By the time Sheriff Whitman had thrown open the door and levelled his service revolver, the beast had pinned Conners in the snow and was scooping his guts out like jello. So, too, had it torn his upper garments away so that the young deputy was bare-chested and fully exposed as still more raptors clambered over the top of the squad car—and yet more streamed from between the trees—and descended upon him in a bloody free-for-all—even as Whitman opened fire and Sheila screamed and Erik looked out his bedroom window in abject terror.
Crack! Crack! Crack! 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 C
