Three Musketeers moment. He needed something light and fluffy.
There was a sudden growling to his left. George looked over at the source and saw a dog, this one a scary-ass-looking Doberman, come around the side of the van.
More growling behind him. George turned around, and the second dog charged at him. A fucking rat terrier?
The Doberman launched into a ferocious barking fit, spittle flying from its jaws, and charged as well.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dogfight
With a Doberman attacking him from the front and a rat terrier attacking from the rear, George decided in a split-second that if he wished to avoid being savagely mauled, he should probably focus on the Doberman. He quickly yanked the fuel pump out of the van and doused the dog in the face. It let out a loud yip and violently shook its body, shaking off gasoline as if it had just jumped out of an unwanted bath.
George kicked the snarling rat terrier out of the way.
Even more barking. Another frickin’ Doberman was running toward him. And behind it, some large brown-and-white dog of a breed that George couldn’t identify. What the hell was going on?
He kicked the rat terrier again. It latched onto his leg, biting but not breaking through the fabric of his pants. He didn’t want to douse a dog with gasoline unless absolutely necessary, so he swung his leg as hard as he could, hurling the dog into the air. It landed on its side, yipped, got back up, and rushed at him again, so he sprayed it.
There wasn’t time to get back inside the van before the other two dogs reached him, so he held the fuel pump like a pistol. He had a real one in a holster under his shirt, and this was one of those moments where he wasn’t particularly concerned about the locals knowing he had a gun, but shooting around spilled gasoline was never a good idea, even if the resulting explosion would most likely take care of his psycho dog problem.
He heard Lou’s door open. “Stay in there!” George shouted.
He sprayed the second Doberman, getting the unfortunate canine right in the eyes. Its wail of pain hurt George’s ears and his conscience, but the dog didn’t veer from its prey. It leapt into the air, striking George in the chest and knocking him down onto the cement.
He threw his arm over his eyes to protect them, blinking away tears as the gasoline fumes hit him hard. The dog’s head jerked around as if it were having an epileptic fit, but it got a good solid bite on George’s chest. He punched the dog in the face with his left fist, then bashed it on the side of the head with the fuel pump.
Had it broken the skin? Did he now have rabies? Did they still treat that with several painful shots in the stomach?
The woman screamed, though George couldn’t see what happened to her.
He could see, however, that Lou was standing a few feet away, holding his own pistol.
George tried to wave him away, but the Doberman’s jaws clamped onto his wrist. “Don’t shoot! Gas!”
Lou, thank God, behaved intelligently and did not shoot. He grabbed the dog by its leather collar and strained to drag it off of George. The Doberman let go of George’s wrist but its nails raked across his chest as his partner slowly pulled the thrashing animal away. Then Lou slammed it against the van. Once, twice, three times, four times, five times, and then the Doberman stopped struggling.
George had to kick the rat terrier again.
The brunette’s car door was open and she was halfway inside, but the brown-and-white dog was inside with her, tearing at her flesh as she shrieked in terror.
George quickly got up, forcing himself not to look at his wrist. Another small dog, some kind of mutt, came at him. George’s tendencies toward being pro-animal-rights were not as passionate now as they’d been sixty seconds ago, and he blasted the little bastard with enough gas that it ran off-course and smacked into the van’s back tire instead of him.
The woman flailed and kicked at the dog, but she couldn’t get it out of her car. George’s moral code allowed for breaking an old man’s fingers, and for driving an accused werewolf across the state in a cage, and for use of gasoline as a blinding agent against dogs when necessary, but it did not allow for watching an innocent woman get savaged by an out-of-control animal.
“You get in the car,” said Lou, waving him back as he hurried toward the woman. “I’ve got this.”
“What the hell is going on?” a square-faced, middle-aged man demanded, voice filled with panic. He’d come out of the convenience store and held a rifle.
“Get back inside!” George shouted.
But the man’s moral code, much like George’s, apparently did not include a clause about hiding in a store when somebody was being attacked. He took a few steps toward the woman’s car, then stopped and took aim at a new dog that was running toward them, having come from behind the store. Another Doberman. Who the hell owned all of these Dobermans?
He fired. A perfect head shot. The Doberman tumbled forward.
Lou reached the blue car. He grabbed the dog by its long tail with both hands and gave a sharp tug. The dog twisted around, bashing its head against the steering wheel and honking the horn, then scrambled out of the car, lunging at Lou’s throat.
Lou slammed his hands together, boxing the dog’s ears. It yelped but didn’t stop fighting. As Lou quickly backed away, the dog snapped at his legs.
Yet another goddamn dog--was there a dog factory in the area or something?--came running toward the gas station, followed by two more. All big ones. One of them was dragging a leash.
The gas station attendant fired the rifle. Either his first shot had been total luck, or he was getting too scared to shoot straight, because this one didn’t even come close. He fired again. Another complete miss.
George’s fuel hose wasn’t long enough to reach the dog that was attacking his partner, which didn’t matter because Lou stood between the dog and a possible gasoline stream. George dropped the pump and rushed forward, kicking the dog in the side, hard enough to produce a crunch.
The brown-and-white dog stumbled away, then launched itself against the car, bashing itself against the metal over and over.
George looked at the woman. Her shoulder was a mess. The gas station attendant fired again, this time hitting one of the oncoming Dobermans in the ear. That didn’t stop the animal. The top half of its ear dangled in a bloody flap, and the attendant adjusted his grip on the rifle, holding it like a club.
“Behind you!” the woman shouted at George.
George didn’t even have time to turn around before the dog knocked him to the ground. He couldn’t see the creature, could just hear its growling and feel its hot breath on his neck. He elbowed it in the face, which probably hurt his elbow worse than its face. Some froth got into his eyes.
George frantically tried to blink it out, as Lou grabbed the dog under its front arms and pulled it away. The dog snarled and twisted around and bit at Lou’s nose, while Lou struggled to get the thrashing animal away from George.
“Help!” the attendant shouted.
George pushed himself up again. The attendant lay on the ground, kicking at the dogs that had brought him down. He swung with his rifle, but one of the dogs sunk its teeth deep into his forearm, creating a spray of red, and he lost his grip on the weapon.
“Pull your legs in the car,” George told the woman, putting his hand on the door. She seemed to be in shock and didn’t respond. Instead of acknowledging his command, she was staring off behind--