The growl resurfaced a third time. Then a faint rustle, like it was nosing through the detritus. Decker tried to home in on the sound—in front of him but somewhat off to the left. With great caution, he lowered the handheld two-way radio to the ground, then managed to free up his gun.

Stooped over and shaking, with a gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other, he scrolled back to his childhood, specifically his uncle who had taught him how to hunt. Something about how animals detected an object in motion a lot easier than an object at rest. Something about animals not being exactly color-blind, but not seeing too well. So if you blended, you’d be okay.

He remembered his first kill. It had been a deer—a small buck whose newly forming antlers were still covered with fur. His uncle and father had slapped him on the back, but it hadn’t sat well with him. And even though he pretended to be thrilled, and had eaten every bite of campfire-roasted venison, Decker never went hunting again. His baby brother, Randy, hadn’t liked hunting either, although Randy was an avid bass fisherman. Everyone in Florida fished bass. Like the Dolphins, the Marlins, and insanity, bass fishing was a state pastime.

As Decker’s eyes adjusted to the dark, his respiration slowed to a fast trot. With great care, he lowered the flashlight, then took the gun in a standard two-handed grip.

He held tight and waited.

More moments passed. He heard another murmur…the soft brush of leaves underfoot. Barely audible…whispered in an undertone. Then another growl, this one closer to a purr. This sucker sounded content. Or maybe that was wishful thinking. A couple of counts passed, then Decker heard padded footsteps moving very deliberately. He could decipher them—cla-clomp, cla-clomp. Something walking on all fours.

Then nothing.

Moments passed, then a minute.

Where the hell was the motherfucker?

Decker’s lips were dry, his throat was sawdust. A violent urge to cough shot through his gullet, but he forced it back down, his eyes watering as he managed an arid swallow.

More sounds, but not footsteps. Decker strained to decipher them.

Something between lapping and slurping. The animal was drinking, though God only knew where it had found water. The ground underneath was hard and dusty; the foliage was kindling. Though the air was damp, it hadn’t rained in months.

The lapping stopped, and in its wake came that dreaded silence. He had nothing but his breathing for company.

A sudden snap crackled through the air, sending a shiver down Decker’s spine. Then a distinct crunching sound, jaws crushing hard matter, pulverizing it to powder. Snap, crackle, pop, but it sure as hell wasn’t Rice Krispies.

He had interrupted someone’s meal.