II
Greta is dreaming. She dreams she's lying on her back, looking up at a
cloudy sky. One of the clouds looks like the head of a dog. Yes, it's a dog with
big ears, and his tongue is sticking out. Mariah lies between Greta's legs,
licking her pussy. It feels wonderful. Greta shivers with pleasure and closes
her eyes. When she opens them, the sun has come out from behind the clouds.
She found herself awake, staring up at a skylight in the bunkhouse. Mariah
lay asleep next to her, her large breasts resting against Greta's shoulder.
Greta slid out from beneath the coarse wool blanket and stood up. The other
women were still asleep, each in her own bed. Only Greta and Mariah had slept
together.
Maybe I'm oversexed, Greta wondered.
Then she heard the sound of men's voices outside. She crept to a window and
looked out. The big man named Loopy was there, along with four others. Two
carried shotguns. Loopy was talking into a two-way radio. He clipped the radio
to his belt and told the others, "Okay, time to get these sluts up and moving.
Our great white hunters are on their way."
He walked over to an iron triangle hanging from a pole and began banging it
with an iron rod. The clanging was louder than Greta had expected. She retreated
to the bed where Mariah was awakening in confusion. The other women were also
stirring.
"They're coming to get us," Greta told Mariah. "Be brave."
A door opened, and Loopy walked in.
"Okay, girls, up and at 'em. Get your clothes on and get your asses
outside." Mickie, who wore only a T-shirt, was nearest him, and he suddenly
grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. With one big forearm pressing her neck,
he ran the other hand down her body, then inserted three fingers into her slit.
"Nuthin' like the taste of pussy in the morning," he said with a grin. Then
he licked his fingers, released Mickie and left.
"The son of a bitch," Mickie sobbed, falling to her knees and trying to pull
her shirt down to cover her crotch.
Tiffany knelt beside her. "Come on, honey. Get your shorts on. We're going
to make it. Somehow, we'll get through all this."
They had all been told, in the letter inviting them to what once looked like
a profitable weekend, to bring shorts, T-shirts or tank tops, and running shoes.
Greta had chosen a white, ribbed tank top and khaki shorts. It looked like the
others had pretty much the same idea. All except Layla. She wore shiny black
bicycle pants and a grey top that barely covered her nipples and left her belly
exposed. Not very practical, thought Greta. But she did have nice tits.
The triangle clanged again, and Loopy called, "Don't make us come in there
after you." Instinctively, the women gathered together and hugged, then headed
one by one outside.
Greta was first. When she emerged into the sunlight, there were several
whistles from the men. "Get a load of them legs," said one. "What I wouldn't
give to get between 'em."
"The fuckin' hunters are giving a lot more than you ever could, Danny boy,"
said Loopy. "So just forget about it."
Whistles and wisecracks greeted each of the other women. Mariah, with her
big breasts, drew an especially enthusiastic reaction.
"Line up, girls," said Loopy. "Line up and pay attention." He held up a pair
of stainless-steel semi-circles, attached by a hinge. "This is a collar," he
said. He reached out and pulled Mariah out of the line. "Turn around and face
them," he commanded. "And push up your hair so your neck's exposed."
Mariah did as she was told.
"The collar attaches like so," he said, closing the two semi-circles around
her neck and clicking the ends into place. "There's an electronic gizmo in it
that's activated when you get close to the fence around the Ranch. When that
happens, the little radio inside lets us know where you are. The ranch is big,
but there's a road running all the way around it, just outside the fence line,
and we've got guys in Jeeps, guys with guns. They're stationed every half mile
on that road. You might make it through the razor wire to the outside, though I
doubt it. But even if you did, one of our guys would be on you like one of them
Jurassic velociraptors."
The other men began attaching the collars. The one who stood in front of
Greta looked like a college kid, a good-natured jock. She smiled tentatively at
him.
"Being sweet won't do you no good," he said in a low voice. "All of you
cunts is going to die today."
He stepped back and looked expressionlessly at her. She felt defeated. Ever
since she was 15, she had been able to handle men with a smile that was three
parts friendliness and one part pure lasciviousness. It wasn't going to work
here.
