GARRETT PRANGE - THE BEAST

Garrett Prange is a sophomore at Full Sail University and is working on his Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing. He comes from the far northern reaches of the frosty mitten known as Michigan. From the bland white expanses, he developed a passion for the strange, the supernatural, and the fantastical. Currently, he suffers in the swamps of Winter Park, Florida and fondly remembers the distant cold of his home. He channels his excess creative energies into games of the video, tabletop, and board variety, and he firmly believes cats are the familiars of witches and writers.

The Beast
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            Blood leaked from between the teeth and flowed over the gums. It streaked down the grey, leathery chin, fell, and pooled into the dried grass. It lifted its head and claws and consumed the flesh it tore from the throat of the bull. The jugular lie stretched and frayed. The last of the bull’s life poured out into the ever-expanding pool. The beast scuttled to the hind legs and dragged its claws across the hip before it severed most of the limb. It wretched the bone from its socket and snapped the ligaments with its teeth. The tongue lapped up the draining liquids, searched through every vein, and relished the iron that dribbled down into the back of its throat.
            The snap of a twig echoed from the surroundings. The beast snapped its head in the direction of the disturbance. Its eyes widened and blackened as it crept from its meal. The lanky and thin limbs clutched to the tree branches above.
It located the source of the intrusion: a man.
            “Stupid animal. Getting lost. Makin’ me have to come find you,” he said, moving amongst the brush. A lantern swayed gently in its hand as it pushed branch after branch. A long rifle hung over the left shoulder and knocked against the back of the man as he walked.
            The beast’s eyelids narrowed into vertical slits. It bared its yellowed, jagged, and cracked teeth. It would feed twice in one night. It pulled itself from one tree limb to another, following the man from above.
            The man raised his hand to his mouth and let loose a sharp whistle. “Come on, Brutus! I ain’t got all night to be lookin’ for ya,” he said, raising the lantern and looking for any sign of the bull. He was met with the inky blackness of the forest.
            The beast misjudged the strength of a tree limb, snapping the twig from its parent tree and plummeted to the ground. It crashed into the brush and scattered leaves and pine needles across the ground. The chirp of crickets ceased, silence filling the space of their symphony.
            The man brought round the lantern towards the sound of the rustling bush and kept it pointed high. “Brutus?” he called. He caught sight of something gray flash between the foliage. Beads of sweat formed on the back of his neck as he lowered the lantern and latched it to his belt. From his shoulder, he pulled the rifle and glanced about his surroundings. His eyes shifted back and forth scanning the bushes with each sense of movement. Once again, a flash of the lithe and gray predator stalking him caught his eye. “The hell are you?” he said, raising the gun. The bolt was pulled back and pushed forward, chambering a round from the small magazine. From the right another crash of leaves sounded; the man whipped around to meet it. The shot rang through the trees and smoke emanated from the barrel of the rifle. Silence fell again, the rifle lowering.
The shot skimmed between the legs of the beast, missing the mark. The beast took the silence to position itself above the man, the branch bending with the weight. It grabbed the tree limb it rested on with its feet and lowered down to just above the intruder. Its long fingers and claws framed the face of the man, and it lowered its head next to him. The beast laid its fingers along the face of the man and caressed the flesh with its claws. It dragged them upward, leaving small cuts across the cheeks.
            The man was startled at the sudden invasion of his space, and he felt the slimy sensation of a tongue raking across the back of his neck. Warm air beat down on him from behind, beads of sweat formed along his skin.
            The beast lapped up the salty taste and lingered in the fear of its prey. It slashed the neck of the man open. The warm, wet life drained from the opening and down the shirt. The lantern and rifle dropped to the forest floor; the body fell limp in the grasp of the beast. It reached on leg down and then the other, and it stood twice as tall as the latest victim. The fingers clutched the neck. It dragged the body back to the bull and lay it across the carcass. It latched on to the leg it had severed and resumed its feast.