Post by gunnut on Jul 29, 2021 16:52:32 GMT -6
McKay was oblivious to the loud crack and sharp kick, He quickly ran the bolt of his rifle and was back on target before the brass hit the ground but there was no need for a follow up shot the deer was just a lump of brown and grey lying in the snow. Not much snow, maybe two inches, first snow of the year and it fell on opening day.
"Like it was struck by lightning" he muttered to himself as he lowered the rifle and snicked on the safety, unwrapped the sling from around his arm and slung it over his shoulder.The rifle, which he had secretly nicknamed Mjolnir, was a Smith and Wesson 1700 in 270 Winchester. It had belonged to his grandpa, and McKay figured it still did but when he’d been 15 he’d borrowed it to go hunting and had kinda just kept it. His uncles, dad, brothers, and most of his cousins all seemed to have 270’s, his uncle Chris reloaded for it so ammo was still pretty easy to come by. Uncle Chris even had a pretty good stockpile of jacketed bullets.
His uncle had worked up two loads, one a high powered jacketed bullet load for hunting that had a dead hold out to 350 or so yards and a cast load, his uncle called it a cat fart load, that had the same dead hold zero out to about 100 yards. Uncle Chris said not to use the cast load on any big game but McKay had seen his uncle kill deer with it at 20 yards with head shots. They’d also used it to kill a cow for meat a few years ago, it was a 135 grain gas check bullet cast from 50/50 wheel weights and pure lead, over 8 grains of Unique, it went about 1250-1300 fps and while that may seem kinda inadequate when you killed smaller animals with it there wasn't a lot of bloodshot meat even with rabbits you could, as his uncle was fond of saying, eat right up to the bullet hole. The jacket load on the other hand was a full throttle load. A one hundred thirty grain Hornady interlock with fifty six and a half grains of Ramshot Hunter sending it hurting out of the barrel at around thirty one hundred feet per second
McKay was using the jacketed load today and it was part of the reason he'd named the rifle Mjolnir. It killed mule deer, as his grandpa liked to say "like they've been hit by lightning.”
Walking toward the dead deer McKay slung his rifle and pulled out his Glock 20, alright it wasn't a "Glock" 20 it was a 80% lower, It had a Glock 20 trigger and it took Glock 20 magazine but other than that it was all custom parts, his uncles had given it to him for graduating highschool. McKay liked the power of the 10mm and would have liked a 44 mag any of the big revolvers even better but it was hard for him to reload revolvers because he'd been born without any fingers on his left hand. He wanted to get a Desert Eagle fifty AE but that wasn't very likely the way things were going.
Holding the glock 20 pointed at the deer's neck he advanced on the still form. 10mm still pointed at the neck McKay tapped the deer on the base of the trail with the toe of his boot, it was dead and McKay holstered his pistol and pulled his skinning knife to cut its throat and let the blood out.
The knife was a new one his brother Mason had made. He made it from an old truck leaf spring; it had a five inches blade with a gut hook. Mason had tried five times to make a good guthook and he promised this time it would work. The knife's handle was a piece of antler from a mule deer their dad had killed a few years ago.
With the throat cut McKay relaxed a little, unslung the rifle and leaned it on a sage bush. The deer would go a long way towards filling the "larder" as his grandpa liked to call it. Most of the deer would be combined with ground pork and smoked to make sausages but they would also cure and smoke the hind legs in what his uncle called deer hams and of course McKays favorite the back straps for steaks
The blood steamed as it contacted the cold air, some people said bleeding an already dead animal was a waste of time but McKay's dad and grandpa had done it and the steaming puddle melting the snow showed that it was letting heat out. McKay tipped the deer on its back and started a small cut at it's breastbone. Turning the knife around McKay used the guthook on the back of his knife to slit down the belly and let the guts spill out. Wiping the blade on his pants leg McKay put the knife back in it's sheath.
McKay pulled the guts out but was careful to leave the kidneys on the carcass they helped make more sausage. After the guts were out McKay pulled his knife to cut the diaphragm to get to the lungs he'd just started the cut when he heard something running and he half turned and half rose when something hit him on the left side. He fell down on his face but something had his left arm and was jerking and pulling, something big, hairy, and yellow.
