The pines on the Mogollon Rim held the dark after the sun dropped. Mark had walked the old logging road because the tracks were fresh. Something large had crossed it. The prints were deep and spaced far apart. He carried the rifle low and kept the flashlight off until he needed it. The smell reached him first. It sat heavy in the air, thick and sour, the way something dead smells after three days in the heat. He stopped and turned the light on.
The beam caught the shape standing between two trunks. It was taller than the lower branches. Long hair hung from the shoulders and arms, black in places and reddish where the light hit it. The face was bare. The eyes caught the beam and held it, red and flat. The chest rose and fell. Mark raised the rifle. The shape did not step back, one long arm hung at its side, the other was half raised, the fingers were thick, something dark ran from the knuckles and dripped into the needles.
He thumbed the safety off. The shape opened its mouth, the sound that came out was high and short, like a woman screaming once and stopping. It cut through the trees and stopped. Mark fired. The shot struck the chest. The hair parted. Dark blood ran down the fur and into the dirt. The shape did not fall. It took one step forward. The ground shifted under the weight. Mark fired again. The second shot hit lower. The shape kept coming, the smell grew stronger.
He backed toward the road, the long arms swung. Something struck the rifle and tore it from his hands. The stock cracked against a trunk. Mark turned and ran. The road was empty. He heard the steps behind him, heavy and spaced. Something hit his back between the shoulders. He went down, the weight pressed him into the gravel, one hand closed over the back of his neck. The fingers were rough and hot. He kicked and twisted.
The hand stayed. The other hand came down and found his arm, the grip closed, he felt the bone shift, the sound that left him was short, the shape pulled him onto his side. The face was close. The red eyes stayed on him, the mouth opened again. The same high sound came out, quieter now, blood from the chest wound dripped onto his face. Mark reached for the knife on his belt, the hand on his neck tightened, he felt the air leave, the knife stayed in the sheath, the shape held him there, the smell filled his mouth when he tried to breathe.Farther down the road, the light from his flashlight still burned on the ground where he had dropped it. The steps moved once. The weight shifted. The hand stayed on his neck until the sound stopped, the pines held the dark, the road stayed empty, the blood on the gravel cooled and darkened, the shape stood and walked back into the trees. The steps grew farther apart until they were gone. The smell stayed.
