Sky Mesa Ladrón

They run.
They turn.
They brace.
Niño surges.
There’s a blow upside the head. His vision’s blocked. He bucks; a bronto, wrenching the pack from his face and shredding it with head whips. The torn pieces drop from his teeth.

Niños’ eyes are stone cold.
Those eyes have seen his own jaws carving through a man’s neck.
Blood spattering.
Heads rolling.
Some men beg, cry, call out to God, or their mamas, or the names of their children. They pissed themselves, they vomited, they pleaded.

Your eyes would be stone, too.

This man was lucky.
This man should be praying to his new God, Juárez, who says break a leg instead of break a neck.
The hound tears forward, aiming to deadbolt his jaws on one hind leg.
No liberation until he hears the snap.
But he wouldn't be done.

One broken leg? That says 'bad accident'.
Two broken legs? That sends a message.