Once the posse let the dogs' chains go, the distempered animals turned and attacked. The men screamed falling in slippery mud, helpless as the beasts' fangs tore into their limbs and ripped at their torsos, large heavy paws clawing and cutting their eyes and faces. The men could only see four legged shades leaping out of nothing. Some of the men fired at the moving shadows, hitting others with high caliber shells and buckshot, only to have a sharp set of fangs lunge out of nowhere and sink into their necks. Bolton and Dell heard the sounds of the slaughter; the screams, tearing cloth, distempered growling and wringing of flesh and bleeding bone. The two officers dare not move far from the ruins now, dare not step beyond the fallen walls and crumbling steps for fear that they too would fall victim to the bloodthirsty beasts.

 I ran the bike to the edge of the mist where the road was cut off by mudslides. I wheeled the chopper into the brush and covered it over with leaves and branches until it couldn't be seen, then scouted the high white sky until I saw the top of the tallest tree. I walked towards it in the fog, carefully, guns drawn, taking each step with caution, poking ahead of myself with the gun barrels until I came to the tree. Holstering the pistols, I dug my fingers into the bark and began climbing, catching the rough wet surface with my boot heels and pushing my body upwards and kept climbing until I was as high in the tree as I could get and still be hidden among dense foliage. I was above the fog and surveying the surrounding woods, I could see the burning oil fire and make out the skeletal wreck of the car that had exploded, the smoke rising in a voluminous column painting the white sky overhead black.

 Bolton reloaded the double barrel with the big shells, cocked the weapon and aimed the barrels from the crumbling wall. The dogs had scattered howling, leaving the men behind moaning or silent, alcoholic blood oozing from torn and gnashed flesh; any life left in the bodies a fading jagged ache. On their own the blood-crazed dogs began searching for gamier preys, gone savage and predatory. Bolton waited to hear the sniffing and rooting of the ravenous hounds, Dell behind him skin crawling, nerves jumping at every odd sound and every sound was odd—damned strange in fact. Branches blew and creaked like creeping wooden fingers. Dell held the nine-millimeter up in front of his face so he'd see what he was shooting at, if he wasn't shooting himself. The ungodly sounds lifted out of the shadows more sorrowful than pained, branches snapping and mud sloshing with the heavy steps of the big lumbering boots. Bolton galvanized his nerves while Dell withered inside, his gun a useless chunk of cold polymer and steel in his hands and he trembled trying to get his buckling knees and legs together and run. His first step was tentative, but as the ground became solid below his feet, he steadied and went for another.

 Bolton caught him moving from the corner of his eye and the 12-gauge swung away from the wall.

 "Dell!" the chief shouted, making the sergeant quicken his pace abruptly and Dell was running; scrambling over broken cinderblocks to get as far away from whatever the hell was coming as he could as quick as he could.

 He was going out through the broken wall to nowhere, the mossy earth nowhere to be seen on the other side and the shotgun sang out loud blowing a bloody hole in his back, his spine splintering into fragments.

 Dell looked down and saw the fire tearing from his chest and saw his heart fly away in flames.

 "Goddamn you, Dell! Ya yella pansy! I'll blow yer freegin' head—!" Bolton choked on the humid air rushing into his lungs like dry sand.

 He gasped, clawing at the suddenly squirrelly bandages throbbing over his pounding heart. He wasn't ready to have that heart attack. The devil would have to do some more work on him before he let the likes of Bolton into his nice clean hell. The pudgy fingers slung two more shells into the cylinders and fixed the rifle to blow the devil's ass right back to Kingdom Come.

 "Damn you!" he screamed in rage. "Damn your devil ass!"

 But all of Bolton's greasy sweat couldn't stop what was coming.

 The road was slick and Patricia's car swerved from side to side, the wheel slipping beneath her fingers, tires skidding and spraying wet gravel, careening from one side of the road to the other. The heavy pale mist hovered ahead and she barely saw the backend of the abandoned car in the road. She slammed on the brakes and her car slid a few feet until she snatched the wheel left hard, adjusting the burning tires as they sizzled with friction to a spinning stop just short of collision. Shaking, she came from the Mercedes miserable that she had pissed her panties and now her pantyhose were wringing wet, stinging the insides of her thighs. The other car didn't look damaged and Chaplin paced impatiently, feeling urine seeping down the nylon against her legs. Finally just wanting to blow off steam, she approached the car to confront the driver but there was no one in the car. When she walked up to the driver side window, she saw that the vehicle was hunkered to one side and the sticker pasted on the front windshield identified the car as belonging to the FBI. She surmised that the agents had sprung a flat but when she took a closer look at the chassis, she saw the bullet hole in the fender. Patricia panicked upon seeing the remnants of the pool of blood that had been partially washed off the road by the hard rains. She ran back to her car, turned over the churning engine, grinding the gears roughly, backed up swerving, turning the car forward on the road once again and sped on.

 Anna's naked body was drenched with mud, thick legs covered in it, the stiff panel bra she still wore dripping with it seeming to have shrunken and tightened over her large heaving breasts. Slipping the tight straps off her shoulders then spinning the soaking wet cups around to her broad back. She undid the clasp of the brassiere letting the big C-cups fall away from the fat healthy mounds and took a deep breath. She was naked and filthy in front of the stark white girl in the tangled black thicket, the fog slowly thinning and lifting. From my perch I could see brushfires spreading throughout the woods, catching hold of old growth and shooting up the trunks of tall trees into the moist crackling branches. The sun sizzled and the fog began dissipating, the trees drying and springing back to life under the heat. Sparks turning branches to tinder, leaping from tree to tree like glowering demonic gnomes, alighting here and there until I could see the woods smoldering, the swelling heat bringing with it the fires of hell itself. The heat rose in deathly waves, which would soon drop like a burning blanket and set the entire forest ablaze. Mad dogs were howling and barking, frightened creatures bolting and leaping to avoid the tearing teeth and talon-like paws. Birds of every color and size tore into the sky in cloudy flocks or singularly up and away. As the mist parted the mound of hellish ground known as Madman's Mount came into view, Bolton's shotgun crackling like ground lightning. The mist was still in his eyes and he screamed in defiance watching the gaunt figure trundle slowly towards him. He didn't know why the gun blasts didn't stop the hideous shade but he refused to let fear paralyze him.

 I decided it was time for Bolton to meet his maker and climbed down the damp tree trunk then leapt to the ground. I'd have to make time through rough country to get to him.

 The orange and deep crimson wounds that covered Po's body gleamed against her snow-white flesh, her steps hindered and staggering as Anna tried to help her along. Anna was not unscathed herself; naked, exhausted body racked with shock and pain. Anna had been deafened and scorched by the fiery explosion; her backside seared with second degree burns. Both women were lost and could barely see and falling helped one another to their feet and awkwardly struggled on. Patricia turned off the highway onto the muddy road leading to St. Caesarea. The car heaved and rocked over the bumpy ground as she kept her foot on the accelerator to get the most speed she could out of the Mercedes' smoking V8 diesel. She caught the sound of her own voice muttering a prolonged and desperate prayer. She had not been very religious before, but if there were ever a time and need for faith, this was it.

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