McKay knew it was a dog, there were packs of wild dogs this close to the city ever since the plague had swept through six months ago. The plague didn't kill that many people maybe 15-20 percent but the panic, societal unrest and economic collapse, even a small scale civil war killed more than double what the plague did. According to the radio there had been a nuclear bomb go of somewhere in China or India a few days ago so things were getting a little scary. All of these concerns vanished when confronted with the savage, snapping reality of this dog trying to tear Mckay's throat out.
McKay also knew he was in trouble, he went to reach for his gun but as he did he remembered his knife was still in his hand. Rolling to his left he pulled with his left arm and thrust with his right and stuck the knife all five inches of blade into the dog's neck under its chin the dog yelped and let go of his arm and scamper-backed away. McKay tried to continue his roll but was caught up short by the dog with it's jaws clamped to his leg. Rolling back the other way McKay kicked the dog hard on the side of the head. The dog, a big one, that looked part boxer and part mastodon just growled and started shaking McKay's leg. Below the knee didn't hurt yet but he felt something wrench and pop. McKay pressed his lips closed and swallowed hard against the wave of nausea that washed over him, the kind of nausea that tells you that you have been hurt badly and will start to feel it shortly. McKay pulled his pistol and shot twice; the first shot went who-knows-where but the second burned a crease down the dog's back and it flinched, jerking McKay. McKay did a sit-up, stuck the gun as close to the dog as he could and pulled the trigger three more times. None of that careful trigger press or silly sight picture nonsense McKay just pointed the gun and slapped the trigger but when you are that close to the target it's hard to miss three times in a row. At least one of the bullets took the dog in the head and jerked it's jaws off of McKay's leg.
McKay leaned forward, put his left hand on the ground and leavered himself to his feet. Looking around McKay saw eight more dogs in a rough circle around him; five of the dogs were quite big. McKay started to aim at the biggest dog but it looked a lot like one of the dogs he'd had as a kid and McKay quickly jerked his aim over to the next dog, a German Shepard. Taking careful aim he lined up the three diamonds on his speed sights and shot the dog in the base of the throat. It dropped the next dog he shot, flopped over on its side but scrambled up and ran off using only three legs. McKay heard movement behind him and spun around to see another dog, this one a German shorthaired pointer, lunging at his back. Falling to one side McKay got two shots off before the dog ran into him but one of the shots must have hit brain or spine because the dog didn't move and blood came gushing out of its mouth. McKay staggered to his feet again. The pack, seeing now that McKay was not the soft target they'd grown used to in the remnants of the city, literally turned tail and ran.
McKay holstered his pistol and run-hobbled to the rifle, catching it up. He slipped his left arm through the sling and wrapped it around his forearm; the pressure from the sling made the teeth holes in his arm burn like four hot coals. It was then McKay realized that the first dog had bitten through his jacket and had chewed his arm pretty good.
Gritting his teeth through the pain McKay found a running dog in the scope and sent 130 grains of SIT! STAY! the dogs direction. The bullet slapped home and the dog tumbled, but by then the dogs had got to a wash and the all plunged into it, disappearing from view.
In the excitement McKay had forgotten about his knee but as he spun around to look for other dogs he heard his knee pop again. McKay promptly fell over and vomited. As he was retching, coughing, and spitting McKay heard something moving in the brush. McKay tried to stand but as he put weight on his knee a lance of pain shot down his leg and he collapsed. As he fell a dog burst from the sage bush and lunged at his throat.
McKay shoved the rifle at the dog one handed and pulled the trigger but the gun just went click, he'd forgotten to cycle the action and now he was going to pay for it. The dog was on him lunging and snapping McKay tried to hit it with the rifle but because he was laying on his side the swing was slow and awkward. The dog dodged away and grabbed the rifle and shook it out of his hand letting the rifle fall to the dirt it lunged at his throat. McKay shoved his left forearm into the dog's mouth, it hurt but it was better than getting his throat torn out. He remembered reading a book about lion hunting in Africa where the author recommended feeding the lion your most unnecessary parts first.
