The Darkness That Hunts
Chapter 2

The rowboat rocks dangerously as I climb out of it and steponto the dilapidated pier. After securing the boat to the dock--just incase Ineed a quick escape--I tuck the warning into the pocket of my filthy jeans forsafekeeping. Whether it’s telling the truth or not doesn’t matter. I sensesomething is horribly wrong and I’m not anxious to spend the night in anunknown forest.

The pier ends at a muddy bank. From the shoreline rises asteep hill. A rusted chain-link fence coils along the perimeter of the bank,blocking all access beyond the lake. I hesitate, trying to decipher my nextcourse of action. The pier is empty, the bank deserted. No boats, no equipment,not even litter. From the pier’s rotting wood and the gloom that shrouds thebank, I get the feeling the area’s been abandoned for several years. Could ithave something to do with the letter’s warning to get away from the lake?

The planks of the dock sound hollow as my worn tennis shoesrap against them. I keep a steady eye out, my steps quick and as subdued as Ican make them but my mind is restless. Someone wrote a note to warn me that I’mbeing hunted. But I’d know if I were being hunted, wouldn’t I? If I could just remember . . .

Again, the pain lashes out at me with whip-like precision andI shy away from what my amnesia conceals. My psychologist once told me thehuman mind has a tendency to block certain traumatic memories that theconsciousness cannot reconcile.

If that’s so, I must’ve had one hell of a traumaticexperience.

My pace slows as I approach the fence. Heavy chains curlaround the fence’s gate like a metal boa constrictor. Dangling above the gatehangs a wooden sign with a worn message carved onto its face.

Private Property: Keep Out. TrespassersWill Be Shot.

--Camp Genki Security

Holy crap, shot?

What sort of camp shootsa trespasser without so much as a warning?

I can’t recall such a place near my home, but if the campersare children from wealthy and powerful families, then such a Draconian policymakes sense.

This is the South,after all.

Beyond the gate I spot a faint trail overrun with shrubs andbrambles. It weaves between the dark outlines of the pines and disappears upthe hill. It’s too dark to see anything beyond.

Do I risk a bullet or stay here and hope someone comesalong? I glance over my shoulder at the dock and the heavy mist that enshroudsthe lake. It’s so dense that it seems like a sentient being. Famished, skulkingacross the placid waters. Waiting.

I shudder. No way I’m staying here another second.

Chain-links rattle as I scale the fence. On the other side,the forest adopts an ominous feel. Shadows drip from twisted branches. As Ihike the steep hill, black shapes scuttle across the woodland floor likebeetles. A muggy heat scrapes against my skin and the gusts of wind that buffetmy cheeks do nothing to cool me off. My nostrils flare, dragging in thefragrance of old earth, decay, and oleander. Nocturnal birds wail into thenight, their undulating voices haunting the air like wraiths.

I hate the outdoors. Not so much because of gross bugs andvicious wild animals, but because the wilderness makes me realize my ownvulnerability. No other human contact, forgotten and insignificant amidstvegetation that had been old when settlers first arrived to America. And thesilence--that’s the worst. Give me skyscrapers, concrete, and rush hour trafficany day.

Thighs stinging and lungs burning, I pause at the crown ofthe hill. The dirt trail disappears beneath a layer of pine needles and leafmold. It doesn’t matter. At the bottom of a gentle decline lays another path--apaved walkway that angles away from the vicinity of the lake. At intervals,stone lanterns splay a butterscotch light across the walkway, breaking thedarkness into patches. I creep down the slope, my shoes crunching on drybranches and leaves, my eyes checking every hollow, every pocket of shadow.

It takes me a minute to realize the wailing birds have gonesilent.

I don’t even notice the trio of dogs until I’m nearly uponthem. At first, they blend in with the untamed foliage and gloom. From myvantage I can only distinguish vague hulking shapes. But once they slink intothe glow of a lantern, I see they’re much larger than ordinary dogs, biggerthan even Great Danes. They possess the wide faces and broad shoulders of a PitBull and their coats gleam the colors of coal and twilight. Barely more thanslits, their feral eyes pulsate in hues of olive that reminds me of rotted mossand decayed undergrowth.

Something stirs in the back of my mind. A forgotten terror,but when I try to remember, nails rake across my skull.

The largest hound snaps its powerful jaws at one of itspackmates. A series of snarls, whimpers, and snorts. The dogs thrust theirnoses against the ground, shuffling up and down the path. It’s almost as ifthey are searching, looking for--

My breath catches in my throat.

The yellowed paper burns in my pocket.

They are hunting me.

I try to run but my feet are frozen. My arm shoots out andmy fingers dig into the rough bark of the tree beside me, steadying my weakknees. As quietly as I can, I shift so that the tree forms a barrier between meand my pursuers. While the trio search the walkway, my mind races, calculatinga mode of escape. If I run, surely they will hear me and give chase, but if Iremain behind this tree, perhaps they will move on and give me a chance to getaway. I peek around the pine’s trunk. The hounds fan out. One follows thepavement to the left, the other to the right. The biggest, the alpha, starts inmy direction.

Fear gives way to self-preservation. My first instinct is todash back towards the lake, hop the fence and make for the moored rowboat, butwhen I turn to scuttle back up the slope, I spot someone shifting through thespruce. He is little more than an outline and makes no sound as he moves.Another remnant of a memory flashes through my mind. I’m being chased across aland with no moon and a bloody sky, stumbling through a forest--a different onethan this one. A place of cobwebs and poison.

