H10N1 by M. R. Cornelius, Marsha Cornelius Page B

scanned the dark cavern ahead. The rising sun cast a good beam of light into the far end but she saw nothing. So were these dogs wandering on their own—wild? Rabid?
    Holding her gun in front of her, Taeya stepped around the corner of the van.
    A huge black dog with a massive jaw leaped into the air, straight at her. His front paws hit her in the shoulders, sending her reeling. She felt herself tumbling backwards, the dog’s claws raking down her chest. She squeezed the trigger twice before her head cracked on the pavement. Her teeth slammed together. Pain exploded in her skull. She couldn’t see past the tracers zipping in front of her eyes.
    A sudden calm washed over her and her eyes rolled back in her head.
    Then a split second later, the dog’s lifeless body crashed onto her chest, driving the butt of the pistol into her sternum. She gasped for air, felt warm blood spread across her belly.
    One thought. Get the dog off. She released her grip on the gun, let it flatten on her stomach. Air, she needed air.
    Gripping the dead dog by the neck, she tried to roll it to the side. He gave a short yelp and came alive. His legs scrabbled to gain traction. It snarled and lunged at her with jaws that snapped like a steel trap. She dug her fingers deep into its matted fur and pushed.
    He inched his way closer, his teeth clacking, his hot breath smelling of carrion. Her arms trembled as she fought to hold him back. Closing her eyes, she lowered her chin to protect her throat and braced herself for the attack.
    Over the years, she’d played out different scenarios of her demise. A crash in one of the puddle-jumpers she flew in, caught in the crossfire of mercenaries. She’d never envisioned herself reaching old age, but she never dreamed it would end like this either.
    A gunshot rang out and warm blood rained on her face. The dog’s head slumped onto her shoulder, its lips quivering as blood oozed over its lolling tongue. Two more shots rang out.
    She felt a blissful weightlessness like she was floating. Was she dying?
    Pain at the base of her skull jangled all the way down her spine, so she wasn’t dead yet. She eased open her eyes. Rick was on his knees beside her, panting.
    Ever so gently, he brushed a lock of hair off her face. “Sanchez?”
    She made a slow assessment. Her neck turned without snapping, her fingers moved, her toes curled.
    When she tried to sit up, Rick slipped a hand under her neck and helped her. The motion sent her equilibrium on a roller coaster ride.
    She heard Rick’s voice echo from far away. “Maybe you should lie back down.”
    Bile gushed up her throat. She rolled onto her elbows and retched. Concussion? Headache and nausea, certainly. But had she lost consciousness? She didn’t feel confused. She remembered the whole attack, from the time Rick yelled until the dog somehow got off her chest. Had Rick dragged it off?
    She eased to sitting and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. No blurred vision. But what she saw was startling. Tears had pooled in Rick’s eyes. He quickly blinked them away.
    “You scared the hell out of me, Doc.”
    “Yeah.” Her voice came out breathless. She inhaled deeply to settle her stomach and calm her still-trembling hands. Blowing out a gust of air, she sighed. “What a way to start the morning.”
    She glanced up at Rick, but he didn’t look too happy. His left hand supported his right elbow, and his right wrist was dripping blood onto the gun still in his fist.
    “Oh, God!”
    He gave her a weak smile. “The bastards tag-teamed me.”
    In an instant, she was on her feet. She gripped his elbow and twisted it upward to get a better look at the bite. A dull pop shocked her.
    Rick let out a scream that echoed in the tunnel. Then he gently rotated his shoulder. “Huh.” He shrugged a little. “Well that took care of the dislocation.”
    Where was her professionalism? She needed to slow down. And get Rick into the van for a proper examination.
     
    She studied the deep