McKay was on his back and the dog had its front paws on his chest while it savaged his left arm. While the dog was chewing on his left arm McKay's right was snaking down to grab the Glock from his right hip. McKay pressed the Glock against the side of the dog and began hammering hard cast 175 grain bullets into the dog. And he didn't stop till the slide locked back. The dog, back broken with parts of its spine, ribs, heart, and lungs scattered in a twenty foot cone from it's far side, still had it's teeth clamped tight into McKay's arm.
McKay tried to pull his arm loose but the dog had a literal death grip on his arm. As McKay tried to find another angle to pry the jaws free, his hand hit something hard just under the dog's chin. It was his knife, this was the same dog he'd stabbed before. Grabbing the antler handle McKay pulled the knife free, judging by the angle the knife had missed the big blood veins in the neck and stuck into the windpipe. That's why the dog didn't bark before attacking. With the knife McKay was able to slice the jaw muscles on the dog's jaw, with them severed he was able to pull the fangs from his arm.
McKay was sitting on his backside his left leg, the injured one, stretched out in front of him. He took stock. His glock was empty so he reloaded it's flashlight. A streamlight tl-1 was covered in blood but it still worked so he re-holstered the pistol. He fished his bandana out of his back pocket and using his teeth he tied it tight around his left arm just above the elbow. Using the rifle as a crutch he lurched to his feet and shambled towards his pickup.
When he eventually got to the truck he was light headed and dizzy. The first thing he did was take a big drink of water then he rinsed out the holes in his arm. His coat and shirt sleeves were tattered and blood soaked. Pulling his knife he carefully cut the shirt away then he untied the bandana tied above his elbow and the blood started to pour out again but it wasn't squirting so that was good. Rinsing it again in water he pulled the bottle of alcohol for his cook stove out and went to pour it on his arm. Thinking better he put the bottle down and pulled his wallet out of his pocket and put it in his mouth.
This time mentally and physically prepared he tipped the bottle and poured it over his arm. The pain making him clench his jaw he heard the debit card and driver's licence crack as he chomped down. Spitting the wallet out of his mouth he let out a sound something between a scream, a shout, and a wail. Then he vomited again.
He took another drink of water then another and was starting to feel a bit better. He leaned into the truck and grabbed his first aid kit and dug out a bottle of oxycodone, they were extras his dad had from his chronic migraines, he took two pills he chewed one up and swallowed the other one. Chewing the pill should help it kick in faster.
Leaning into his truck he turned the engine on and grabbed the handset for his radio and started calling out trying all the usual channels. He called out for help, waited a count of ten, a quite fast count his blood was up, then he switched channels and tried again after he'd run through the five preset he tried again then he set the radio to scan and looked at his arm. The blood was mostly stopping except for two big gashes that looked like the top and bottom teeth from the way they lined up. He re-tied his bandanna around them and pulled it tight.
Using the grab bar he turned and set up onto the driver's seat of his truck. He looked at his leg, the denim was soaked with blood but he didn't know how much of it was his and how much was dog blood. He tried to pull the cuff of his jeans up but each time he tried it caught and hurt. After his third attempt he got mad and grabbed his knife, stuck the guthook into the highest tooth hole, and cut down. The guthook slit his pants neatly and showed two ragged tears just above the top of his boot. They were obviously the top and bottom teeth of one side of the dog's mouth, there were also two holes through the leather of his boot. He untied his boot laces and slipped his boot and sock off; the holes in his boot had matching holes in his leg though these weren't as torn as the holes higher up his leg, probably because his boot had held the teeth still and didn't tear like the skin of his leg. him. Using the guthook again he cut up his pant leg to get the material out of the way. Then he rinsed the wounds with water in one of the holes he saw his shin bone and that made him feel like puking but his gut was empty so he didn't.
The water and blood was splashing on the rifle and the oxy was starting to kick in so McKay hopped out of the truck and picked up the rifle, climbed back in the truck, and set the gun muzzle down in the footwell of the passenger's seat. Then he took the alcohol bottle and poured it over the holes in his leg, this hurt but McKay didn't care as much.
He put some gauze on the holes in his leg and wrapped it in vet wrap then he did the same with his arm, wrapping tight so as to stop the bleeding.
