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cans and a Heinz-57 blend of dog shit. The remaining pictures flashed across his mind like strobe images on the walls of an LA discotheque. |
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He sneezed the aromavisions away. |
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A few yards down the asphalt-paved golf-cart track, the bushes parted and an old man poked his head out. From the looks of the geezer's clothing, he must have crawled all the way from New England on his hands and knees. Cyrus aimed his nose radar at the old man and discovered that the guy was either a wino or he used muscatel as an after-shave. |
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The man saw Cyrus and grinned. ''Nice doggie." |
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Deep in the most primitive part of Cyrus's brain, something dark and incredibly savage stirred. Saliva flooded his mouth and his eyes zeroed in on the pulsating vein that ran down the side of the old derelict's neck. Underneath that week-old stubble, below the accumulated dirt, sweat and vomit, Cyrus smelled rich, red meat and hot blood. The claws on his hands and feet silently eased out of their fleshy sheaths. |
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I didn't do that, Cyrus's mind protested. |
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He experienced a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach akin to stepping on the brake of a speeding car and having the pedal go flat to the floor. He clamped his jaws tightly together, but a growl that started as a burning ball of blood-lust down deep in his gut rose through his chest and escaped past his fangs. |
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"Aw, come on now. Don't be like that." He patted the patch of grass at his knee. "Here, boy." |
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The inside of Cyrus's head was a kaleidoscope of insane urges and half-formed thoughts, cravings on a nonverbal level that he felt but didn't understand: Cull the herd! He's old and sicktake him! |
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Cyrus had no way of knowing that his conscious mind was fighting it out with the wolf's primitive id. |
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"Come on, puppy. Don't be afraid of old Ben." |
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The old man began crawling toward Cyrus, the odor of tenderloin rolling before him like a perfumed mist. |
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