Free 7th Sigma by Steven Gould

asked Rooster.
    â€œUh, sure.”
    Kimble stuck it in the ground near Rooster’s quarrels and trotted back around to Ruth.
    â€œReady?” asked Ruth.
    â€œI guess,” said Frank.
    The other two men nodded.
    Kimble banged a short stick against his jyo , loud as he could. Ruth began pitching the rocks into the underbrush, low, changing her aim slightly with each one. On her fourth shot, there was a yelp from the brush. She pitched more rocks in that general direction. Kimble moved closer to the salt brush, dropped his short stick, and began whaling on the bushes with the jyo . There was another yelp from inside the brush and then Kimble heard the crossbow twang, followed almost immediately by the discharge of one of Barney’s barrels, then the more muted noise of Frank’s bow twice in succession and yelps of pain.
    â€œOne pulled back in!” yelled Frank. “Watch it!”
    Kimble, still flailing at the brush, didn’t see the pit-bull cross dart out of the bush to his right and, teeth bared, lunge at his exposed heel.
    â€œLook out!” shouted Ruth.
    Kimble twisted away as he heard the warning, followed almost immediately by a solid “thunk.” He saw Ruth’s jyo pull back and the dog drop into the sand, suddenly limp.
    He backed away from the brush. The dog’s head was lopsided, a definite dent behind one eye.
    â€œYou can look at it later,” Ruth said. “Keep your eyes open.”
    â€œYes, Sensei. Thanks.” He backed away from the edge of the brush, his jyo held for thrusting. They were all frozen, watching, waiting for more movement. When nothing else happened, Ruth called, “How many did you get?”
    â€œFour.”
    â€œWe got one, too,” Ruth said.
    â€œOh,” said Frank. “What with the dissected one, that leaves just one. The odd one.”
    Kimble took a step back.
    â€œI’d like to get a look at that,” said Rooster.
    â€œMe, too,” said Ruth. “But I don’t want anyone hurt, to get that look.”
    Frank walked around toward Ruth and Kimble. “Give it a hole to run through,” he suggested. “We can try some more rocks, too.”
    They moved the semicircle more to the upstream side, leaving a gap near the bluff, and Kimble gathered more rocks for everyone. Barney changed out his barrel and stood ready. “If anything has a chance of stopping it, it’ll be the gun, right?”
    Ruth said gently, “And what if it doesn’t like being shot at?”
    Barney retorted, “What if it doesn’t like you pitchin’ rocks at it? Besides, I’m sure the dog I shot didn’t like it, but he didn’t have much say, either.”
    Frank and Ruth exchanged glances and Frank shrugged.
    They picked up rocks and threw in unison, starting at the near edge and shifting their area of concentration. They could hear the rocks rattling through the branches and striking the bluff and the ground and then a clanking sound.
    Rooster froze. “Christ. I swear that sounds like metal.”
    â€œCouldn’t be,” said Barney. “Where are the bugs?”
    Rooster looked uncertain. “It was about dead center. Everybody?”
    This time there were several clanking hits followed by the rustling of underbrush and then a cracking sound as one of the taller salt cedars abruptly fell to one side.
    â€œWhat’s that smell?” asked Barney.
    â€œOzone,” said Ruth.
    â€œI see movement!” Barney said excitedly, pulling the gun higher. Everyone shifted over to where they could look past Barney toward the far end of the brush.
    The dark dog took three deliberate steps out of the underbrush and its head swiveled toward them. It looked like a Doberman except there was no brown on it, just an oily black. Where there should have been eyes there were slightly darker patches. The ears were triangular—sharp, with impossibly straight edges.
    Ruth said,