David Robbins - The Fox Run

“You stay put,” Hickok directed. “I’m going to peek inside and see what the blazes is going on.”

“I’ll do it,” Joan volunteered, and before he could prevent it, she was jogging toward the doors, hunched over to present a smaller target, the Commando at the ready.

Blast! Why did she do it? Hickok asked himself. She was trained better than that! What was she trying to prove? He kept his eyes glued to those swinging doors, sweat forming on his brow.

Joan was halfway.

“She’ll make it,” Geronimo assured Hickok, noticing his pale expression.

Pandemonium erupted inside the structure with the doors.

“No!”

Hickok was in motion before the word died on his lips, running after Joan, throwing caution to the wind, a round in the Henry’s chamber, his moccasins pounding on the pavement.

Joan was thirty feet from the swinging doors.

“Joan!” Hickok shouted, knowing those inside the building would not be able to hear him, hoping to stop her before she reached the doors.

Twenty feet now.

Why wasn’t she stopping? Was she that worried about Jenny and the rest?

Fifteen feet.

The swinging doors suddenly burst open, disgorging a veritable horde of Trolls, dozens upon dozens.

Coming directly at Joan.

“Joan!” Hickok screamed, raising the Henry to his shoulder. “Joan!”

He was too late!

The wolverine, according to a book in the Family library entitled North American Mammals , a volume used frequently by the children in the Family school as a reference guide, was once considered the most ferocious animal on the entire continent. Wolverines would attack bears and cougars, and their voracious appetites earned them the nickname “glutton.” They would consume anything they could catch and slay. Armed with razor teeth and claws, they were rulers of their wilderness domain.

Usually dark brown, with lighter patches on the head and shoulders, they could reach a weight of fifty pounds and attain a length of five feet including their bushy tail. Wolverines were the bane of trappers, feared by hunters, and, except for grizzly bears and the later-appearing mutates, the most dreaded animal in the north woods, to be avoided at all costs.

Unless, Blade reflected as the tableau momentarily froze after he leaped into the arena, you had no choice.

Like right now.

The wolverines, a large male, a dusky female, and an undersized stripling, reacted first. They picked their prey and attacked, instinctively going after separate targets.

On the bleachers above, his revolver in his hand, Saxon grinned as he watched. Initially apprehensive when the newcomer entered the pen, he calmed down when he realized there wasn’t a man alive who could take a wolverine one-on-one. So what chance did this guy have against three, all ravenous, all hating humans? None. He chuckled as the wolverines closed in, the one the Trolls called Wolvie making for the imposter, Momma going after Jenny, and Runt bounding toward the planned main course, Angela.

Blade’s first thought was for the women. Jenny was nearest, twelve feet away, backed against the pen wall as Momma bore down. The Bowie in his left hand was useless at that distance; he crouched, drawing the right Vega, praying his aim was accurate for once, ignoring the wolverine coming after him, sighting and firing.

The Vega bucked and boomed and Momma twisted, snarling, only three feet from Jenny, her rear legs tensing for the killing leap.

Blade fired again, and once more, the slugs ripping into Momma’s skull.

Jenny involuntarily screamed as the wolverine tumbled and slammed against her. She tripped as she desperately attempted to avoid the hurtling body, and panicked when the wolverine landed on top of her.

“No!” She kicked and punched and struggled to her feet, only to shudder at the gaping, oozing wounds as the animal’s brains flowed from the shattered cranium.

Momma was dead.

Saxon fumed. The bastard had a gun! He aimed his revolver, furious one of his prized pets was gone.

Blade had pivoted, his right arm extended, wanting to be sure, the smallest wolverine only inches’ from Angela. His finger was tightening on the trigger when two events occurred simultaneously; there was the sound of a shot somewhere above him and his right shoulder exploded in pain, and the largest wolverine crashed into his chest, slashing and tearing.

Jenny, horrified, saw the Vega fly from Blade’s fingers as he went down under the onslaught of the wolverine. She ran toward him, but abruptly stopped when Angela’s petrified shriek filled the arena.

Runt and Angela were on the ground, its steely jaws clamped on her right wrist, its claws gouging her body.

Jenny wavered, torn both ways. Who should she assist? The man she loved, or her friend? She watched as Blade heaved upward, the Bowie in his left hand flashing, driving into the wolverine over and over, making her decision easier. Blade could handle himself. Angela was another matter.

Runt was trying to sever Angela’s wrist, his teeth grinding against the bone, blood spraying over her terrified face.

Jenny, racing toward them, frantically searched for a weapon, anything, and spotted a human thigh hone in the dirt of the arena floor. She scooped it up on the run, and raised it over her head as she came up behind the wolverine.

Saxon, relishing the spectacle, laughed.

Angela’s struggles were growing weaker.

Runt, sensing victory, released the wrist and raised his head, prepared for a lunge at her pulsing throat.

“No!” Jenny shouted, hoping to distract the brute, sweeping the bone down, connecting with the wolverine’s head.

Runt spun away from Angela, hissing, enraged by excruciating pain. He jumped aside as this new human swung her club again, his muscular body held close to the ground in the classic wolverine attack posture.

“Angela!” Jenny yelled. “Get up!” She wanted Angela to reach the pen wall, just six feet away, to reduce the area she must defend. If they could get their backs to the wall, the wolverine would not be able to try a rear assault. As it was, the creature was slowly circling them, growling, biding its time, watching the tip of the club.

“Angela! Do you hear me?” Jenny goaded, her eyes on the wolverine.

Angela was almost limp. Her head wobbled as she tried to nod, to acknowledge Jenny’s directions.

“Angela! Please!”

Runt snarled, frustrated.

Jenny’s arms ached. The wolverine was between them and the pen wall, still circling.

Angela moaned.

Jenny wanted to risk glancing at Blade, to see how he was faring, but she was too afraid to look away from the wolverine for even an instant.

“Jenny?” Angela groaned, on the verge of fainting, fighting to remain awake. She rolled over, onto her stomach, placed her hands under her chest, and pushed, trying to rise.

“Angela!” Jenny warned. “Stay down now! Wait until it comes around again.”

Angela, only dimly conscious of the words, concentrated and heaved, reaching her knees before she completely blacked out. She pitched forward, away from Jenny, toward the wolverine.

“Angela!” Jenny screamed, lunging to catch her.

Too late.

Runt pounced, his lightning reflexes unbelievably quick, his pointed teeth ripping into Angela’s neck and rending the flesh apart, blood gushing over his facial fur as he greedily gulped the raw, tender meat, his fiery stare fixed on Jenny, as if giving notice he would brook no interference with his meal.

Jenny backed away, repulsed, gagging, feeling her limbs loose their strength, knowing there was nothing she could do. Dear Spirit! No!

Someone was laughing.