Zero Tolerance Policy In Effect

Copying this material in any way, shape, or form, without the express consent of the author will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law, including via civil suit.  The author has had enough.

Chapter One

Mists rose from the rain soaked pavement like ghosts, winding their way into the veils of Spanish moss.  A Hollywood director couldn’t have come up with a more likely setting, although she supposed she should be wearing heels that would tap-tap-tap over the macadam, and turn her ankle when she ran, instead of her royal and teal Nike cross trainers.  And a flowing white dress would be more atmospheric than the loose, gauzy pants and top, though they were white, and the pant legs were wide enough to be confused with a dress.  It was important to wear white.  She wanted to be seen.

The plantation house she’d rented for the summer was a solid half mile back along this narrow road that wound through the bayou.  There wasn’t a street light or a vehicle to be seen.  And the moon was full, though tough to see through the low-level mists.  The air was so heavy with it that her skin and hair had been wet as soon as she’d left the house.  Not with sweat, though that followed soon enough.  Midsummer in Louisiana had the same feeling she imagined swimming in a bowl of hot soup would have. 

Something rustled in the trees.  She stopped, turned to look, and slowly unzipped the fanny pack that was concealed by the loose material of her blouse.  She couldn’t see a damned thing, though the mists seemed to move differently there, near the trees along the roadside.

Her hand closed around the cool metal of her flashlight, but she didn’t take it out.  Shining a light in the creature’s eyes would only frighten it away.  She let the flashlight go, and dug deeper, finding the rough diamond patterned grip of the gun instead.  She tugged it out of the bag, but not out from under the soft white gauze of the blouse.  If the beast saw it, would it know it for what it was?  She couldn’t be sure. 

So she stood there, with the scent glands of a deer tied up in her shoelaces, and she waited.  Human bait.

The wind, as heavy and hot as a lover’s breath, picked up, just a little, causing the mists around her feet to swirl and rise.  Her heart beat faster.  The grasses and brush moved–or something moved them.  She strained her eyes to see.  And then in one burst of motion, the animal exploded out of the trees and raced toward her.  She jerked the gun up fast, and damn near darted the wild bore before she realized what it was and stopped herself.  The animal, grunting and snuffling, sprinted past her and crossed the road, vanishing into the swamp on the other side. 

She stood there, the tranquilizer gun still in her hands, arms outstretched as if about to fire, and felt the nervous laughter bubble up in her chest.  Slowly, she lowered her head, her arms.  God, she’d almost bagged herself a pig.

The low, deep growl came from behind her, and her laughter froze in her throat.  It was close.  Dammit, why had she let her guard down?  She lifted the gun again, turning at the same time.

Too late.  The thing hit her like a linebacker, bringing one clawed hand across her body even as her body slammed down onto the hot pavement.  The gun went skittering across the road.  And she lay there, staring up at the thing, as amazed and awestruck as she was afraid.  Maybe more. 

In stood in a half crouch posture, sort of leaning over her, and its breaths came fast, a little growling sound on every exhale.  The face was misshapen, jaw elongated while the nose seemed abbreviated.  It wasn’t hair covered, as she’d half expected.  The only eyebrows were full and thick, the eyes deep and dark.  It had, she realized as she lay there, waiting for death, beautiful eyes.

But was it human?

She forced her eyes from its dark brown ones, and let them move over its body.  Hands, very human like, except for the layer of hair–or fur–coating the backs of them.  The palms were smooth, hairless.  Claws curled from the ends of the fingers.  Claws that cut, she thought, momentarily acknowledging the pain in her chest.  Its torso was unclothed, muscular, coated in fur, and bits of white material clung here and there.  Its lower extremities – wore jeans. 

She blinked and looked again, but they remained.  Denim jeans, torn and dirty, but there. 

The beast leaned closer, its dark eyes moving over her body.  It seemed, she thought, to be looking her over as thoroughly as she’d been doing to it.  But its gaze stopped on the front of her, and she glanced down, and saw three bloody tears in her blouse, and in the flesh beneath.

She lifted her head, found those eyes waiting there.  It bent still closer.

She lifted both her legs, put her feet to its chest and thrust with all her might.  The thing went backward, hard and fast.  Its feet left the pavement and its back hit a second later. 

She jumped to her feet, scrambled for her tranq gun, and spun with it aimed and ready.

But the creature was gone.  She caught a glimpse of it leaping the ditch with a power that took her breath away, landing easily and never breaking its stride.  The bayou and the mists swallowed it up.

“My God,” she whispered.  “It’s real.”

She touched the wounds on her chest, wincing in pain as she did.  Damn, those cuts were painful.  They were also fabulous.  Physical evidence.

Looking around the road, seeing not sign of danger, she replaced the gun in her fanny pack as she dug for the more important items.  A flashlight, mini-camera, sterile bags to collect samples.  Maybe the creature had left a few hairs behind.  She photographed the area, marked it with a discreet orange chalk X, noted the time on her wristwatch, and gave up the search for fur samples.  There were none to be found.

As she packed her stuff back up, she went still as an unearthly howl came floating on the night from somewhere far away.  It was, she thought, the most heartbreaking sound she had ever heard.

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