













 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
 ROAD KILL
   by Jack Hillman
 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


   The cat raced through the field on his way home, following the
 enticing scent. Hunting had been good, satisfying the hunger of
 both stomach and psyche. Now it was time to mate. The scent of the
 female drifted over the grass in a beckoning wave that drew him in
 irresistibly. He raced out onto the road without a thought just as
 the pickup truck turned the corner. The front wheel broke his back.
 The rear wheel crushed his hips. He never even felt it.

   The crow was picking at the feline remains when the sleek
 speedster whipped around the turn. The bumper caught the bird
 glancingly as it rose from the corpse, snapping a wing and wrenching
 its spine. The feathered body lay in the weeds along the road in the
 hot sun for hours before dehydration reached its limits. The weak
 cries of the bird frightened off any other predators until, at last,
 the bird slipped unconscious and died.

   The dog ignored the body of her enemy on the road and picked up
 the feathered remains in her mouth. She needed food while she weaned
 her pups in the old culvert up the road. The sudden appearance of a
 car caused her to jump out of the road and drop her burden. Several
 cars in a row made her decide this meal wasn't worth the risk.

   The bodies lay on the hot asphalt in the baking sun, drying out
 before the maggots could dissolve the flesh from the bones. Then, as
 the evening shadows appeared, clouds rolled across the sky in a sudden
 summer shower, drenching the area with torrents of rain. It fell much
 too fast for the parched ground to absorb and ran off in rivers across
 the landscape. The bodies of the bird and cat were carried by the
 current into the ditch on the lower side of the road. Then, with the
 other debris washed from the roadway, they flushed into a storm sewer,
 headed for the river in the distance. But an accumulation of brush
 formed a webbing across the pipe several hundred yards from the road.
 The corpses were caught and held, with other debris, as the water
 receded at the end of the shower. The body of a pup had joined the
 macabre collection.

   An endless stream of insects and the hot summer sun combined
 to turn the bodies into dried flesh hanging on the hardened remains
 of the skeletons. The brittle skin, fur and feathers hung from the
 mass of brush for weeks until they heard the call.

                                *  *  *

   ". . . Then I reached up under her blouse and unsnapped her
 bra," Jed Miller boasted to the crowd sitting under the porch roof.
 The young men were listening to the latest in a series of tall tales
 about teenage mating rituals while they passed the time on a hot
 Saturday afternoon.

   "Yeh, right, Jed," answered one of his pals. "With her father in
 the next room." The group laughed with little malice and even Jed
 smiled at his attempt to put one past them.

   Jed looked out past the group and put his empty bottle down on the
 wood deck of the store. A better target for some fun had just arrived.

   They called him Jake, but no one really knew his name. He drifted
 into town on odd days, buying a few staples, then drifted back into
 the hills. No one knew what he did for money, although more than a
 few suspected him when the rash of break-ins hit the summer before.
 Nothing had ever been proven, however.

   Children had tried to follow him back into the hills; young boys
 daring each other to count coup by stealing some small item from the
 cabin, young girls giggling and shaking with feigned horror at the
 stories the boys told. Jake ignored them all. He seemed to disappear
 once he entered the woods. No one found his cabin. No one could
 follow him once he entered the woods surrounding town. He seemed to
 melt into the trees.

   The last few times Jake had drifted into town, an old yellow hound
 had followed behind the man. The dog moved as slowly as Jake and paid
 as little attention to the people they passed.

   "Hey, Jake," Jed called out, "Stop and have a beer with us."

   The group laughed as they turned to watch the old man's reaction.
 Jake ignored them as always, prompting further attempts. Each of the
 young clods attempted to outdo each other with vulgar assessments of
 Jake's habits. When Jake gave them no satisfaction, they turned on
 the dog.

   The hound had stopped outside the store, knowing it was forbidden
 entrance. It lay in an untidy heap by the doorway, ignoring the calls
 and thrown rocks as its master had. Basking in the Fall sunlight, the
 yellow hound lay in a bony pile, looking more dead than alive except
 for the occasional deep sigh of relaxation.

