Page 14 of Catching Camila

Little Mack

Tuesday 9:34 p.m.

When the whiskey was gone, Little Mack let the glass bottle clink to the pavement. He watched it roll back and forth on its side, his bleary eyes separating it into two bottles, then three, then back to one. His head lolled onto the soiled pile of clothes and his eyes rolled up to the stars.

Sleeping in the alley wasn't all that bad in the summer. Bugs sometimes bit him up and gangs of teenagers liked to give him a hard time, but right now the breeze felt just fine on his hot skin, the stars were out and his belly sloshed with liquid happiness. Been a while since he'd had a belly full of whiskey. Too long.

Little Mack watched the stars blur and sharpen above. Vaguely he noted Cassiopeia, a constellation his mother used to point to on those early mornings at the bus stop when she’d stand with him on the crisp snow, their breath puffing in tandem. An ache widened in his chest, but he squashed it. That was a million years ago and his mother was in the cemetery eight blocks away. He visited her last week and fell asleep on her grave.

Little Mack patted his distended tummy. The streets had been busy today and he'd made a good haul. Cross-legged with his sunglasses on, his “Every little bit helps. God bless you,” sign tucked in his lap, he'd made twenty dollars. The Black Velvet whiskey was his reward for the bumper crop of loose change. Sure, he'd feel like hell tomorrow, but tonight he felt alright.

“Alright, alright, alllriiight,” he mumbled, smiling. He got a whiff of his own breath and winced. Next twenty he got he’d buy a toothbrush and some tooth paste. Wouldn’t matter tonight. No smoochin’ or coochin’ happening at the back of Chang’s Chinese Buffet, where everything smelled like old grease and egg rolls.

Noise from the back of the alley drew his attention. Sometimes cops woke him up and told him to move along. Sometimes asshole teenagers with red eyes and shaved heads tried to kick his ribs and step on his fingers while he slept. One time he'd awoken to one peeing on the back of his head. Punks.

In the dark, his eyes scanned the alleyway beyond. Nothing but garbage bins, scattered trash and cracked pavement. Above, fire escapes clung to the sides of buildings. From this angle they looked like stairways to heaven. He started humming that tune under his breath and let his eyes slip back up to the stars.

Another noise, scraping on the pavement this time. He stopped humming. Was something moving back behind that trash bin? Little Mack squinted, but couldn't stop the landscape from sliding back and forth. He lay his head back down. Too hard to keep it upright.

Little Mack closed his eyes. He was about to drift off when glass fell and shattered behind him. He pulled his eyes open, fear creeping up his numb limbs. He could hear slow, steady breathing. A dog? He pushed himself up on his elbows.

Something was in the alley with him. And it sounded big.

His heart pounded in his ears. He could smell something rancid and feral. His hand trembled as he pulled himself upright again. Was he hallucinating? Sometimes when the drink took hold he saw things. Could be the Black Velvet talkin—

Two blood-red eyes stared from the shadows, hollowing him out.

He scooted back, spooked. What had eyes like that? An animal? A monster?

A deep low growl rolled out of the slash of shadow beside the brick wall.

“Dear Jesus!” Little Mack squealed. He tried to stand and fell. Panic choking him, he scampered on his hands and knees. Pain punctured his palm, glass maybe, but he ignored it. Headlights cut through the night ahead. If only he could make it to the road.

The thing behind him broke into a run.

Faster, faster Mack crawled. The end of the alley seemed miles off. His heart thudded into his throat. He'd die before he made it. His heart would give out, or— A car zoomed past twenty feet away. He was almost there.

Paws the size of bear claws slammed into his back. He crumpled to the ground, the air spewing out of his lungs. A tremendous weight pressed on him. The animal stench was everywhere. Stars swam across his vision. Paws grabbed him and flipped him over like a toddler. His head smacked mercilessly on the pavement. The world shifted and spun.

“No,” he gurgled. Vomit churned up his throat. He raised his eyes and saw a rope of saliva dripping off two rows of six-inch fangs. Hot, rancid breath pulsed against his face. He thrashed back and forth, but he was pinned. Even the whiskey couldn't dull his terror. He started to sob.

Little Mack turned his eyes to Cassiopeia as fangs cinched around his throat.

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