George Colyear had been hunting deer in the same Virginian woods for some 60 odd years and had to admit that this was a first. There was no wind, no animals around, and except for the wincing coming from Bessie, George's 5 year old black lab, there was no sound at all, dead silence.
George looked around. It was late October and the leaves in the trees were are a grand mixture of yellow, brown, red, and green. The ground was cold and hard and each breath George expired lingered in the air like puffs from the cigars Ruth Ann refused to let him smoke anymore. As matter of fact, hunting was just about the only vice she allowed him these days. Almost forty years togther and she had become more and more protective of his health. Drove Georgie nuts at times, but he loved that old battle axe with all his heart and would do anything for her.
His hair had grayed and his face was tired from the years gone by, but his eyes danced to a song only he and Ruth Ann seemed to know. To suit his missus, he had half-heartedly joined a gym going every now and then and it had been almost two years since his last drink. However, at this moment, he would have sold his soul for a nip of Mr. Jack Daniel's finest.
"This ain't right Bessie," he whispered to his willing partner in crime, "the woods is never this quiet. Never!"
Bessie agreed with a fragile look in his direction and then suddenly her ears pricked up, she spread her legs and crouched down, staring hard at something far off in the distance.
"What is it girl?" Bessie was a statue. "Shit! I don't like this. No sir, not one bit." He slowly walked up to Bessie and put his hand on her head. She flinched and then tore off into the bushes ten yards away. For the first time, George stood his ground, unsure whether or not he should follow. What had she seen? What the hell was going on?
"This is the part in them horror movies when some poor slob gets killed by the pyscho axe murderer," George thought out loud. Little did he know how right he was...
Something grabbed his head and pulled it back. George's eyes bulged out with fear and the grip on his rifle tensed up. He was frozen in time, he couldn't think or see, everything was blurry. Something shined in the early morning sun. His neck burst open and blood sprayed all over the trees, leaves, branches, all over the ground in front of him. The forest he had hunted in for years, played in as a small child was sucking him dry. George fell to his knees, his eys rolled back into his head and then fell foward and was no more.
Back on Sullsberry Lane, in a modest three bedroom cabin with a Kiss the Chef sign in the kitchen, Ruth Ann Colyear, George's wife for almost 40 years, sat humming in her chair by the fire place. She was putting the finishing touches on a sweater she had knit him unaware that the next person she would see would be police liutenent Carl Berro with the worst news she had ever gotten.
George looked around. It was late October and the leaves in the trees were are a grand mixture of yellow, brown, red, and green. The ground was cold and hard and each breath George expired lingered in the air like puffs from the cigars Ruth Ann refused to let him smoke anymore. As matter of fact, hunting was just about the only vice she allowed him these days. Almost forty years togther and she had become more and more protective of his health. Drove Georgie nuts at times, but he loved that old battle axe with all his heart and would do anything for her.
His hair had grayed and his face was tired from the years gone by, but his eyes danced to a song only he and Ruth Ann seemed to know. To suit his missus, he had half-heartedly joined a gym going every now and then and it had been almost two years since his last drink. However, at this moment, he would have sold his soul for a nip of Mr. Jack Daniel's finest.
"This ain't right Bessie," he whispered to his willing partner in crime, "the woods is never this quiet. Never!"
Bessie agreed with a fragile look in his direction and then suddenly her ears pricked up, she spread her legs and crouched down, staring hard at something far off in the distance.
"What is it girl?" Bessie was a statue. "Shit! I don't like this. No sir, not one bit." He slowly walked up to Bessie and put his hand on her head. She flinched and then tore off into the bushes ten yards away. For the first time, George stood his ground, unsure whether or not he should follow. What had she seen? What the hell was going on?
"This is the part in them horror movies when some poor slob gets killed by the pyscho axe murderer," George thought out loud. Little did he know how right he was...
Something grabbed his head and pulled it back. George's eyes bulged out with fear and the grip on his rifle tensed up. He was frozen in time, he couldn't think or see, everything was blurry. Something shined in the early morning sun. His neck burst open and blood sprayed all over the trees, leaves, branches, all over the ground in front of him. The forest he had hunted in for years, played in as a small child was sucking him dry. George fell to his knees, his eys rolled back into his head and then fell foward and was no more.
Back on Sullsberry Lane, in a modest three bedroom cabin with a Kiss the Chef sign in the kitchen, Ruth Ann Colyear, George's wife for almost 40 years, sat humming in her chair by the fire place. She was putting the finishing touches on a sweater she had knit him unaware that the next person she would see would be police liutenent Carl Berro with the worst news she had ever gotten.