There was blood in the water.

It was not just a trickle of blood; not a fine pink coloring in the stream, but tendrils of half-coagulated blood. They swirled and danced in the eddies and rushed by in clotted wisps that spoke of recent death.

Ross recoiled in disgust, throwing aside his canteen and looking upstream.

From his vantage point he could see a pink fleshy mass jammed against a sunken tree. Distended entrails guided him to the dead creature, half hidden in low hanging branches.

Ross brushed aside the pine needles, to find the mutilated form of a dog.

With some trepidation, he knelt in the mud, and examined the corpse. Huge claw marks rent the poor creature's flanks, and it was obvious that powerful jaws had turned its guts into hamburger.

Ross had seen death before, but never like this.

Suddenly alarmed, the hiker quickly gathered up his belongings and made his way back through the darkening woods to his cabin.

The trees no longer seemed to afford shelter.

When Corporal Ross MacKinnon was given the opportunity to take a leave of absence from the Canadian Forces, he jumped at the chance. Feeling he had to get away from it all, he packed his meager belongings and headed east, to his family homestead on Prince Edward Island.

His grandfather had died several years before, leaving Ross a cabin in the woods. The cabin was a half-mile back from the highway that wound across the northeastern shore of the Island, and with the nearest major town being ten miles distant, Ross felt he could some peace at last.

But while Ross could escape contact with people, he was unable to escape the nightmare visions that plagued him. Each morning the peace was shattered by the screams that propelled him into consciousness.

And try as he might, Ross couldn't wash the blood from his hands.

His grandfather had left him twenty-five acres of mixed woodland, and Ross knew every inch of it by heart. He had grown up here; spent his summers curled against nature's unspoiled bosom. Each winter the boy chafed at school and life in the big city, wishing he could be back on the Island with his grandfather. These woods were home.

Yet now the trees seemed somehow taller, and more menacing. The woods grew dark as the sun dipped below the horizon, and Ross was still a quarter-mile from the cabin. He wasn't afraid of getting lost, he knew the trails in these parts like the back of his hand.

He was afraid of whatever killed that dog.

There weren't supposed to be any large predators on the Island, but whatever had attacked the dog was large, and mean. For the first time in his life, the forest primeval held no joy for Ross, only unease that haunted him.

Ross wasn't used to being the hunted. He wasn't used to not being totally in control. He needed that control, of himself, of his environment.

Security came in knowing the ground you were passing through. Ross no longer knew this ground.

Still several hundred yards from the cabin, Ross paused, and scanned the shadows. He was sure he had heard movement. The telltale rustles of underbrush that spoke of passage.

There was something out there. Something large was pacing him. It moved when he moved, it stopped when he stopped, and it hungered.

Ross could feel its hunger.

Unable to control himself, Ross dashed forward, towards the edge of the woods, towards the cabin. Like liquid darkness a shadow followed him, tiny pricks of light glowing amber with hunger. It flashed through the woods, barely disturbing them with its passage, and as he glanced over his shoulder, Ross could almost see the fluid motion of its supple body. It was a hunter, like him. It was a killer. Like him.

Ross broke from the woods, making a mad dash for the darkened cabin.

Behind him the shadow stopped pursuit, and turned back. There was always time later.

Ross didn't stop running until he was inside, a locked door behind him.

Breathless, he dropped his knapsack as a peal of thunder rolled across the sky.

Outside, it began to rain.

Thunderstorms could be especially violent where the ocean met the land.

Being an island, P.E.I was paradoxically well known for both its calm waters, and violent thunderstorms.

The sheets of lightning throw strobing lights across the cabin, while the sound of thunder shook the pine timbers. Ross had no television, and his radio was drowned in static from the storm. Chilled, he built a fire in the stone fireplace, and dug a tin of ravioli out of the pantry. Some quick work with the can-opener, and Ross was pouring the pale lumps of pasta into a battered pan hanging over the fire.

A roll of thunder startled him, and he dropped the tin in pain. A small, ragged cut showed where the sharpened edge of the can had nicked him.

Blood welled up, and he watched in fascination as drops fell into the embers with a hiss.

Blood and fire. That's how it began wasn't it?

