Part 8 (1/2)

”Over there!” Amanda hissed. ”In the trees!” I lowered the camera and found her pointing toward a patch of woods to the south. Her eyes were wide, and her voice quavered with excitement.

”Where?” I asked, but she was already running, kicking up dead leaves as she slid down the hill. ”Amanda, wait! It might not be safe.” I looped the camera strap around my neck and followed her down.

She entered the trees twenty yards ahead of me, immediately disappearing from sight. I plowed in behind her, then stopped, listening for movement.

”Amanda!”

There was sound everywhere: the subdued hiss of something sliding through the bushes to my left; then to my right, the brittle snap of a dead branch directly ahead. I couldn't see much of anything. Low bushes had grown out of control between the trees, and I watched as a sea of leaves rippled around me. The wind, I told myself. Just the wind.

And then the growling began. All around. Low and guttural.

”Amanda?” I hissed. I'm not sure why I felt the need to whisper. Anything she could hear, they could most definitely hear.

There was no response.

I started moving forward through the bushes, holding a hand out in front of me to push aside the encroaching branches. I hadn't taken more than three steps when I felt a weight against my leg-a push, nudging me forward. I stumbled over my own feet, my heart breaking rhythm inside my chest. I barely managed to catch myself. There was movement all around-the dry rustle of leaves-and the thick, dark smell of animal musk. I glanced back, but something darted in from up ahead, catching my hand in a quick, hard grip. It was an intense pressure, engulfing my palm, and a wet growl vibrated up through my flesh and bone.

I tried to pull my hand back, and a gray muzzle came into view; black lips and pink gums were wrapped around my fist. I could see yellow plaque-stained teeth. I could see blood welling up between those teeth and my hand.

I panicked and surged forward, trying to get away. My s.h.i.+ns. .h.i.t canine flesh with a dull thud, and I collapsed forward onto my knees. Onto the dog. I felt a sudden expulsion of breath puff out around my hand, and I somersaulted forward. My hand finally came free.

A loud growl swelled up from the trees behind me, radiating out of the ground cover. Then a half dozen dogs exploded from the brush, teeth bared and saliva flying. I scrambled up to my feet and started to run, bouncing off trees and stumbling over branches and roots.

They were fast, and I could feel them gaining on me. The back of my neck tingled in antic.i.p.ation, bracing me for that final, brutal snap, preparing me for the razor-sharp jaws that would sink into my fragile flesh at any moment now.

There was no way I could outrun them. No way in h.e.l.l.

Then, suddenly, I was free, bursting out of the trees and falling forward into a scrim of leaves and decaying mulch. I spun around on the ground and started pus.h.i.+ng myself backward, keeping my eyes on the trees, unable to get up off my a.s.s.

”Dean!” Amanda cried out in surprise just before I collided with her legs and knocked her to the ground.

”Move!” I panted. ”Move, move, move!” I continued to push myself backward, using my legs to propel myself away from the trees. Then my feet began to slip, and, finally, I stopped.

The trees were still. There was no sign of the dogs.

Amanda remained where she'd landed, watching me with huge perplexed eyes. ”Your hand. You're bleeding!” She crawled forward and grabbed my hand, rotating it front to back, inspecting the damage.

For a while, I couldn't take my eyes off of the trees; then a sharp pain blossomed in my palm. I sucked a breath through my teeth and turned toward her probing fingers. ”The dogs, the f.u.c.king dogs,” I said. ”They're crazed. How'd you get past them?”

She glanced up from my palm and shook her head. ”I didn't see them. I didn't see a thing.”

With the tail of her s.h.i.+rt, she wiped the blood away from my palm, revealing a pair of deep holes. It was my left hand, and the holes were s.p.a.ced on either side of my previous wound-the line of raw flesh that had been ripped away in the apartment building. Amanda turned my hand over, exposing a single puncture wound in the web between my thumb and forefinger. This was the nastiest of the holes. My stomach began to turn, and I looked away.

”Does it hurt?”