   But the older rowdies had reached their limit with the old man
 and his dog after weeks of taunting. This time they followed Jake as
 he left the store with his packages, the dog trailing behind. Jake
 never acknowledged the banter and made his way past the edge of town,
 headed for the woods and safety.

   "I'll show him," Jed said as he got into his truck. He raced past
 Jake and the dog, coming as close as he dared. As Jake turned off
 the road and into the trees, it finally happened.

   Sam Jenkins threw a stone that hit the dog on the back, causing
 him to jump to the side. Unfortunately he jumped out onto the road
 just as the truck roared past on its last attempt to hit/miss Jake.
 The hound bounced off the front bumper like a ball from a tree,
 landing in the brush at the edge of the road without a whimper.

   Jake set his packages down on the trail as the rowdies crowded
 around Jed's truck, wondering what the old man would do next. Jake
 knelt down by the dog, confirming the obvious: the dog was dead.
 Jake took the pile of bones and skin in his arms and stood, looking
 at the crowd around the truck. He carefully looked each of them in
 the eyes, memorizing the faces. He looked at Jed and Sam a long time.
 Then Jake turned and walked into the woods without a word, the
 packages left lying on the trail, of lesser importance than his
 companion. Within a minute, he was lost in the trees.

   Some of the boys piled into the truck and headed back into town
 to find another target. The rest decided to call it a day and leave
 problems as they were.

                                *  *  *

   I was home, working in the yard at the time, but the story was
 all over town in a few hours, the grapevine being as good as it was.
 I stopped work as I saw the young boy next door try to get in without
 my seeing him. When he noticed my look, he stopped and came over.

   "You don't have to say it, Sheriff," Jimmy said as he looked
 carefully at the ground. "We screwed up big time."

   "You want to tell me what happened?" I asked, motioning him to the
 porch and a seat.

   "We were just sitting around shooting the shit 'til Jed saw the
 old man come into town. Jed's had it in for Jake for a while, I don't
 know why." Jimmy recounted the happenings carefully, just like I had
 taught him to report what he saw around town. Another case of a decent
 boy with a poor choice of friends. "I know we owe Jake, but I don't
 know what to do about it."

   "For now, just stay away from that bunch like I've told you. I
 think you mother's got a fair amount of work to do around the house
 that should keep you out of trouble until I can talk to Jake and work
 something out."

   "Okay, Sheriff, sounds fair." Jimmy got to his feet and headed
 across the yard. He stopped about half way home and turned. You could
 see the tears in his eyes, trying not to come out. "I really am sorry,
 Sheriff."

   I waved and nodded. As I watched him walk into the house I realized
 again how much he looked like me.

   The next day, I tried to find my way through the woods to
 Jake's cabin, without success. However he did it, Jake was still
 keeping the cabin a secret. I never could find the place on my own,
 only when he took me there himself. Along about noon, a yellow hound
 walked out from between two trees in front of me, watched me for a
 minute or two, turned and walked off, stopping after a few steps to
 see if I was following. I was.

   Within minutes, we were at the cabin. I wasted several minutes
 calling Jake and knocking before I tried the door. As it swung open,
 I knew the old man was gone. All that remained was a small package
 sitting on the table in the middle of the cabin's single room. I
 walked into the cabin and looked at the package. It had my name on
 it. The rest of the cabin was empty of all furniture and possessions.
 It was like no one had ever lived there.

   I opened the package carefully. Inside was a short note in Jake's
 crabbed handwriting and a cloth wrapped object. The note was to the
 point.

   "They killed my dog," Jake wrote. "They only care about themselves
 and how much death and destruction they can cause. I've had enough."

   My hands were shaking and I had to set the package down rather
 than drop it. The last line on the note, separate from the rest and
 almost at the lower edge of the page, caught my eye.