With little reason to stay awake, Ross bandaged his thumb, quickly ate supper, and crawled upstairs and into his bed. The staccato beat of the rain on the roof was somehow soothing, and he drifted off to sleep. Once there, though, he found his nightmare stalked him once more...

The nightmare was always the same. Enough reality to make it tangible, but just enough surrealism to scare him shitless and screaming.

It always began with the blood, and the fire.

They were all so young then. It seemed a lifetime ago when he first joined their ranks. The Tigers: the elite of the elite. The best the Canadian Forces had to offer. He wanted that, to be the best. Acceptance was harder than just wanting to be the best, however. He had to prove he was the best.

In blood. In fire.

No one really knew where the ritual had come from. It was the secret of the regiment--a dark regimental tradition--and the proving ground for new members. Every year the new members of the Regiment would be led to a place of fire, and once there, pledge to ancient pact.

Ross remembered the night he pledged to the regiment. The moon was full and blood red. He was led through woods as dark as pitch to the clearing where a fire silently smoldered.

"Are you prepared to pledge your life for us?"

Ross nodded, "Yes."

"Will you commit your soul to us?"

"Yes."

The inquisitor grasped Ross's wrist.

"Do you give your blood for us?"

"Yes." Ross whispered as the firelight flickered across the knife blade.

The steel bit into his palm, leaving a crimson trail. He squeezed his fist closed, and watched as the flames leapt up to consume the red drops.

"Do you feel the power?"

Ross nodded, his eyes flashing in the firelight. Deep within him, something awakened. No longer was he only a soldier. He was a hunter, a tiger.

"Do you feel the rage?"

Blood pounded in Ross's ears. The thrumming sounded like ancient drums, and the echoes carried him and sustained him. The rage burned, an angry coal within his belly.

"The fire gives you power. The fire sustains."

Yes.

The drums beat louder, and from the shadows a shape flowed into the pool of light. A sleek, powerful form, its pelt striped in flame and shadow. Fire burned in the tiger's eyes, the same fire that burned in Ross's belly.

There was blood on its ivory fangs.

The drums beat louder.

The tiger leapt.

The rain, falling on the roof like drumbeats, was drowned out by his screams. Ross staggered from bed, the bedclothes tangled about his feet.

He stumbled and fell, landing heavily on the pine boards.

"No..." he whispered trying to rub the crimson blood from his hands. It stained them, and him with a deep red ochre. Then, with a blink, it was gone.

Had it been there?

Where was he?

Ross blearily looked at the clock. An hour had passed. The storm still raged outside, and only the pale red clock face broke the darkness in the cabin. He picked himself off the floor, and threw the knot of sheets onto his mattress. There he sat beside them, his head in his hands.

The door rattled, and he jumped, startled. Outside the wind howled, rattling the door again. Dismissing the noise, Ross turned away, only to have the door blow open, the wind and rain tearing into the small cabin.

"Shit." Ross cursed, as he stumbled down the stairs. The blowing rain pelted him as he approached the open doorway. A sheet of lightning ripped across the inky sky, and Ross threw his hand up to shield his eyes.

Silhouetted in the doorway was a slender, black figure.

"Ross." the whisper was seductively female.

Blinking away spots, he squinted at her. As graceful as a predator she slinked across the threshold, he ebony skin slick with the rain. He knew her face.

"Surely you remember me, Corporal."

A hand slick with wetness gently caressed his cheek.

It couldn't be her. Ross tried to pull away, but she drew him closer. He shook his head, pleading, trembling in terror as her tongue played across his lips.

"You do remember me," she purred, "Good."

Her eyes flashed with rage, with fire, with blood.

"It wasn't wise to disobey your Masters."

Tearing himself from her sensual grip, Ross stumbled into the rain and the mud. She had to be another hallucination, like the blood. He looked back, and there she stood in the doorway, a black woman, eyes glowing with hatred.

The sky lit up, and for a moment, he could see her, illuminated in all her glory. She smiled, barring her fangs.

"You are the one." Suddenly, she was gone.

Ross sprinted into the woods.

Behind him, the hunter stalked after.

