CLASSIFICATION: warm weather Fowl torture
SPOILEERS: don't think so
SUMMARY: stupid, stupid, stupid Fowl
RATING: PG-13 for gore
DISTRIBUTION: you want it? you got it.
DISCLAIMER: All X-files characters belong to
Ten-Thirteen and are used with no intent to profit
and most assuredly without permission.
FEEDBACK: craved at exfilia@my-dejanews.com
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The Hunter and the Hunted
by Exfilia
It was beyond hot. It was so hot Diana Fowley
couldn't think of a metaphor. It was the kind of
hot where you sit on a shady porch somewhere with a
glass of lemonade and wait for it to be over. It
was not a day to be tramping around a safari park
with nine tenths of the dratted FBI looking for a
missing customs inspector.
Of course, the guy that was missing probably wasn't
having too good a day, either. There was nothing
out here but tall grass sun bleached to the color
of honey and a few scraggly trees. That and biting
insects. One of the people who'd come down from
Washington had had to be hospitalized when he had
proven allergic to the fire ants in whose bed he
was fool enough to stand. Hey, if he'd stood in
Diana's bed, she'd have bitten him, too.
The heat was affecting her brain, and she was
prepared for it. Most of the fools from DC were
wearing dark suits and no hats. She figured about
half of them would be standing by nightfall. Too
bad is wasn't the Scully twit who'd gotten into the
ants. There were things Diana could show Fox
Mulder about night in central Florida that had
nothing to do with animated rats. Redheads,
however, were decidedly contraindicated.
Maybe Scully had forgotten her sunscreen.
Something moved in the grass. Diana froze, the
tightness in her throat recalling millenia of
instinct. Silly. The park manager had assured
them all his big cats were under lock and key.
One tiger. Three lions. A pair of cheetahs, and
half a dozen leopards. And he had legal import
permits for each of them. The customs guy was not
only lost, he was on the wrong track.
Apparently the cats actually were locked away.
What had moved turned out to be a scrawny yellow
dog. Dogs had more sense than FBI agents. That
one wouldn't be out in this heat if it didn't have
a good reason, like tasty bones left over from
something's dinner, and it wouldn't hang around if
there was any chance it would be the next meal. It
shied away from the oncoming line of agents,
dragging something long and white.
Bone white.
Bones scattered through the grass, and amongst them
a dark blue baseball cap with a bright red A right
in the middle.
The guy on Diana's right in line was from the local
field office.
"Did the victim follow baseball? Atlanta?"
The dog was a mischievous little bugger. It came
back and ran through the clot of agents around the
remains, making Scully curse about her crime scene
and throw something at it, as if that wouldn't
contaminate the crime scene in itself. Diana liked
this dog. She looked around for it, but it had
kept running.
Now why would a sensible dog like that run like a
mad thing through a gaggle of humans, and not come
back to laugh? There was something else going on
here. Diana turned into the grass in the direction
from which the dog had come.
"Diana?" Fox was standing on the edge of the mob.
"I'll be right back," she said. The dog's claws
had left faint gashes in the dirt that would be
gone momentarily. She followed them down a hill
to a depression where a little muddy water had
gathered, and a few pine trees made a spot of
shade. Oh, that shade felt good. Diana slipped
off the straw hat and arched her neck until it
cracked.
Something cracked overhead, too. Her eyes flew
open and registered yellow among the green pine
needles, and black spots.
The manager had had paperwork for all the cats he'd
shown them. If they's stayed together in a large
group they'd never have known this one was here.
Diana never had a chance to scream. The leopard
landed on her, teeth and claws flashing, and only
raised its head to snarl when more than a dozen
pistols began to fire. Claws raked her chest,
snagging, stretching and then snapping the bra,
then digging into the flesh beneath. The last
thing Diana saw was a mouthful of fangs gaping in
her face.
