Behind him, glass shattered again.
The first spike-ball rat uncurling from the cooler hissed as it dropped back to all fours, bleeding from several fresh cuts where its own momentum had driven shards into its flanks. It was angry now. The thing near the hot dog rollers dragged itself upright, too, one hind leg bent at a wrong angle but still functional enough for the fight.
Jagger's breath was coming harder.
Blood ran down his forearm where the bite had landed. His left hand burned from the claw marks. The wounds were already tingling with the first awful stirrings of Regeneration, but they were not closing yet. Not fully.
He needed to end this before the pain piled higher.
The rats split again, forcing him to turn.
One darted under the shelves and disappeared behind a display of instant noodles. The other began circling wide near the counter.
Then both screeched.
At the same time.
