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“Send lawyers, guns, and money. The shit has hit the fan.” - Warren Zevon.

They came an hour or so before dawn. They were twelve in number, and their group was an even mix of anthros and humans. There were two leaders - Clyde and Bert. Those two were believers in the cause (or, as Clyde would put it, the Cause, with that capital C) but the rest were mercenaries. Hastily hired mercenaries, at that. They’d been recruited locally. Clyde and Bert did not know them. Thus, those hired mercs - those ten males - were unknowns. Wildcards. When things got serious, when things got tense - and, no doubt, there was going to be some shooting, some chaos, some bloodshed - well - how would those ten wildcards react?

They just hadn’t had enough time to find truly good mercs for hire. Clyde and Bert had been in the process of looking for someone good when they’d gotten word - the attack was going to happen in less than twelve hours.

Bert and Clyde told themselves and each other to try and keep things simple. Keep the mission simple. After all, all they really had to do was grab the young human named Micah. If they could do that - if they could take him alive, and get him away, into the truck and then away from here - the mission would be a success. It wouldn’t matter what the ten folks recruited locally did. They could fuck up, or go crazy, or run away - it wouldn’t matter. As long as Clyde and Bert got the young human, it wouldn’t matter what else happened.

(Clyde was especially frustrated because the leader of the Cause had money, and he had resources, and he had soldiers. He had soldiers who were not only well trained, but were also loyal to the Cause. The problem was, those soldiers were, at the moment, in Texas. Thus, he and Bert had had to hire local mercs.)

“We could be heading into a shitstorm,” Bert said, to Clyde, with a partial smile.

“Yeah,” Clyde replied. “Could be a clusterfuck. If we’re lucky, we’ll catch them by surprise. But how often do we actually get lucky?” And he, too, smiled, amused.

They came an hour or so before dawn. Their target was a house in the middle of the suburbs, in the middle of a New Jersey town.

Inside the house, Jack was on guard duty. Everyone else was asleep. They’d all taken a turn keeping watch, and now it was Jack’s turn. He was a twenty-five year old Great Dane with dark fur. Born and raised in New York City, he felt out of place in the suburbs - with all the backyards, and fences, and space between the houses.

As Jack stared out the window of the living room, Drake suddenly woke up. In an instant, he was wide awake. Drake was a feral Doberman with blue and black fur, and he’d come from some other world.

“There is . . . someone out there,” Drake said, voice low. “Several someones, I think.”

Jack almost said something in reply. Instead, he looked out the window and stared, focusing on everything and nothing. Then, he saw it - a slight movement, a hidden figure across the street. In the darkness of the pre-dawn hours, he could barely make out other figures, putting themselves in position. The house across the street was empty, but there were folks out there - some on the porch of the house, some on the lawn.

“Shit,” was all Jack said.

Jack and Drake made eye contact, then, and both read the same things in each other’s eyes - alertness and grim determination. Neither saw fear, and both were relieved to realize that.

“Micah’s our first priority,” Drake said, though he knew he didn’t need to.

Without words, Jack rose and walked a few steps to the couch. They’d drawn straws earlier, and Rav had won - so Rav had gotten to sleep on the couch. He was a tall and muscular Lion, a year younger than Jack. Jack shook his shoulder, and Rav slowly woke up, blinking. As that was happening, Drake had prodded Micah into wakefulness. The young human from upstate New York yawned, and he stared at Drake, confusion in his gaze.

“There are folks out there, across the street,” Drake said, softly. “Maybe a half dozen or so? And they’re coming for us.”

Jack wondered how the big feral dog could know that, but it was a question for another time.

Rav was up, and putting on his shoes.

“I’ll wake up the others,” he said, already walking towards the bedrooms.

“What’s the plan?” Jack looked at Drake. Duncan was in charge, but Duncan wasn’t up yet, and they needed a plan now.

“When they attacked us in New York,” Drake said, speaking quickly, “They said they didn’t care about us - they just wanted Micah. I assume that means they just want him alive. I’m also going to assume they won’t come in here, guns blazing - if they want him alive, they’ll need to be careful. They can’t just shoot the place up.”

“Right,” Jack said. “Micah, stay close to Drake. Don’t lose sight of him. Rav and I should go out the back door - maybe we can try to flank those folks across the street?”

But it was too late to make plans, too late to prepare for the storm that was coming. Several things began happening at once. In the house’s two bedrooms, Duncan and Father Cranagh dressed quickly.

