Pavlov's Dogs by D.L. Snell, Thom Brannan

and knees as bone and sinew rearranged itself with popping, gristly sounds. Human cries and grunts dropped down to guttural depths, and then there were four Dogs on the vehicles, howling.
    The Alpha leapt away to the north, his golden coat rippling as he ran. Dark-furred Samson followed suit, running south. Parker and Landis, in gold and patchwork brown-and-grey coats respectively, loped off to the west.
    “I don’t care how often I see that,” the driver of the wrecker said, “I will never get used to it.”
    ’
     
    “Did you see that? What the hell was that?”
    The man at the door peeked out through the narrow glass slit, eyes wide. He wore a tattered red shirt over dark-blue jeans, and a green trucker’s hat on his head. The back of his leather belt read BUCK in large letters, which was appropriate for the large man. He clutched a double-barreled shotgun that had seen better days.
    “What did it look like?” a woman behind him asked.
    “It looked like the devil.”
    The woman, who wore black motorcycle leathers, rolled her eyes. “Come on , Buck. Be serious.”
    “Screw you, Shayna. I saw what I saw. It was a... a... a beast . Fur, black as night. It ran by on all fours, big as a bear, maybe.”
    Shayna put her fists on her hips. “Oh, really.”
    Buck turned back to the door. “Not as wide. Thick through the shoulders, slimmer at the hips. Moving fast, too.”
    She walked forward, her square-toed boots clicking on the concrete floor. “You sure you haven’t had a nip or two this morning? Let me see.” She brushed Buck aside, and he let her.
    “I saw what I saw.”
    Shayna put her face up to the safety glass, looking around. “Well, I don’t doubt you saw something. If it was moving fast, maybe it was the rescue squad. But a beast-man?” She shook her head. “That doesn’t sound— oh, God! ”
    A yellow eye in a black, furry face appeared in the window, and Shayna saw a mouth full of sharp teeth before she fell back.
    “The Devil!” Buck shouted, lowering his shotgun and firing both barrels. The blast sheared away the window and a significant bit of wood around it. The face disappeared, and Buck hooted.
    “I got it!” He put a hand out to help Shayna up. “And, no, I haven’t had anything to drink this morning, thank you very much. Ran out two days ago.”
    Shayna’s sharp reply was cut off as a thick arm, corded with muscle and covered in black fur, jammed through the broken window and slapped at the door handle.
    “Oh, shit,” Buck said, dropping Shayna and fumbling his shotgun open. “Shit, shit, shit.” His hands shook as he dug shells out of his shirt pockets. He dropped four of them trying to reload his shotgun.
    The claws hit the handle just right and the door popped open. The daylight from outside was eclipsed by the hulking, wolfish form. It looked up at Buck and snarled, pointing one black talon at the shotgun. Slowly, it shook its doggie head, flinging blood from its muzzle.
    “Better put that down, Buck,” a voice said from behind. Jorge came out of a stairwell. “I told you idiots the rescue squad was lobos or something.” He cleared his throat and pointed at the Dog. “I didn’t think that would be so literal, but... what the hell, right?”
    The Dog grunted and licked its lips.
    It turned to go.
    “Come on,” Jorge said. Then he yelled up the stairs, “ Vamanos , we don’t have all day!”
    A line of people came down from the upper floor and followed Buck and Shayna, who were following the Dog. Outside, a tangle of dead limbs and torsos littered the street, and the survivors took care stepping over them. The Dog woofed once as a yellow school bus pulled into the intersection. Plate steel covered the windows, with crosses cut into them.
    “Get to the bus!” Jorge yelled. He and the six other survivors jogged forward, but Jorge stopped as he got to the Dog. “Sorry about that. Buck’s trigger-happy. It’s why we love him.”
    The Dog growled, and Jorge took a