Hide and Seek

them lying there on warm summer nights like this one, the dog's keen

nose facing the opening. Outside we could see the blue-black of night

and the stars. A clean sudden peace.

Before us, the dog. The nightmare.

Feeding.

A glance at Steven was all I could handle and all I could spare. It

could freeze you, slide you into madness. And the dog was busy now,

its muzzle ferreting through blood and bone, its senses not quite so

alert.

I heard the crack of bone. The muzzle rose in profile and I saw the

froth and drool, the mad stare in one blind eye. It dipped back down

into the kill.

And there was Mary too.

An old gaunt woman in rags, her thin wiry back hunched and studded with

backbone like scars on the trunk of a tree. Her hair a fright wig of

dirty matted gray and white. The long musculature of her arms taut as

cables.

I heard her voice crooning to the dog as she knelt beside it and

stroked the black expanse of its body from neck to haunches, a soft,

high, even tone of pleasure and serenity tossed in the gentle wind that

brushed through the entrance to the cave, while the dog tore and broke

and violated the empty ruins of my friend.

Her hand moved like a claw over its body. Lovingly. And wordlessly

she sang to him, urging him on, like a mother to a baby. Like a

lover.

I felt my face contorting, my stomach heave. I wrenched my eyes away

from her.

I looked at the dog.

And realized there was no clear line of attack.

For targets the pitchfork had only its back and hindquarters. I could

do him no real damage there. I needed the breast or muzzle. I felt a

moment of frustrated panic. Soon one of them would sense us behind

them, and then I'd have my shot. But the dog would be moving. Fast

and deadly.

I fought for control.