The dogs didn't wait for Han-su to make the first move.
The alpha—a massive, scarred Malamute with a missing ear—let out a short, sharp yip. The pack moved. They didn't run straight at him; they flowed like water between the stalled cars, using the shadows and the piles of trash as cover.
"Kim! Noise! Now!" Han-su yelled.
The truck's engine roared as Kim floored the accelerator in neutral. The sound was a physical force, a rhythmic VROOM-VROOM-VROOM that bounced off the concrete barriers and the buildings flanking the highway.
The dogs flinched. Their sensitive ears were overwhelmed by the mechanical violence. They hesitated, their predatory rhythm broken.
Han-su took the opportunity. He sprinted toward the bus. Every step was a gamble—a slip on the wet asphalt would mean the end. He reached the bus and dived toward the tarp tent.
"Get out! Now!" he roared.
An elderly woman, wrapped in a moth-eaten mink coat that smelled of mothballs and decay, stared up at him. She was holding a birdcage. Inside was a small, yellow canary that was puffed up into a ball of silent terror.
"I can't leave him," she croaked, clutching the cage. "He's the only one who still sings."
"Bring the damn bird! Move!"
Han-su grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to her feet. She was light—dangerously light. She couldn't have weighed more than forty kilograms.
As they turned to run back to the truck, the alpha dog recovered. It realized the noise was just noise—it didn't bite. The Malamute launched itself from the roof of a parked Kia, its jaws aiming for Han-su's throat.
THWACK.
Han-su didn't even have time to aim. He fired the crossbow from the hip. The bolt buried itself in the dog's chest, the force of the high-tension string knocking the animal mid-air. It hit the ground with a heavy thud, yelping once before going still.
The rest of the pack snarled. The hesitation was over. They charged.
"Min-ah! Cover!" Han-su screamed.
From the back of the truck, the PE teacher emerged. She didn't have a gun, but she had something better for a pack of animals. She had the high-intensity fire extinguisher she'd scavenged from the treatment plant.
She pulled the pin and squeezed the handle.
A massive cloud of white, freezing CO2 powder erupted from the back of the truck, creating a wall of chemical fog. The dogs, blinded and choking on the powder, skidded to a halt.
Han-su practically threw the old woman into the cargo hold. He scrambled in after her, his boots slipping on the metal lip.
"Go! Go! Go!"
Kim slammed the truck into gear. The tires spun, smoking against the wet pavement, before they caught traction. The truck surged forward, clipping the side of the overturned bus with a shower of sparks.
They left the dogs behind, a pack of confused, white-powder-covered ghosts barking at the retreating red taillights.