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His feet squished with each cautious backward step, and Larry froze and prayed the slight noise wouldn't raise an alarm. There were dogs out there, a lot of them. Pit Bulls.
Every horror story he'd ever read about the murderous beasts flashed through his mind. A single bark would alert whoever had staked them out here in the middle of nowhere. If they were guard dogs, he didn't want to find out what they protected.
A half mile back, his car hydroplaned off the pavement when he stupidly crossed a low spot covered by running water. Now that his MiniCoop sat up to its headlights in black mud, and the weather knocked out cell phone service, he'd never make track practice in time. Coach would have a cow, not to mention his dad once he found out about the new car.
Larry lifted one foot and winced at the slushy sound it made coming free of the ooze. The sticky muck turned his feet into black snowshoes that nearly tugged off his sneaks. Larry carefully scraped them against a nearby tree and lamented his Christmas track shoes, barely worn, were ruined. His eyes pricked and he silently berated himself to suck it up. After all, he'd turn seventeen next week. Maybe Mom would replace the shoes for his birthday.
Not likely. They'd been too expensive the first time and the gift was supposed to count for both Christmas and birthday combined. Ditching the car made the shoe issue pale in comparison.
Wind panted hot breath against his face. This had been a year for weird weather, and the February temperatures mimicked May, excessively warm even for Texas. The breeze swirled his curly hair into his eyes. His girlfriend was right, he needed a haircut. If he'd listened to Melinda, he'd be getting shampooed and trimmed in downtown Heartland, instead of hiding from a pack of devil dogs. Larry hoped they couldn't smell his fear. Fear smell made them crazy, or so he'd read. Even he could smell his rank sweat, like he'd already run a marathon.
He sheltered behind a stand of burl oak, but the naked limbs did little to screen his presence. The wind rattled dry-bone branches, and he shuddered, remembering the recent news accounts of bone yard dumps. Maybe the dogs belonged to hog hunters like from that reality show? At least they’d rounded up and arrested all the bad guys. Larry relaxed a bit with that thought, until lightening strobed a dark cloud, and a simultaneous BOOM! made him wince.
The dogs didn't like the thunder, either. A couple of young ones yelped. Some had empty metal barrels laid sideways on the ground, but the makeshift shelters squatted in the same muddy swill that hobbled Larry's feet. He heard the rattle of the enormous chains that tethered each dog, even the pups, collar-to-stake-in-the-ground in a scatter-shot pattern around the remote clearing. Poor dogs, they couldn't help their nature. Was it necessary to chain them up like that? Must be to keep the dogs from killing each other. Everyone knew Pit Bulls were bloodthirsty beasts eager to attack innocent bystanders. They must be something powerful if they needed huge chains to restrain even the babies.
He hoped they'd focus on each other long enough for him to get away. Hell, he'd run farther distances before, and in the rain, too. This would be a great story to tell Melinda and their friends at school. At that thought, his chest puffed out. She'd be impressed.
Larry had only plodded down this chewed up drive to find a house, homeowner and phone connection, or maybe a truck that could pull him out. When he'd seen the dogs staked in front of the cement block barn, he'd stumbled off the gravel drive to hide behind scrubby trees. He debated whether to beat a more hasty retreat, or slog through muck to take advantage of the half-assed shelter of the trees.
An engine revved behind him. Larry crouched, heart thumping, and started to flag down the driver for help. Whoever owned those dogs, though, might not take kindly to him trespassing. Before he could make a decision, the mud-spattered truck pulled up next to him, rolled down the window and stared, pockmarked face grim. The driver’s bare arm boasted snake tattoos writhing from wrist to shoulder.
A massive canine with close-cropped ears, nearly as broad as it was tall, rode in the truck bed with front paws balanced on the roof of the cab. A short chain kept the beast anchored to the truck. It stared at Larry but remained silent.
"That your yellow car back there, swamped beside the road?" In answer, the Pit Bulls leaped up and stood at the ends of their chains barking, most with lowered heads and wildly wagging tails. Both the man and his gigantic dog ignored them. "I said, is that your yellow car?" The driver raised his voice over the barking.
Larry swallowed hard, and nodded.
"Figured somebody needed help when I saw that. Glad my Hercules didn't have to get out in the mud to find you.” At the name, the dog in the back wagged his tail. “Don't stand there in the rain. Hop in, I'll give you a ride. Got a rig in the back ought to yank your car back onto the road."
Larry straightened. He swallowed, but saliva had turned to dust. The big canine—Hercules?—perched in the back of the truck stared at Larry while the Pit Bulls barked.
Shifting sideways half a step, Larry scanned the area, curly hair whipping in the stiffening wind. Dogs at the barn, scary stranger beside him, the monster dog in the truck, and nowhere to hide.
