His thoughts went back to the pair of eyes, what he had thought was an opossum. Okay, that made sense. A big wild animal had made dinner out of a smaller wild animal. That was the natural order of things. Let the feline sate itself, because then it would move on. And then he could move on.

More gnawing…chewing…gnashing.

Another loud snap that startled him.

Just hang in there, Deck.

Lap, lap…slurp, slurp…lap, lap.

It was drinking blood…an awful lot of blood coming from an opossum.

More chomps.

An awful lot of eating, too.

Maybe it was a bigger kill. There were loads of deer in these parts. Stray dogs and wolves…coyotes.

The noises abruptly stopped.

The gait…cla-clomp, cla-clomp. Leaves and twigs broke underfoot.

Two flaming orbs peered out from the bush. A thin sliver of moonlight allowed Decker to catch a flicker of white fangs.

Don’t make me do it, Kitty. I’m a dead-on shot!

Talking to himself and talking hype at that. He couldn’t see anything well except the eyes. Wounding a wild animal was a course of last resort. Scaring it off was preferable. Without changing his carriage, he lowered one hand down to the ground, then finger walked until he felt the handle of his flashlight. Sweaty fingers gripped the metal, the moisture from his hands making it slippery in his hold. He placed it back on the ground, then coated his palm with dirt from the forest floor. He picked up the handle again…played with it until he had a firm grasp.

Slowly, he raised it to the level of the cat’s eyes.

His finger touched the surface until he found the power button.

He turned the beam on.

Nothing.

Waved the beam a couple of times.

Seconds strolled by like sightseers.

Finally, the alien eyes withdrew from sight. He could hear the animal walking…walking, not running. But the sound was retreating instead of advancing.

That was a good thing.

Thank you very much, God.

He benched a quick Gomel, a prayer recited when delivered from danger. It was a supplication he had said before…too many close calls in his life. How long before his luck ran out?

Don’t think about that now.

He waited. And waited and waited and waited.

Finally, finally, he allowed himself to stand upright. After that, he broke into a fit of coughing—horrid, dry hacking worse than anything he had experienced in his smoker days. His eyes became puddles of water, his nose spewed out mucus, spittle shot out from between his lips. Gun still in hand, he wiped his face on his jacket sleeve, then shone the beam back and forth at the previously occupied thicket. The illumination failed to elicit any response.

He went over to investigate the kill. He shouldn’t have been shocked by what he saw, but the raw horror of it brought up a surge of bile.