McKay was coming down off the adrenaline high of fighting the dogs and was cold from the water he’d been pouring on himself and it was starting to snow so he shut the door of his truck reached under the bench seat pulled out a blanket and covered himself then leaned the seat back and he figured he was in shock and should probably put his feet up but,
The radio woke McKay up it was his grandpa
“Mckay, McKay are you there, come in, over.” Mckay looked around and found the handset. He grabbed it and started transmitting. “Hey papa Rich,” that was what the grandkids all called their grandpa,
“Hey i'm kinda torn up.”
”Where are ya at? I’m on my way.”
“I'm, I’m out past the Bicknell place. I took that first gate past the guardrail, on the left side coming from the ranch.”
“Ok, we’re coming to get you. How bad is it?”
“Umm… my left arm... and uh, foot,” Mckay had a pretty bad case of cotton mouth and cotton brain these were teaming up to make it hard to get the words out. “It was... dogs, they wanted my deer, so. I... killed a deer, a big one and they...” McKay stopped, he'd been looking out the window where the deer was and he saw two dogs standing over the carcass so he rolled down the window, grabbed the rifle and looked through the scope. He saw that there were three dogs not two, two were bigger and the third was smaller. He saw that he could line up the shot and get the two bigger ones in one shot so he took careful aim and started pulling the trigger, pulling harder and harder till his hand was shaking. He realized that the chamber was empty, he’d never cycled it since he shot that one dog. So he grabbed the bolt, cycled it and replaced his hand on the trigger. Settling the crosshairs on the dog again he waited a little while till the dogs lined up and he pulled the trigger. The closer dog dropped immediately, the second spun in a circle biting at its hind legs. Mckay opened the bolt but his gun was empty. Plucking a loose round from the carrier on the butt stock of the rifle, McKay put it in the action and closed the bolt. Through the scope he saw the dog starting to limp off on three legs so he shot it again. This time it flopped over and died.
McKay leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
The roar of his grandpa's pickup woke him up again. It was a sound he was very familiar with. The old Chevy had a small block V8 and a broken muffler. His grandpa always complained about the truck but he took care of it and it still ran so that's what grandpa drove. When McKay heard that familiar sounds he knew everything was going to be ok.
"Like it was struck by lightning" he muttered to himself as he lowered the rifle and snicked on the safety, unwrapped the sling from around his arm and slung it over his shoulder.The rifle, which he had secretly nicknamed Mjolnir, was a Smith and Wesson 1700 in 270 Winchester. It had belonged to his grandpa, and McKay figured it still did but when he’d been 15 he’d borrowed it to go hunting and had kinda just kept it. His uncles, dad, brothers, and most of his cousins all seemed to have 270’s, his uncle Chris reloaded for it so ammo was still pretty easy to come by. Uncle Chris even had a pretty good stockpile of jacketed bullets.
His uncle had worked up two loads, one a high powered jacketed bullet load for hunting that had a dead hold out to 350 or so yards and a cast load, his uncle called it a cat fart load, that had the same dead hold zero out to about 100 yards. Uncle Chris said not to use the cast load on any big game but McKay had seen his uncle kill deer with it at 20 yards with head shots. They’d also used it to kill a cow for meat a few years ago, it was a 135 grain gas check bullet cast from 50/50 wheel weights and pure lead, over 8 grains of Unique, it went about 1250-1300 fps and while that may seem kinda inadequate when you killed smaller animals with it there wasn't a lot of bloodshot meat even with rabbits you could, as his uncle was fond of saying, eat right up to the bullet hole. The jacket load on the other hand was a full throttle load. A one hundred thirty grain Hornady interlock with fifty six and a half grains of Ramshot Hunter sending it hurting out of the barrel at around thirty one hundred feet per second
McKay was using the jacketed load today and it was part of the reason he'd named the rifle Mjolnir. It killed mule deer, as his grandpa liked to say "like they've been hit by lightning.”