More men were coming up the path the women had followed the night before.
They passed the big wooden frame, but the body of the gutted woman had been
removed.
McTeague joined Loopy. "Have they been cooperating?" he asked. "So far, so
good," said Loopy. "I explained about the collars."
"Excellent," said McTeague. Then he turned to the women. "Now, listen
closely. Each of you will be given a chance to get as far from here as you can
in two minutes. At the end of two minutes, the hunters who've drawn your name
will begin pursuit. Since you'll be leaving separately, you won't be able to
stick together. So get any notions of teamwork out of your pretty little heads.
It's every girl for herself out there.
"The Ranch is big, over 5,200 acres. The northern half is hilly and heavily
wooded. We're in the southwest. The hotel is over there." He pointed east, where
the men had just come from. "There are buildings of various sorts scattered
about. You can hide, or try to hide, anywhere you want. After all, you're
running for your lives.
"As for our hunters," he said, turning to the men, "they will be operating
in two-man teams, and though they are restricted to bagging their assigned prey,
they can radio me anytime they run into another team's quarry. So, in a spirit
of cooperation, we should be able to round up all of these young ladies before
nightfall. And while their bodies are yours, to be disposed of as you wish,
remember that the Medical Center will pay $1,500 each for usable hearts and
livers, $500 each for kidneys and $150 for corneas."
"Fuck you," yelled Tiffany. "I'm not playing this game."
McTeague moved toward her. She tried to back away, but one of the staff men
grabbed her from behind and pinioned her arms.
"You don't have to play," McTeague said calmly. "You can just let the pair
of men who drew your named take you directly to the Abattoir. That's where we
discipline naughty girls like you. I don't ordinarily participate in such
exercises, but in your case I would make an exception."
Then he hit her with a backhanded blow that snapped her head to the left.
She went limp in the embrace of the man behind her.
"Tiffany will be released last," McTeague said, in an even voice. "That will
give her a chance to come to her senses." He rejoined Loopy and pulled a
stopwatch out of his pocket. "Okay, Greta, you're up first."
Greta hugged Mariah and stepped forward. "I'm ready," she said. "Who'll be
chasing me?"
McTeague waved toward Davis and Tom. "Great. A fat man and a cripple," Greta
said, in a deliberately loud voice. "This should be easy."
"They won't go easy on you when they catch you," said McTeague. "Alright,
start running."
Greta had already decided on her course. With long, effortless strides, she
ran northeast, toward a low hill that led to the forested northern half of the
Ranch. When she reached the crest, she found herself looking down into the
valley she had seen from the hotel dining room the day before. The hotel was on
the farther side, its windows gleaming in the sunlight. Greta glanced back at
the group of men. She figured she had almost a half-mile lead before two men
detached themselves from the group and headed toward her. Davis and Tom were
trying hard, but they moved slowly. She smiled and continued running. She wanted
to put as much distance as possible between herself and her pursuers. She would
need time to set up an ambush.
# # #
Back at the bunkhouse, the second runner, Mickie, had started out at a very
fast pace, headed northwest, toward the nearest big stand of trees. The men who
were to pursue her, two brothers named Tony and Raymond, were doing calisthenics
to loosen up. They appeared to be in good shape.
Bob and Paulie were checking their gear. Another hunter, Jeff, came up and
said, "I've never seen a bow like that. What kind is it?"
"It's a compound bow," said Paulie, "very powerful, but very smooth."
"What kind of arrows do you use?"
Paulie pulled one from his quiver and handed it to Jeff.
"Boy, it's really light," said Jeff.
"Yeah. The shaft is made of graphite."
"But the barbs here look like they're slanted the wrong way," said Jeff.
"They're swept forward, instead of back."
"Yeah," said Paulie. "But when the arrowhead enters an animal - Layla, for
instance - the blades swing back and lock into place. Sort of like a toggle
bolt. These kinds of heads do a lot more damage."
Jeff whistled softly.
"Hey," said Bob, in a tone of mock indignation. "What about me? What about
my nifty crossbow? These bolts will do just as much damage as my friend Robin
Hood's arrowheads. Watch this."
