Satisfied she was as clean as she could get, she tossed the soiled paper and turned her attention to Rick.
“He’s gone, Rick. You’re only hurting yourself more. Let’s go. Jesus, Rick, just let’s go.”
She saw tears of rage and revulsion falling down Rick’s face. He looked up at her. “Christ, Bert. We didn’t need this. The sicko tried to fuck you, Bert. I mean, how did this thing HAPPEN?”
Nursing his shattered hand, he rose to his feet. She wrapped an arm around his waist and they turned to go.
Rick staggered and fell from a terrific blow from behind. Bert nearly went with him.
Regaining her balance, she whipped around and came face to face with a cougar. White muzzle, dark mask, pale golden eyes. Up so close she saw the spittle drooling from its teeth and felt the heat of its rancid breath.
Jesus. A big one. Granddaddy of them all.
A group of maybe four tawny bodies milled around the compound. The roughly made barred gate had swung open. The cats saw it and filed through at a trot.
Coming their way.
Rick stayed on his knees. No choice, the cat’s front paws were holding him down. He felt its steaming hot breath in the nape of his neck.
A wet, flashy tongue investigated his ear.
Bert’s heart sank faster and she felt sweat ooze from her armpits. Ob my God, she panicked. What sball I do? I Should know, but I can’t tbinit straigbt ...
Then, like watching an old movie, a childhood memory reeled through her mind. She saw four lions sitting upright on big round drums in a circus ring. A fat ringmaster in red coat and white breeches faced one of the lions. He held a . whip which he kept flicking at the beast. The lion pawed the air, trying to grab the whip ... The other lions grumbled, became restless. Angry roars broke out. She remembered her ten-year-old self thinking what a goddamn stupid thing to do...
IDIOT. This is not a traveling circus.
This is for real. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the hungry way the cat was nuzzling Rick’s neck. Do it, girl.
Do it.
She did it.
Bending quickly, she grabbed the bloodied stave from the ground. Momentarily distracted, the cat growled and lunged for her. But she had the stave now, held like a spear, above her head. She leapt out of the cat’s reach and did a little war dance, to keep it distracted.
She gained its full attention.
The cat reached her easily in a single bound.
As it roared and swiped at her, she thrust the stave deep into its gaping maw. The cat fell back, shaking its head, gurgling blood. Sprays of it spurted from its mouth. Drenching her hair, face, body and legs. As it shook its head, more red spurted onto her—and all over Rick.
The cat pawed the ground, withdrawing from them, padding backward, uttering strangled, whimpering noises. Still shaking its head, trying to free the stave.
Its paws worked at the wood but the stave didn’t budge. With a final roar, the cat twisted over and lay panting on its side. The stave had gone through the throat and was poking out the other side.
“Come on!” Bert shouted.
Momentarily, the other cats had retreated, watching, lynx-eyed, from a distance. But they were really excited now. Creeping forward, they sniffed and butted the head of the fallen cat—then, one by one, smelling fear in the air, their noses lifted. Their interest in Rick and Bert was swift, sudden.
They closed in for the kill ...
Bert gripped Rick’s arm.
“The knives, Bert,” Rick panted. “They’re around here someplace.”
“Oh, leave them, Rick.” Frowning, she looked around in the darkness. By some miracle there they were, close to her feet, belt buckles glinting in the moonlight. Where Angus had thrown them.
She bent down, hooked them up and grabbed Rick’s good hand. Why she snapped her head around at that moment, she couldn’t say. But she did, and saw a head, half buried in the dark clumps of grass. It was a woman’s head with tousled brown hair and an eaten face. Most of the face was gone, but one eye remained. Wide open. It stared at Bert.
Swaying with shock, Bert clung tightly onto Rick’s hand. They both legged it through the cabin door and slammed it shut behind them.
For a moment, they leaned back against the door, acutely aware of the roaring cats on the other side. The door shook as heavy paws pounded and tore at the wood.
Kicking the Indian blanket out of his way, Rick made a grab for one of the wooden chairs and stashed it against the quaking door.
Angus!
Bert reached up for a quick peek through the small window in the door. It was misted with grime but she could still see the preacher.
Alive. Only just.
He was on his back, his bare, spindly legs curling against his chest. His arms were up, vainly shielding his head.
Come sun-up, you’ll have the biggest breakfast you’ve eaten in a long time ...
A strong-looking cat, a young male, was taking powerful swipes at him, rocking his body back and forth, moving him around like a rag doll. The other cats were spiteful, restless; prowling around impatiendy, swiping at each other. A couple pushed their noses in, but instinct kept them from going for the kill. The big male would take his share first.
The cat nosed around the man’s upturned butt and sniffed its way through the slowly cycling legs. Then gave all of its attention to the soft genitals ...
The preacher’s puny erection had died long since.
Piercing screams told them when the cougar made its first strike. The big male dealt with the innards, shaking its head like a cat with a rat, until the bunch of steaming gut stretched like elastic and broke free from its moorings.
Another shake and the cat dragged the bloodied entrails outside of the body, gathering the hot, dripping mess into his powerful maw. It nosed upward, a jaw-full of the dripping trophy glistening yellow in the dawn light.
Gobs of dark blood dripped from the prize, down the cougar’s chops and made slimy trails on the grass. The cat lay down, took the kill between its paws and started to eat.
Curls of warm mist rose up from around the feast.
In seconds, Angus was covered in a roiling mound of tawny bodies, each hungry cat fighting for its share of the kill.
Don’t hurt me, Daddy, please don’t hurt me ...
Too late. Deed’s already done ...
The cats squabbled among themselves, each fighting to tear off its own share of the preacher. One, its nose bloodied from the kill, carried a dark skinny arm between its jaws. It moved away from the others and settled down to devour its trophy.
“Oh, God ...” breathed Bert. “The guy was horrible—sick and mad. But he didn’t deserve to die like this ...”
Rick wanted to vomit, but the carnage happening before them was like a magnet. He couldn’t tear his eyes away.
“Show’s over, Rick,” Bert said. “Let’s go before I barf all over the place.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Let’s get outa here,” he agreed.
They hurried through the cabin, fastening their belts as they went and adjusting their hunting knives. They found their packs where they’d dropped them earlier and thrust their arms through the straps.
It was sun-up by the time they hit the trail again and they didn’t stop until they’d reached the fork in the path. They were exhausted, breathless, but at least they were alive. They had their packs—and their knives.
“I just wish I hadn’t seen that eaten head, Rick. That coulda been us, y’know? Thank God we’re still around to tell the tale,” Bert said.
“You can say that again.” Rick’s injured hand was painful and he wondered how long it’d be before they hit the stream again. He could use some cold water to ease the pain and the swelling.