Chương 9: Not His Fight

The low growl rolled across the sand, and Jack froze behind the glass door. Outside, the Dustchucks had stopped eating. More than twenty gray, dusty giants stood around the scattered beef, their bodies low and tense, while even the smaller ones had gone quiet. The Dustchuck with the pale scratch marks stood at the front, head raised, ears twitching. Jack's hand twitched toward the cashier counter. The system's voice answered before he could ask.

"Human, mutated carnivorous mammals detected. They're heading this way." A cold weight settled in Jack's stomach.

"Eight targets. Fastest estimated arrival at the convenience store perimeter: ten minutes."

"Shit. Again?" Almost on cue, the tension outside broke. A few Dustchucks shifted toward the edge of the pit, while others pressed closer together. For a moment, the whole group looked ready to scatter. The Dustchuck with the pale scratch marks lifted its head and let out a sharp squeak. The chaos stopped almost at once. Instead of scattering, the Dustchucks began closing ranks around it. The smaller ones were pushed toward the center almost immediately, their round bodies pressed together in a nervous cluster.

The larger Dustchucks spread out around them, lowering their heavy shoulders and digging their claws into the sand. It was rough. Messy. But it was a formation. Jack stared at them, stunned.

"They can regroup too?" The more Jack watched, the more obvious it became that this was not panic. Not entirely. The Dustchucks moved badly, clumsily, with too many round bodies bumping into each other, but there was a pattern under the chaos. The smaller ones stayed inward. The larger ones kept their shoulders facing out. Whenever one of them shifted too far, another Dustchuck shoved it back into place. Jack's hand twitched again. They had done this before. Whatever those things were, the Dustchucks knew them.

Several dark shapes burst out from behind the rolling sand dunes in the distance. At first, Jack could only make out flashes of movement through the dust and heat shimmer. Then the shapes dropped lower to the ground and accelerated. They were fast. Too fast for something that close to the sand. Their bodies stayed low, almost pressed against the ground. Their limbs were short, thick, and powerful, and as they ran, they seemed to glide forward over the sand.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Jack didn't wait to see what they were. He rushed behind the cashier counter, grabbed the handgun, and aimed through the glass. The dark shapes tore across the sand toward the convenience store. But the two shapes at the front suddenly changed direction and lunged straight toward the Dustchuck group. Eight of them fanned out around the Dustchucks.

The first two kept running while letting out short, sharp calls, clearly trying to draw the Dustchucks' attention. The others lowered their bodies and circled around from the sides. The Dustchuck group held its ground, and the scratched Dustchuck squeaked again. Several Dustchucks shoved outward, claws digging into the sand as they lowered their bodies. One of the mutants at the front lunged. It ignored the Dustchuck's thick back and snapped at the joint of its front leg instead.

The Dustchuck cried out, twisted sideways, and clawed at the sand. Half its body vanished underground in seconds. But another mutant was already there. It skimmed low across the ground, claws raking through the sand, and drove the Dustchuck back toward the surface. Jack's stomach tightened. This wasn't random. They were hunting with a plan. The mutants never threw themselves straight into the Dustchucks' defense. They circled the edges instead, darting in whenever a leg, neck, or belly was exposed.

If they missed, they pulled back at once. The Dustchucks answered with brute force. Whenever the larger ones shoved forward, any mutant that got too close was sent rolling across the sand. For the moment, the two sides were locked in a brutal stalemate. Jack stayed behind the door, his palms slick with sweat. One mutant broke from the side, trying to slip behind the Dustchucks' outer ring. Before it could get through, a larger Dustchuck slammed into it and knocked it off course.

The mutant skidded across the sand and came to a stop right in front of the glass. For one sharp second, Jack found himself staring straight into its face. He jerked back, the gun almost coming up on instinct. Up close, the creature looked disturbingly familiar: short, stocky body, thick neck, powerful claws, and a strip of pale, stiff fur running from the top of its head down its back. Jack stared.

"A honey badger?" The mutant paused for only a heartbeat. Then it shook itself, turned away from the glass, and lunged back toward the Dustchucks. Jack stayed where he was, handgun tight in his grip.

"No, seriously… this place has honey badgers too?" The fight kept moving. The honey badgers circled the Dustchuck formation, letting out short, sharp calls that cut through the hot air. None of them threw themselves into the middle. They were too smart for that. They stayed near the edges instead, low to the ground, shoulders rolling under their stiff fur as they waited for a slower Dustchuck to slip out of place. Every time one Dustchuck shifted too far, a honey badger moved with it.

Not close enough to be crushed. Just close enough to make it panic. One Dustchuck tried to burrow away from the side. A nearby honey badger stopped at once, head low, listening. Then it sprang sideways and raked its claws through the sand. Sand burst up. The Dustchuck shot out from another spot, barely avoiding the strike. Jack's mouth went dry. The honey badgers could not overpower all twenty-three Dustchucks. They did not need to.

They only needed one Dustchuck to panic, fall behind, or get forced out of formation. The scratched Dustchuck kept squeaking, each call shifting the group a little. Gaps closed. Smaller Dustchucks were pulled back toward the center. But the honey badgers adjusted just as quickly. One stayed near the front to draw attention while the others pressed in from the sides, pushing the whole fight back and forth across the sand in clouds of dust. Jack lowered the gun slightly. He understood now.

The honey badgers had not come for the convenience store. They were here for the Dustchucks. If he stayed behind the glass and did nothing, the store might not be touched at all. The honey badgers had not come for his shelves, his water, or his potato box. They had come for prey. This was probably normal out here—predators, prey, dust, blood, and whatever survived after. The wasteland did not need him to pick sides. The smart choice was obvious. Stay out of it. Lock the door. Let nature do what nature did.

Then his eyes found the Dustchuck with the pale scratch marks. It was still calling, trying to pull the scattered Dustchucks back into formation. A smaller Dustchuck stumbled out of line, and two honey badgers went for it at once. The scratched Dustchuck cried out. Several Dustchucks rushed over and shoved the smaller one back toward the center, but the formation bent under the pressure. Jack's grip tightened around the handgun. His finger settled on the trigger.

For one second, he told himself this was not his fight. Then one of the honey badgers broke through the outer ring and lunged straight for the smaller Dustchuck.