c***k! c***k! c***k! went Whitman’s revolver as the raptors began to fall and Conners continued to scream—until a sickled claw raked the length of his face, ending his screaming forever. At last one of the beasts turned its monstrous head toward Whitman, one of Conners’ entrails dangling from its mouth, and barked as if to alert the others. And then they were coming, filing after each other like a coiled rope pulled taut, and Whitman retreated into the house even as Sheila yanked the door shut—which the snarling beasts rammed into with incredible force, all but smashing it off its hinges.
“Hurry up,” snapped Whitman, grabbing one of the dining room chairs and lodging it diagonally beneath the knob. “Let’s get some furniture against this.”
He gripped the sides of the refrigerator and roc
