"David L. Robbins - Endworld 01 - The Fox Run" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robbins David L)

movements hampered by the weight of the buck.
The dog hit him squarely in the center of his back, the buck absorbing
the brunt of the brutal impact, the force of the blow still sufficient to drive
Blade to his knees, and he dropped the deer and twisted, his right-hand
Bowie drawn and ready, held waist high, the blade extended.
He's show these bloodsuckers how he got his nickname!
The lead dog was a big one, called a German shepherd in the days before
the Big Blast. Huge, hungry, and deadly, it curled its lips back to display
long, sharp teeth, its body crouched, its legs tensed for the spring.
The bow had landed to one side. The buck was lying on the ground
between them.
"Come and get it!" Blade hissed.
The dog obliged. The German shepherd leaped, snarling.
Blade side-stepped, his right hand flashing, the Bowie slicing into the
dog, opening its neck, crimson spurting over the grass.
The dog yelped and landed unsteadily, wavering, stunned by the sudden
loss of blood.
Blade put his Bowie in its sheath and scooped up his bow. He drew an
arrow and fired in one smooth, practiced motion, the dog dead on its feet
before it realized what had happened, and Blade was spinning, another
arrow ready, because the pack was on him now, and the second dog was
caught in midair, the arrow thudding into the hairy brown chest and
toppling the animal to one side.
The pack didn't miss a beat.
Another dog, a mixed breed, came in low and fast and struck Blade in
the legs as he was notching another arrow to the bow string.
Blade fell, flinging the bow aside, grabbing his Bowie knives, one in each
hand, and he rose to his knees, slashing right and left, frantically cutting
and slicing, berserk, and he lost count of the number of dogs he laid open,
the fur and the dust and the blood flying in every direction, the barking
and snapping and yowling reaching a crescendo.
A Doberman pinscher fearlessly plowed into Blade, slamming into his
chest, bowling him over, exposed and defenseless.
The pack expectantly howled with glee and closed in.
Blade managed to bury his left-hand Bowie in the Doberman. I gave it
my best shot, he thought, which was small consolation for failing to get
the meat back to the Family.
Teeth bit into his left calf.
Another dog had his left wrist in a vise grip.
Blade lunged with his remaining Bowie, ramming the knife into a black
dog's throat. He was surrounded by the raging canines.
One of the dogs to his right was abruptly picked up and smashed to the
earth, and an instant later the blast from the 30-06 carried to Blade's
ears. Another dog, the one gripping his wrist, twisted and dropped away,
flesh and blood erupting from its neck.
Hickok, Blade speculated.
A war whoop was added to the din.
And Geronimo.
Blade grinned, relieved, as the 30-06 continued booming.
Four more of the dogs were down now, and the ones still able took off,