”Not yet,” I hissed. The fear had begun to subside, replaced by frustration and anger. ”I'm sure it will. Give it a couple minutes and I'm sure it'll be hurting like a motherf.u.c.ker.”

Amanda shook her head. ”You must have startled them,” she said. ”You must have done something wrong.”

I gave her an incredulous look, and she stared right back, stubborn, unwilling to hear anything bad about her precious dogs.

”You see my hand?” I asked, raising it up so the blood spilled down my wrist and dripped onto my jeans. ”You see what they did?”

Amanda didn't reply. She ripped a strip of cloth from the bottom of her s.h.i.+rt and wrapped it around my palm. ”Give it some pressure,” she said. ”We'll clean it up when we get home.” Then she grabbed my uninjured hand and pulled me to my feet.

”This is what I was looking at when you bowled me over,” she said.

I looked around, finally calm enough to take in my surroundings. We'd pa.s.sed through the stand of trees and were now standing in front of an open cave mouth, an oval swatch of darkness punched into the face of a fairly steep hill. The opening was only about four feet high, and its edges were ragged, as if it had been chewed into the earth. The gra.s.s in front of the entrance was muddy, imprinted with the shape of a hundred large, hand-size paws.

I lifted my camera and took a couple of shots. At first, I tried to use my injured left hand, but a sharp jab of fire made me drop the camera back against my chest. Finally, I managed to prop it up on the palm of my right hand and gingerly stab at the shutter release with my left thumb.

”This is where they come from,” Amanda whispered, a hint of awe in her voice. ”This is where they live!”

Before I could stop her, Amanda took a step forward, cupped her hands around her mouth, and shouted ”h.e.l.lo!” I listened as that word echoed again and again-h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo-getting fainter as it pa.s.sed deeper underground.

Judging by that sound, those reverberations, it wasn't a cave we were facing-a shallow little grotto-but rather a tunnel, leading down into the earth.

Amanda began toward the opening, and I jolted forward, reaching out to stop her. As soon as I touched her arm, a low growl erupted from the dark tunnel-a sustained, multivoiced rumble, like rocks grinding in the heart of the earth. ”We're not going in there, Amanda. No f.u.c.king way!”

She turned toward me, a blank look on her face. I raised my hand, showing her my bloodstained bandage. After a couple of seconds, she nodded, finally relenting.

”Maybe later,” she said, a dreamy quality to her voice. ”When you're better. When we're better prepared.”

Using my good hand, I pulled her away from the dark entrance. It was hard on her, I could tell, leaving it behind. As long as the hole was in view, she kept glancing back over her shoulder, a wistful look on her face.

I remained tense as we skirted the nearby patch of trees and set off for home.

By the time we got back to the house, the shock of my injury had faded and my hand had started to throb. The bones felt sore, bruised and out of place inside my flesh.

We found Mac, Floyd, and Sabine in the kitchen.

”Amanda!” As soon as we entered, Mac swept across the room and lifted her into his arms. ”I woke up and you were gone. I thought ... I thought ...” He paused, taking a moment to compose himself. ”Tell me, what happened?”

”Nothing,” she said, pus.h.i.+ng out of his embrace. ”We both woke up early, so I thought I'd show Dean around the neighborhood.”

All eyes turned toward me, and Amanda shot me a meaningful look. I got the message loud and clear: nothing about the dogs, nothing about the tunnel.

There was silence for a moment, then Sabine shouted ”f.u.c.k,” finally noticing my hand. The bandage had soaked all the way through, and I was dripping blood onto the floor. ”What the f.u.c.k happened to Dean?”

”Jesus,” Floyd added. He stood up and backed away from his place at the kitchen table, blanching at the sight of my b.l.o.o.d.y hand. Sabine grabbed me by the shoulder and led me over to Floyd's abandoned seat. I dropped my backpack to the ground and let her push me down into the chair.

Sabine unwrapped my blood-soaked bandage and held my hand open on the tabletop. She examined my wounds for a second, then raised her dark, kohl-rimmed eyes to my face. Her question was still there: What the f.u.c.k happened?