Chapter Two
He squatted by the fire pit, miserable with cold…
Jean Gagnon squatted miserably by the fire pit, shaking with cold. The fire had been laid hours ago, but the wood and kindling, damp with snow, rain and ever-present fog, was being stubborn.
Holding a stainless-steel lighter under the birch bark, the knuckles of his right hand began to sting and burn. He held on for another minute. Finally he was rewarded with a golden-yellow tongue of flame, licking up and biting into fresh pine shavings, white and curly.
The resinous, acrid smoke bit into the back of his throat as he crouched lower and blew the fire into life. He could see the camp better now, as he switched off his pocket flashlight to conserve the batteries.
Standing up, a moment of dizziness passed, but he clenched down hard on his diaphragm and took a couple of deep, forceful breaths to steady himself. Still slightly woozy, he kept his balance, noting the tiny curlicues in his vision that come from low blood pressure in the head.
Dogs were baying close by, they were very close, and then the animals stormed into his clearing, eyes white and hard, several of them, running at breakneck speed, turning, slowing up and making a beeline for him. The fire, and the fact that he stood straight and tall, was the only thing that saved him from a mauling. More dogs raced around behind him, in great, gasping, curving arcs, smashing through the underbrush. A moment of anger swept over him, but he resisted the urge to yell or growl at them. He stood very still, as a wave of fear washed over him, making every finger and toe tingle. One big black bruiser came up and was about to leap up onto his chest, jaws slavering in white foam as it barked like a mad thing. Jean’s jaws clamped down hard.
“Get the fuck out of here.” He shouted, even as others circled in behind of him.
Jean’s hair stood up on the back of his neck, his heart was pounding in fear, and down in his guts he felt the horrible pulse-pulse-pulse of adrenal juices. The dog dropped down in front of him and growled deep in its big chest, poised to spring.
He stared into the eyes of death.
“Go on. Get.” The biggest ones dropped onto their haunches and bared their teeth, yellow eyes locked on his own.
Growls and snarls came from all sides. He was surrounded. The gleaming collars and clean coats of these animals was no proof of ownership or civility. He sidled closer to the fire, noticing that they didn’t back off or seem afraid of it. They sat in a ring, one or two belly-down, feral in their intense desire to get at him. He had no idea what was holding them back.
“Fuck you.” They didn’t even flinch.
His knees were knocking, and he hated them at that moment, even in their instinctive ignorance.
Jean didn’t care if it wasn’t personal to them, it felt personal to him right about then. The hatchet was only an arm’s length away, for all the good it would do. They would tear him apart if he went for it, and once that started, there was nothing in the world that could save him. That much was clear. There came a crashing in the brush further down, and he saw lights stabbing through the trees, as all the dogs in the world seemed to be here in his face, barking and yelping in uncontrollable, quivering excitement. He had the horrible feeling that a half a step back and they would leap on him. Several voices were raised in exclamation and question…lights in his face…
“Get these fucking bastards off of me.”
The growling and barking only intensified as two…three…four men with raised rifles stalked into the area of his campsite with looks of sheer, raw, disbelief on their sallow, weasel-like faces.
“You assholes. Get these fucking animals under control.”
He told them in no uncertain terms. He stood there stock-still, waiting to see what happened next. After seven years in hell, you would think life would cut him a break once in a while.
“If you’re going to shoot me, I sure hope that thing’s legally registered.”
The man, less than three metres away, gaped at Jean in awe.
“Who the fuck are you?” The voice came, yet the barrel didn’t drop.
“Point that thing the other way. And get these damned dogs off of me.”
These men, with their flashlights pointing in his face were seriously pissing him off, with their mouths hanging open and all those dogs growling.
“For Christ’s sakes. Are you all fucking brain dead?”
Finally one of them lowered his weapon, and then they all did. Slinging their guns over their shoulders, they began to get the animals under control, sorting them out and snapping safety lines on their necks. The dogs didn’t like this very much, and it took some time to get them tied off to a tree out of reach on the other side of the clearing. Jean was uncomfortably aware of all those white-rimmed eyes staring at him out of the darkness and watching his every twitch and movement. His knees went slack, and he wondered if he was going to fall down. Moving to a stump set by the fire, he sat there heavily, trying to get a grip on himself. Shaking his head, he rubbed whiskers with both hands, shivering, tired and cold. He wasn’t in the mood to be sociable, not at this exact moment in time. The blaze crackled and snapped, but it was no comfort at all.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” One of the men finally spoke up.
Who the hell are you, anyways? Jean had already said enough…
“It’s a good thing you didn’t try to run, Mister.”
Voices and barking could be heard from up on the rim, as he sat there in silence, trying to get his breath back.
END
The Shape-Shifters, Chapter One. A Close Run thing. Louis Shalako.
Images. The Internet.
Louis has all kinds of books and stories on Google Play.
Thank you for reading, ladies and gentlemen.