Duncan, a large Pit Bull with dark gray fur, thought about the two humans who’d approached Father Cranagh. Duncan and Celeste had spent the day searching for them - eventually, they’d learned that two humans matching the descriptions had checked out of one of the town’s motels. Apparently, they’d left town. And if they had left town, did that mean Duncan and his team were safe? No enemies about? Did that mean they could sleep easy (more or less) at night, and then leave early in the morning?

Thinking of this, Duncan smiled grimly. Clearly, those two humans hadn’t left - they were still here, and they had friends. Duncan wondered, briefly, how many folks were approaching the house. There were, at the moment, a lot of unknowns. That was the bad news.

He had faith in his team, and they had the advantage of not getting caught by surprise. That was the good news. Duncan had “liberated” a crossbow from one of the mercs who’d attacked his team in New York. He was fairly confident he could use it. Finger on the trigger, he left the bedroom.

Meanwhile, Father Cranagh (Pere, to his friends) had taken an ancient revolver out of his bedside table. He hoped the old gun still worked okay. Hopefully, it wouldn’t simply blow up in his hands.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Celeste had been sleeping on an old cot she’d found folded up in the garage. She listened as Rav quickly explained the situation, and she opened her mouth to say something - something sarcastic, perhaps, or something encouraging or morale-building, or - who knew - perhaps she just wanted to say, Well, shit - but before she could utter a word, a steel canister shattered the kitchen window.

The canister landed on the floor, spun around in crazed circles, then began spitting out a thick haze of smoke . . .

In the living room, Jack was aware that both Duncan and Pere were rushing in. Continuing to look out the window, he saw movement.

“Here they come,” he said.

“They’re in the backyard, too,” Drake said, suddenly. “Shit!”

The large window shattered, then, as a steel canister broke through like a messenger sent from some angry god. Smoke began hissing out . . .

In the days that followed, Jack would (of course) think about the events of that night. He would try to put them in sequence - he would try to make the chaos of what happened into an orderly flow. This happened, and then that happened. It was impossible. Everything that happened . . . it was all jumbled up in his mind. Looking back on that night, it felt like everything happened at once.

Folks banged into the house, through the front door. They wore fatigues, and gas masks, and it was impossible to tell if they were anthros or humans (or elves). Duncan and Father Cranagh both grabbed Micah, and they dragged him away, back towards the bedrooms. As they did so, Duncan shouted at Jack and Drake to attack, to think only of attacking, and to prevent the invaders from getting to Micah.

Jack and Drake - choking on the smoke, eyes tearing and burning up from the smoke - lashed out, violently. Jack had a baseball bat, and Drake had his teeth and claws. They couldn’t breathe, and they could barely see, but they attacked.

Clyde had come through the front door, along with six of the mercs. Seven of them, versus Jack and Drake. Their numbers should’ve been enough. The smoke, too, should’ve been enough. And yet, Drake had knocked down one of the mercs before anyone knew what was happening - the merc fell hard, and his head bounced off a table. He was knocked out instantly.

One down.

Jack crouched down low, near the floor, and he swung wildly with the bat. No one could see, because of the smoke. Clyde turned, ignoring Jack, and he began running towards the bedrooms. Jack swung the bat again - he missed Clyde, but he did shatter the knee of some unlucky mercenary. The merc fell, clutching his knee, moaning. (Days later, hobbling about on crutches, the merc would tell folks in a bar that he’d left the merc life behind, because he’d taken a bat to the knee.)

Two down.

Bullets had been forbidden (because they’d sought to take Micah alive), but four of the mercs were armed with tranquilizer darts. One of them shot towards Drake, but the smoke hid everything . . .

In the short hallway, a door swung open wildly - Duncan emerged, firing the crossbow. He missed Clyde by a fraction of an inch . . .and Clyde never slowed down. Soon, the two males were grappling with each other . . .

In the kitchen, the door to the backyard exploded inward. Shards of glass flew everywhere. Bert rushed in, into the smoke and the chaos. Coughing, trying to see through the smoke, Celeste raised a wrench as she lunged forward. Casually, with brutal efficiency, Bert sent her flying with a single backhand. Rav had raised a towel to his face, trying to block out the smoke. Without thinking, he picked up a chair and tossed it at Bert. He couldn’t quite see the large human - all he could see was a blurred outline, a shadow, bulky and impossibly fast-moving. The chair bounced harmlessly off the bulky shadow . . .

