Matt staggered up the path to the leaning post, holding the chainsaw out in front of him, his eyes wild. When he crested the ridge he saw Bob Sanders downhill to the south, at the wall of vegetation. Sanders was rigid and surrounded by bloody grass. Portions of his body were distorted.

He must’ve taken out the little things, Matt thought. Good job, Sanders. Good fucking job. Matt hobbled downhill and shouted his lungs out. “Bob, aim high! Shoot the head!”

Matt hunched over to avoid crossfire and tailed off to the left of Sanders, swinging the chainsaw low and wide. He grimaced like a wolverine as his forearm muscles rippled. The chainsaw met flesh, throwing an arc of blood across the grass.

Huuuooohar

Something smashed into Matt’s chest and he was thrown uphill ten feet, the chainsaw daggering into the ground and going silent.

Matt looked downhill in time to see Sanders get into a shooter’s stance. A thunderous crack ruptured the orchard and a spectacular orange flame erupted from the barrel.

The Being roared.

“Yes!” Matt shouted. “Freaking yes!”

Another flash from the barrel, and another roar.

Sanders aimed the barrel towards the ground. “This might cripple the fooker, eh Matty Boy? I done good here, didn’t I?”

A tremendous orange flame shot from the barrel, and the Being wailed in pain. Sanders pulled the gun back to reload, and as he did, he was hit by a train. Then he flew into the air, high as an eagle.

I’ll miss you, Melinda, Sanders thought. The southern valley stretched out below him, colorful and endless. As he flew high, he glimpsed his four-wheeler trail winding through the forest. He saw puddles of bog water, and the impenetrable tangle of Twenty Mile Bog to the west.

Such a beautiful view, he thought. He’d never seen it like this before.

The trees beckoned him, pulling him closer to their sharp branches and the hard, sandy soil. A moment later he disappeared into the canopy, the branches ripping into him and obscuring the cloudless autumn sky like dirt from a cemetery worker’s shovel. There’d be no sauna or Pabst Blue Ribbon tonight.

Matt played dead.

This time, the Being did not try to muffle its footsteps. It shook the orchard in a tantrum, vibrating his rib cage as he lay flat against the ground. Elephantine huffing came from down near the creatures Sanders had killed. Matt wanted to run, the panic triggering a fight-or-flight response. His nerves were fried. Fried in those nasty fast food fat fryers where they dropped fifty-pound cubes of lard.

Yes, the little voice said. Run back to the shack!