"Michael Z. Williamson - The Humans Call it Duty" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williamson Michael Z)

Slipping through the growth, padding slowly and cautiously so as not to
rustle, he edged around their clearing. There was one box, at the base of a tree,
standing on its legs. It took only a moment to bite it gingerly between fangs and turn
it the other way. And it was so thoughtful of them to paint the back side yellow.

Another patient turn brought him to two more. The last of the three was stuck
in a tree on a spike. It took some figuring on what to do, as it was wedged in tightly.
But it shifted a little when he gripped it, and he was able to rotate it around its mount.

After that, it was no trick to get back in the trees, on the high branches. They
would take his weight, and afforded him a path to the edge of the clearing. Lower he
slipped, quickly and quietly, until he was following a long run over a graybark limb
that overhung the area. He crouched on the perch and waited. Whenever she faced
away he slipped a few steps closer. Cynd was walking back and forth, and sooner
or later would pass under him. The others snored, alertness dulled by fatigue. He
would have a few seconds. That would be enough.

Cynd was walking toward him. She would pass underneath . . . now.
Reaching down like a stretching spring, Cap got as low as he could. His paws were
bare meters above her Helmut visor, unseen in her restricted vision. He let go with
his rear claws and dropped, feeling weight pull him down.

She wore Armor and her Helmet, but her face was exposed, and her legs. He
knocked her flat under his weight, felt the breath whuff out of her, and locked his
jaws over her face. She gasped for air, and he knew she was trying to scream in his
mouth, as a yearling would. Her hands scrabbled for a weapon, but he pinned her
arms down with his paws, letting the claws sink into the flesh and holding them
tightly. As her gyrations increased, he unsheathed his rear claws and gouged deeply
into her thighs. Hot wetness splashed, and the body underneath thrashed and
thumped. He was intent on the kill, but his awareness was still with him, and he heard
another voiceless scream of distress and the sound of gear.

With no hesitation, he rolled off Cynd, and charged away, legs pumping and
lungs heaving as he drove around the trees in long bounds. Bullets came after him,
and he dodged back and forth, stumbling over a rotten stick, rolling through a patch
of ground ivy, and away.

Shouts were followed by loud bangs as someone detonated the mines. The
explosions tugged at him, wind snapping at the leaves. But if they were bad for him
...

His ears were ringing slightly, but he could hear shrieks and shouts, swearing
and confusion. The heavy growth would have stopped most of the metal stings from
the mines, but they had to have been disorienting. And frightening. That was what he
wanted. He wanted them afraid, wanted them to know, to understand and regret.

This was not their home. This was his. And he would protect it.

There was the sound of pursuit. He listened, head turning, to localize the
noise. There was one, that way. He stretched out his hearing again.