by J. S. Volpe
23
As he galloped after his prey, the leucrota hacked and spat in an effort to cleanse his mouth of the bitter, stinging juice that had filled the shining metal club. Whatever this foul substance was, it burned worse than even the disgusting scent-markers the two females had squirted into his face. Not in many years had the leucrota had such difficulty killing its prey, not since men with metal shells and echoing voices had tried to kill him in the old forest where he dwelt. Then again, not in many years had anyone dared to attack him in his lair. Perhaps he had chosen his new lair badly. Perhaps this site was important to these creatures. No matter, though. He would kill them, eat them, shit them. He always did. Even the metal-shelled men. Under their shells there had been meat and blood, so tasty.
He slowed to a trot and looked down the aisle where the strongest male had just run, the one with glass panels in front of his eyes and the flappy black skin that tasted like dead kine. The tall brown-haired girl had run that way too. But the short brown-haired girl with the loud voice had run the opposite way. And that one was hurt. Not grievously, no. But hurt all the same, and for all her noise and vigor, she was the smallest of the intruders, both of which factors made her easier prey. And the long-haired male who had gone with her was thin and clumsy and clearly lacked battle skills. And he was now without a weapon, too. More easy prey.
And that was important, because the leucrota’s injuries, though each one minor in itself, were slowing him down. It was wisest, then, to focus on easier prey.
He raced after Violet and Donovan.