The Flock by James Robert Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

breeze, there it was. The few, interspersed molecules floated on the currents and he breathed them into the great nasal canals where he savored the tantalizing clue: blood. A part of it, something learned long ago, a lesson drummed time and again into its psyche, said not hunt . The Egg Father taught that it was not good to hunt this creature. The Egg Mother had taught that one must not move in the Sun, that one must not hunt in the Sun, that to do so would be to invite death.
    Egg Mother and Egg Father were wrong. The Scarlet had hunted much in the Sun. It was good to run through the yellow light and chase down the deer while they lay waiting for cool dark, for the stars. He had learned other things that were good, that meant some of the lessons he had been taught were so wrong. He sniffed again. The red scent was drawn in, down the sensitive nasal passages, into his throat, across his tongue. His gigantic mouth opened wide, trapping the smell there where he could savor it for a moment. Why was it dangerous to hunt the Man? They walked like the Flock. But they were slow and clumsy. He had seen them so often, from the time of his hatching, and onward. They were almost blind and deaf, stumbling around the Flock and never seeing them.
    Why not hunt the Man?
    The Scarlet turned his great head, as large as that of a big horse, in the direction from which the sounds and the smells were coming. It lowered that heavy head and made a soundless move toward the source. Scaled feet took quiet steps, leathery skin molding over the edges of sharp stone. Holding its forearms close to its powerful chest, it unfolded the claws there, then tucked them back in close to the body. Quietly, it worked its way toward the man.
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    Slowly, Dodd got to his feet and examined his hands. It wasn’t as bad as it felt, he discovered. He had merely knocked a healthy chunk of skin off of each palm, but the wounds were superficial, though painful. Even the bloodflow wasn’t heavy, with just a trickle or three inching down his wrist. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the blue towel he always carried there. Lori, his ex-wife, had given him a number of the cloths when they’d parted company. She was a nurse and used to bring them home almost daily from the hospital where she worked. Well, his time with her had been good for something, it seemed. The bitter thought passed quickly as he recalled her smile in earlier, happier times. He dabbed at the wounds until the bleeding stopped. If nothing else, the fall was a good reason to turn around and find his way back to the car.
    But where was the car? He’d have to find the trail before he could find his way back to the auto. Well, it couldn’t be that difficult. All he had to do was retrace his way. He turned.
    Once again, he felt his heart hammer at his breastbone. His breath froze in his lungs. What had that been?
    Something very big had moved, very fast, just beyond the next thicket as he had turned around. There had been a flash of red. And… what was that …had that been a clawed foot? A leg? He blinked. There was nothing there. Not even any of the bugs were flying around.
    The insects had shut the hell up. For the first time since he had begun the hike, he noticed that the bugs had stopped their constant whining. Why had they done that? The silence seemed total.
    Dodd swallowed hard and put his back to the big, limestone-encrusted base of the dead pine tree. At least he had his rear protected. He looked around, squinting into the trees, into the brush, into the sun and the bright blue sky. He was certain something was out here with him. Bugs always went quiet when something big walked around. He’d read that somewhere.
    â€œRiggs? 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