Chapter 1

Ryan Solivan stepped out of his truck just after 5:30 p.m., the air thick with the scent of cut grass and warm dust. He’d spent the day working in his father’s cornfield, tedious, repetitive labor, mostly checking for the usual suspects: parasites, rot, signs of disease. If anything looked off, Ryan would bag a sample and take it to the small lab his father kept on the farm. “Lab” was a generous term it was a folding table with a microscope, a few dusty slides, some glassware, and an old computer wheezing beside it.

But today, he wasn’t heading there because of crop disease. Today was different.

He needed answers about what killed one of their dogs.

During his late afternoon rounds, Ryan had noticed something odd: a section of the corn flattened and thrashed, like a fight had taken place. Stalks were snapped at strange angles. It wasn’t the wind. Something had happened there.

That’s where he found Rocky. The family’s black and white Border Collie, still and silent in the trampled mess of corn. He’d been with the Solivans since he was a pup—loyal, smart, always nosing around Ryan’s boots while he worked. But now… no blood, no tracks. Just two small punctures on the side of his neck. Clean. Precise.

Ryan didn’t say a word. He just scooped the dog’s limp body into his arms and drove back across the fields.

As he opened the barn door, the cattle stirred in their troughs, the smell of hay and manure rising to meet him. Luck was on his side. the vet’s truck was still parked out front.

“Hey Johnny,” Ryan called out, voice low. “I need your help with something.” He looked down at Rocky’s still frame in the bed of the truck. “What the hell did you get into, boy…”

Johnny, the veterinarian, had just sliced open the swollen back leg of a lame cow when Ryan called out. Pus and fluid gushed from the incision in a sickly stream. The cow grunted, then, with a relieved groan, expressed its gratitude the only way it knew how by unloading a fresh pile of manure onto the barn floor.

“You’re welcome, Cow 613,” Johnny muttered, backing just out of range of the blast zone. “Hey Ryan,” he added, wiping his hands on a rag. “What can I do for you?”

Ryan shook his head, laughing. “You didn’t back away far enough.” He pointed at Johnny’s boots. “She got you.”

Johnny looked down. Sure enough, his boots were no longer the same color as when he walked in.

“Occupational hazard,” he sighed.

Ryan gestured toward the truck. “I found Rocky out in the cornfield. Dead. I brought him back so you could take a look, see if we can figure out what got him.”

Johnny followed him over to the water spigot, where he began rinsing off the worst of the cow’s parting gift.

“Damn, sorry to hear that,” he said, scrubbing hard. “What do you think it was?”

Ryan shook his head. “No idea. The area looked like there’d been a fight, stalks busted up, trampled. But no blood. Not a drop. Just… two small holes in the side of his neck.”

Johnny froze mid-scrub, eyes narrowing. “That’s what Farmer Wilkins told me. Fred lost three sheep last week. Same thing, no blood, two holes.”

Ryan looked back at the truck bed, unease creeping up his spine. “What kind of animal does that?”

He paused, then glanced at Johnny. “You mind taking a look at him before I bury him?”

Johnny gave a slow nod. “Yeah. 613’s my last patient today anyway. Let me grab my bag, I’ll meet you at the truck.”

Ryan nodded and made his way back to the truck. He dropped the tailgate with a clunk and dragged the rolled-up carpet toward him. “Whatever it was, Rocky... you didn’t go down easy,” he murmured, pulling the cover back.

The dog’s lifeless face stared off into nothing, frozen mid-expression, alert, but gone. Ryan stood there a moment. He loved that dog more than he’d admit. But he’d been raised under the creed that real cowboys didn’t cry—not in public, anyway.

Johnny arrived with his black leather bag in hand. “Yeah,” he said, glancing at Rocky’s neck, “those look like the same marks Fred’s sheep had.” He unzipped the bag and pulled out a syringe. “I want to run a few tests. If this is something contagious, like rabies, we’ve got a problem.”

Ryan gave a nod and stepped aside, letting Johnny work.

Johnny inserted the needle into Rocky’s foreleg and pulled back on the plunger ..nothing. He tried again, in another leg. Still nothing. Then the neck. Then the torso. Same result every time. Finally, Johnny stood up, frowning. “Rocky’s been drained. All his blood is gone. Just like the sheep.”

Ryan blinked. “Drained? That’d explain why there wasn’t a drop around the scene.” He gave a dry, uneasy laugh. “What are we saying here, Dracula came for my dog?”

Johnny didn’t smile. “I can’t say yes or no. Not yet.”

He leaned in, lifting Rocky’s upper lip, scanning the teeth. Then he paused. “Hold on...” He grabbed a pair of tweezers, reached in, and carefully pulled out a chunk of flesh wedged between Rocky’s teeth. “Maybe this’ll tell us more.”

He dropped the sample into a small vial, sealed it, and slid it into his bag.

“You mind if I use your lab?” Johnny asked. “I want to get a look at the fiber structure under the microscope.”

Ryan nodded. “By all means. Use whatever we’ve got.”

Johnny parted ways with Ryan and headed back to the barn, the vial clutched loosely in his hand. He hoped the scrap of flesh pulled from Rocky’s mouth belonged to whatever had attacked him. The sheep on Wilkins’ farm hadn’t fought back at least, not successfully. But maybe Rocky had gotten in one good bite. At the lab bench, Johnny placed a glass slide under the microscope. He opened the vial, carefully removed the piece of flesh with tweezers, and laid it out. After a moment’s focus, he frowned.

“Huh,” he muttered, adjusting the lens. Still unsatisfied, he pulled the sample back out, made a precise cut with the scalpel from his bag, then slid the thinner slice under the microscope again.

“That makes sense... but also doesn’t,” he whispered to himself.

Footsteps on the barn floor.

“You find anything?” Ryan asked as he stepped inside.

Johnny leaned back from the scope, still squinting in confusion. “Yeah... sort of. The tissue came from an animal suffering from advanced anemia. Starved of oxygen. The cells are unstable, like they’ve been dying for a while but still somehow functioning. It’s bizarre.”

Ryan raised an eyebrow. “How does something that sick manage to kill a healthy dog like Rocky?”

Johnny shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. That’s the part that doesn’t add up.” He closed the vial and packed it away. “I’m taking this back to my office for a deeper analysis. Until I know what we’re dealing with, let’s keep this between us.”

Ryan nodded. The worried look on Johnny’s face said enough. No point in kicking up a panic, not yet.

“I’ll keep the animals penned in tonight,” Ryan said. “Just in case.”