Carry the Flame by James Jaros Page B

savages. He didn’t dare pull it out—too close to vertebrae—any more than he’d yank on the blade. The doctor would see to the weapons, the Lord to his well-being.
    He took the shoulder of a road through a valley formed by steep, drought-stricken hills. The pavement itself was another wasteland, but the side looked mostly unriven. He rode the cycle faster than he’d ever dared, gripping the throttle tightly, gritting his teeth, anything to escape the sharpening pain.
    He didn’t notice Pixie-bobs until they rampaged down the slope to his left, trailing streaks of silt so fine that they hung in the air like smoke.
    His pain fled, body triaging threats, veins fat with adrenaline. He pushed the Harley harder, risking sudden splits in the crumbly surface and rocks that could condemn him to a gruesome death. But better to die from a crash than to be taken down by this pack. Even the screaming engine couldn’t drown out the death call of the cats.
    In a blur he did come upon a hole so deep that he caught no sight of the bottom as he launched over the void at a harrowing speed, the shadow of man and bike disappearing into blackness. Clearing the threat, he gave thanks, but a terrifying yowl tore his eyes from the sky to the cats now springing off the eroded remains of a retaining wall. Two of them lunged at him from feet away, fell short and were trampled.
    A numbed memory reminded him they were sprinters, good only for the predatory pounce; but they’d sustained their charge for a minute at least—though terror always wound a tight clock—and were still exploding at him.
    The one in the lead, ears pinned back like all the rest, bounded over a chasm and landed on his shoulder, bit off his ear, clawed his cheek, and tore open his neck—and in such rapid succession that he almost dumped the bike.
    He pulled the beast from his flesh and threw it aside, flinching as another one jumped for his leg. He jerked his boot off the foot peg and watched the Pixie-bob flail before it fell under the rear wheel with an audible thump.
    â€œOh, God” was all he allowed of prayer or imprecation before two more landed on his back, ripping at his bloody skin, and a third clamped its claws around his left arm and sank its needle teeth into his elbow. The onslaught almost drove him off the shoulder into a dry riverbed to his right.
    In a fearsome effort he tore the Pixie-bob from his arm and hurled it to the dirt. Wind whipped blood from his eviscerated elbow as he registered the full savagery of the cats on his back.
    A series of fast, furious bites by his shoulder blade made him risk another lunge; but when he grabbed the creature’s head, it bit the meaty base of his thumb, boiling pain through the whole of his hand.
    He tried to release the animal but it bit down harder. Frantically, he shook his hand till a chunk of palm started tearing loose. Sensing release, he beat the beast against the side of the Harley till the flesh tore away completely and the cat fell off, still gulping pulpy tissue.
    He throttled hard despite the cat feeding on the muscle next to his spine. Then the claws climbed higher, and he knew the P-bob was trenching up his back, ripping him open.
    He told himself he could take the pain. Just thirty more seconds and the pack would have to give up and he could kill the cat eating him alive. But the beast was wrapping its legs around his skull, clawing his scalp, brow, temples, and lips. With its warm belly pressed to the back of his head, its musk ripening the fast flowing air, the Pixie-bob ripped his face from the corner of his eye to his bloody nub of ear.
    When it tried to claw him again, he turned to the side, fearing the loss of sight above all else, and spotted the mass of Pixie-bobs slowing, watching, as if waiting for the cat shredding his skull to bring him down. Then the creature’s hind leg jammed the knife handle, driving the blade sideways in his wound. A scalding