He raised the crossbow and aimed at a stack of firewood next to the
bunkhouse. There was a sharp twang, and the top log split in two. Bob looked
around the group for approval. The men were laughing appreciatively. The faces
of the four remaining women were filled with fear.
Layla's lips trembled, and she started crying. She had been selected as Bob
and Paulie's quarry.
"Retrieve that bolt, Bob," said McTeague. "You and Paulie are up next. After
Miss Layla gets her head start, of course." He winked at her.
One by one, the women fled and the men pursued. Mariah was last. Her hunters
were Jeff, who she thought had a rather gentle appearance, and Dozney, a large,
athletic man with a completely bald head. He hadn't smiled once that morning, or
at the reception the night before. After McTeague announced that Mariah would be
his and Jeff's quarry, he had kept his dark eyes on her. He was trying to spook
her, she thought. Well, it was sure working.
When McTeague gave the signal, Mariah ran up the hill and tried to follow
Greta, though of course Greta had long ago disappeared. But what worked for
Greta, a trained and graceful runner, wasn't appropriate for someone with
Mariah's generous build. Her breasts flopped wildly, and her knees began hurting
before she had gone 200 yards. Jeff and Dozney started after her at a trot.
No use expending too much energy. This was going to be a cinch.
# # #
Things weren't going easily for Davis and Tom, however. They had started
quarrelling even before reaching the summit of the low hill that Greta had
climbed so quickly. Tom was winded, and he kept yelling for Davis to slow down.
Davis, despite his shoulder injury, was all for pressing ahead at full speed.
When he reached the crest of the hill, he saw Greta, far in the distance.
She had veered off to the right, down from the ridgeline toward the tree-lined
stream. Once in the trees, she could continue north to the broader woods. At
that point, tracking her would be difficult.
Davis would be the first to concede that he wasn't really an outdoorsman,
and God knows Tom wasn't - fat Tom, in his overpriced safari outfit. Davis
complimented himself that at least he wore something appropriate: a grungy
camouflage jacket and plaid Bermuda shorts. You were supposed to fucking relax
on a weekend like this one.
He heard Tom wailing behind him. He was yelling about how McTeague and Sims had
said the teams should stick together. Don't get separated. Yada, yada, yada.
Fuck Tom. Fuck Sims and McTeague. Fuck 'em all. He had paid $60,000 for this
hunt, and he wasn't going to let this slow-footed piglet hold him back. He
quickened his pace, and Tom's yelling began to fade in the distance.
# # #
One by one, the women fell to the hunters. Mickie was hit in the breast by a
tranquilizer dart and carried to the Abattoir, where she would die a slow and
agonizing death. Jeff and Dozney caught up with Mariah before she had gone a
mile. She turned and surrendered, promising a wide and enticing array of sexual
favors. But Dozney stuck a knife in her stomach, and Jeff finished her off by
stabbing her in the back. Then they cut off her beautiful breasts for souvenirs.
Layla was felled by an arrow in her left buttock while she fled. Paulie and Bob
then tied her to a barn door and took turns filling her guts with arrows and
crossbow bolts. They produced a nice, tight pattern. Not a single projectile was
more than five inches from her navel.
# # #
Davis had followed the creek north, wading upstream in the middle of it, and
the going was difficult. The terrain got more and more rugged, and he was being
forced to climb. At one point, he had slipped on wet rocks and had reacted
instinctively by reaching for an overhanging branch. That reopened the wound in
his shoulder.
All in all, the day was not going well. To make matters worse, he kept
getting urgent radio messages from Sims and McTeague. They wanted to know where
he was. Tom had snitched to them, no doubt. He hadn't heard directly from Tom
because the radio system only allowed communication between the hunters and
"Base," meaning wherever Sims and McTeague were at the moment. Radio traffic
among the hunters would be too confusing, Sims had said.
Fuck him, Davis muttered to himself. Fuck 'em all. He'd track her down and
bag her. He'd use his hunting knife to rip her guts out, because he made
$250,000 a year doing tax law and he didn't need to be peddling sluts' organs to
some fucking medical center for chump change.
