James Smith - The Flock

"Riggs? Ron Riggs? Is that you?" His eyes were wide, fearful. "Mr. Riggs! You here, Mr. Riggs?" There was no answer.

Behind him, something hard scratched against the bedrock. He had the upturned root system at his spine, and he was afraid to ease out and take a look. He was frozen in place, trying to work up the courage to turn and see.

In the periphery of his vision, off to his right, there was that flash of red again. Something tall-he saw it-just past the next tuft of brambles, zipped along at an unbelievable clip. It was moving his way, fast. It was coming at him. And whatever it was, it was very, very large.

Without thinking about what he was doing, Dodd fumbled for the camera. He brought it to his face, and unable to carefully aim it he began to snap off shot after shot. The thing was about to burst out of the trees, out of the brush. It was going to come out of there like a locomotive bearing down on him.

Dodd screamed at the top of his lungs and bolted.

His odd, bounding gait moved him clumsily away from the downed pine. He almost fell, found his footing and pushed forward, dropped his walking stick. He fell into a nearby thicket, feeling thorns tearing at his face, at his hands and arms, and even through the tough fabric of his pants. But he ignored the pain and pushed on, screaming. Behind, he could actually feel the thump of footsteps as something of considerable mass bore down on him. He wanted to turn and look, but knew that if he did it would catch him. Dodd burst through the thicket, tearing his way out of the thorny stuff, leaving an ounce or so of his forearms and calves on thorns and brambles. But he was out in the open again, moving toward a clump of palmettos. He was going to go right through them, right past the fronds. Dodd reached out to push the green stuff out of his way.

And something met him running the opposite direction. Something grasped him by the arms and twisted his body effortlessly, tossing him to the ground again. Dodd screeched like a woman and waited to die.

"Jesus Christ! Are you a girl or a man?"

The figure standing over him was dressed in military camouflage issue. There was a rifle suddenly in the man's hands, but it was held tight against his lean body and was not aimed at Dodd. The reporter had no idea what kind of gun, but he gazed at it with mixed emotion. At least the barrel was pointed toward the sky. Dodd was drawing in a breath for another scream even though he realized he was looking at a man and not some predator there to eat him.

"Can you talk, boy? You got a tongue in your head? Huh? I asked you a question, son. Speak up when I talk to you." The face peering down at him did not seem so much angry as puzzled. Dodd almost yelped a laugh, thinking of the old radio character, Senator Claghorn. The man's accent and inflections almost mirrored that of the old comedy routine. That's a joke, son, Dodd thought.

Finally, Dodd found his voice. "I. Back there. Something was chasing me." He clipped the words off between gasps of air.

The man looked off in the direction from which Dodd had come. He still looked puzzled. "I don't see a damned thing, boy. What are you talking about? There's nothing around here that wants to chase you. Unless it's a man wants to chase you off his private property."

"Eh?" Dodd was on his hands and knees, trying to stand. His chest felt as if it would burst at any second.

"You are on private property, boy. You understand me? I own this land. Not you. Not Berg Brothers Studios. Not the damned Wilderness Society. Me. Winston Grisham."

By then, Dodd had found his feet. "Colonel Grisham. Yes. I know who you are." Dodd extended his wounded right hand. Grisham eyed the bloodied paw, and reluctantly took it.

"My daddy taught me never to refuse another man's hand, boy." He quickly released it, checking his own skin for contamination. "You wouldn't be queer, now, would you?"

"Uh. No." Dodd got a good look at Grisham. The other man was not much taller than he was, but wider, more compact and muscular. It was obvious he was in exceptionally good condition for a man of his years. "I'm lost."

"You sure are. Didn't you see my no trespassing notices?"

"No, sir."

"Damn, boy. I've got them posted every ten yards all along my eastern boundary. You'd have to be a blind bat to miss them." He eyed Dodd suspiciously. "Who are you, anyway? I've shot at men for trespassing here." He wasn't lying.

"I'm Tim Dodd. I'm a reporter."

Grisham shouldered his rifle. "Reporter? Stinking liberal reporter, are you? Here to help out those tree-hugging wimps trying to tell private property owners what they can and can't do with their land? You one of those?"

"No, sir. I try to stay neutral on such matters. I've been covering the difficulties Salutations has been having lately."

Grisham's lined face cracked, showing a mouthful of perfect white teeth. "You're that guy that's been calling that blight Jurassic Park, aren't you? You're that guy writes for the Inquirer."

"That's me," Dodd admitted, smiling, too. "You enjoy those?"

"Anything that keeps those jerks one step behind my lawyers. That's all I care about. And anything that'll keep a few more damned Yankees out of the area." Grisham sighed. "Damn, but I hate Yankees. You know…I bought this place so I could retire here and not have a bunch of Northerners around. I thought I'd be sharing this place with my cattle and my family and a few screaming jets now and again.

"Damned Democrats and their military downsizing. Screw that. Now not only do I have to deal with damned environmentalists poking around looking for endangered species, but there's a town full of damned Yankees being built on my doorstep." Grisham turned and began to walk away.

"Um. Sir?" Dodd took a step toward him, following, looking back to see if anything was coming. Grisham must have scared it off, he figured.

"What?"

"Can you help me find my way back to my car?"

Grisham stopped, looked back at the bloodied, disheveled reporter. "Shit. An old soldier's work is never done." He shook his head. "Just follow me, son. I'll get you out of here. Come on."

Dodd had an awful time keeping up.

Riggs followed Kate for some time, admiring her rear end. She had glanced back a couple of times and had noticed where Ron's gaze was centered. She'd merely smiled. Men. God love 'em.

The two were moving gradually south by southwest through the savanna. "We'll come to Carson Stream pretty soon," Ron said.

"You've been here?" Kate asked.

"No. But I know my maps, and if we keep going this way we'll hit that stream. It drains into a large wetland, right? We'll have a hard time crossing there without getting pretty soggy." Ron spotted a small copperhead coiled and resting in the shade of a palmetto, but saw no reason to mention it. They were completely harmless unless you stepped on one. Most people didn't know that the last thing a pit viper generally wanted to do was waste its poison on a creature far too large for it to eat. But he found himself wishing he had brought along a walking staff. They were going to be in cottonmouth habitat pretty soon, and those snakes were a lot more aggressive than copperheads or rattlers. This area of Florida should have every type of poisonous snake native to North America. But it had been years since Ron had so much as glimpsed a coral snake-they seemed to be just about gone in most places.

"Ever see any coral snakes around here?" he asked.

Kate had stopped to look around. The area really was quite attractive. "Yeah. Sure. They're almost common in the higher areas, away from the streams and swamps."

"No kidding?"

"No kidding."

Ron had come up next to Kate, sneaking a glance or two at her while she fumbled at the water bottle on her belt. She really was quite pretty, he thought. But she was indeed a tall woman. His first approximation had been off the mark, a bit. She was six foot-two inches tall, at least. Maybe even six-three.