   "Take care of my dog, boy."

   I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Sitting in front of the
 cabin was a dog that could have been the hound's offspring, and
 probably was. Jake had left this animal in my care, it seemed.

   While I sat, I opened the cloth bundle in the box. Inside was a
 stone knife and an old necklace made of bear claws and water polished
 stones. The knife felt strangely warm while the necklace was cool. I
 slipped the necklace over my head since it was too large for a pocket
 and wrapped the knife in the cloth before thrusting it through my
 belt. I walked outside to check on the dog.

   The yellow hound sat about fifty yard away from the cabin, waiting
 for me to come to it rather than moving to meet me. As I walked over
 to the dog, I noticed a burnt ring on the ground, with a coffin sized
 pile of ashes in the center of the ring. Somehow, I knew what it was.

   "Oh, Jake, what have you done," I said to myself.

                                *  *  *

   Jed Miller was a good mechanic. He could fix any car, usually
 without going any further for parts than the junkyard at the edge of
 town. People in town knew he would go into partnership with his father
 as soon as he managed to get through high school.

   But Jed had trouble keeping his mind on school. When he wasn't
 working on a car in the shop, he could usually be found with his
 buddies, sneaking beers behind the wrecks on the far side of the
 junkyard. They'd cut classes and slip off in the middle of the day to
 sit among the shattered bodies, dreaming of what they could do with a
 "real set of wheels". They sat behind the wheels of pickup trucks and
 battered sedans and dreamed of Ferraris and BMWs, talking about the
 dull people in town and whatever movie starlets had captured their
 attention this week, drinking beer from the can like it was fine wine.

   Today, Jed was working by himself since he really was working
 and his buddies knew if they stayed around they'd be drafted for
 manual labor. Jed had a can of beer poised on the fender of the
 beat-up Chevy as he worked with the wrench to take out the carburetor.
 The car in the shop didn't need the whole carb but it was easier to
 scavenge for parts than repair the old one. Jed had been working on
 the junker for an hour and was getting hot in the afternoon sun. He
 stopped to take a pull on the beer before taking hold of the wrench
 for a solid tug. The wrench slipped and Jed slammed his knuckles
 against the firewall.

   "Goddamn, sonuvabitch, piece of shit," Jed yelled at the top of
 his lungs. The knuckles were skinned and hurt worse than they were
 damaged but Jed colored the air anyway. As he took a semi-clean rag
 from his back pocket to wipe his hand he noticed the dog.

   The yellow hound sat watching Jed intently.

   "What are you looking at?" Jed yelled at the dog, without effect.
 The hound just sat watching the young man. Jed picked up a rock from
 the ground. He pulled his arm back to throw but turned suddenly as he
 heard something close behind him. The eight point buck caught Jed
 squarely on its rack, skewering most of the vital organs but missing
 the heart. Jed screamed as the stag lifted him off the ground with
 unnatural strength. He didn't notice the broken ribs sticking from
 the deer's side.

   In fact he only noticed the hound sitting calmly, watching, as
 the stag dropped its screaming bundle onto the hood of a nearby
 junker, neatly sliding Jed onto the broken antenna. Jed spasmed twice
 as the metal spike punctured his heart and slid out the front of his
 chest. As his arms flung wide on the hood, the antenna snapped at the
 base and the boy slid off the fender to end propped by the side of the
 vehicle. The antenna pulsed with the last contractions of his heart
 until a stream of blood poured from the end of the tube, draining the
 last life from the body.

   The stag looked over to the hound. Slowly, with a measured step,
 the yellow hound walked over to the crumpled form. The stag watched
 the hound as it urinated over the corpse. Then, as the hound turned
 and walked away, the stag nodded in an almost human gesture and
 collapsed in a pile of dried bones and rotting skin next to the
 bloody pile that had been Jed.

                                *  *  *

   "Geronimo!" came the loud cry, followed by an even greater splash.

