Page 64 of Catching Camila

John

Friday 1:23 a.m.

He stood in the woods barely breathing. Something wasn't right, he could feel it.

Camila had run through the moonlit field almost an hour ago and he'd stood listening since. If something was wrong, she'd come back, he thought as he shifted again. Yet, his gut twisted and his palms were slick with sweat. Something was not right.

A noise echoed through the forest behind him. He snapped his head around, his eyes sifting through the inky blackness. A twig snapped to his left and his body tightened like a fist. Someone or some thing was out there. He strained his ears toward the sound, filtered out the buzz of insects, the rustling leaves. There, to his right, something shifted ever so slightly.

He strode forward, anger heating up his insides. The smell hit him. Feral, animal, big.

Rage seethed through him until rational thought was crowded out. How dare it come here, nearly to her doorstep.

I'll kill it,he thought, tearing after the scent. This time I'll make sure it's dead.

He tore toward through the branches, his arms pumping, and hands fisted. He gritted his teeth and an animal growl gurgled out of his throat.

John pulled back, shaking his head. What's gotten into me? He loosened his grip, pushing down the rage. Then a whiff of feral scent hit him in the face. The rage reared up, overpowering him. The beast had to die. Then he'd be able to calm down.

He tore into a small clearing. Here the pines thinned, letting a sliver of moonlight spear into the ferny underbrush. John stopped and looked around.

Still as a statue, the beast waited. Close to seven feet tall, rippled in muscle, it was a thing of nightmares. From here, the creature looked like a gnarled tree with slitted red eyes. Its lion-like mane stirred in the breeze; its skin was a network of hard scales the size of nickels that reflected the moonlight. John's eyes tracked over the claws that curled from each finger, at the teeth that curved outward six inches in both directions. The sunken red eyes watched him from a bony face that protruded in knobs at the cheekbones and forehead.

It was grotesque, an aberration. A monstrosity.

John squared up with it, took a deep breath, and bared his teeth.

The beast didn't move. Red eyes watched John's every move intently. Could it actually be…thinking? No. This monster didn't think.

“Come on!” John pointed to his neck, veins popping. “This is what you like, right?” John jutted his chin upward. “Come and get it!”

The beast flexed, lips curling back to reveal more of those razor-sharp teeth, but the posture was defensive. It made no move to charge.

“Come on!” John grabbed a log and hurled it at the beast. The monster deflected the log with one swipe of a forearm, raining splinters into bushes. Still, it blinked at him.

How could this killing machine stand there looking at him without attacking? He thought of the man in the gas station, the blood, the shocked expression on his face, the flies.

An image of Camila, crumpled and bloody, flashed before his eyes.

He ran and jumped on the beast.

This was it. It was do or die.

John's body collided with the monster. They went sprawling into the underbrush.

Twigs and branches snapped on either side as they fell. They skidded across the forest floor, stopping when the beast's back slammed into a massive tree. On top, legs straddling the beast's torso, John swung like a heavyweight boxer, fists pounding into the beast's scaly chest and bony head again and again. It was like punching a stone statue. Blood splattered from John's knuckles as he swung.

The beast let out a ferocious growl, spittle spewing through its fangs. John felt hot wetness on his cheeks. The beast lurched sideways, its claws furrowing the dirt. John's grip slipped and the beast rolled away. John grabbed at it and came away with a handful of matted, stinking fur. The beast let out a roar, its rancid breath clotting the air.

In one move it was behind John. Paws clamped over John's chest, locked, and began squeezing.

It's asstrong as I am! John thought, as his ribs creaked. Pain spread through his chest like a cancer, setting warning bells off in his head. He thrashed back and forth.

No air! Got to—

John smashed his heel into the beast's groin. Another guttural growl and suddenly John's arms were free. He dropped to the dirt and rolled into the undergrowth.

Scrambling through bushes, John sucked air madly. Once he could breathe, he pulled up and turned back to his opponent. The beast stood in a defensive stance, claws up, eyes and ears alert, legs tense. Its dirty brown mane wavered in the breeze. A clot of yellow saliva dripped from one curving fang. The slitted red eyes blinked at John. Blinked and stared. Almost if it were trying to communicate.

---