The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck tingle as ifcharged with electricity. The temperature towards the lake plummets by severaldegrees. Ice, glimmering like quartz, suddenly coats the branches around me. Mybreath comes out in white puffs as the man draws closer.

Seek no help untilyou remember.The letter’s warning snaps me out of my trance. I wish its writer had been morespecific. Seek no help? What if my memories don’t come back? Am I supposed tohide forever? No way. I’m certain the man can help me--if he doesn’t shoot mefor trespassing. As for the sudden ice on the branches despite the muggyheat--a hallucination, maybe? I have those often. If I close my eyes, count toten slowly . . .

Okay, so that didn’t work.

If anything, my hallucination grows more elaborate,translating into the feeling of thick, sludge-like water that caresses my skin.My stomach churns but I ignore it. I can’t let fear get the better of me. Myresolve encourages my footsteps and I sneak away from the pack of dogs.

“Excuse me, sir.” My voice is barely more than a croak. Isound hoarse. Almost as if I haven’t spoken to any one in months or I wasscreaming until I simply couldn’t any longer. For some reason, the last optionseems most familiar. I clear my throat and try again. “I know I’m trespassing,but I’m lost and need help.”

In other words: Pleasedon’t shoot me.

Despite the weakness of my voice, the man turns. The goldeneyes of a predator burn into mine. Shadows circle him, hiding his body, but Ican see his smile as clearly as moonlight. A white flash in a haze of gloom,his grin is that of a bobcat and I know beyond a doubt that I’ll receive nohelp.

This is the man the letter warned me about.

I pivot on my heel to flee but draw up short. The trio ofdogs growl at me and block my access to the trail. They drop into a stance thatleaves little doubt as to their intentions. Skidding, I sprint left--away fromboth the dogs and the golden-eyed man. The hounds yelp and bark. I risk aglance. The man watches me run, his smile loosening to a bemused smirk. Hejerks his chin and howling, the dogs give chase.

In a flurry of legs, arms, panting and grunting, I zigzagbetween trees, over brambles, creeper vines and fallen branches. My pursuers donot slow. I’m going to have to fight. But even as the thought crosses my mind,I shy away from it. One teenaged girl against vicious dogs the size of GreatDanes? I don’t think so. And even if I were crazy enough to fight, I don’t havea decent weapon. My breath comes in jagged, pain-filled bursts and I know Imust come up with something quickly. No time to climb a tree, even if I could.My only option is to get help.

I scream. At first it’s barely more than a choked cry, butafter a second or two and enough adrenaline to give my voice some oomph, my scream barrels through thetrees. I hope that someone is near enough to hear it and respond. Anyone.

At my panicked shouts, the dogs double their pace, boundingacross the woodland floor as if they glide on air. They are on me in a matterof seconds. The first plows into me from the side. His weight and stench knockme off my feet and we tumble over each other, rolling across pinecones,brambles and bushes. He lands on his side and I land on top of him. I manage tosnatch my head back as he twists beneath me and snaps his jaws at my throat.His breath is hot, moist and fetid against my cheeks. I cannot gain enoughleverage to pull myself free, but I manage to shift my weight so that my kneedigs into his ribcage, crushing the air from his lungs. His pink tongue lops outof his mouth as he wheezes.

I hear the next one before I see him leap out of the brushto aid his packmate. With a choked shriek, I dive out of his path. He lands onthe pads of his paws with the nimbleness of a feline and spins. His packmaterolls to his feet and both face me, stalking with unhurried, deliberatemovements. I scramble to my knees and my gaze jumps from one to the other.Their pulsating eyes display a human’s cunning and for the first time I noticea strange glyph on their foreheads, right between their eyes. Two dots like acolon beside a square with the left half missing. A short horizontal linebeneath. I have no idea what the brand means, or why both dogs sport it.

Dread pools thick and low in my gut. The alpha of the packis still missing. The pair before me creep forward, their steps so delicatethat the pads of their giant paws make no sound. My heart slams against myribs. I should run, but their eyes, olive now emerald, jade then avocado . . .why do they glow like that? The shifting shades hold me entranced, binding me.

Distracting me for . . . Him.

The realization spurs a new eruption of fear, adrenaline andsheer panic. I leap to my feet and run blindly. I have no sense of up or down,left or right. The trail could have been in front of me and I wouldn’t knowuntil I fell on top of it.

“Please! Someone, help!” The words burst forth and then thepair are on me again. One clamps his jaws about my right calf, his teeth easilyshredding fabric and skin and muscle before sinking into bone. My squeal ismuffled by my fall. The second hound snarls and clamps his mouth over mythroat. He squeezes my windpipe--not tight enough to kill me, but firm enoughto halt all sound and struggle. As it oozes down my neck, his thick salivastinks so badly it singes my nose. The smell of it coupled with my own blood isenough to drag me to the brink of consciousness.

The hound at my feet releases my calf and howls. A sound oftriumph, it makes the hair on my arms stand on end.

We have her. Come,Master,it seems to say. Out of the corner of my eye the alpha emerges, the same brandon his forehead, his eyes bright with satisfaction. Behind him appears the man,his own smile every bit as savage as a panther who comes in for the kill.

My God, I pray, a whimper escaping my lips. My God, save me.