Davis was so wrapped up in his internal monologue that he almost failed to
notice that he had reached a point where a smaller tributary flowed into the
stream. Which way should he go? Greta had angled down from the hill to the
stream, and twice since then he had seen her, well ahead of him, splashing as
she ran. He was gaining on her, but now he had to decide which way she might
have gone.
He looked to the left, up the main stream, which now ran through a deep
ravine. He could see something white through the trees. Maybe it was just some
kind of water bird, like the egret he's seen a few minutes earlier. But maybe it
was her.
The tributary was little more than an unpromising rivulet. He decided to
explore that distant splash of white in the green gloom of the main stream.
Greta watched him from atop a rock outcropping above the ravine. She had
tied her tank top to some bushes below, hoping Davis would spot it. Her strategy
seemed to be working. He was plodding through the water. The shoulder of his
camouflage jacket was stained dark red. He must be bleeding.
When he was almost directly below her, Greta picked up the stone she had
chosen. It was rounded on one side but had a jagged edge on the other. She
guessed it weighed 25 to 30 pounds. She lifted it over her head and stood for a
second like some magnificent, bare-breasted Amazon. Then she heaved it just as
Davis, who sensed danger, looked up. He caught the rock square in the face, with
a sound like an axe hitting a watermelon, and fell backward into the water. His
face was a mass of blood.
Greta retreated from the ledge and hurried down a circuitous path that led
to the water. She hoped Davis wouldn't regain consciousness before she got to
him.
She needn't have worried. He lay staring up at the sky. At least, one eye
stared skyward. The other had been knocked deep into his skull. He didn't seem
to be breathing.
She reached out and placed her hand on his throat. No pulse. Good. She took his
jacket and cap. She would need them. Her fair skin and blonde hair had made her
too easy to spot. She took his knife, his radio and his map, too.
She picked up the dart gun, examined it, then tossed it into the water. She
had fired guns before, but she hadn't ever seen one like this and there wasn't
time to learn how to use it.
Then she pulled off Davis's shorts and underpants and let the water carry
them downstream. She considered cutting off his dick, as a warning to her other
pursuers, but that seemed too barbarous. They were into mutilation. She'd be
satisfied with survival.
She looked at the map. The Ranch was more or less rectangular, longer from
north to south than east to west. The stream ran down the middle, from the hills
in the north to a lake at the southern edge, not far from the hotel. A smaller
stream, flowing from the northeast, joined it near where she was standing. That
meant she was about a mile or less from the northern fence line. There were
numbered buildings scattered about, mostly in the southern half. From the legend
at the bottom of the map, she found the bunkhouse where they had spent the
night. About half a mile north of it was another large building. It was called
the Abattoir. The word sounded vaguely familiar. There were also a barn and
several cabins in this area.
The only buildings in the north were a maintenance shed in the northwest and
a second bunkhouse, at the northeast corner of the Ranch, next to the smaller
stream that flowed into this one. That seemed promising. She retrieved her top,
then headed down to the tributary and began the trip upstream to Bunkhouse Two.
###
It was Dawn who found Davis. She was running upstream, with her two pursuers
- a veterinarian named Fred and a restaurant owner named Guido - close behind
her. She stopped, transfixed by the sight of Davis's bloody, broken face. Fred,
splashing toward her, raised his dart gun but quickly lowered it when he spotted
Davis. The three of them stood looking down, a few feet from the body.
"Jesus," Dawn said, covering her face with her hands.
"We better call McTeague," Fred said. He leaned down, felt Davis's throat,
then clicked on his radio. He gave a description of where they were, then added,
in response to a question from McTeague, "No, he's definitely dead. Might have
fallen, but he's wearing no pants. Makes me wonder if he was trying to rape the
girl he was chasing - Gertie or whatever her name was - and she hit him with a
creek stone or something."
After a bit more conversation on how Davis might have come to such an
unfortunate end, Fred turned off the radio and looked at Guido and Dawn. There
was an awkward silence. How do you resume a chase - a life-and-death chase -
after an interruption like this, Fred wondered. Then Guido, who had been very
quiet, answered that question by cold-cocking Dawn with the butt of his dart
gun.
