how's this?
"Maybe we don't even need the truck," rasped the bald one. "Just tie the bitches to the hood and drive slow."
Winter moved first.
One clean pull of the trigger.
CRACK.
The man with the filthy tongue—the one who'd commented on Zara—jerked backward as the top half of his skull exploded in a fountain of pink mist and bone shards. His body crumpled before the others registered the shot.
Then it was chaos.
Sam dove left, firing as he rolled. Two rounds caught the woman with the teeth—one in the chest, one in the neck. She dropped mid-scream, gurgling.
Miles didn't wait. He lunged at the nearest scavenger, using the butt of his shotgun like a club. It cracked against the man's jaw, teeth flying.
The scavenger swung wildly with a chain, slicing Miles across the temple. Blood sprayed, but Miles didn't stop. He tackled him into the mud, roaring, fists pounding.
His wife and kids were in that truck. None of these fuckers were getting anywhere near it.