   The bank of the river was level at this point but decades of
 wear had dropped the water to several feet below the edge of the
 bank. That made the drop from the rope swing respectable enough to
 raise a splash ten or twelve feet into the air. The group had been
 swimming since they ducked out of school at noon and now there was
 only an occasional splash followed by some serious beer guzzling.
 Four single-minded poker players sat off to one side on an old
 blanket. The remaining two took turns drinking from a quart bottle
 and swinging out into the water.

   The crew was intent on their fun and never noticed the movement
 in the high grass surrounding the trampled earth of the swimming
 area. The youngest member of the group had just launched into the
 water when the yellow hound walked out of the brush and sat facing
 the group on the blanket. The hound sat waiting until one of the
 poker players looked up and noticed him.

   With a howl that snapped heads around, the hound signaled the
 attack. Out of the high grass came a horde of animals: raccoons,
 possums, cats, dogs, even a bobcat. They made straight for the
 drunken swimmer and the poker players and rolled over them like a
 wave. The swimmer in the river was trying to dodge a crow and two
 smaller blackbirds that had already torn a flap of skin loose on
 his head. He stayed under water as long as he could, but every time
 he surfaced the birds attacked until the crow locked its claws in
 the boy's eyes and forced the screaming head under water to drown
 him.

   The poker players found the blanket under their feet shredded by
 dozens of snakes that ripped through the covering and fastened fangs
 and teeth into arms and legs. Black snakes wrapped around necks and
 squeezed with uncharacteristic strength, strangling the four before
 rattlesnake poison could take effect.

   The other swimmer struggled to his feet only to be knocked down by
 barn cats that flew into his face and ripped eyes and flesh like some
 demonic shredder. Once on the ground, he was attacked by other beasts,
 ganging together to leave nothing but a bloody puddle in the dirt.

   When the screams stopped and the only sounds left were the buzzing
 of flies come to attend the unexpected feast, the animals all faced
 the yellow hound. The hound nodded its head and turned to walk into
 the woods as the attackers collapsed into piles of broken bones and
 rotting skin. The call had been answered. Their work was done.

   The hound's was not.

                                *  *  *

   I had started back home immediately. The hound followed for a
 while, but soon ran off into the woods, ignoring my calls. I felt
 sure he would turn up at my house later that night. He seemed to know
 exactly what he was doing.

   I stopped off at the office on my way through town and heard
 about the carnage at the river from my deputy. The poor man was
 almost hysterical. I could understand why: he had found the remains
 and one of them had been his own boy. He kept shouting that he was
 going to get the SOB who did that to his son. I left him in the care
 of his wife and went on home. The reports on this one could wait for
 morning and a better inspection of the site.

   As I walked into my yard, I saw the young hound lying beside my
 porch, staring at the young man next door as he worked. The dog knew
 the way home better than I did, it seemed. I set the knife and the
 necklace on the kitchen table as I went by and took out a pan of water
 for the dog, going back inside to look for something to feed him.

   I set a plate of two day old meatloaf in front of the dog and sat
 on the steps to look him over. The hound sniffed the plate and the
 water and trotted over to me, lying down on the step by my feet. I
 reached over and scratched him behind the ears then got up and went
 into the house. I paused at the sink to rinse off my hands and get a
 glass of cold water. As I soaped my hands, the faint odor of burnt fur
 rose from the water. I shrugged. The dog must have found a burn off up
 in the hills and rolled in the ashes. I tried not to think of the
 obvious source.

   I sat down at the table and looked at the gifts from Jake in
 the bright light of the fluorescents. The knife was some type of
 dark stone, like obsidian but a different color. Holding the knife
 up to the light, I could see a faint reddish tinge to the stone. It
 was nothing native to this area, I was sure. The necklace was more
 understandable. The claws were clearly bear claws and the stones were
 a collection of water-washed quartz, jasper, granite and one piece
 that could have been part of an old soda bottle. The stones had been
 set into carved settings of wood or bone and strung on leather thongs.
 It could have been Indian work, but something about the entire piece
 bothered me when I considered that. I knew a bit about Indians of the
 area from talking to Jake and from reading on my own. I was no expert
 but I knew more than most people. Besides, Indians didn't use soda
 bottles for necklace decorations. This piece was made for a purpose,
 I felt.