She crumpled and landed face first in the stream. Fred picked her up and
tossed her over his shoulder. "We'll take turns," he said. "It's a pretty far
piece to the Abattoir."
"Okay," said Guido. "And maybe we can stop now and then and fuck her."
# # #
For McTeague, the day was going terribly wrong. He had lost a hunter, the
first time that had ever happened. And seconds after getting that news, he had
received a request by radio from the assholes who had caught the redhead,
Tiffany. They wanted to let her go.
Sure. Let her go. Let her go straight to "60 Minutes" and "Good Morning
America." Let her be the keynote speaker at the next NOW convention. Let her
fuck up all that McTeague had worked so hard to create: a program where
successful American men could spend their hard-earned money in healthful outdoor
activity, while providing needed transplant organs for those cursed with heart
and kidney diseases and other infirmities.
Like hell, let her go. But he told the hunter on the radio, yes, her release
could be arranged. Just take her over to Bunkhouse One and ask for Loopy.
Sims was sitting nearby on a stump, trying to explain to Tom why it wasn't a
good idea to continue trying to pursue Greta on his own. "We're going to find
Davis, and you two can team up again. We'll explain to him how important it is
for you two to stick together."
"Well, you'll have to explain it to him very loud," said McTeague sourly.
"He's dead. Two hunters just found him turning cold in Deerkill Creek, just
upstream from the Rill."
"Damn," said Sims, his eyes narrowing.
"Really, he's dead?" said Tom. "How'd it happen?" He sounded more curious
than upset.
"Not sure how it happened. I want you and Sims to get over there and take a
look. I've got other business to attend to."
After Sims and Tom left, McTeague radioed Loopy. "I'm on the way over
there," he said, "but I've got a problem I need you to handle. A couple of
hunters will be bringing that girl named Tiffany. They've chickened out. They
want to let her go." He paused, then continued, "Yes, it is very funny, indeed.
Downright hilarious. But we've got to humor them. I know you roughed her up a
bit last night, but I want you to be very courteous with her and them. Promise
them she'll be okay. Tell them if they have any questions, I'll be at the
bunkhouse in a few minutes."
He began walking at a brisk pace. Anyone watching him would have been
impressed that a man so broad could move so swiftly, and with such a spring in
his step. But inside, McTeague was weighed down with worry. A hunter dead. Two
others who wanted to welsh on their deal with the Ranch. And a cunt on the run
who could be dangerous. When he arrived at the bunkhouse, he found Loopy sitting
on the steps. He had a big grin on his face, and he was holding a rope that was
tied around Tiffany's slim neck. Another rope held her wrists together behind
her. Her eyes were red from crying, and there was a welt on her left cheek.
"Where are our mighty hunters?"
"I done what you told me, Mr. McTeague," said Loopy. "I told them we'd keep
her here a while, then let her go. And the sorry sons-a-bitches believed it.
Just shook my hand sort of apologetically and headed for the hotel. The cunt
here started wailing, of course, but they seemed glad to be rid of her."
"How'd did they catch you?" McTeague asked, turning to Tiffany.
She looked down and said softly, "I turned my ankle. They were right behind
me."
"So, did they shoot you with a tranquilizer dart?"
"No, they just ran up and asked if I was okay. They were real gentlemen.
Unlike this son-of-a-bitch." She glared angrily at Loopy.
McTeague sighed heavily. "What a day. What a thoroughly rotten day." He
removed his hat and scratched his head. What should he do with her? If he killed
her here, he or Loopy would have to carry her to the Abattoir. He decided to
make her walk. Sure, the going would be slow with her twisted ankle, and she'd
hear the screams of the others when they got close. But that might not be all
bad. It's not like she would be able to run away.
In fact, why not give her a full tour of the facilities, including the annex
where Distruggio collected his grisly harvest? And the pad outside, where the
Medical Center helicopter came in to pick up its precious cargo. She had been
troublesome from the start. Let her suffer and die with full knowledge of what
was in store for her lovely little body. And since her hunters had no stomach
for the job, he would do it himself with his bare hands. No whips or ropes or
chains. No knives or electrified dildos. Just good, solid punches, with Loopy
holding her upright. He needed a workout.
