Hunters Moon He paused in the woodlands, panting great ragged breaths. Behind him he could hear the dogs yapping and snarling. He raised his head; the undergrowth was thick and dense. Snaggles of brambles cut across his face, drawing blood like bright ruby beads. He cocked his head to one side, trying to hear how far behind him they were. The woods were a cacophony of noises: above, the sounds of birds squawking their unrest, behind, the sound of the dogs baying for blood and of men coarsely shouting to each other. Fools, he thought, you give your presence away by your foolish actions. He chuckled slyly, the sound more a growl than a laugh. He pushed ahead, driving deeper into the thick undergrowth. His way was lit by the silver of the moon, casting wary shadows beneath the oaks and birches. A fox bolted out from beneath the massive girth of an ancient gnarled oak, it�s red tail bristling with fear, as it smelt the strangeness in the air. He lashed out with one sudden swipe of a great taloned hand, and the fox fell dead, the look of fear forever frozen in it�s deadened gaze. Intestines glistened inside a great ragged hole, gleaming palely in the dull light of the moon. The smell of blood excited him greatly, and he thrust his head at the dead fox, hungrily devouring the liver, intestines and spleen. He turned his head quickly to the side, listening, as he rabidly swallowed the prized offal. The sounds were nearer; they had picked up his scent again. He wiped away a smear of blood from his lips with his great hand, and raising it to his mouth, he suckled at the red smear. He bounded through the woods, gradually picking up momentum. The scenery flew past him, a dull mixture of night and shadows. A sound in front of him pulled him up sharply. His reflexes, which were finely honed, stopped him from plummeting headfirst into a fallen birch, a relic of past storms. A slavering face with quivering jowls thrust at his face, lips peeled back to reveal strong white canines. He froze, staring the bloodhound out, brown eyes matching brown eyes, movement for movement. The bloodhound threw back its head and howled, a deep mournful sound. He watched the dog silently, muscles bunching powerfully beneath his long shaggy pelt, and he lunged at the large dog, teeth bared, aiming for the throat. The bloodhound already anticipated the move, and they met head on, cruel mouths stretched wide, teeth clashing. Strength and size were on his side, he bowled the dog over, and in an instance his teeth were buried in the dogs belly, wrenching and tearing at the soft warm flesh. The dog let out an anguished wail of pain and fear, this creature that tore at it was unlike anything that it had ever encountered before. He ripped and tore flesh asunder in a frenzied bloodlust, gulping down chunks of hot steaming flesh. The bloodhound valiantly tried to rise, but the man-creature snapped its femur as easily as a twig. The dog was rendered immobile; disbelief shining in it�s hurt brown eyes. With a last bout of frenzied action, he tore out the dog�s throat, warm blood gushing over his face. Victorious, he knelt from the dog and raised his great shaggy head, his fevered eyes searching for the silver glow in the sky. He opened his blood stained muzzle, long yellow canines stained with gore, and let out a blood-curdling roar. The group of five men were still some distance away from him, froze in fear as they heard the howl split the night�s sky. The bloodhounds cowered, tails shooting between their legs, hackles rising up and spiking like quills. One hunkered down, and shot out a stream of yellow urine, soaking the jeans of one of the trackers, who had knelt in concern for his dog. �Damned you, Fern� He said in disbelief. It had been a long time since he had seen the dog as frightened as this, and it scared him badly. �Come on Pete!� whispered one of the other trackers. �We have got a job to do. Can�t let the beast escape. Think of poor Frieda�� Pete looked up �Yeah, you are right Dave. Poor Frieda and her young boy.� He felt his resolve harden. �We will catch the animal that savaged Adam.� �Too bloody right mate!� Dave replied harshly. A third tracker wandered over to them. �I just heard on the radio that Adams doing fine. He�s in the hospital and it�s said that the wounds weren�t too serious. He�ll survive-I�ll bet that Frieda�s relieved� Pete glanced at him �And where the hell was Andy when all this was happening, Matt? Drunk again in some pit, I�ll bet!� Matt laid his hand on Pete�s arm. �You don�t know that.� Pete rounded on him �Best tracker that we�ve got� he spat at the floor in disgust. �What a waste!� �We all know that he wasn�t the same after that dog mauled him� Dave replied gently, trying to ease the tension. �Bloody big dog!� Pete laughed in sarcasm. �To take out our best tracker, and reduce him to a no-good drunk!� Dave glanced around �Talking of big dogs, has anyone seen Jasper?