MicroHorror

A pair of heavily booted feet trod through the dark canopy of trees. Thomas was scared, almost beyond reason, as he inched his way through the claustrophobic blackness. He struggled to keep himself under control, aware that he was close to panic. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was covering the same patch of woodland in ever decreasing circles.

He told himself that he would be okay, as a whisper of wind flitted through the trees, mocking his optimism. His legs were numb and he felt the muscles tightening in his thighs, the survival instinct urging him to flee. He tried to calm his jittery nerves, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, insisting that he was alive and well and that he would make it through.

The others had not been so lucky. He might live another eighty years, but he would not forget seeing Neil’s throat torn out with enough force to nearly decapitate him. He hadn’t run at once; he had been too stunned for that and not from seeing his best friend’s life ripped from his body. His mind hadn’t believed what his eyes were seeing.

They had taken it for a bear, escaped from a zoo and long since lost to the wild, or so the local story went. Jack had raised his shotgun and fired a round into the head of their slumbering prey, whilst Neil stood ready to capture the execution of the legendary Black Beast on his mobile phone. Jack was an excellent shot but a poor zoologist. The shell had hit the beast, but the roar of surprise and pain had come from the other end of the animal.

It had risen with a speed that belied its great size and removed Neil’s larynx with a single swipe of its paw. This was no bear; its snout was too long and its jaw too heavy. It had glared at its tormentors, thick saliva pooling around malformed teeth and had uttered a chilling howl from deep inside its throat.

Jack had dropped his gun and immediately ran for the woods. The beast had launched itself with powerful hind legs and taken off in pursuit. Thomas had run in the opposite direction, feet digging into the sodden earth as his heart pounded in his chest. After a time he had no way of measuring, he heard a terrible, desperate scream in the distance and suspected he would not be seeing either friend again.

He had forced himself to slow down and suddenly, the woods were filled with muffled sounds of pursuit. He couldn’t see more than a few inches in front of his face as he paced his way carefully through the undergrowth and around the treacherous tree roots, until the forest thinned out, gently melting into a small clearing.

The relief he felt was short-lived, as he heard the heavy pad of feet approaching at speed. This time, he trusted those instincts buried in his twitching legs and ran towards a sturdy-looking tree. He pulled himself three feet from the ground, then six, then nine. As he tried to reach the next branch, his hand slipped on the wet wood, nearly tipping him to the floor and he decided to stay put.

The beast was a sight to behold as it entered the clearing. Heavily set and thickly muzzled, layers of muscle rolled sinuously beneath its shaggy hide. An angry wound on its hindquarters glistened in the pale light and was mirrored by the thick red smear across its dripping jaws. As it strode across the open ground, methodically and with purpose, Thomas was suddenly aware of three certainties.

He had been certain there was no Black Beast.

He had been certain that a shotgun would deal with anything he met in the woods.

He was certain that beasts couldn’t climb trees…