Man in The Woods by Scott Spencer

of animal instinct becomes more and more dominant, expressing itself in a long, low, guttural roar. Except for that interior roar, Paul feels strangely calm.
    “Go away! P-p-please,” Will cries out, sorry now, truly sorry, sorry for kicking the dog, sorry for not having the money to pay his debts, sorry for running, sorry for everything. But he is also flailing, and each time he swings his arms another blow lands on Paul.
    “Stop!” Paul cries. His own voice sounds unfamiliar to him. His breath comes in jagged bursts; his heart races. Yet all the while a serene, confident self, a shadow self, remains aloof, silently urging him on. Fucking punch his ticket , the voice suggests. Each time the man takes a swing, Paul punishes him with a real blow. There are slaps, just to demoralize the guy and drain his strength, and there are punches, on the side of the head—how many? Paul has lost count—and then on the chin, with the hope of knocking him unconscious and then, as luck would have it, a blow to the throat.
    With that final blow, Paul falls forward, practically on top of the man. Will grabs Paul’s hair but even as he pulls and twists he seems to be surrendering. “No, no,” Will Claff says, his voice soft and thick, a bubble rising in his throat, spit and blood, the mortal lava of him.
    No, no are his last words. Whatever pity the universe has shown him has run its course.
    Paul does not know this, not quite yet. The violence is still coursing through him; he is like a runner who cannot stop his legs from churning, even after he has snapped through the tape at the finish line. He grips the man’s throat. He is not trying to choke him. He is trying to hold him at bay, as you might pin a poisonous snake beneath the crook of a branch.
    “All right?” Paul says, in that voice you use when you have fulfilled someone’s worst expectations. “All right? All right? Will you stop now?”
    The man makes a deep sound of distress, an urgent, guttural cry. Startled, Paul relaxes his grip a little. But the sound persists; it takes a moment for Paul to realize that the sound is not the man choking but the dog barking.
    “Uh-oh,” Paul says, getting quickly to his feet.
    A stain spreads out over the front of the man’s workout pants; as his crotch darkens, the color drains from his face, making each of his whiskers appear blacker and more distinct. Paul feels a sharp, wrenching pain in his hand, looks at it and realizes he is gripping the side of his jeans and squeezing the denim with all his might. He lets go and falls to his knees, places his ear on the man’s chest, but all he hears is the pounding of his own heart. He shakes the man by the shoulders and places one finger beneath his nostrils, though he already knows there will be no breath to feel.
    The trees encircling the clearing seem to have gotten closer, their empty crowns etched against the soft sky like ten thousand cracks in a mirror. Paul turns in a circle, willing his eyes to see someone, anyone, but all is stillness, and, except for the wind and the wooden creaking of the trees, all is silent.
    He runs back to the parking area. Once he is there, he leans on the hood of his truck, his head pitched forward, his heart beating so violently that his own death seems to be pounding up the stairs.
    What just happened? What have I done?
    He knows he must think clearly now. In the chaos of surging, disconnected thoughts, he remembers: call 911. He opens his truck’s door, finds his cell phone in the glove compartment, turns it on, waits. What do I say?
    There is no reception in this dense preserve of forest. He stares at the silent phone and, suddenly, adrenaline begins to course through him. He can feel the blood draining from his face, and his skin growing colder with each heartbeat. A scalding, churning distress of the bowels. He clutches his stomach and thinks Oh my God I’m going to be sick . Guided by animal instinct, he hurries into the woods at the very edge