"Please, sirs, please! Don't let them get me. Oh, my God, don't let them take me back!"
"Eh?" said the director.
Matt asked, "Let who get you?"
"The women! Listen! You can hear them. They're trailing me up the ravine like a pack of hounds. Oh, my God, don't let them take me...."
"Shut up!" said Matt. "How can we hear anything with you squalling?"
The man stopped talking. In the silence, Matt could hear a faint yelping. It did sound something like an excited pack of hounds. And yet there was a weird bloodcurdling overtone that was half human.
Matt could feel the hair rising on the back of his neck like the hackles of a dog.
"That's them! That's them!" The half-naked man screamed. He dropped to his knees. "Don't let them catch me. Look!" He turned around. Livid scars striped his back. Whip scars.
Matt sprang to his feet. "Get the rifles!" he cried over his shoulder, and ran from the room.
Armed with his rifle and a powerful spotlight, Matt dashed down the passage and brought up panting at the open air lock. It was night, but there was a full moon. The scrub pine and oak reared up on either hand, black and silver.