James Axler - Cannibal Moon

In a flash, a third of the defensive perimeter was wiped away.

And then it began to rain.

First came the heaviest debris: truck wheels, engine blocks, armor plate, axles, wag frames, transmissions, car seats. All crashing down from the dark. Then came the lighter stuff. Pieces of broken metal, glass, plastic. And finally, mixed in with the dust and smoke, a mist of sulfuric acid from the wag load of ruptured car batteries.

“Keep your head down!” Mildred cried to Junior as she shielded her own eyes with her hand. J.B. was wearing a hat and spectacles, so he was well protected.

Others in the fat trader’s band weren’t so lucky. Blinded by the falling acid, shrieking in pain, they blundered stiff-armed into the flaming pools of gasoline and the spray of bursting bombs. Wild flurries of bullets crisscrossed the circle as Mildred, Junior and J.B. reached the far side. The blasterfire wasn’t incoming; it was homegrown. But the cook-offs from the wags’ burning ammo stores had exactly the same effect—they chopped down the helpless crewmembers where they stood.

Then the Molotov barrage abruptly stopped.

The flesheaters had either run through their stockpile of fuel bombs, or somewhere in the dark, cannies were popping out of holes in the ground, sprinting for the breach they had made in the perimeter.

There was no time for a look back.

Bullets kicked up the dirt at their feet and whined past their ears as Mildred and J.B. steered Junior along the inside of the ring to the convoy master’s Suburban, where the others had gathered to make a stand.

Doc stepped forward, his Le Mat raised in a one-handed dueling stance. As Mildred, Junior and J.B. ducked under his outstretched arm, Doc cut loose, sending forth a yard-long tongue of flame and a billowing cloud of smoke. Over her shoulder, not ten yards away, Mildred saw two cannies go down hard, their heads hamburgered by bits of steel shrap and shards of broken glass.

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