Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay, Gordon Carroll [howl and other poems .txt] 📗

The night thinned above him, birds chirping their wild songs, the scent of blossoms opening tickling his nose. This was mountain country, but a very different kind of mountain country from his native land. It was gentler, dryer, the winters far milder, the summers a bit hotter. The wind sometimes rushed and blew, but it never reached the howling madness of the hinterland’s storms, where the banshees wailed for weeks on end with no respite, the snow slashing like flying teeth.

No, he liked it here. But still, he had unfinished business back home. The Gray Wolf.

A sound. The distant thrum of an engine coming closer. Max’s ears perked up, scanning to the left and to the right, triangulating on the source. Nearly three minutes later the car breeched the lip of the hill. It stopped well to the west of him and two men dressed in green got out of the car carrying rifles. Max watched them as they looked around. They talked, pointing to several different locations. They separated, each moving to opposite ends and laying down beneath heavy trees. The men reminded him of Two Fingers and The Huge Man.

Max couldn’t see them anymore. But he could smell them.

I spotted the snipers right away. Exactly where I thought they would set up. I had been waiting for the branches to move and when they did I zoomed in with the binoculars. Only two. Good. I swiveled to the right and checked out the cave high up on Creation Rock. It looked clear. I hoped it stayed that way.

It had taken me a little longer than I planned to get Pilgrim in position, but now everything was ready. I just hoped I’d pegged Mr. Spock correctly. Military men tended to think in military strategy; hold the high ground, outflank, overwhelm with superior firepower, attack with surprise from ambush.

The key to defeating that type of strategy was to be ready for the surprise. To ambush the ambush, outflank the flanking maneuver, suppress the superior firepower, and retake the high ground.

Piece of cake.

I stashed the binocs’ and checked the two transmitters hooked on my belt. They were keyed to separate frequencies, one for Max, the other for Pilgrim. The collars weren’t for shocking like most e-collars, they just vibrated. I’d trained them both to react in certain ways to tingle-codes that I would send them by activating the transmitters in a very simplified Morse-Code fashion. The order of the day was pretty straightforward; attack when signaled.

Footsteps snapped on the stone steps to the north of the stage and I realized Mr. Spock had already made a move I hadn’t anticipated. He’d parked on the north, down at the lower lot and walked up the steps to the side of the stage, moving in from beneath Creation Rock.

Amber slept in his arms.

43

I set the binoculars down and picked up the rifle. I sighted in on the sniper to the right; it was the man in black with the diamond stud earring from the gas station in Castle Rock. I placed his upper lip at the center of the crosshairs. I moved my right hand from the rifle to the transmitter that was keyed to Max’s collar and pushed the send button.

Max watched the men as they approached the planters where large pine trees grew. They lay on their bellies beneath the branches, one on either side. They were wearing green and brown splotched clothing that blended with the landscape, but Max didn’t need to see them to know where they were. They made noise. They emitted odor.

They were weak.

Max closed his eyes and used his other senses to hone in on the closest one. Almost time; Max felt it. His saliva glands kicked in and he started to drool. The men in the planters had the same smell, the same feeling of coarse, guttural brutality emanating from them like waves of heat energy as had The Huge Man and Two Fingers.

Max hungered. He wanted to attack, but he couldn’t, not yet. The Alpha had not given the command.

Max’s collar vibrated. He shot up like a coiled spring, vaulting the railing as though it wasn’t there. Landing lightly on the other side of the railing he moved like a launched torpedo.

He hit the man from the side, catching him under the arm near the pit, biting full and wide. A gunshot sounded from below but Max ignored it as the sniper he’d attacked swung down with an elbow, a reflexive move, clipping Max’s forehead. He turned, grunting and grabbed at Max’s face with both hands. But the dog was in a frenzy, violently shaking back and forth, dragging the man’s body and jerking it with each tug and pull. One of the man’s thumbs found Max’s eye and shoved in. Max ducked away from the pain and danger and released his grip, shooting up and forward with blazing speed. His jaws clamped tight on the man’s throat and all four canines dug into the soft flesh. Max worked on pure instinct now, consumed in the feral lust of battle.

The man tried to scream. Max could feel the vibration bubble up into his throat, but only a wet gurgle made it past his lips. The responding growl that rumbled out of Max came unbidden, an exclamation of victory and power over his opponent.

The man’s struggles slowed, his trembling hands falling limply to his sides. He became loose weight in Max’s jaws. Max dragged the man’s body backwards, jerking his bulk over the edge of the planter and continuing back blindly.

Through the rifle scope’s magnified glass, I saw Diamond Stud lift his head and look over to his right, his attention averted. Max would be attacking his partner across from him, my little surprise. I pulled the trigger and felt the recoil against my shoulder. A red mist filled the air behind Diamond Stud’s head and he