Terminal

Becky let me slip my hand into her jeans, and her breathing quickened as I delved into her wetness with my fingers and rubbed her hard nipples beneath my palms. But then she cut me off. Not wanting to show my annoyance and disappointment, I’d suggested we walk to the hollow. I hoped that if her level of fright increased, her chastity might crumble. The hollow was a dark spot, created by four sloping hills, leading down to a place where no chainsaw roared nor axe cut. A serpentine creek wound through its center. We heard the trickling water, but never made it far enough inside to see the stream. Because in the black space between the trees, something moved.

Something big. It crashed toward us, branches snapping beneath its feet. We never saw it, but we heard it snort, and I can still hear that sound today. A deer, probably, or maybe even a black bear. All I know is it scared the shit out of me, and I’ve never been back to the hollow since. Big Steve brought me back to the present by stopping suddenly in the middle of the trail. He stood stiff as a board, legs locked and tail tucked between them. The growl started as a low rumble deep down inside him, and got louder as it spilled out.

I’d never heard him make a sound like this, and wondered if I’d mistakenly clipped someone else’s dog to the leash.

As if summoned from my memories, something crashed through the bushes. Big Steve’s hair stood on end, and his growl deepened.

“Come on, Steve. Let’s go!” I tugged the leash, but he refused to budge. The noise drew closer. Twigs snapped. Leaves rustled.

The branches parted.

I screamed . . .