Starling was asleep, so was Beck. J.B. and Les Habitants were all curled up in, on, under, or around their trucks. The Mean Brothers dozed somewhere on the outer edge of the circle.

Bonner was awake. He sat absolutely still, his back straight against the trunk of a pine tree. The frozen ground was cold on his legs and the back of the tree was hard and uncomfortable against his back. He was away from the dying embers of the fire; he preferred to stay away from the life-giving warmth for fear it would edge him down the road toward sleep and because the friendly light could show his position, bringing a sudden death down on him and his small force.

There was danger around, every fiber of his body reacted, telling him that somewhere out there lurked a menace waiting for its chance to strike.

About an hour before he had heard, far off, the whine of motorcycles. He listened intently, like a cat, and had managed to determine that there were not that. many in the force that was traveling the roads that late winter's night. No more than five, for sure. Bonner turned over all the possibilities in his mind: riders from Chi? Unlikely ... A small group of Radlep scouts? Maybe, but the scouts usually worked in pairs and he had definitely heard more than two bikes. A small party of Stormers? Bonner couldn't remember the last time he had heard of a group of Stormers traveling in a group that small. Dog men—maybe. They were just Leather's speed. Yeah, thought Bonner, 'leps or dog men.

But the sounds of the bikes were long gone now. Of course, he told himself, that didn't mean much. The big blue night may have swallowed up the sounds but that didn't mean that the riders weren't around someplace. A heavy wave of fatigue—it seemed almost thick and viscous, like honey—began creeping over him and, involuntarily, Bonner relaxed for a moment.

He stared up through the overhanging branches of

the trees and found he could just catch a glimpse of the the sky and the bright spangle of winter stars. They were so far off, so clean, so peaceful looking, so removed from the death and dirt that was Bonner's world. ... He wondered idly if there was another place, a happier planet where history had not derailed itself, where men had not made the mistakes that had plunged the earth into cruelty and hate. ....

A footfall in the soft carpet of the forest floor pulled Bonner back to the night that suddenly seemed to stretch before him like a black desert. He cursed himself for getting lazy, for believing, if only for a moment, that he could remove himself from the constant danger of his world by dreaming about another.

He shook himself. Now, he asked himself, had he heard a footstep or not? Bonner's mind ran back over the sound as he tried to recall exactly what he had heard. He decided that he had in fact heard a footstep. The shotgun slid from its leather holster like a deadly steel snake. The Steyr lay across his knees. He moved it and quietly rose into a crouch, sure that the crack of his stiff knee could be heard throughout the forest.

The tiredness was gone and his senses were alive. There was someone, something, there in the darkness, and Bonner's total mind and strength were now committed to the struggle of destroying it before it destroyed him.

Bonner was not prepared for what happened next. He thought he heard the faintest whisper, no more than a swish of breath between lips. It was followed a second later by a heavy, colossal living weight that came flying out of the night to bring him down. The total surprise of the attack caught him off guard and he fell to the ground with a heavy thud, the heavy animal on top of him all claws and teeth and a deafening hideous growling filling his ear.

Bonner wrestled the beast for a second but could feel the deep animal determination as the dog's teeth snapped and snarled, tearing at his clothes, frantically searching for flesh. Bonner jammed his fist into the warm mouth, losing a strip of flesh as he pushed his powerful hand through the curtain of teeth. The animal writhed and Bonner could feel the saliva of the beast mixing with the sweet blood that flowed from his hand. The taste seemed to inflame the animal and she kicked and growled and snorted, try in" to free the constriction in her throat so she could sink her teeth deep into Bonner's body.

He could feel the animal convulse and gag as the windpipe opened and closed, attempting to flex out the intrusion. Bonner clawed a bloody track on the inside of the mouth, feeling his nails scratch up a long skein of flesh.

Then the weight of a second dog landed on him, followed by a third. Bonner kicked his feet wildly, hoping that he would get lucky and his boot would find some part of the two savage beasts that would hurt them, slow them down, anything to keep those teeth from scything into his flesh. His foot connected with something and a dog yelped and fell away but the other one was luckier. It lunged at Bonner's legs and the teeth cut deep into his leg. He felt a sting as blood soaked his pants, cooling instantly in the cold air. The night was filled with the strangled gurglings of the dog that Bonner held in his grasp and the savage tearing growls of the other two.

Suddenly a dog was yanked off his body and Bonner took that moment of freedom to flip over, flattening the dog in whose throat his fist still was buried. He looked up to see a Mean Brother holding a dog by by the scruff of its neck as if it was a mere puppy. The Mean twisted the dog's face around and with the heel of his hand slammed against the hound's sensitive snout. There was a sharp snap like the sound of dry timber cracking as the shaft of the bone supporting the dog's long nose snapped. A mighty shove from the Mean drove the sharp sliver of bone backward, sliding deep into the animal brain, tearing the soft mushy organ to shreds. The dog died instantly.

Bonner had pulled his arm from the jaws of the animal and jammed the short barrel of his shotgun through the rows of teeth in its place. He felt the broken incisors clamp down on the steel. He pulled both triggers and the dog's head and neck vanished as if it was a bloody wet firecracker. The second Mean Brother had gotten hold of the third dog, thrown the wriggling beast to the ground, and squashed the furry throat with a crunch of his huge foot.

"You motherfuckers," screamed an anguished voice from the darkness.

The voice was torn and grief-stricken, creased and sorrowful with tears. It was one of the handlers. He had just witnessed the quick and violent death of a dog that he had set on a thousand men—usually defenseless, scared, weak men—and had always seen those bloody jaws emerge from human flesh with a lick and grin of victory.

The hate in the voice was backed with a tear of 9mm fire, ripping through the trees. Bonner and the Means dropped to the earth as bullets chewed up the ground around them. Bonner caught sight of the muzzle flash and he sprayed the area with the Steyr. A grunt echoed in the darkness followed by the heavy thud of a dead man falling. One, thought Bonner. He looked around him. The Mean Brothers had disappeared.

A shriek rang out in the night and Bonner knew instantly where the Means had vanished to. One or the other of the Means had taken another life with his bare hands.

Bonner listened a moment. Someone was running away, crashing through the underbrush, a defeated man. Without hesitation Bonner took off after him, pounding through the forest in hot pursuit. He ran a hundred yards or so, then dashed into some open ground, a clearing that was littered with the flat stumps of trees, suggesting that some logging had once been done in those parts. There, ahead of him, was the back of the fleeing dog handler. Bonner stopped, raised his light little wasp gun, and fired. A slash of bullets sprayed across the man's shoulders, and the force of the little bullets coupled with the speed of his run threw the dog man face-first on the ground. His lungs deflated and slowly began to fill with blood and fluid. In a minute or two he was dead, drowned in his own body juices.

The pain of his dog bite, irritated by the short, vigorous run through the woods, was beginning to bother Bonner. The violent struggle with the incredibiy strong animal had tired him. He wanted to limp back to the camp, turn over the watch to Starling or Beck or Les Habs, and sleep for a few hours. He. deserved it.

Starling and Beck stood in front of the fire, looking down with interest at the carcasses of the huge dogs.

"Fucking big," observed Starling. "Haw," laughed Beck. "Still just a dog. I woulda wet myself laughing if that thing had gotten the big man Bonner hisself." He looked at Bonner and laughed again. "You dumb fuck, you almost pot sliced by a dog!

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