I don’t how long it took to finally ward them off: maybe 50 seconds, maybe 5 minutes—all I know is that by the time they retreated to their partially-collapsed buildings and stands of hoary hawthorns we were utterly and thoroughly wasted; I mean trashed, and just collapsed in heaps right there on the floor—on the black and white checkered tile of The Alienated Heifer.
“Jesus,” gasped Quint. “Just ... I thought we were goners. Like, serious goners.” He rolled over onto his back and exhaled, explosively. "I gotta hand it to you; you guys rallied like sons of bitches.” He laughed suddenly, boisterously, which became a coughing jag. “Wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it myself.”
I looked at Jesse—who was on his hands and knees next to me—in time to see his reaction, which wasn’t pleased.
