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The dogs, the goddamned dogs, he had forgotten about them! They stood nearby, motionless now on still legs, cautiously sniffing the air. One of them growled far back in its throat, rumbled. Rasputin, probably, the more aggressive of the two. Rasputin and Torquemada. Oh, my God! And Harry coming down through the darkness.
David got up and crashed blindly through the brush to the clearing. Still empty, coldly limned with moonlight. He hesitated for a moment, paralyzed, then turned and started down the path. Far ahead the lights of a house. Below, other lights, other houses, and the galaxy of town lights. He stumbled, partly recovered and staggered on a few paces, turned a corner and fell heavily. The dogs were on him immediately. Growls, hot breath, the musty, furry, slightly rotten canine smell.
He got up, resumed running. The dogs stayed with him, bounding alongside, ranging ahead and falling back, growling. The longer he ran the wilder the dogs became. They were excited by the chase; a game was rapidly turning into a primal reflex. They could smell his blood and fear-sweat, were aware that he ran with in unnatural motion. A big wounded mammal loping terror-stricken through the night forest. A few minutes ago they had been pets, but now they were fifty thousand years old and hunting.