Somalia had been a serious fuck up. Everyone knew that. It took awhile, but eventually the truth of what had happened there came out in federal commissions, and courts-martial. Most of the truth.

When Ross first laid eyes on her, she was already dead. It was early morning, but already flies buzzed around the young woman's corpse. Ross knelt down, placing a hand over her unseeing eyes. The body was cool. this woman had been dead for several hours.

"Okay." He growled at the three men who had led him here, "What the fuck happened?"

"It was Lieutenant Axworthy. He told us to clean her up, and get rid of the body. You know, cover-up." The private looked terrified, "He's an officer and all Corporal, but..." none of these three men wanted to take the fall for this.

Neither did Ross. He bit his lip and surveyed the situation. They were congregated in an abandoned alley near the red-light district. There was no doubt about what had happened. Axworthy was known for enjoying his women submissive and his sex brutal.

She couldn't have been more than nineteen.

*Will you commit your soul to us?*

Axworthy, like Ross, had pledged on blood and fire. They were all responsible for each other's actions. They all hung together, or they all hung separately. Axworthy was a piece of skinhead trash, but he was a Tiger.

They were both Tigers.

*Will you commit your soul to us?*

Fuck, if he hadn't already.

"Do what the LT said." Ross turned and left.

The walk to the compound was the longest he'd ever made. The roads were caked in a thick dust that seemed to hang in the air. It lay as a thick, dark veil over the buildings of the compound. The sun burned down accusingly as Ross walked past the sentries and towards the officer barracks.

The dust parted as he stepped into the shade of the building, the air conditioning blowing aside the heat and grit with a wall of cool, chemical tinged air. Taking a deep breath, Ross strode down the hall.

The steady click of his boots on the floor brought to mind the beat of the drums that night so long ago. He could feel a darkness follow him, growing deeper as he approached Axworthy's quarters. Pausing at the door, Ross looked about him. In the periphery of his vision he could see a shadow, but it disappeared when he looked at it.

His knock echoed hollowly through the deserted corridor.

"Come." a voice rasped from inside.

Ross opened the door and stepped into his nightmare.

"Jesus fucking Christ." he whispered.

The darkness was almost complete, broken only by a dozen candles scattered about the room. in that dim light, strange ichor glistened on the walls.

Axworthy, emaciated and covered in angry sores, sat cross-legged in the center of the room. The candles flickered as Ross closed the door. A heady stench of sex and putrefaction hung in the air, and Ross choked down the urge to gag.

Axworthy cackled, his face a death's-head. "Christ doesn't enter into it

Ross." he wheezed, his eyes aflame, "I'd not mention that name again, if I were you..." he beckoned with a withered taloned hand, "Come, sit down."

Ross hung back by the door, "What's happening here..."

Axworthy's face fell, and the fire in his eyes dimmed, "A pact we all made..." he coughed, "They came to collect from me, and I could not pay." he looked away, "The price of my desires."

"You killed that girl, didn't you?"

Axworthy nodded, "Yes. They wanted her, but I couldn't help myself." He licked his cracked lips, "I couldn't sacrifice her to the fire. She was so young..." he shrugged, "Then again, I never fucked a nigger girl before."

Ross shuddered, "Who are they? What are you talking about?"

Axworthy stood, and the shadows seemed to darken, the candles dimmed. "Can you imagine the embodiment of the perfect hunter? A shadow, swift and deadly and beautiful..."

Ross retched as the stench of death struck him. "I don't understand."

"The Tiger." Axworthy whispered, "Driven by rage. The perfect hunter. man, the perfect prey." His eyes glittered with madness, "In the darkness they find us, and play with us, and watch us shiver with fear. They only ask for small sacrifices to their fire. to feed their rage." He pointed to the candles, "It is a small fire, burning within all of us. A dark fire. We made a pact, we were chosen to help feed that fire. To become more perfect hunters."

A chill ran down Ross's spine as he saw something move in the shadows.

Twin pinpoints of fire burned brightly, to complement the candles.

Axworthy nodded.