   I checked on the dog and then went to call the state police. I
 wanted to know what was going on in town and they owed me a few
 favors. This was more than just rabid animals.

                                *  *  *

   "Looks like he was lifted and dumped onto the car," I commented as
 the county coroner finished his exam. The dents in the fender showed
 fibers from Jed's pants caught in the rust.

   "Looks like it. The antennae went right through the heart like he
 came straight down on it. It's those other punctures that bother me
 more." The coroner pointed to the pattern of the holes in Jed's chest
 as he lay slumped against the fender. "If I didn't know better, I'd
 swear they matched the pattern of that rack." He gestured at the
 skeleton of the deer laying to the side and I felt a shiver, again.

   When Dave Miller had called and said he found his son that
 morning in the junkyard, I was worried. When the coroner put the
 tentative time of death as prior to the events at the river, which
 he had also examined, I was even more worried. I walked over and
 examined the stag. I had seen enough dead deer in the woods to judge
 this one dead for several months. The broken ribs sticking through the
 remains of the skin seemed to show it had been hit by something before
 it died. The bones had been broken while the animal was alive, not
 after the fact. I checked to be sure the photographer had gotten
 pictures of the corpse and picked up the skull, antlers attached. As
 I looked closer, I got my answer. There was blood on the tines. I
 carried the rack over to the body. Without touching the chest, I held
 the tines in position. They matched.

   "Oh, shit," the coroner said. "How do you figure this one?"

   I turned to the man carefully. "You keep this to yourself," I said,
 eye to eye. "We don't need a lot of wild tales floating around."

   "Sure, sheriff, no problem" he answered as he carefully packed
 his kit to leave. "Nobody'd believe me anyway." He placed the skull
 and rack in a big specimen bag and put it in the wagon for evidence,
 such as it was.

   Now all I needed was a suspect. And I was pretty sure who that was.

   I was also sure he was dead.

   Jimmy was home, working on the flower bed around the porch while
 his mother supervised when I arrived. I nodded to his mother, careful
 to observe the small town propriety for a married woman with her
 husband out of town.

   "Morning, Debbie, Jim," I said as I took off my hat and wiped the
 sweatband. Looking at Jimmy digging away without a shirt to soak up
 the sweat running down his back made me even hotter.

   "Morning, Al. Can I get you anything?" Debbie asked, as she dusted
 off her hands from the potting soil. "Lemonade?"

   "Thanks, yes. And I need to talk to Jimmy for a bit." She nodded
 and went in the house.

   "You heard about the river yesterday?" I asked Jimmy, as he leaned
 on his shovel. He nodded. "Well, his father found Jed Miller in the
 junkyard this morning skewered by a dead deer."

   "Beg pardon, Sheriff?"

   "You heard right. What I need to know from you is who all was in
 that group that went after Jake the other day."

   Jimmy looked a bit sick as the thought sunk in.

   "Jed was driving. Then there was Bill Harvey, Jack Stoner,
 Dave Harris, Harry Keller, Dan Davis, Sam Jenkins and Bob Smith." I
 counted them off: all the boys at the river except for Sam. And Jimmy,
 of course.

   "Anyone else?"

   "No, there were one or two others earlier but they had left before
 Jake showed up."

   I stood up as his mother came out with a glass of lemonade. "Okay,
 here's the deal: you stay around the house with your mother until I
 get back. I don't want you alone at any time. I'm going for Sam and
 then I'm going to figure out some way to keep you two safe." I drank
 the lemonade without pause. "Thanks, Deb. Keep an eye on the boy and
 stay near the house."