Walking toward the dead deer McKay slung his rifle and pulled out his Glock 20, alright it wasn't a "Glock" 20 it was a 80% lower, It had a Glock 20 trigger and it took Glock 20 magazine but other than that it was all custom parts, his uncles had given it to him for graduating highschool. McKay liked the power of the 10mm and would have liked a 44 mag any of the big revolvers even better but it was hard for him to reload revolvers because he'd been born without any fingers on his left hand. He wanted to get a Desert Eagle fifty AE but that wasn't very likely the way things were going.
Holding the glock 20 pointed at the deer's neck he advanced on the still form. 10mm still pointed at the neck McKay tapped the deer on the base of the trail with the toe of his boot, it was dead and McKay holstered his pistol and pulled his skinning knife to cut its throat and let the blood out.
The knife was a new one his brother Mason had made. He made it from an old truck leaf spring; it had a five inches blade with a gut hook. Mason had tried five times to make a good guthook and he promised this time it would work. The knife's handle was a piece of antler from a mule deer their dad had killed a few years ago.
With the throat cut McKay relaxed a little, unslung the rifle and leaned it on a sage bush. The deer would go a long way towards filling the "larder" as his grandpa liked to call it. Most of the deer would be combined with ground pork and smoked to make sausages but they would also cure and smoke the hind legs in what his uncle called deer hams and of course McKays favorite the back straps for steaks
The blood steamed as it contacted the cold air, some people said bleeding an already dead animal was a waste of time but McKay's dad and grandpa had done it and the steaming puddle melting the snow showed that it was letting heat out. McKay tipped the deer on its back and started a small cut at it's breastbone. Turning the knife around McKay used the guthook on the back of his knife to slit down the belly and let the guts spill out. Wiping the blade on his pants leg McKay put the knife back in it's sheath.
McKay pulled the guts out but was careful to leave the kidneys on the carcass they helped make more sausage. After the guts were out McKay pulled his knife to cut the diaphragm to get to the lungs he'd just started the cut when he heard something running and he half turned and half rose when something hit him on the left side. He fell down on his face but something had his left arm and was jerking and pulling, something big, hairy, and yellow.
McKay knew it was a dog, there were packs of wild dogs this close to the city ever since the plague had swept through six months ago. The plague didn't kill that many people maybe 15-20 percent but the panic, societal unrest and economic collapse, even a small scale civil war killed more than double what the plague did. According to the radio there had been a nuclear bomb go of somewhere in China or India a few days ago so things were getting a little scary. All of these concerns vanished when confronted with the savage, snapping reality of this dog trying to tear Mckay's throat out.
McKay also knew he was in trouble, he went to reach for his gun but as he did he remembered his knife was still in his hand. Rolling to his left he pulled with his left arm and thrust with his right and stuck the knife all five inches of blade into the dog's neck under its chin the dog yelped and let go of his arm and scamper-backed away. McKay tried to continue his roll but was caught up short by the dog with it's jaws clamped to his leg. Rolling back the other way McKay kicked the dog hard on the side of the head. The dog, a big one, that looked part boxer and part mastodon just growled and started shaking McKay's leg. Below the knee didn't hurt yet but he felt something wrench and pop. McKay pressed his lips closed and swallowed hard against the wave of nausea that washed over him, the kind of nausea that tells you that you have been hurt badly and will start to feel it shortly. McKay pulled his pistol and shot twice; the first shot went who-knows-where but the second burned a crease down the dog's back and it flinched, jerking McKay. McKay did a sit-up, stuck the gun as close to the dog as he could and pulled the trigger three more times. None of that careful trigger press or silly sight picture nonsense McKay just pointed the gun and slapped the trigger but when you are that close to the target it's hard to miss three times in a row. At least one of the bullets took the dog in the head and jerked it's jaws off of McKay's leg.
McKay leaned forward, put his left hand on the ground and leavered himself to his feet. Looking around McKay saw eight more dogs in a rough circle around him; five of the dogs were quite big. McKay started to aim at the biggest dog but it looked a lot like one of the dogs he'd had as a kid and McKay quickly jerked his aim over to the next dog, a German Shepard. Taking careful aim he lined up the three diamonds on his speed sights and shot the dog in the base of the throat. It dropped the next dog he shot, flopped over on its side but scrambled up and ran off using only three legs. McKay heard movement behind him and spun around to see another dog, this one a German shorthaired pointer, lunging at his back. Falling to one side McKay got two shots off before the dog ran into him but one of the shots must have hit brain or spine because the dog didn't move and blood came gushing out of its mouth. McKay staggered to his feet again. The pack, seeing now that McKay was not the soft target they'd grown used to in the remnants of the city, literally turned tail and ran.
