The Gathering by K. E. Ganshert

a jogger or a dog-walker out before work. I definitely don’t expect the sound of men’s voices.
    All four of us stop abruptly, then duck behind some shrubs. I peek through the leaves. Two police cruisers idle inside a CVS parking lot. A huddle of five men stand nearby. Four of them wear standard police uniform. The fifth wears a navy blue windbreaker that triggers a cold feeling in my gut. When he turns around, a gasp tumbles out of my mouth.
    Luka pulls me down, completely out of sight.
    My breathing turns jagged. The fifth man is the FBI agent Luka knocked out on the bus. How is he here? How could he have possibly tracked us from Fort Wayne, Indiana to the obscure town of Greeley, Missouri? It doesn’t make any sense. It’s utterly impossible.
    Unless …
    My attention wanders to Jillian. She volunteered so quickly when Cap said I needed a team. It wouldn’t have been hard for her to call the police, not with the emergency phone in Link’s backpack and the bathroom breaks we took during our fifteen-mile hike. If our most recent conversation is proof of anything, it’s how little I actually know her.
    I shake my head. No. The exhaustion is talking. I can trust Jillian. She blew up a car to save us. She has a gun tucked into the waistband of her pants, which means she could have taken us hostage if she’d wanted to turn us in. She’s number four on the Most Wanted list, for crying out loud. And more important than any of that, she’s my friend.
    You thought Clive was your ally …
    I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the dark thought away.
    Two car doors open, one after the other.
    I squint through the buds of green and watch in horror as a large German shepherd hops out of the back seat. A second—even larger than the first—hops out of the other cruiser. The two dogs sit at attention, their ears perked while every last drop of warmth drains from my face.
    The FBI agent pulls a clear plastic bag from the front pocket of his windbreaker. I squint harder, trying to bring whatever’s inside into focus. It looks like the same fabric from the Greyhound bus seats. I can hear the dogs’ eager sniff-sniff-sniffs —like a salt shaker being rattled back and forth—all the way from where I’m laying. The agent closes the bag and slides it back into his pocket.
    The dogs lift their heads.
    My heart slams into my throat.
    I scoot back, away on all fours. The two animals snap their heads in our direction. Luka pulls me up to standing and we take off, crashing through the woods, leaping over rocks and roots. Tree branches and leaves swipe and cut at our hands and faces.
    I can hear them behind us. Barking. Running. Closing in. I can practically feel their sharp teeth sinking into my flesh. I can see their jaws locking around Luka’s jugular. Panic hurls me forward. I run faster. Faster. And then suddenly, my foot catches. An explosion of pain sears up my ankle. I slam against the ground with a loud oomph that knocks out all my wind, and I skid forward, shards of rock and bits of dirt tearing my skin.
    Luka pulls me up and somehow, we’re tumbling down a steep ravine. We slide to a halt. He drags me back beneath a small cleft and tucks me against his side so I’m pressed between him and a wall of earth.
    Everything comes into sharp focus.
    I can smell pine and dirt. Wet leaves and moss. The faint scent of fabric softener pressed into Luka’s shirt, even now. I swear I can smell dog breath, too. Link and Jillian pant nearby. Luka’s heart thuds against my ear. The dogs sniff. They’re right over our heads.
    And then, a burst of heat so intense, the hairs on my arms curl.
    There’s a sharp yelp, followed by a high-pitched whine. Footsteps crash to a stop, as though the men have finally caught up with their furry counterparts.
    “What’s the matter with them?” someone asks.
    “Why are they acting like that?” another says between pants.
    There’s another loud yelp.
    The searing heat grows hotter, then slowly