   "Sure, Al." Her fingers moved across mine as she took the glass.
 "Thanks for watching out for Jimmy."

   I stopped in the house for the necklace and knife. Jake never did
 anything without a reason and I had a hunch his present had something
 to do with what was going on. I put the necklace under my shirt and
 stuck the knife in my belt. The knife was uncomfortable as I sat in
 the car, but I wasn't going to take any chances at this point. I drove
 out of town, headed for the Jenkins place on the ridge and hoped I was
 in time.

   I pulled into the yard at the Jenkins place, in between the
 rusting washing machine and the old jeep carcass. I walked up to the
 door carefully. There was a silence in the air that I didn't like. The
 door swung open just before I reached it, outlining Sam in the doorway.

   "What do you want, Sheriff," he asked, followed by a loud belch.

   "I want you to come into town with me so I can try to protect you,"
 I answered as I moved to the door. It was still too quiet for this
 time of day in the woods.

   "Don't worry about me, Sheriff," Sam replied, as he reached
 down next to the door. There was a pump 12-gauge in his hand when he
 swayed upright again. "I can take care of myself."

   "Where's your folks, Sam" I asked, as I looked around the open
 room that was the first floor of the home.

   "Gone for the weekend, or the week or something like that," he
 answered, not caring much about the situation. "Come on in and have
 a beer and sit a while." He reeled back to a chair in front of the
 empty fireplace with a battery powered radio in pieces next to it. It
 had not been a good day so far, apparently. Sam propped the shotgun
 against the chair as he reached for his beer. That's when it hit.

   The back door of the building crashed in, taking the door and sash
 to the floor. Sam fell as he tried to grab for the gun, then froze as
 he saw what was in the doorway.

   We didn't have all that many bear in the area but every once in
 a while one trotted into town to raid garbage cans and I had to go
 track it for relocation. The bear that had been hit on the highway was
 an occasion everyone knew about. I had trailed it for three days to be
 sure it didn't turn rogue. I buried what remained after it bounced off
 that semi, fifteen miles from where it had been hit. Now I could see
 where pieces of parking light had been driven into the flesh and
 strips of chrome from the grill had wedged between the ribs. There was
 even a chunk of mud flap hanging from the splintered scapula.

   I drew with a speed Buffalo Bill would have envied and emptied a
 clip into the bear's chest as I moved across the room and grabbed
 Sam. He had sobered enough to grab his gun and start pumping rounds
 into the beast at point blank. I could see chunks of dried flesh being
 blasted away from the corpse but it still kept walking forward, on two
 legs since the right foreleg was mangled by the truck. As I reached
 Sam and reloaded by the numbers, the bear stopped it's advance. Sam
 stayed behind me as the macabre invader moved to circle me and reach
 the boy. I fired at it's legs to try and slow it down but the only
 result was a louder roar from the damaged throat.

   As we swung around with our backs to the ruined door, I pushed Sam
 out, following close as the bear matched our moves, still keeping away
 from me as it tried to reach Sam. The boy stumbled out the door and
 moved to the left, toward the corner of the house. I moved to keep the
 bear inside, aware of something deterring it's advance but not sure
 what. I kept firing at it's legs without effect as I stood in the
 doorway, watching Sam reach the corner of the building. That was when
 I hit the end of the clip.

   It happened all at once. I ejected the spent clip one-handed as
 I pulled my last one from my pocket. As I slipped the clip home and
 released the slide, the bear turned from me to the wall of the
 building and crashed through into the sunlight. I had a quick glimpse
 of Sam's face, a mask of fear, then the huge corpse landed on him like
 a falling boulder. I knew it was too close to fire with Sam underneath,
 but some reflex made me reach for the knife in my belt. The cloth fell
 away as I swung the stone blade hard into the neck of the bear.

