Prey

Prey

Cathy Cade

She runs for her life.

Sanctuary is in sight, and she has a clear run along the woodland path.

So does he.

He appeared from nowhere, but she had known he was in the area. She must be losing her edge, becoming careless.

He is young, keen; his legs are longer. He is catching up.

She veers into undergrowth. Leaves scrunch as he changes direction too, but here, she has an advantage. Small and still nimble, she can slip under low branches.

He crashes through or leaps over and is catching up. She changes direction again.

When he pauses to listen, she can hear her own rustlings, but the turn has won her a few seconds. With his thundering progress again covering the sound of hers, he will need to watch for moving foliage.

Two turns later she hasn’t lost him, and he is alert now for her diversions. Her heartbeat patters against her throat. She is no longer young, but panic keeps her running.

Think!

She zig-zags wildly before dropping behind a patch of bramble. Resisting the urge to crawl inside its spiky protection, she crouches among the ripe blackberries, her body shaking with each thump of her heart. Can he hear it?

She senses his concentration: ears, eyes, nose alert for a clue. He passes her hiding place, breathing heavily. But he is exhilarated more than winded. His smell fills her head.

He turns.

She tenses.

He passes her again – just a little way past. She runs.

Launching behind her, he shortens the distance between them in seconds. This must be her final surge… not much further.

Her turns have not been entirely random. Close now to the safety he’d driven her to abandon, she calls on her last reserve of energy to carry her across the open path.

She feels his breath on the back of her neck.

She dives.

Behind her, the tunnel entrance darkens.

Frustrated, the pup withdraws his nose to scrabble at the hole with his paws, but the wood mouse is already far away underground.