McKay holstered his pistol and run-hobbled to the rifle, catching it up. He slipped his left arm through the sling and wrapped it around his forearm; the pressure from the sling made the teeth holes in his arm burn like four hot coals. It was then McKay realized that the first dog had bitten through his jacket and had chewed his arm pretty good.
Gritting his teeth through the pain McKay found a running dog in the scope and sent 130 grains of SIT! STAY! the dogs direction. The bullet slapped home and the dog tumbled, but by then the dogs had got to a wash and the all plunged into it, disappearing from view.
In the excitement McKay had forgotten about his knee but as he spun around to look for other dogs he heard his knee pop again. McKay promptly fell over and vomited. As he was retching, coughing, and spitting McKay heard something moving in the brush. McKay tried to stand but as he put weight on his knee a lance of pain shot down his leg and he collapsed. As he fell a dog burst from the sage bush and lunged at his throat.
McKay shoved the rifle at the dog one handed and pulled the trigger but the gun just went click, he'd forgotten to cycle the action and now he was going to pay for it. The dog was on him lunging and snapping McKay tried to hit it with the rifle but because he was laying on his side the swing was slow and awkward. The dog dodged away and grabbed the rifle and shook it out of his hand letting the rifle fall to the dirt it lunged at his throat. McKay shoved his left forearm into the dog's mouth, it hurt but it was better than getting his throat torn out. He remembered reading a book about lion hunting in Africa where the author recommended feeding the lion your most unnecessary parts first.
McKay was on his back and the dog had its front paws on his chest while it savaged his left arm. While the dog was chewing on his left arm McKay's right was snaking down to grab the Glock from his right hip. McKay pressed the Glock against the side of the dog and began hammering hard cast 175 grain bullets into the dog. And he didn't stop till the slide locked back. The dog, back broken with parts of its spine, ribs, heart, and lungs scattered in a twenty foot cone from it's far side, still had it's teeth clamped tight into McKay's arm.
McKay tried to pull his arm loose but the dog had a literal death grip on his arm. As McKay tried to find another angle to pry the jaws free, his hand hit something hard just under the dog's chin. It was his knife, this was the same dog he'd stabbed before. Grabbing the antler handle McKay pulled the knife free, judging by the angle the knife had missed the big blood veins in the neck and stuck into the windpipe. That's why the dog didn't bark before attacking. With the knife McKay was able to slice the jaw muscles on the dog's jaw, with them severed he was able to pull the fangs from his arm.
McKay was sitting on his backside his left leg, the injured one, stretched out in front of him. He took stock. His glock was empty so he reloaded it's flashlight. A streamlight tl-1 was covered in blood but it still worked so he re-holstered the pistol. He fished his bandana out of his back pocket and using his teeth he tied it tight around his left arm just above the elbow. Using the rifle as a crutch he lurched to his feet and shambled towards his pickup.
When he eventually got to the truck he was light headed and dizzy. The first thing he did was take a big drink of water then he rinsed out the holes in his arm. His coat and shirt sleeves were tattered and blood soaked. Pulling his knife he carefully cut the shirt away then he untied the bandana tied above his elbow and the blood started to pour out again but it wasn't squirting so that was good. Rinsing it again in water he pulled the bottle of alcohol for his cook stove out and went to pour it on his arm. Thinking better he put the bottle down and pulled his wallet out of his pocket and put it in his mouth.
This time mentally and physically prepared he tipped the bottle and poured it over his arm. The pain making him clench his jaw he heard the debit card and driver's licence crack as he chomped down. Spitting the wallet out of his mouth he let out a sound something between a scream, a shout, and a wail. Then he vomited again.
