Theaella

22

Matthew got his foot up just in time to ram it into the bully kutta’s jaws. Caging his head with his forearms, he rolled sideways and the pit-mastiff blasted past him, claws skidding in the dirt.

Clamped onto the abrasion-resistant outsole of Matthew’s boot, the bully kutta shook his head violently, flinging Matthew’s leg back and forth.

Matthew felt his boot rip free. The bully kutta reared up, jaws still locked around the boot as the pit-mastiff collided with him.

Overhead the audience thundered.

Matthew had an instant to draw his ARES and shoot both dogs, but the Tenth Commandment—Never let an innocent die—applied here as surely as anywhere else. He couldn’t hurt a victim even if that victim wasn’t human.

The pit-mastiff regrouped, readying to sink his fangs into the bully kutta’s flank.

Matthew’s belt, still looped into a noose, had landed in the dirt to his side. Rising to his knees, he snatched it up and slung it over the pit-mastiff’s head from behind just as the massive dog lunged.

The dog’s momentum yanked Matthew off his knees, scraping his chin through the blood-softened earth. Even so, he held on to the belt, a fallen water-skier refusing to release the tow rope.

He pulled himself up onto the big animal’s back and ratcheted the belt tight, forcing the jaws agape. He fought the prong through the tightest punch hole, gagging the dog and shoving him clear just as the bully kutta dropped Matthew’s boot from his mouth and attacked.

Matthew got an arm under the muzzle as the dog landed on him, pounding him into the earth. Claws dug at Matthew’s chest, the snapping teeth inches from his face. The dog’s steaming breath smelled of meat and the sour chemical tinge of the juice firing his system.

Matthew had to turn his cheek to the dirt to avoid having his nose taken off. At the far side of the arena, the pit-mastiff was shaking his head furiously, gnawing at Matthew’s belt with his molars and making headway.

Matthew groped on the dirt, his fingers finally closing around his chewed Original S.W.A.T. He rammed his hand through the throat of the boot and shoved it at the bully kutta’s face. The dog took the bait, snatching the boot, twisting it off Matthew’s fist, and flinging it aside.

Matthew rolled back over his shoulders onto his feet and dove for the transport crate. He landed on top with enough force to dent the stainless steel.

Charging in his wake, the bully kutta skidded into the crate, claws scrabbling for purchase on the metal floor. The crate rocked when he struck the far end.

As the dog regrouped below, Matthew grabbed for his Strider, snapping the blade open as he whipped it from his pocket.

He swiped at the rope tied to the guillotine door, severing it. The stainless sheet screeched down an instant before the bully kutta collided with it, trying to escape. This time the impact rocked the crate up off the ground, sliding Matthew neatly off the top and depositing him back in the dirt.

The pit-mastiff was on top of him instantly, gathering him between his legs and pressing his gagged-open mouth to Matthew’s shoulder. Miraculously, the belt held, but even so the distributed pressure of the oval of teeth pressed into Matthew’s skin.

He shoved the dog off him and heaved himself upright.

The bleachers were in a frenzy, gamblers standing and screaming, waving their tickets, cords standing out in their necks. The bouncers stared down uneasily.

Matthew drew his ARES and fired straight up into the ceiling.

The gunshots broke the bloodlust spell, cheers turning to shouts, the gamblers stampeding for the exits. The bouncers backed away from the pit’s edge, turning to run.

Another noise rose now above the din—police sirens, maybe a few blocks away.

The pit-mastiff collided with Matthew’s leg, mouthing his calf around the belt. Matthew tore his leg free and kneed the dog aside. The dog spun up onto his paws again, lowering his head. The wide jaw of his square head pulsed, the belt snapping like a rubber band, freeing his fangs.

Matthew ran across the arena, jumped onto the far crate, and leapt from there up onto the knotted rope ladder.

The dog followed on his heels, sailing in his wake, growling and snapping right up until he collided with the dirt wall just below Matthew. Still snarling, he fell away.

Matthew hoisted himself up, gasping, and flung himself over the side.

He knocked into something—a plastic gate—and landed on his belly.

He looked up to see that he’d taken down the wall of the warm-up pen.

Three revved-up dogs-in-waiting charged him.

He had no time to react, let alone cover himself from three sides. This was how it would end, then. Torn to shreds in the cafeteria of a defunct local TV station.

At the last instant, the dogs jerked away from him, flying backward, yelping in pain.

Each had hit the end of its respective chain.

Now they turned and tried to attack one another, but the chains had been measured to keep them just out of reach. Another strategy to hold them at the red-hot edge of attack, fired up and ready to go.

They raged against their choke-chain collars, their snarls amplified off the high ceiling.

On all fours Matthew backed away slowly, rose, and turned to go.

The cafeteria was largely empty by now, the last of the gamblers making for the exits. But the man who’d injected the dogs remained, bald pate shining, wisps of sweat-darkened hair rimming his shoulders.

He must have twisted an ankle during the stampede, because he bent one leg back now to hold his foot off the floor. His hands were raised defensively at Matthew as he hobbled back another step toward the door.

“Look, man. I’m sorry. They told me to let them loose. I don’t hurt people, man. I’m just the vet. I just wanna—” He stepped wrong and winced. “Please. I’m just in charge of the fighters.”