Cannon

12

Cannon did not waste his chance. With just a thought, he unleashed the stopper that had held his dragon-self in check. All those years, those last few hours when freedom was just within reach, came to the fore.

He let it all go, and his dragon form burst forth. It felt almost ecstatic, the purest, most vivid expression of self. A self that had been contained for so long.

His head elongated and morphed into a jagged taper of an angular dragon skull. Blood-red scales erupted over his skin that was rapidly widening and enlarging into four colossal legs, tipped by lethal talons.

The only things lacking were his wings. The general had made sure he wouldn’t be able to fly away from the mission.

His transformation temporarily halted the bullets. Clearly, no one had anticipated such a reaction to a nighttime raid.

Cannon used the short reprieve to his advantage. Standing twenty feet tall, he used his height to better survey their attackers. There were six in all, and he surmised they were heavily armed and unafraid of a skirmish.

One attacker was positioned just to his left, in the deep notch of a thick tree. He was easy to dispatch. The tree juddered and spat out its contents with a flick of his massive tail. From there, it was easy for Cannon to simply step sideways, feeling the body flatten beneath his powerful foot.

However, in moving, he discovered another attacker lying in wait who leveled a knife at his leg. Though it barely penetrated the thick scales, Cannon registered the prick of pain it extracted.

Twisting his head, he was able to knock the attacker to his feet, consigning the knife to a rusty end by being lost in the underbrush. After that, all Cannon had to do was s***h at the exposed belly of the man with a talon. Shrieking, the man went from matte black to glossy black as his lifeblood spewed.

“That’s no scratch,” Cannon muttered to himself, turning to face three more attackers who were fanned out beyond his other flank.

These attackers were not about to take chances with trees or knives. They fully relied on the power of the gun. Bullets, a torrent of them, rained at Cannon. They must have lacked night vision, though, because many sprayed wide.

Small zings of pain erupted on Cannon’s side and back as he crashed forward in pursuit. In response, the bullets continued, but he could see his quarry retreat. It was simply a game of cat and mouse now. Either they would fill him with lead, or he would crush them with strength. He was determined not to lose.

The closest attacker, a rotund-shaped man clad all in black, stood resolutely only fifteen feet away, the flare of his gun lighting up his face with every shot. But even he, with his pugnacious expression, began to retreat as Cannon came near.

And then, the attacker tripped – a fallen log in the exact right spot. Cannon was instantly grateful for the wonders of nature as the man comically fell ass over teakettle into the brush.

One quick snap of Cannon’s jaws dispatched the man’s bowling ball of a head from his body.

That left only two. They were close to each other, separated by only a few feet. As he approached, Cannon felt their desperation rise. Bullets still flew up to greet him, but he used the cover of the trees to shield himself from most of them.

It would only take one small window, Cannon knew, before he could wipe them out. He just had to ride it out.

Sure enough, the moment came. One attacker on the right suddenly stopped firing. By the insistent metallic sound that now issued forth, Cannon reasoned the gun had suddenly jammed. Cannon seized the moment, grabbing the man with one front paw. The guerrilla screamed in surprise. Cannon held him aloft for several terrifying seconds before whipping him around like a string.

The man’s dizzying misery was ended when Cannon slammed him against his fellow attacker. Both bodies crumpled like paper.

A sense of immense satisfaction surged through Cannon as he surveyed the flattened and bloodied ground glinting brightly in the moonlight.

It was short-lived, though. A small cry made him turn. Shock quickly overtook Cannon as he realized he had missed one of the attackers. And he had found Ryver.

Turning on a dime, Cannon lurched toward her. He could see she was not defeated just yet. She had managed to find a sturdy log, and though the man scrambled to disarm her, she kept him at bay with several well-timed swings. He managed to dodge each. Cannon was still too far away to help. A howl escaped him in a fury.

The cry caused her attacker to turn to the sound. Just then, Ryver swung the log one more time, this time landing it squarely on her attacker’s head. With a satisfying thud, his body fell at her feet.

She stood, for many moments, just staring at his inert form.

“Are you all right?” Cannon asked, pulling up to a stop.

In response, Ryver surveyed her body. She seemed to be in a daze. It was then Cannon saw it – a bright gash in her side, a fluorescent s***h of wetness.

“Your side,” he growled.

She looked down and winced. “Oh yes. I guess there’s that.” Looking up at him, she laughed quietly.

“You’re a real dragon,” she said, awe tinging her voice.

“That I am. Or can be,” he replied, turning back into his human form. It felt diminishing, but he needed the great gift of humans – opposable thumbs.

Kneeling near her, he inspected the wound. “It’s not too bad. I’ve seen worse,” he said, pulling out the first-aid kit and bandaging the injury.

“That’s comforting,” she said, gritting her teeth as he pulled the bandage tightly.

“Stay here for a moment.”

She did so, resting back on the soft earth. Cannon shifted back once more to his dragon self. Using his talons and mouth, he quickly assembled the six bodies of their attackers and dumped them unceremoniously in a thick bush.

“Don’t want to make things easier for our pursuers, now, do we?”

Ryver nodded, watching with unabashed fascination at his dragon agility and grace.