Fresh Bacon

The camaro finally pulled over next to a hillside dotted with fireflies. Officer Dodd approached the car with his senses alert and his hand on his gun. The driver seemed to be alone, but you always had to be careful, especially out here in the lonely foothills.

The tinted window whirred down. “Evening, Officer,” came a smooth voice from inside. The driver had a mane of hair and a full beard, and his eyes and teeth glinted in the darkness.

“Evening,” Dodd said. “Are you aware you were weaving across the lines back there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I had my lights on for more than a mile before you pulled over.”

The driver smiled. “Yes, sir.”

Dodd couldn’t smell alcohol, but the driver’s behavior was odd, to say the least. “Where are you going at this time of night?”

“Me and the boys are hungry …”

“Wh—” Movement on the hillside caught Dodd’s attention. The fireflies were moving, pairing up. Then they weren’t fireflies, but eyes. Dozens of them.

And it was too late to draw his revolver. Too late, even, to scream.

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