If  divine  intervention    occurred,   Shibnev was the vehicle:    it  was he  who
had been    visited with    the sudden  impulse to  reposition  the men,    which
had placed  him and Pionka  broadside   to  the tiger   and out of  each    other’s
line     of  fire.   Because     there   was     no  time    for     thought,    or  even    fear,
Shibnev’s   and Pionka’s    collective  response    was mainly  one of  instinct
and muscle  memory. And yet,    somehow,    both    of  these   men found   the
wherewithal to  think;  they    stole   it  out of  time    and space   the same    way
gifted  athletes    wrest   opportunities   from    inches  and fractions   of  seconds.
Even    in  the face    of  a   flying  tiger   and a   man about   to  die—a   scene   that
would   leave   most    people  staring in  dull    surprise,   as  Gorborukov  was from
beside  the Kung—both   Shibnev and Pionka  understood  they    could   not
shoot    when    the     tiger   was     on  top     of  Trush   because     their   hyper-lethal
bullets would   kill    him,    too.    They    had to  kill    the tiger   in  the air.    In  that
moment, those   ungodly di  ex  machina became  Trush’s gifts   from    God.
Shibnev and Pionka  brought their   rifles  to  their   shoulders   in  the same
reflexive   way Trush   had,    and Pochepnya   and Markov  had before  him.    “I
fired   and fired   and fired   and fired,” said    Shibnev.    “I  remember    seeing
him fly through the air,    the right   paw was out like    this.”
In  that    sliver  of  time    between registering the tiger’s presence    and his
airborne    collision   with    Trush   less    than    three   seconds later,  Shibnev and
Pionka  fired   eleven  times   between them;   Trush   fired   twice.  In  spite   of
this     barrage,    the     tiger   hit     Trush   at  full    speed—claws     extended,   jaws
agape.  The impact  was concentrated    on  Trush’s right   shoulder,   and his
rifle   was torn    from    his hands.  Trush,  now disarmed    with    the tiger   upon
him,    threw   his arms    around  his attacker,   grasping    fistfuls    of  his fur and
burying his face    in  the animal’s    chest.  He  was overcome    in  every   sense:
by  the inexorable  force   of  the tiger;  by  the point-blank blast   of  Pionka’s
and Shibnev’s   rifles; by  the impossible  softness    of  the tiger’s fur,    the
muscles taut    as  cables  underneath. Like    this,   man and beast   went    down
together,   bound   in  a   wrestler’s  embrace.
                    
                      ron
                      (Ron)
                      
                    
                #1
            
            