Primal Threat - Earl Emerson [75]
“Thank God I thought to cut down that tree last night,” said Muldaur. “Or they’d be up here shooting us by now.”
“Yeah,” said Zak. “We’re lucky it’s just this good-natured animal.”
Giancarlo set the makeshift spear in the triangle of Zak’s bike frame, its shaft between Zak’s outspread legs. “What are you doing?” Zak protested.
“Just keep your legs like that. Don’t move. Now I want you to get him really pissed.”
“Isn’t he already pissed?”
“Do it,” said Muldaur. “We’ve been here too long. For all we know they’re walking up the hill. Think about it. They’re not going to leave him.”
As soon as they stopped throwing rocks, the dog began inching forward, growling at Zak. “Come on, you egg sucker,” said Zak. “Try me.”
With the bikes in a semicircle, the four of them huddled inside, Zak the centerpiece and bait. Directly behind Zak, Giancarlo squatted with the six-foot pole between his legs, the sharpened tip resting on Zak’s bicycle frame.
“Whatever you do, don’t move,” said Giancarlo.
“Don’t move? Jesus, look at him!” The dog had closed in, locking eyes with Zak. From the sounds of the snarling, Zak knew he was readying for an attack, coming in low, ears flattened, haunches skimming the ground, muscular flanks rippling with tension. Zak’s fear was that he would leap at his face and bypass Giancarlo’s spear entirely.
Zak could feel the dampness in his short-fingered cycling gloves, a trickle of sweat wending its way down his spine. He wished he had something in his hands besides a twenty-three-pound bicycle. Both Stephens and Muldaur had rocks, but every time they cocked their arms to throw one, the dog backed off. Now, in accordance with Giancarlo’s instructions, they let their arms hang slack.
The dog moved to Zak’s right, then his left, scouting for weaknesses, for a moment of inattention, leery about absorbing another fusillade of stones. He would have already attacked if they hadn’t made him cautious with all their rock throwing.
“Easy,” said Giancarlo. “Get lower.”
“Why am I the staked goat?”
“Because you’re the cute one. He’s stalling. He thinks it’s a trick. Bark at him. Piss him off.”
“Bark at him?”
“Do it.”
Zak barked. “Act like a poodle,” said Muldaur. “Like you’re in heat.”
“Next time you’re the goat. Arf. Arf.”
“There isn’t going to be a next time,” said Giancarlo. “A dog like this gives you one chance.”
“What are you guys doing?” Stephens said. “You can’t even get him to attack?”
A moment later the dog lunged, thrusting through the triangle in the bike frame. Zak felt Giancarlo’s shoulder against his back, and for a moment he thought he was being pushed into the dog. Then the snarling animal let out a sound that wasn’t quite a yelp, more like a cushion having the air squeezed out of it, and all three of them toppled forward, Giancarlo on Zak, Zak on his bike, the bike on the dog. Somehow Giancarlo had punched the shaft of the sharpened Douglas fir between the dog’s open jaws and was skewering the animal, Giancarlo’s thick shoulders and muscular arms tensing with the work.
“Move! Move! Move!” Giancarlo said.
Before he knew what was happening, Zak was jerked out of the fray by Muldaur. “Jesus,” said Muldaur. “What do you want us to do?”
“Just leave me be. It’s going to take a second.”
Astonishingly, it took almost half a minute to kill the big dog. All Zak could think was that if he had a spear rammed down his gullet, he’d be dead in seconds. After it was finished, Giancarlo snapped the haft off his makeshift spear, grabbed the dog by a hind leg with one hand, and dragged him across the road, tossing him down a scree into the trees.
“That was just vicious,” said Stephens.
“Zak’ll be fine as soon as he changes his shorts,” said Muldaur, laughing.
Zak started to laugh, and then Muldaur laughed louder. Giancarlo joined in. Stephens glanced from one fireman to another before trying on a weak smile. “I suppose, really, when you