# # #
When Greta reached the second bunkhouse, she saw the fence gleaming about a
hundred yards beyond it. Too close, she thought. The steel collar around her
neck didn't tingle or give any other indication that it might be activating. But
why take a chance? Her stomach told her why. She was weak with hunger. She had
found a granola bar in the pocket of Davis's jacket and had eaten it greedily,
but that hadn't come close to satisfying her.
The bunkhouse appeared deserted. Maybe there was a kitchen inside, with a
pantry full of food. She tried a door on the near side. It was locked. But maybe
she could find an unlocked window. She moved quietly around the building,
reaching up and trying each window. No luck.
As she walked along the north side, she grew nervous. Here, she was closest
to the fence. She wondered if, in some security building far away, an alarm was
sounding and men were grabbing guns. Then, as she reached the east side of the
building, she saw something that drove away all thought of danger: a small
wagon, the kind she had seen earlier being pulled by electric carts. It was
filled with cardboard boxes. She ripped one open. Toilet paper, roll after roll
of it. She tried another. More toilet paper.
Then she spotted a plastic box with a blue lid. Inside were jars of olives,
cocktail onions and maraschino cherries, and two cans of peanuts. She clutched
the box to her chest and headed back into the woods to enjoy her feast.
# # #
Greta's worry about setting off an alarm had been justified. McTeague had
just finished beating Tiffany to a bloody pulp when his radio beeped. It was
Security. They had picked up a brief signal from the north fence near Bunkhouse
Two, then nothing. Silence.
She must have realized she was too close, McTeague thought. Clever lass. So
now she would probably head back down the Rill, where there was plenty of tree
cover. Maybe Sims could intercept her. Except he was with Fat Tommy, and that
would slow him down. He flipped the radio to Sims's channel and beeped. Sims
quickly responded. He was no longer at the creek. He and Tom, with some help
from a security detail, had carried Davis's body to the infirmary.
That meant no one was close to where Greta likely was headed. Damn. The
bitch had been trouble from the get-go. He'd just have to try to find her
himself. And he'd take Loopy along for company.
"What's your choice, Loopy, darts or the shotgun?"
"Don't matter to me, Mr. McTeague," said Loopy. "I'm not so much interested
in shooting her as getting her down and fucking her to death."
"Then let's give it our best," said McTeague, slapping him on the shoulder.
By God, he loved joining in the hunt, even though that prig Sims disapproved.
# # #
But McTeague had guessed wrong. Greta had not headed back down the Rill, at
least not very far. About half a mile from the bunkhouse she headed west,
climbing a steep, heavily wooded hill. As best she could tell from the map, this
hill would curve southwest and then south, the ground rising all the way. The
southern face seemed to be the highest spot at the Ranch.
She stopped after about half an hour and sat on a broad stone that formed a
bench projecting from the hillside. She opened a bottle of olives and ate them
all, followed by a handful of peanuts. Now she wished she had explored the
supply wagon more carefully. It would have been nice to have a Diet Pepsi or
even a beer. Oh, well, she'd have to make do with the fluids the olives and
onions and cherries were packed in.
It was peaceful on the hillside. Birds were chirping, ground squirrels
scurried busily, and at one point she had seen a doe through the trees. The deer
looked at her intently, as if trying to read her mind - or send her a message -
then it fled in graceful leaps.
Buzzards wheeled high above her. The cleanup crew, Greta thought. Dirty
work, but someone's got to do it.
She put the empty olive jar back into the box and continued climbing the
hill. The woods now were mostly pines. Nice smell, she thought. When she reached
the crest, she found she had a great view of the Ranch - at least the southern
half of it. But since the south face of the hill dropped off in a steep cliff,
and she was at the edge of it, anyone looking up from below wouldn't have much
trouble spotting her, too. Still, she found it difficult to tear herself away.
