The Flock Read Free

five miles up, and he slowed again and made a left into the entrance of Salutations, USA. Not Salutations, Florida. No. This was USA! He chuckled and keened out, “Saaaaaal-yew-TAY-shuuuuuuuuunz.”
    Stopping at the gate, he was surprised to hear the not too distant yelp of a dog. A dog that was obviously in a great deal of either pain, or panic. The Berg Brothers engineers built up the road on a tall berm, a wise move, for this part of the country could get plenty soggy. Each side of the four lanes had a wide, solid-looking shoulder covered with a manicured coat of Bermuda grass. Taking his foot off the accelerator, Ron coasted to a stop on the right, where a bike-and-foot path crossed the ditch on that side.
    Over the idling of the motor he heard the dog yelping again. And then he could hear a human voice, joining in with that of the dog. There was cursing: a man’s voice. Ron switched the motor off and climbed out.
    He stood beside the truck, glanced once at the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service painted on the door, and walked briskly around the back of the vehicle and started down the paved pathway. This was the outer edge of Salutations, what the company propaganda was calling “a natural greenway surrounding this pristine community.” He’d read their spiel and had some detailed maps of the area in his truck. It seemed they were having trouble with prior residents, and that’s what had brought him there. He took a few strides down the pathway, noticing as he did some of the vegetation around him. Even a cursory glance told him that several threatened plant species grew here. There was no way these bike paths should have been allowed.
    The dog yelped again, and once more he heard a man cursing.
    â€œDammit! Hold still, dammit!”
    Ron looked to his left, where the patch curved down toward an arm of the waterway that meandered into the forest. There were lily pads floating on the still surface, mirroring the action just beyond the pool.
    â€œHold still! ” A paunchy man who appeared to be in his mid-fifties, dressed in white shorts, white short-sleeved shirt, white socks drawn almost up to his knees, and a pair of even whiter Nikes, seemed to flail madly at a silvery poodle that was bounding even more madly around his feet. The fellow’s white porkpie hat was sitting at an odd slant on his balding scalp, and he was trying vainly to land a blow with his polished walking stick: solid oak, Ron realized. Attached to the dog’s left foreleg was an impressive snake struggling vigorously against all odds.
    Before Ron could announce his presence, the man finally landed a blow on the snake’s thick body, a blow which was little more than a glancing thump that bounced off. Even if the strike had been aimed a little better, Ron knew it wouldn’t have had much effect. This snake was a constrictor and heavily muscled. A healthy specimen, too, he noted—six feet, at least.
    â€œHey,” Ron yelled. “Hey, there! You! Stop that.”
    The older man looked Ron’s way, bringing his right hand up and knocking off the precariously perched hat. And Ron saw that the dog was tethered; the leash twisted around the man’s left forearm and looped around the fellow’s left ankle. He probably thought he was going to be bitten, too. A couple of long strides brought Ron up to the man and his frightened doggie.
    â€œHold still,” Ron told him.
    The man had drawn his walking stick back again, but held it there. “What are you going to do?” he asked, puffing out the words.
    â€œJust hold still,” Ron told him again, kneeling quickly and grasping the dog firmly by the nape of its neck. He reached around with his right hand and gripped the black snake tightly at the base of its jaws, applying a lot of pressure there. Quickly, the snake’s jaws opened wide and Ron extricated the reptile’s needlepoint teeth from the dog’s flesh. The teeth were so fine