Face contorted, he scrabbles with his left leg. When he looks up at me, I see pain and terror in his eyes. “My legs…”
I drag him another couple of feet. I’m only a few feet from the gate when one of the hogs rushes me from behind. Its snout strikes the back of my leg. Tilting its head, it chomps down on my calf. Pain streaks up my leg. The animal shakes me. My balance totters. I drop Kaufman’s hand and barely maintain my balance.
“Get off me! Get away!” I punch the animal hard. The sow releases my leg and continues past, then turns to stare at me with bold, intelligent eyes.
Five feet away, the boar watches me, chomping its teeth.
“Kaufman!” I shout. “Get up!”
The boar charges. Despite its size, the animal is agile and fast. Shoving its snout beneath Kaufman’s shoulder, it roots upward with so much force that the man is flipped onto his side. It’s not until I see blood that I realize he’s been slashed with the tusk.
The old man screams. “The gate! Open it!”
The sow circles for another pass. I step back, keeping her in sight. Another shot rings out. I hear the bullet strike flesh. Kaufman jolts. Vivid red blooms on the fabric of his sleeve and dribbles onto the concrete. His scream rents the air.
I risk a look at the loft door to see Abigail lining up for another shot. “Drop the rifle!” I scream. “Drop it! Right fucking now!”
Another gunshot, followed by a ricochet a foot from where I’m standing. Specks of concrete hit my trousers. Spinning, I run toward the gate. I’ve only gone a few feet when the boar rushes me, rooting the air, its tusk flashing white. I kick it in the snout with my boot. The boar bellows but retreats.
I vault over the top of the gate. A curse grinds from my throat when my injured wrist slams against the ground on the other side. I roll and lie still. For an instant the only sound comes from my labored breaths. The grunting and squealing of the hogs. The wail of a siren in the distance.
Using the gate for support, I get to my feet. Abigail Kline stands at the loft door, staring into the pen below.
“Abigail, drop that rifle!” I shout. “Do it now! Drop it!”
A muffled scream sounds from the pen. Bending, I look between the rails of the gate to see that the hogs have surrounded Kaufman. The larger animals dart in, rooting and slashing. The smaller animals squeal and vie for position. The old man is sitting up, slapping at the animals with both hands. Terror on his face. Mouth open in a silent scream. A big sow lunges at him, slashing at him with her mouth. The scream that follows is horrific. The sow retreats, a bloody scrap in her mouth. A strip of material from his shirt. Horror burgeons inside me when I realize they’re mauling him.…
“Shit. Shit!” My hand shakes as I grapple for my shoulder mike. “Man down! In the pen! The hogs are mauling him!”
I step onto the lowest rail of the gate and scream at the animals. “Get back! Get away!”
But the animals are frenzied now. Injured and on the ground, Kaufman makes a feeble attempt to fend them off, slapping at them. For a split second I consider going in to help him. But I know the animals would turn on me, too.
“Back off!” I shout. “Back off!”
The Amish man’s screams are a horrible, high-pitched keening that opens a fist of revulsion in my gut. I look around for a weapon, something to throw, and I spot a piece of broken fencing on the ground. Part of a busted cinder block. I snatch up both, throw them one at a time as hard as I can at the hogs. Both objects hit home, but neither is large enough to stop the carnage.
Unhooking the chain, I swing open the gate. Several of the hogs swing their heads my way. One of the smaller animals starts toward me. I turn and run toward the barn. Kaufman’s screams follow me. The dreadful sound of a man being eaten alive …
I scale the first fence I come to, putting as many obstacles between me and the hogs as possible. Then I’m in an old stall on the underside of the barn. I spy the hay chute ahead, shove off the cover, and climb through.
A deputy with a shotgun and flak jacket rushes toward me. “Where’s the shooter! Where’s the shooter?”
“Loft,” I tell him. “Female. She’s got a rifle.”
He sprints toward the stairs that will take him up a level. I get to my feet and hit my lapel mike. “Man down! He’s being mauled! In the hogpen!”
“Ten-ninety-five.” A voice I don’t recognize tells me he’s taken Abigail Kline into custody.
“Chief!”
I turn at the sound of Glock’s voice, see him come through the front of the barn, face grim, moving fast.
“You hurt?” he asks.