Mad Dog Shuffle
an excerpt

Juke Fowler was fifty-eight but running like he was twenty-two.
He was built lean but had extra pounds that congregated over the front of his pants in a pot-belly that rippled when he moved. He was the color of French coffee but with little of the taste. Juke wasn't a coffee man. Never had been. He was a gin and juice man.
He'd never met a job he liked or a woman he didn't.
He was his mother's pride and joy and eternal sorrow too, but he loved her. He took her to church on sundays and didn't even nap in the pew.
She was going to be waiting on him tomorrow morning. Standing on the steps of her trailer. Sunday best on, box-hat pinned in place. Waiting on him like always.
I'm sorry Momma. Should've minded myownself. Isn't that what you always taught me?
Pine needles and crunchy leaves snapped, crackled and popped under his soles and his palms were raw from warding off the narrow scrub trees that sprang out at him from the darkness. There was a happy, beaming moon overhead, smiling down at the world and all its children. Silver mercury light drizzled down through scab-barked trees and made him feel as if he were underwater.
The light wasn't doing Juke any damn good. Not down where he was. Not down deep in Jack Hollow where even the Devil didn't stay. Or so his momma had said.
He wanted his momma at that moment, wanted to see her round face, hear her soft, sweet voice like water running over slick rocks, feel those calloused hands running over his head, telling him everything was going to be a-okay baby doll.
But it wasn't was it? Not no more. Not with what he'd seen.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Should've kept quiet. Should've minded my own business.
Too late for that now though. They'd set the damn dogs on him.
Juke caromed off a knotty oak, the air splashing out of his lungs in a gulping gasp as he spun-stumbled into another tree, his back cringing as he smashed into it. Sweat rolled down his face in chill sheets and his limbs trembled, heavy with lead in his blood and fatigue. Fingers clawed at the skin of the tree as he tried to pull himself up straight without taking his eyes off the way he had come. His wheezing was so loud in his own ears he could barely hear the sounds of lean, low bodies smashing through the scrub, four-legged sharks closing the gap, yellow eyes sparking like fox-fire in the dark of the Hollow.
They'd had their vocal cords cut with a stanley knife and so made not a sound as their blunt heads burst through the foliage, smiling jaws wide, teeth like razors shining in the silver light.
The pit-bulls were broad and ugly and Juke swallowed bile and felt his stomach twist. They huffed as they moved towards him, making soundless exhalations, their breath visible in the cool Autumn air. He backed away, hands held up, heart slamming against his ribcage.
They stopped a few paces away from him, muscled bodies tense and quivering. Waiting. They were good dogs. Trained to within an inch of their brutal, short lives. Docked ears twitched as they heard something Juke couldn't register.
It wasn't really the dogs he was afraid of, for all that he'd run from them.
Somewhere, a dog-whistle piped again and the brutes sank to their haunches, wide tongues dangling, eyes near leaving Juke's face. Waiting.
Leaves and twigs snapped like gunshots. Juke closed his eyes and opened them, licking suddenly dry lips.
Teeth crunched into an apple and the sound of humming caused the dogs to cock their heads as they stared at Juke.
The dog-handler turned the apple in one hand, looking for a red space to sink his teeth into. He stared at Juke with eyes that were empty and looked black in the shadows. Empty eyes, empty soul. He bit into the apple, cheeks brimming as he sucked at the juices.
With his free hand, the apple-eater brought up the pistol, a cold blue .44. Juke wanted to say something. Explain. Beg. Curse. But the words wouldn't come. His throat felt like it was full of broken glass.
The man took another bite of his apple, eyes closing in ectasy. He pulled the trigger, the recoil barely twitching his wrist.
Juke fell backwards, slammed into the tree again. He felt like he'd been punched in the gut. He was sitting and he couldn't remember how he'd gotten there. Nothing was working and he couldn't breath. He looked up.
The apple crunched one last time then a wrist rolled and it fell to the ground. He pulled a tin whistle out of his pocket and blew into it, his eyes flashing.
The dogs started forward.