A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters - Martin Harry Greenberg [103]
“Bernie!” Dean kneels by him. Long claw gouges run down Bernie’s chest, the tatters of his flannel shirt and overalls gaping over bleeding flesh. His blistering curses reassuring me, I spin to the Uncanny, bringing the NetShot up.
In the stark glare of the outside lights, the yeti becomes even more unearthly, hair whirling, huge shadow dancing in crazy patterns. I sight above his head, knowing it’s the best shot at the dragon. Sure enough, despite the snapping teeth of the leaping wolves, the dragon circles his head, feinting, striking. “DUCK!” The yeti crouches lower. The dragon dodges. I fire.
The net shoots out of the launcher barely visible. To my relief, weighted edges spin out just as designed. I’ve never woven a net for a NetShot. Bernie has, so I trusted his guidance. It glitters, suddenly visible, then winks out; enough to draw the dragon’s sharp eye but not enough to warn. In the next instant the dragon tumbles to the ground, wings and limbs tangled.
The wolves circle. It screeches and flaps, trying to writhe away from wherever the yeti-hair net touches its scaly hide. I shoulder aside the wolves to get to it—the netting leaves bright white scorches on it. I don’t want to torture the thing, but how to restrain it? “Dean! Get my knitting needle case!”
“WHAT?” His incredulous yell makes a laugh bubble up, but the dragon’s pained noises kill it.
“Just DO IT.” I gingerly lift the netting away from the dragon. It strikes like a snake, a lancing bite catching my finger. “Dammit! I’m trying to HELP!”
That works. The dragon stills the frantic beating of its wings and quiets. Untwisting the net, I lift, making sure the weighted edges stay flush with the ground. When the net hangs over the dragon like a little tent, it lays panting, baleful yellow eyes staring at me. Blood drips from my finger. The dragon’s head shoots out, catching the droplets. I try to ignore it as Dean drops down beside me.
“Put some needles around the edges to hold this up. The net hurts it.”
Using size 15s, Dean jams knitting needles into the ground like miniature stakes, twisting the net around the top of each until it forms a net-cage.
“We care that it hurts?” a feral voice growls.
“Your father will.”
“Yep.” Bernie’s voice. Two daughters half-shifted to their intermediary humanoid forms support him.
“It started for the sheep,” one rasps. I recognize Laura, the youngest. “Then Dad came out and it went for him. It was after him. Didn’t even look at me.”
Bernie pulls away from his daughters to kneel down, wincing. He widens a hole in the netting, reaching through. His fingers shake but the dragon stays still, and he touches the collar without getting bitten, mumbling under his breath. The dragon’s tongue flickers out, licking blood from his fingers.
Bernie’s mumbling ends and crackling tree branches bring us around. The dragon hisses, eyes narrowing. Ned Dietrich walks toward us in the jerky, unnatural way I’ve only ever seen in zombies.
“Dammit, Ned,” Bernie sounds cross, but resigned. “Never know when it’ll start on humans, eh? Suppose making me the human takes out two birds. You can stop worrying about me talking, and get everyone yelling for Uncanny blood.” He releases the dragon’s collar.
As if the movement cuts a set of invisible strings holding Ned up, he drops to his knees, gasping. His hand lifts, massaging his chest and throat. A fine leather—leather? no, dragonhide—gauntlet encases his left forearm, like a falconer’s glove. A silver bracelet buckles around it, a match for the dragon’s collar. Ned glares at Bernie, jaw clenching.
“The guy defending the monsters gets killed by one. That’d turn even the most level-