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The driver was definitely dead.
No pulse. No longer breathing. And no reaction when I nudged him a little, just to make sure.
To be honest, I did only nudge his legs. But from the way the top half of his body was sprawled across the bonnet, intertwined with fragments of the windscreen, I didn’t really expect him to respond. And I had to get out of the car as soon as I could. The stench of death was overpowering.
So where were the others? Two open doors on the passenger side, and I could sense that there had definitely been more than one person on the scene. Then there was the tell-tale trail of blood that led away from the passenger door, unmistakable mustard drops leading into the woods.
I had to follow them. It wasn’t even close to being a conscious decision. They drew me away from the dirt track, deeper into the darkness that haunted this desolate part of the world. I knew there were a handful of cabins scattered around, inhospitable scars on the landscape, reeking of wood smoke and dead animals, providing meagre shelter for the unwashed outcasts who chose to live amongst these hills rather than with their own kind. I’d never understood that choice. It seemed unnatural. Unless they had been wounded, damaged somehow, unable to take their place in the normal social order. But maybe the other people from the car were heading for one of the cabins.
I stepped up the pace, moving smoothly past fallen branches and thrusting shoots. Thorns bounced off my thick coat. I just hoped I didn’t stand on one. Around me, the forest dwellers kept up a running commentary on the adventure unfolding in their midst. The crick... crick... crick of crickets was everywhere, a constant backdrop to the music of the night. I strained my ears to pick up the clumsy crashing of a wounded man, or woman, but they were still too far away.
Fortunately, the blood trail was unabated. Never running in a straight line, weaving erratically this way and that to avoid obstacles, forming small pools where he had stopped to rest, or to get his bearings.
Or to struggle with a companion. Occasional patches of undergrowth had been flattened, bushes and branches hanging broken and fresh, showing signs of a recent struggle. I could almost taste the sour rush of adrenaline as he realized he was lost in the woods, at night, with no idea where he was. Adrenaline tinged with blood, sweat and fear, and something else. Drugs. Alcohol. I couldn’t be sure. Because there was another scent mixed with his, pure fear under a layer of expensive perfume. I recognized this one. Should probably have picked it up back at the car. It was unmistakable. Only one person in the world smelled like that.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I sped through the darkness. Now it was personal. Now there was a reason to find them.
Owls queried one another’s names above me. Maybe they were asking for mine. I didn’t have time to enlighten them. And I was starting to pant from all this running. I could feel spittle coating my lips as I leapt over a mighty oak that had been dead and rotting as long as I had been roaming the forest, squirrels and spiders squatting in mouldy recesses where sunlight never banished the fungal spores of giant mushrooms.
A fox flashed across my path, yipping to distract me from cubs huddled under the tangled roots of a giant willow. I ignored them. I ignored everything, focusing on the blood trail and waiting... waiting...
There. There was the sound I had been expecting. Completely alien to the natural soundscape of the rolling hills. The clear sound of a man’s voice. I couldn’t understand all of the words, but I could hear the bass in his voice, commanding, exerting his will. But with an underlying quaver of fear.
I let him know I was coming. I let her know, too.
She responded immediately, her voice cutting through the darkness, hurtling me in her direction like a lightning bolt. No more need to follow the blood trail. No more need to move quietly.
He had his back against a tree when I reached the clearing, one arm around her neck from behind, the other trying to hold a gun slick with sweat and blood. Even if he’d had time to point in my direction when he saw me burst from the forest, that arm was too weak to raise the weapon.
I was on him in a flash, knocking the gun from his hand, going for his throat.
He never stood a chance.
When it was over, I nudged him to see if he responded. But there was no pulse. No breathing.
I turned to the woman who meant more to me than anyone in the world. She sobbed with relief as I gave her a quick once-over, making sure she wasn’t hurt. I licked her arm where it was smeared with blood, but it wasn’t hers.
She threw her arms around my neck, hugged me close and said the words I loved to hear, the words that made it all worthwhile.
“Good boy, Elvis,” she said. “Good boy.”