Stalking

Frankie gripped the garden shears. In the moonlight, they looked dangerous. A proper machete for a proper jungle.

He stepped out from the dry circle of the oak. The mist from the sprinklers had stopped.

-Stay in my footprint, he murmured. Don't touch the vines. One scratch and the toxins get you.

Red nodded solemnly. She hitched up her dress, stepping high over the imaginary roots.

-Lead the way, Captain, she whispered. I'll watch our six.

Frankie slashed at a tall stalk of milkweed. The plant fell. He kicked it aside.

-Path is thick, he grunted. Overgrown. No one’s patrolled this sector in cycles.

-That’s why they sent us, Red replied. Her voice dropped an octave. Expendable assets on a one-way trip.

-That sounds cool, Frankie said as he stopped and looked back at her. Mud smeared the toe of her boot. Hair stuck to her cheek. She looked wild.

-We aren't dying here, he said. Not tonight.

-Promises, promises, she teased.

They pushed deeper into the yard. The shadows stretched long and thin. The neighbor’s fence was a fortress wall. The compost pile was a sleeping mound of decay.

Then, the noise.

It came from the bushes near the shed. Low. Guttural.

Frankie froze. He held up a hand, fist clenched.

Red stopped instantly, bumping into his back.

-Did you hear that? she breathed.

-Movement, Frankie confirmed. Three o'clock. Low to the ground.

-A scout? she asked. -Or a hunter?

-Too heavy for a scout, Frankie said. He tightened his grip on the shears. Sounds like a predator.

A pair of yellow eyes flashed in the darkness under the grass. A low hiss cut through the humidity. Probably a stray cat. Maybe a possum.

For them, it was the Beast of Venus.

Red grabbed Frankie's arm. Her nails dug in.

-It's tracking us, she said. It smells the fear.

Frankie slowly raised the shears.

-Who’s scared? Let's give it something else to smell, he growled. Get the explosives ready.