In the living room, Jack peered through the haze of smoke - or tried to. Drake was grappling with a merc, and it looked like the feral dog had a tranquilizer dart sticking out of his neck. Another dart protruded from his leg. And then he got shot with another dart, and finally the tranquilizers began to take effect. Drake had managed to slam one of the mercs into the wall, knocking him out, but afterward he sagged down to the floor . . . the three remaining mercs stopped, went still, as they stared at the large dog.

Had they forgotten all about Jack? He couldn’t believe his luck. He rose up, silently, to his feet, and he swung the bat into someone’s skull. The other two mercs whirled around, and one had a gun in his hand. And then an arrow - of all things - flew through the air and punctured the merc’s chest. Duncan was there, crossbow in hand, and he swiftly took aim at the sole remaining merc.

This merc - this last survivor of the battle in the living room - was a young human freshly out of rehab for drug and alcohol addiction. As he watched the crossbow - wielded by a very angry looking Pit Bull - swing towards him, he evaluated his life. He reappraised everything, the good and the bad, and he made a decision without thinking about it, without planning, without a care as to possible repercussions.

He fled. He ran out the door, and into the night.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Rav was pushed violently into the wall by Bert, and someone yelled “Shoot him!”

Rav assumed shoot him meant bullets, and thus probably death. He didn’t know the guns were loaded with tranquilizer darts - and if he had known, it would not have made a bit of difference. Rav was somewhat aware that Bert had one hand on his chest, and his other hand was swinging towards Rav’s face. Rav kicked out with both feet - Bert had lifted him up off the floor - and as Bert’s fist connected with Rav’s face, Rav’s feet connected with Bert’s knees. Both males grunted, from pain, but Rav was nearly knocked senseless. As well, the smoke was in his eyes, in his mouth.

And then one of the mercs behind Bert got shot by Duncan’s crossbow. He slumped, blood staining the fatigues he’d just bought earlier that day. The others spun around, and one of them was shocked to see a large, ceramic vase speeding towards his head. Jack had thrown it with accuracy, and the merc went down without a sound. The other two mercs who’d followed Bert into the kitchen looked at each other, briefly, then they foolishly rushed towards Duncan and Jack. One of those mercs had, apparently, forgotten that he was armed with a tranquilizer gun, for he seemed intent on causing harm with his fists.

He never got the chance, for an arrow swiftly pierced his stomach.

As for the other merc, well, he tried to duck as Jack swung the bat, but his movements were slow and clumsy. Soon, he found himself on the floor, his arm broken, his decision to hire himself out as a merc deeply regretted.

Bert tossed Rav aside, tossed him aside as easily and casually as a child tosses a toy. Duncan aimed and shot, but Bert moved impossibly fast, and the arrow missed him. Quickly, Duncan grabbed for another arrow, but Bert - still moving impossibly fast - was suddenly in Duncan’s face. He grabbed Duncan’s shoulders, and Duncan had to release the crossbow, in order to defend himself.

Jack had picked up one of the tranquilizer guns, and he shot a dart into Bert’s thigh. He’d never shot any kind of gun before, and he didn’t have a clue how to aim, so he felt lucky he hit the large human. He aimed again, but Bert had pushed Duncan aside, and he turned to face Jack. Jack saw doom in Bert’s eyes, and he almost froze. As Bert rushed forward, Jack shot and missed, stepping back as he did so. And then Rav was jumping on Bert’s back - he grabbed his arms, and he drove his skull into the back of Bert’s head. Jack fired again, and this time he sent a dart into Bert’s neck.

“Again!” Duncan shouted, from the floor.

Bert had pushed himself backwards, freeing himself from Rav’s grip. He spun around, wanting to attack Rav. Jack shot a dart into the large human’s large rear end - he’d been aiming for the neck, but, hey, anywhere would do, really. Bert swung his massive, meaty fists towards Rav, but he moved slowly, and he was already falling down, falling into a dreamless sleep.

“Holy shit,” Jack said. Adrenaline was rushing through his system.

“Yeah,” Rav said, quietly. He began sinking down, to the floor - he still felt dizzy, from Bert punching him earlier. Then he thought of Celeste, and he looked around the smoke-filled kitchen, searching for her.

“Where’s Micah?” Jack asked.

“Safe,” Duncan said, quickly and with confidence. Then, in a much quieter tone, he added, “I hope.”