It was late afternoon, and Berl was staring into the distance. Zac thought he was in some kind of crazy fugue state. “What you got to learn about this here desert,” Berl said, at last, never ceasing to stare into the distance, “is that most of the time it ain’t what you see that’s gonna kill you. It’s what you cain’t see. Lotta times, what’s right under your feet—or right over your head. See there, that’s what I mean—here they come, some of the toughest rakks around here! Whip out your shotgun, Zac!” “I haven’t got a shotgun!” But Berl had one, a big rusty red shotgun that didn’t look very reliable. When the dusty blue rakks, looking like decapitated pterodactyls, dived down at them, Berl had the shotgun butt wedged to his shoulder, squinting as he tracked it. The rakks shrieked triumphantly as they dive-bombed. “Shoot it!” Zac yelled. “Hurry! It’s going to—” The nearest rakk flattened its trajectory and struck, slashing at them with its barbed forejaws.