"I see you understand now." He shivered, "I have failed, but you can still save yourself. You are the one, now that you've seen them. They are your masters, obey them and you shall have immortality." His voice dropped,

"Disobey and you are meat." a manic look came to the dead-man's eyes, and he turned, his arms splayed. "I submit to judgment!"

A scream like the end of the world tore from the shadows, ivory fangs dripping in blood. Ross, unable to tear his eyes from the beast, watched as Axworthy was torn into bloody rags. The beast turned to look at Ross, and smiled.

"You are the one." it whispered in a sultry voice.

His hands covered in Axworthy's blood, Ross fled.

The trees tore at him, their branches like clutching fingers, slowing him down, letting her catch up. He was the one all right. The one to blame. The one to hunt.

Axworthy was dead. The three other men had each gone to Yugoslavia and never returned. One by one, those involved had joined the Pink Mist Society.

Now Ross was next. The one most to blame.

The one to make a pact, and now the one to pay the price.

"No!" Ross screamed his defiance to the alien woods, "I will not lie down!

I will not give up! I will not die!"

He stumbled out of the clutches of the woods, and drew up short against a cliff. Solid ground fell away to the rocks thirty feet below. Whitecaps smashed against the red stone below, slowly tearing at the Island and its shores.

Bleeding, and battered, Ross turned to face the woods, his back to the sea. At the edge of his vision he could see a form pacing amongst the twisted pines. A lithe shadow, waiting for its moment.

"Come one you fucker!" Ross screamed at it. "Take me, if you dare!" he felt the rage burn within him, "Let it end as it began. In blood!"

"And fire?" the whisper was in his ear.

"Oh sweet Jesus..." Ross dodged away, but was too slow. Silver talons ripped under his chin, tearing at his exposed throat.

"Jesus can't save you now." the eyes burned, "You're mine now."

He gurgled and collapsed as a wave of nausea passed over him. Triumph burning in her eyes, she straddled him, her tongue lapping at the blood that pumped from his neck.

"Do you know what he said to her before he strangled the life from that girl?" The hunter purred with pleasure, "He said, 'I never fucked a nigger girl to death before.'"

Ross struggled weakly, his eyes making the pleas his mouth could no longer voice. She only smiled, and shook her head.

"You swore an oath." she said cruelly, "You made a pact with powers beyond your knowledge. Now they own your soul. You played with fire. Now you get burned." Her laughter was mocking. "Do you still feel the rage burn?"

Deep inside his belly, the coal of anger and hatred exploded, roaring to life. Enraged, Ross gathered the last of his energy and drew his legs against her chest.

There was a look of shocked pleasure in her eyes as she flew off him, propelled by his legs. Then she plummeted over the embankment, and from view. Long moments later, he could hear a sickening crunch as she struck the rocks below.

His rage drained, Ross allowed the soothing blackness to take him.

The storm had broken by the time he regained consciousness. Dawn was only a few hours away, and with the clouds fading like a dream, a full moon rose above the now quiet ocean.

Ross painfully dragged himself to the edge of the cliff, and looked down. In the pre-dawn light he could see the woman's smashed body splayed across the rocks below. Blood stained the waves that lapped against the corpse.

Haltingly, Ross touched his neck. Where her talons had torn the skin to the bone, there was only tender scar tissue. He was alive.

*You made a pact.*

*I will not die!*

*Do you still feel the rage burn?*

Deep within him he felt the fire burn. He felt the hunger. He stood, his strength returning, and looked about. His rage had transformed him, his hatred a rebirth. The world was changed, and he saw it with new eyes.

He was the hunter again: the beast who would hunt his master's prey; the beast who would hunt his masters. He was a Tiger.

His eyes flashed with a burning desire.

He was a Tiger, and he had a hunt to begin.

Silently he padded from the open cape, and into the dark woods.

Copyright 1999 S. D. Campbell

About the Author:I am a technical writer, formerly from Prince Edward Island, Canada, and now living and working in Calgary, Alberta. I have been writing speculative fiction for several years. My stories have seen publication in SpaceWays Weekly, and Jackhammer E-zine, and are slated to appear in forthcomming issues of 69 Flavors of Paranoia and E-Scape. In addition I have recieved an award from the PEI Council of the Arts for my short story 'Forgotten Soldier'.