He took another drink of water then another and was starting to feel a bit better. He leaned into the truck and grabbed his first aid kit and dug out a bottle of oxycodone, they were extras his dad had from his chronic migraines, he took two pills he chewed one up and swallowed the other one. Chewing the pill should help it kick in faster.
Leaning into his truck he turned the engine on and grabbed the handset for his radio and started calling out trying all the usual channels. He called out for help, waited a count of ten, a quite fast count his blood was up, then he switched channels and tried again after he'd run through the five preset he tried again then he set the radio to scan and looked at his arm. The blood was mostly stopping except for two big gashes that looked like the top and bottom teeth from the way they lined up. He re-tied his bandanna around them and pulled it tight.
Using the grab bar he turned and set up onto the driver's seat of his truck. He looked at his leg, the denim was soaked with blood but he didn't know how much of it was his and how much was dog blood. He tried to pull the cuff of his jeans up but each time he tried it caught and hurt. After his third attempt he got mad and grabbed his knife, stuck the guthook into the highest tooth hole, and cut down. The guthook slit his pants neatly and showed two ragged tears just above the top of his boot. They were obviously the top and bottom teeth of one side of the dog's mouth, there were also two holes through the leather of his boot. He untied his boot laces and slipped his boot and sock off; the holes in his boot had matching holes in his leg though these weren't as torn as the holes higher up his leg, probably because his boot had held the teeth still and didn't tear like the skin of his leg. him. Using the guthook again he cut up his pant leg to get the material out of the way. Then he rinsed the wounds with water in one of the holes he saw his shin bone and that made him feel like puking but his gut was empty so he didn't.
The water and blood was splashing on the rifle and the oxy was starting to kick in so McKay hopped out of the truck and picked up the rifle, climbed back in the truck, and set the gun muzzle down in the footwell of the passenger's seat. Then he took the alcohol bottle and poured it over the holes in his leg, this hurt but McKay didn't care as much.
He put some gauze on the holes in his leg and wrapped it in vet wrap then he did the same with his arm, wrapping tight so as to stop the bleeding.
McKay was coming down off the adrenaline high of fighting the dogs and was cold from the water he’d been pouring on himself and it was starting to snow so he shut the door of his truck reached under the bench seat pulled out a blanket and covered himself then leaned the seat back and he figured he was in shock and should probably put his feet up but,
The radio woke McKay up it was his grandpa
“Mckay, McKay are you there, come in, over.” Mckay looked around and found the handset. He grabbed it and started transmitting. “Hey papa Rich,” that was what the grandkids all called their grandpa,
“Hey i'm kinda torn up.”
”Where are ya at? I’m on my way.”
“I'm, I’m out past the Bicknell place. I took that first gate past the guardrail, on the left side coming from the ranch.”
“Ok, we’re coming to get you. How bad is it?”
“Umm… my left arm... and uh, foot,” Mckay had a pretty bad case of cotton mouth and cotton brain these were teaming up to make it hard to get the words out. “It was... dogs, they wanted my deer, so. I... killed a deer, a big one and they...” McKay stopped, he'd been looking out the window where the deer was and he saw two dogs standing over the carcass so he rolled down the window, grabbed the rifle and looked through the scope. He saw that there were three dogs not two, two were bigger and the third was smaller. He saw that he could line up the shot and get the two bigger ones in one shot so he took careful aim and started pulling the trigger, pulling harder and harder till his hand was shaking. He realized that the chamber was empty, he’d never cycled it since he shot that one dog. So he grabbed the bolt, cycled it and replaced his hand on the trigger. Settling the crosshairs on the dog again he waited a little while till the dogs lined up and he pulled the trigger. The closer dog dropped immediately, the second spun in a circle biting at its hind legs. Mckay opened the bolt but his gun was empty. Plucking a loose round from the carrier on the butt stock of the rifle, McKay put it in the action and closed the bolt. Through the scope he saw the dog starting to limp off on three legs so he shot it again. This time it flopped over and died.
McKay leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
The roar of his grandpa's pickup woke him up again. It was a sound he was very familiar with. The old Chevy had a small block V8 and a broken muffler. His grandpa always complained about the truck but he took care of it and it still ran so that's what grandpa drove. When McKay heard that familiar sounds he knew everything was going to be ok.