Williams collapsed in the mud—the side of his face impacting a reef of basalt, his rifle tumbling before him. In his present condition, the slightest misstep is all it had taken. Behind him, meanwhile, the were-raptors continued to call out—sometimes in their warbling cries while others in their profane speech.
“Give up, pig-fucker,” cried one, not Katrina, as Williams turned his head and saw it duck behind a prairie bush.
“Yes, my love! Give up! We only want you to join us!” cried another—and this time it was Katrina.
He scooted forward and snatched up his rifle, the chamber of which now contained a single bullet, then swiveled and sat up, sighting her almost immediately before she, too, sought refuge behind the scrub.
His vision blurred in and out as he shifted his g*n back and forth