"What're you waiting for? Get in the truck. Bet your folks won't be happy you got your car stuck." He smiled with sympathy when Larry flinched. "Get in the truck, kid." He put a hand out the window, and the huge dog leaned forward to sniff and lick the snake tat on his arm.
"Does he bite?" Larry wanted to kick himself for asking. What did it matter? He had to run and take the chance. He'd had a few close calls during runs, and even one butt-nip from a Toy Poodle, so embarrassing he'd told no one, not even Melinda. He imagined the bright-hot pain of Hercules’s giant teeth grappling his legs.
"All dogs bite in the right circumstances."
Larry stumbled a half step backwards.
"Hell, kid, take a breath already. I'm trying to save your ass." The big man wiped his acne-scarred face with a paisley kerchief. "Hercules puts the fear of God into some of my clients. I'd never tell them this, but he wouldn't hurt a fly. He's more a wrestler. He don't—I mean, he doesn't bite. Mastiffs pin you to the ground but never leave a mark." He paused, and added impatiently, "I got things to do. And I’m trying to do you a favor. I just want to get you out of here safe and sound, and get that toy car of yours back on the road. Do we have a deal?” It wasn’t really a question. "Get in the truck."
Larry gulped. "Absolutely, sir, whatever you say." He took a couple of steps toward the truck, stalling and doing his best to clean the rest of the muck off his running shoes. He'd sooner face the chained Pit Bulls than climb into this guy's truck.
The gravel drive sat above the mucky field on one side while more scrub trees blocked the other. He could be halfway back to the main road before the driver could turn around and give chase, or release good old Hercules from his tether in the truck bed. Larry consciously steadied his breathing, psyching himself the way he did at the start of any track meet.
The man leaned over and swung open the passenger door to the truck. "Don't worry about the other dogs, either. Even if unchained, they might lick you to death. Pit Bulls love people. They only hate each other, same as lots of terrier breeds that are dog-aggressive." He chuckled. "All that hoopla about being mean does give folks pause, though, so they keep their distance. But a well-bred Pittie would sooner kill itself than harm a human." He craned his neck to follow Larry's progress around the back of his truck.
The gravel drive, littered here and there with a muddy puddle, beckoned with open invitation once Larry cleared the tailgate, and he didn't hesitate. With the truck between him and the stranger, he put his head down and sprinted.
The truck’s engine snarled. Shit. The guy hadn't taken the time to turn around. He'd shoved it into reverse to come after him.
The Pit Bulls had gone nuts, too, barking and snarling. Larry imagined them lunging, breaking each massive chain one after another. He tucked his chin and increased his speed.
Overhead, thunder crackled. Dark shadows dance across the road. The truck’s tailgate loomed. Hercules rode the bed like a surfer, silent and watchful, and strained against his tether.
Before the tailgate smacked him, Larry vaulted off the embankment. Within two steps, mud mired his feet. Damn. He tripped and fell forward. His braced hands sank wrist deep into black soil.
The truck revved. The dog man shouted. "Kid, what the hell you doing?"
Sobbing, Larry clawed to push himself upright. His thighs and calf muscles screamed against the weight of the clay. When his feet and hands sank deeper still, the mire anchored him in place. He crouched with eyes wet and chest heaving.
The weight of Hercules hit the end of the tether at the right angle, and snapped. The dog tumbled from the tailgate, landing on the incline at the side of the gravel drive. The trucker opened his door and clambered out.
"Hercules, STAY. Come, boy. Come." The man scrambled to retrieve the tether, and hissed when it screamed through his bare hands when the beast couldn't stop his forward motion.
Hercules hit Larry high in the shoulder. Larry opened his mouth to scream, anticipating the crush of jaws, but instead the dog yelped and floundered in the sticky muck as hobbled as Larry.
"Hercules, oh God no! Kid, hang on, hang on."
The dog flailed for solid footing, and then lunged, forelegs grasping Larry's waist. Larry caught a glimpse of the man's terrified expression before Hercules pushed his face deep into the cold muck.
The Mastiff rode his shoulders, claws scrabbling for paw hold.
Larry struggled to lift himself upright. Mud filled his ears and muffled the stranger’s frantic shouts and the dogs’ barks. Larry flailed, kicking legs churned, and he craned his neck side to side. His mouth filled with black dirt.
For one last sane moment, Larry calmed himself enough to reach down, down, impossibly far, seeking rock, tree limb, anything solid for leverage to push up out of the soup. But his hands met no resistance.
Lungs burned. Eyes snapped open into the grit that tears couldn't wash away. Screams bubbled tar pit slow from his mouth, and he inhaled, choked on black cold death.
Larry convulsed. Sludge cooled super-heated nerves, almost a balm, until all went black.
