They are ugly feet, he thought. Really damn ugly.

He thought of the tracks left by the Being, the smashed orchard grass, and the deep holes.

I wonder who has uglier feet, he thought.

Before going to bed (rest rest rest or LOSE) he needed to try one more thing. He threw on his clothes and headlamp, then grabbed the cell phone and headed out to the truck. The headlamp illuminated sections of the truck like an exploratory submarine on a wreck. He climbed it, grasped the metal radio antenna, and powered on the cell phone.

One bar.

His heart went into his throat. Matt dialed 911 and slammed the phone to his ear.

“Ironville police.”

He paused, not sure the voice was real.

“Ironville police. Please state your emergency.”

“Oh my God. I-I’m trapped up on Julip Road please—”

The voice dropped out and the connection died. He tried again, gripping the truck antenna for better reception. The phone indicated no bars and beeped twice. He changed position and grasped the antenna at a higher point.

Nothing.

He moved his hand up and down the antenna. No bars.

He’d fought back today, and all there was to show for it was a sore noggin and a few meaningless cuts on the Being.

Maybe they heard you, the little voice said. Maybe they’re coming.

“Maybe,” he said.

He let go of the antenna, his palm sweaty and stiff. The warm sleeping bag and mattress beckoned his wracked body. If he didn’t rest and heal, he had no chance. None.

Maybe I’ll die in my sleep and the mice will get me, he thought. It’d be a feast.

He swung down the hefty interior bolt on the door, locking the Yooper behind him.

How many mice died in the bucket before you came here, Matthew?the voice asked.

He’d never checked the bucket this trip, which was strange. He leaned in between the hutch and the triple bunk bed and peered into the bucket. Two dead mice lay stuck in the green slop at the bottom. Their fur was matted, their bodies bloating. He figured they’d stink, but that wasn’t the case. Behind the bucket against the wall was a half-full jug of antifreeze.

See that? the little voice asked. All animals can be poisoned, Matthew. Could the Puller be poisoned too? Not too many things like antifreeze. Not too many things at all.

He crawled into the sleeping bag, brimming with ideas but tempered by exhaustion (rest rest rest or LOSE).

“Got a piece of the Being today,” he muttered. “And maybe all tomorrow.”

Bad Moon Rising

BAD MOON RISING