   The corpse fell apart as the knife pierced the leather flesh,
 bones falling from their joints and the entire skeleton collapsing
 on itself. I dropped the knife and pulled the section of wall off the
 boy, hoping for the best. But Sam was dead, crushed by the weight of
 the wall and a corpse that walked on it's own.

   As I stood looking down on the remains, something caught the
 corner of my eye. I looked up and saw the yellow hound sitting at
 the edge of the clearing, watching me. Then it turned and started
 down the hillside, toward town. I knew where it was headed.

   I made it back down that dirt road in a new record that cost
 me a set of shocks and probably an oil pan. As I pulled up in front
 of Jimmy's house I saw something that almost stopped me cold. Sitting
 on the end of the sidewalk was the yellow hound, calmly watching the
 house. In the yard around the building, front and sides and probably
 the back for all I knew, was a crowd of dead animals. They had to be
 dead, considering the broken limbs, crushed chests and gaping wounds
 that were evident. As I got out of the car, the animals closest to
 me moved away. I walked up to the front door of the house, animals
 moving from my path, and saw Jimmy and his mother watching through
 the curtains. I turned and faced the crowd. People on the street were
 staring through their windows but no one moved to help us out. I
 guess they figured the sheriff could handle whatever was going on.

   "This is the end, Jake," I said to the hound. "It stops here."

   The yellow beast moved closer to the porch, it's regal steps
 parting the army of roadkills like a wave. It stopped at the bottom
 of the steps and sat watching me closely.

   "You had a right to be angry," I told the dog. "But that doesn't
 give you the right to hand out your own justice."

   The hound snuffed and motioned to the door with it's snout.

   "Come out here, Jimmy," I called through the door.

   "Are you crazy?" I heard echo behind the door as Debbie tried to
 stop the boy from coming out. But I think Jimmy understood. He opened
 the door and stepped onto the porch, setting the baseball bat down on
 the deck. The crowd moved closer.

   "No, Jake," I said. "Keep them back. You've got to hear him out."
 I reached down and pulled the necklace over my head, dropping it over
 Jimmy's. The hound gave me a stare that was just like Jake, like when
 you made a good move in a chess game against him. "Tell him, Jimmy.
 Tell him what you told me."

   "I'm sorry, Jake. Really, I am. I know we shouldn't have tried to
 hurt the dog. I'm just a dumb kid who screws up sometimes and I'd do
 most anything to make it up to you, but you got to leave my mom alone.
 And Sheriff Al, too. He was your friend, is your friend. You want
 something from me you got it, but leave them alone."

   I looked down at the dog. The hound looked carefully from the boy
 to me and back.

   "He's a good boy, Jake. A little stupid sometimes, but he gets that
 from his Pa. I can't let you hurt him, just for one mistake. I can't
 let you hurt my son."

   I don't know whose look bothered me more: Jake's or Jimmy's. But
 I moved in front of the boy and started down the steps to the hound.
 Jake turned and looked out across the yard at his army. The he turned
 back and without warning jumped for my throat. The weight of the body
 pushed me back on the steps and I twisted to try to get out from under
 as we landed. My hands had gone for the dog's neck in an old reflex
 and I didn't even realize I had the knife in my hand until I saw it
 sticking out of the hound's throat.

   In the yard around the house, the animals collapsed into piles
 of bones and skin.

   The next day, Jimmy and I took the hound up to Jake's cabin and
 built a pyre on the same spot Jake had used. It seemed appropriate.

                                {DREAM}

 Copyright 1995 Jack Hillman, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
 ---------------------------------------------------------------------
 Jack is a freelance writer, who has been published in BLOODREAMS,
 ONCE UPON A WORLD, and GATEWAYS. He writes a bimonthly SF/F column
 published in THE MAGAZINE of SHAREFICTION, and his book reviews
 appear in POPULAR FICTION NEWS. As a contributing editor to ON THE
 RISK, he keeps track of "life". Email Jack: jhillman@dreamforge.com
 =====================================================================

