"Why are there so many dogs?" Schiller shook the blood from his hand and looked at the three or four powerful hounds charging out through the door, sounding puzzled.
"These dogs have been fed fat and healthy. That proves someone must have been tending the lighthouse, though I don't know if they're still alive." Schiller sighed.
"What do we do? Kill them or run?"
"Kill them all. If we don't find food, they can serve as emergency rations." Schiller beckoned to Greed, who blinked.
"Give me the knife," Schiller said.
"You're going to fight them at close range?" Greed hesitated. "External wounds might be treatable, but rabies is incurable."
"There are only two bullets left in this gun." Schiller did not say anything more. He had Greed toss him the knife, but he did not put down the shotgun. He might have worried someone would seize the gun from him, but dogs posed no such concern.
Schiller held the knife in his dominant hand, turned the gun around, and gripped the stock again. The instant the lead dog leaped at him, he dodged sideways and drove the shotgun hard to the side. The long barrel pierced straight through the dog's neck, splattering blood everywhere.
But that seemed only to excite the pack further. They no longer attacked one at a time; three dogs came at him together.
The light was dim, and Schiller could not make out their exact breed, but they were definitely large fighting dogs. Their fangs were sharp, their bodies fat and muscular, with clearly defined muscles in both their forelegs and hind legs.
Dogs bred specifically for fighting were extraordinarily vicious. Once they bit down on anything, they would not let go. Even a minor bite would tear away a chunk of flesh.
The three dogs