� �He�s probably nosing on up ahead, picking up the beasts scent� Pete replied quietly. Two hundred yards away, a pair of baleful brown eyes observed them silently. He twitched his over grown ears at them, picking up the sound of their voices, although by now the words were barely coherent. His teeth bared as if in a grimace of pain, and he growled at them, menacingly, a threat warning them off. I have already disposed of one of your hounds, and if you come nearer, I�ll fight you to the death, he thought in an animalistic manner. He watched them shoulder their large heavy guns, walking slowly to where he was concealed in the thick tangle of brambles and ferns. His hackles rose slowly, he could smell their impending doom in his flared nostrils. He arched himself gracefully on to his powerful muscle laden legs, slowly and quietly revealing himself to them. In all my glory, he growled softly. The dogs picked the scent up first. A cacophony of barking and howls pierced his delicate, sensitive hearing, and he leapt away, plunging again deep in to the woods. Some last vestige of humanity lingered, telling him to flee, to not hurt the trackers, but it was diminishing, slowly giving way to the need to tear and consume flesh. He ran for what seemed hours, plummeting down hillsides in his haste to be free from the men and their dogs. Yet relentless, the men still followed his every move. The sound of the dogs baying brought a sense of annoyance to him, he felt agitated by these pitiful curs that followed their handlers with their sickening obedience. Best to be free, he thought, answer to the call of the moon; the primeval need in us all-the need to devour. He leapt across a fragile stream, water splashing pitifully over hard uncaring boulders. He slipped and lost his footing, landing heavily on one leg, he felt the muscle in his shoulder bruise, the icy water sluicing his face. He sniffed at the air; there was a strangeness about it and he peered, eyes widening in alarm as he saw the first grey fingers of dawn tentatively touch the horizon. He limped across the stream, small sharp pebbles cutting in to heavily furred pads. In the distance he heard a lone bird cry it�s mournful song, and he raised his head, no longer fighting the urge, to howl against the approaching light. He stumbled blindly in to a small grove of pine trees, and crouching down low, he slipped liked a shadow in to the cover, to wait out the morning-knowing that the transformation was coming. The trackers saw him move across the stream, a large muscular brown furred creature, and one of them laughed when he saw the beast slip, banging his shoulder against a large grey boulder. �He�s hurt himself Pete!� Matt exclaimed laughing ,�We�ve nearly got him!� �Send the dogs� he replied menacingly �Then we finish it off.� They unleashed the dogs, watching as they splashed through the water, barking and yapping as they cautiously neared their prey. The men unshouldered their heavy double-barreled shotguns, that gleamed with deadly intent. They raced after the bloodhounds, revenge shining in their eyes. The men pushed their way through the dense pines, shotguns pointing downwards, until they reached the small clearing. Their prey was laying heavily on the ground, body arching backwards, pink flesh showing through matted brown fur. The large paws were melting away, revealing human hands. The sound that the creature was growling in its misery, was fading in to a scream as the large snout flattened in to a macabre parody of a human face. �Jesus wept!� screamed Dave, pointing his shotgun at the grotesque image writhing on the needle-strewn ground. His finger tightened on the trigger, pumping two cartridges into the body. An unearthly scream tore through the sky as the bullets hit home, spraying blood and clumps off flesh, dousing the nearest tree with matted gore. Matt in his panic at seeing Dave shoot, released his cartridges in to the creature, throwing up as he saw gore splatter the ground in its crimson vividness. �Stop!� yelled a voice in his ear. �Jesus, can�t you see? I think it�s Andy�� Matt forced his eyes downwards, wiping at the drool on his chin. He could see a face now, amidst the mass of long brown fur and blood, and he vomited again, retching as it hurt his throat. �Christ�it�s Andy�� he muttered, the colour draining out of his face. He turned to see Pete watching him impassively. The dogs were nearing the fallen half man/half beast, growling with barely kept desire. He had to do something, anything, but a peculiar paralysis had crept over him, turning his limbs to lead. He watched in stunned disbelief as Pete called the dogs, watching as the bloodhounds snapped and snarled, biting, tearing chunks out of the half-dead creature on the floor. He watched as it feebly raised a hand in a vain attempt to shoo the dogs away. Pete slowly and casually lit a cigarette, tossing the match carelessly to the ground. He inhaled deeply, and with a satisfied smile on his face, said quietly �I never liked Andy anyway.� � Copyright P.J. Francis 2003
Copyright © 2003 P J Francis |