How could such horrors occur in such a beautiful place? Here were hills and
forests full of birds and deer - and madmen. What a puzzle.
She heard someone yell in the distance. It was a man, down in the valley
near the stream. Had he seen her? Who was he calling to? She froze. Would moving
simply draw attention to her atop this cliff? Maybe they hadn't seen her yet.
Two other men came out of the woods and joined the first. They seemed to be
looking up at her, but how could she tell from this distance? Then they turned
and headed south, away from her. She sank slowly to her knees and exhaled. Thank
God.
# # #
The setting sun cast long shadows across the path from the bunkhouse to the
hotel. Sims and McTeague were quarrelling.
"She's not going anywhere," said Sims. "I mean, this is a big place, but
it's a 5,200-acre prison. She can't get off the premises without us knowing.
What's more, she hasn't had any food. She's getting weaker and weaker. Let's
take our time and do a thorough search."
"I don't like it," countered McTeague. "She's not the helpless creature you
make her out to be. She killed Davis. I don't know how, but she killed him. And
she's managed to avoid being seen for nearly eight hours now. We checked her
background some more. She did a lot of camping. Even hunted with her grandfather
when she was a kid. I say we let the dogs go after her."
"I'm not against using dogs," said Sims. "But not your bloody mastiffs.
They're a danger to everyone at the Ranch. I know a fellow in McDowell County
who has a couple of outstanding Plott hounds. I'll give him a call and see if
they're available."
"And what if they track her down and she does to them what she did to Davis?
Did you think of that? Say what you will about my mastiffs, Ginger and Jeebies
aren't going to end up losers in a fight. If they find her - when they find her
- they'll rip that slut apart."
"Okay," said Sims, wearily. "But just give me a chance with the hounds
first. If they're not available, or if they try and fail, then Ginger and
Jeebies can have their fun." And so can you, he thought to himself.
# # #
Greta had found what looked like a safe and comfortable place to spend the
night: a stand of pine trees a few hundred yards from the cliff. The ground was
covered with pine needles. They were piled so thick, they were like a mattress.
She spread Davis's jacket on them, then lay on her back and looked up at the
stars. The sky was so lovely. She wished she could fly high above the hills and
the forest, high above humanity - and inhumanity. Her eyelids fluttered. She was
so tired. Something flew across her patch of sky. An owl, she thought. Then, as
if on cue, she heard a soft hoot, hoot from nearby in the woods.
Greta dreams that she's lying in the woods, exhausted and confused.
Someone is climbing on top of her, someone heavy and dark. She feels his phallus
probe the lips of her pussy, then it plunges in. It's huge. She wants to scream,
but his powerful hands are around her throat and his thumbs are crushing her
windpipe. She is dying yet profoundly aroused, more aroused than she had ever
been before. Her life is being squeezed out of her, and her body is shuddering
with ecstasy.
She awoke covered with sweat and trembling with fear and desire. Then, as if
someone else were willing it, her right hand slipped down into her shorts and
began to caress her pussy. With her other hand, she rubbed her breasts. Her hips
began gyrating and she moaned softly.
Someone, or something, moaned back.
Greta froze.
Again, there was that sound, like a low, soft moan. Then a rustling in the
pine needles to her left. She dared not turn her head to look. Something touched
her left shoulder, then moved to her exposed belly. Whiskers tickled her. The
snout hesitated inches from her crotch before proceeding down her leg. Then
whatever it was ambled off, back into the woods.
She breathed a long sigh of relief. She had been inspected by some guardian
of the forest and found unthreatening, even a bit boring. She began laughing,
then her laughter turned to tears. All the stress of the past 24 hours poured
out in sobs. And so she drifted off to sleep again, and again she dreamed.
Greta is looking at the sepia photograph of her great-grandmother that
she had seen at Grandpa Grabowski's house when she was a little girl. The family
called the old lady Baba Sowa. In the photograph, she wears a glittering pince
nez and has an aquiline nose. As Greta watches, Sowa is transformed into an owl.
She turns her head slightly, looks straight at Greta with those glittering eyes
and says, "You will die at the hand of no man."
(To be continued.)
