The Shadowkiller by Matthew Scott Hansen Page B

clutches of a vastly superior animal.
    He was held by the waist and neck, as the process of ending Mitch Roberts began. His body was bent backward like a fragile bundle of sticks into an impossible position, resulting in his nervous system’s failing and his lungs collapsing from the pressure.
    With calamitous shock buffering his awareness that he couldn’t breathe, Mitch made what puny attempt he could at struggling, his arms being the only limbs that still worked. His immense attacker responded with animal fury and ripped Mitch’s left arm from its socket, the limb separating from his body in a jet of blood and torn skin, muscle, white tendons, and red and bluish striated ligaments. Mitch looked up at his arm, now flailing above him, as a spray of crimson wet his face. Then he swung his head and looked into the inhuman face of his killer.

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    T he young man glided over the forest path like a strong breeze, his feet making just enough contact to create locomotion, his movements the essence of economy. A Native American at the man end of his teens, he wore overalls, a denim shirt, and bulky old boots. Tall and lean, he wore his long black hair tied in a ponytail. The dusky forest through which he passed was sullen, a heavy mist dulling any detail past four or five yards. Although his face was a mask of concentration, the panic in his eyes betrayed the fact that he was running for his life.
    A few dozen yards behind him, something menacing, something evil moved through the fog, pacing him. Like the oversized shadow of a normal person projected on a wall, only this shadow had substance.
    The young Indian knew its thoughts and it knew his. The huge shadow toyed with him, knowing it could overtake him whenever it chose to. The teenager’s only hope was to let it think he was far from safety and let it continue to enjoy the hunt, right up until the moment they came out in the small clearing by the home of his family. He prayed his grandfather would have felt or heard the cries of his spirit or the murderous thoughts of the shadow and would be waiting in the field, his shotgun leveled.
    The shadow sensed this deceit and began to close in, slapping the trees in its path. The slapping sent a message to the boy that he would soon feel an open blow from that massive hand, breaking his neck and ending the chase.
    Slap, slap, slap…
    It got closer and closer.
    Bam, bam, bam…
    The sound was louder, the shadow behind him, its breath on his shoulder, his hair…his neck. Closer, closer…
    BAM…BAM…BAM…
    Oh-Mah…
    BAM! BAM! BAM!
    â€œHey, Chief, you okay? You in there?” asked a muffled voice.
    BAM! BAM! BAM!
    The Indian awoke, confused, the pursuit over, his life saved by a knock at the door.
    â€œHey, Chief, you okay?” the young voice repeated through the door as the knocking came again.
    The young Indian, suddenly an old man, looked around the dim trailer, getting his bearings, the drapes drawn against Southern California’s sharp November sun. He sat up and moved slowly to the door and opened it. A blaze of strong morning light blinded him.
    â€œWow, I was worried,” said the young voice. “You all right?”
    The old one, a lanky six three in a chambray shirt and jeans, his long hair now silver but still pulled back as in the dream, slowly focused on the twenty-year-old production assistant two steps below. Behind the PA was a flurry of activity—normal operations for a major motion picture studio. He remembered he was in a Star Waggon outside Sound Stage 27 at Paramount Pictures on Melrose Avenue in Los Angeles.
    â€œChief? You okay?” said the youth, unsure owing to the chief’s lack of response.
    â€œYeah, no problem,” answered the old Indian. “What’s up?”
    â€œThey need you in makeup, sir. Five minutes.”
    The man nodded and turned back into his trailer. He went to the sink, poured water into his cupped hands, and