Coyote by David L. Foster Page B

man turned back onto the driveway, now heading in her direction. She lowered her eye to the scope of the rifle. The first thing that came up in her sights was the man, and she could see the desperate look on his face. She could tell he wanted to scream but couldn’t waste the breath to do so.
    She swung the rifle down and back a little, focusing in on the forms that pursued him. Through the scope she could see them better. They most closely resembled panthers, or some other jungle cat, but they had no fur. Instead they seemed shiny and smooth, their pumping legs and stretching torsos like fast-moving engines. Their heads had four shiny orbs in a line that must be eyes, and led to oversized jaws shaped almost like beaks. Those silvery jaws looked nasty, ending in a confusion of jagged, tooth-like points that were surely meant for ripping and tearing.
    Even as one part of her mind had been cataloguing these details, another part had been carefully aiming at the center mass of one of the beasts, and slowly squeezing the trigger, just as she had been taught the two times she had gone hunting. The rifle went off, jerking her sights, and she reflexively pulled her head back as her arm slapped the bolt up and back, then forward and down, seating a new bullet in the chamber. She had missed.
    Both creatures still pursued the man, oblivious to her actions, or perhaps distracted by the prey they pursued. She sighted in again, carefully aiming a little forward of the running form this time. She fired again, and one of the beasts went down, tripping and rolling in a tumble of limbs and black gore that did not get back up.
    She ratcheted the bolt back again, desperately trying to get in another shot, but the man and the remaining beast were too close. She drove the bolt home just as the man flew by her position at the wall, then pulled the gun down, no time to aim, and fired in the direction of the remaining beast—only about ten feet away and closing. Her desperate shot missed as the beast took another lunging stride.
    She was beginning the reloading process again, wondering if she could shoot the beast from behind without shooting the man in front of it, when she saw the Mule move. Holding his stout tree branch, he stepped sideways, out from behind his concealment, swinging the branch in a two-handed arc, arms straight and shoulders low, driving the branch around and forward. He looked for all the world like a major-leaguer trying to hit a low curve.
    The second beast never reacted to the swing, either not noticing or not caring until the branch connected with its face. There was a cracking, squishing noise, and she could see the shock of the connection run up the Mule’s arms and rock him backward. The beast itself fared much worse. The speed of the branch and the beast’s own velocity combined to virtually obliterate it. The branch tore all the way through its head, and continued part-way into the torso. Finally it lodged there for a moment, before being ripped out as what remained of the beast tumbled past the Mule, skidding along the driveway for several feet where it quivered and twitched for a moment before lying still.
    Behind her, she could hear the man’s footsteps slow and then stop as he realized he was no longer being pursued. She looked at the two beasts lying in the driveway, both still and no longer a threat. Then she looked across the driveway at the Mule, still holding his gore-spattered branch and staring at the beast he had slain. He looked up at her, taking deep breaths. She could see gore from the beast spattered up his arms, and even a bit on his face. He was wide-eyed and tense, almost quivering, feeling the leftover adrenalin coursing through his body. She smiled at him. She felt the same. Alive.
    The other man came jogging back to them, winded and exhausted. He stopped at the body of the beast and bent over, planting his hands on his knees and panting for breath.
    He looked between the two of them. Even