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Clyde Simmons blinked against the darkness. His eyelids felt heavy, as if they were fighting gravity itself to remain open. A dull thud pulsed in his temples. The earth beneath him was cool and strangely comforting.

With effort, he tilted his head, wincing at the sharp pain that shot through his skull. Why was he lying here in a cattle pasture? Panic fluttered in Clyde’s chest. His tongue darted out, tasting the remnants of whiskey that clung stubbornly to his palate, the flavor tainted by fear. He couldn’t remember how many drinks he’d had at the Centaur’s Den, or how those drinks had led him to this quiet place under a moonless sky. But a pain in the back of his head suggested a sharp blow that had knocked him out cold.

But who had delivered that blow, and how, and exactly when?

Gritting his teeth, Clyde attempted to push himself up, his hand slipping on the dew-slick grass. His limbs protested, weak and unreliable, as if they belonged to someone else. He managed to prop himself onto his elbows, squinting into the darkness. Nothing looked familiar—not the jagged outline of the distant trees nor the soft curves of the rolling hills.

“Where am I?” he whispered.

The dim light offered little in the way of reassurance. Clyde’s breath came in short gasps, uneven and shaky as he forced himself to stand. His legs trembled beneath him. He teetered, his arms flailing for balance.

Alone. Vulnerable. The reality of his situation settled over him. “Help,” he croaked, but the word was lost in the vastness around him. In the distance, the benign lowing of cattle did nothing to ease the tight knot of panic in his belly.

Clyde knew he had to move to find his way back to civilization. But as he took a wobbly step forward, his thoughts spun in confusion and dread. Had he become prey? What unseen danger lurked just beyond his blurred vision?

The silence was suddenly fractured as the low grumble of an engine idling sliced through the air. Clyde’s head whipped around, eyes strained against the impenetrable blackness. The sound seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

He couldn’t think. He could only react. With a surge of adrenaline, Clyde made his decision. He had to flee, had to get away from the source of that ominous rumble.

His first steps were clumsy, his limbs still betraying him. Panic clawed at his throat as he staggered forward. The pasture underfoot was a minefield of dips and rises, hidden by the dimness of the moonless July night. Clyde’s foot caught on a tuft of grass, and he stumbled, arms flailing for balance he barely maintained.

“Come on, Clyde,” he muttered to himself, a desperate whisper in the darkness. His sister’s face flashed in his mind – her disapproving glare that demanded strength and control. He couldn’t let her down; he couldn’t let himself become a victim here, which must be somewhere in the fields that bordered Trentville, where he had spent countless days upholding the law as a meat inspector.

The engine’s thrumming continued, a predator’s purr stalking his every move. Clyde pushed his failing body harder, his breaths ragged, his legs pumping.

“Damn you,” he hissed through clenched teeth, the words barely audible over the sound of his own labored breathing and the relentless idling of the engine. Fear gave way to anger, fueling his muscles as he forced himself onward, away from the danger that lurked just out of sight.

Bursts of white light sliced through the blackness, halogen blades that turned night into day in cruel, sweeping arcs. Clyde’s heart stuttered as the beams found him, a deer in their merciless glare. The truck roared—a clear, unmistakable challenge—as it surged forward, its engine growling with predatory hunger.

“God, no,” Clyde gasped, his voice barely carrying over the noise of the truck’s revving engine. His instincts screamed at him to run, to evade the mechanical beast that was barreling down on him.

With a surge of adrenaline, he darted to the left, then the right, his movements erratic as a hare caught in a hunt. The pasture was an alien landscape, each dip and swell a potential downfall. Clyde’s legs felt like they were churning through molasses.

The headlights tracked him, swiveling sharply as the truck adjusted its course. He could feel the vibrations of its pursuit through the soles of his boots, an ominous drumbeat that matched the pounding of his heart. He gasped for air, his lungs burning with effort.

“Keep moving,” Clyde urged himself. He zigzagged across the field, his gait uneven and desperate. Each pivot sent jolts of pain radiating from his throbbing head, but he couldn’t afford to slow down. Not when every roar of the engine spelled out his doom, growing louder, closer.

The truck matched his every move with chilling precision, a predator just behind the reach of the headlights that chased him. Clyde knew the fields of Genesius County well, but in this twisted game, such knowledge seemed futile against the raw power bearing down on him.

A fence loomed suddenly before him, a barrier rising from the shadows of the pasture. Clyde’s exhausted body collided with the woven wire, the jarring impact knocking what little wind he had left from his lungs. He clawed at the metal, a trapped animal seeking any hole that might offer passage, but found none.

“Damn it! No, no, no!” The words tumbled from his lips in a breathless cascade. His eyes darted along the length of the fence, desperate for an option, a forgotten gate, an overlooked breach – anything. But there was nothing except the unyielding lines of wire and wood that penned him in.

The truck, its engine growling like a feral beast, slowed to an idle, the sound reverberating through the still night air. Clyde pressed his back against the cold fence, every muscle tensed, as if by sheer will he could merge with the metal and disappear into the darkness.

Headlights washed over him, casting his shadow grotesquely on the ground as the vehicle came to a stop. The driver’s door creaked open, adding a chilling note to the symphony of dread that played in Clyde’s mind. A silhouette emerged, broad-shouldered and indistinct.

“Who... who are you?” Clyde’s voice broke, the taste of whiskey and fear thick on his tongue. He squinted, trying to make out features, clothing, anything that might give away the identity of this looming figure.

“Shhh, Clyde.” The man’s voice was a whisper, a taunting sound that sent shivers down his spine. It was familiar—an echo of conversations past—but twisted now, sinister in its calmness.

“Recognize me yet?” The assailant took a step closer, and Clyde could see the glint of something metallic in his hand.

“Please,” Clyde stammered, his mind racing. The voice tugged at memories blurred by the fog of alcohol and the blow to his head. He searched the recesses of his mind, grappling with names and faces from Genesius County’s community.

“Come on now, Clyde,” the attacker coaxed, his tone almost playful. “Think harder.”

But thought abandoned Clyde as his survival instincts screamed at him to react, to do something—anything—to change the course of the night that had turned from a forgettable drunken stupor into a terrifying reality.

A rope unfurled from the attacker’s grip like a dark serpent, slithering through the grass toward Clyde. He could see thick coils unravel with a practiced ease that hinted at familiarity with such tools of restraint.

“Stay back,” Clyde rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. He tried to edge away, but his back was already pressed against the unyielding metal wires of the fence. Then, with a surge of adrenaline-fueled determination, he lunged forward, aiming a clumsy swing at the shadowy figure. It was a feeble attempt, born of desperation rather than any real hope of defense.

The attacker sidestepped with an ease that made it clear he had anticipated the move. There was no mockery now, only a silent focus as he caught Clyde’s wrist mid-air, twisting it behind his back with a force that made him gasp.

“Easy now,” the assailant murmured, almost soothingly, as if he were calming a spooked animal rather than subduing a human being.

The rope began its work, winding around Clyde’s wrists with methodical precision. Each knot was pulled tight, each loop expertly secured. It was clear this wasn’t the first time those hands had tied up some living thing; the movements were too exact, too confident.

Clyde’s attempts to resist grew weaker with each passing second as the reality set in—he was not going to break free. His legs were next, the rope encircling his ankles, binding them together with the same ruthlessness. A cold dread settled in his stomach, and he felt his muscles tense involuntarily as he was rendered immobile.

“Let me go,” he pleaded, the words strained and hoarse. But even as he spoke them, Clyde knew they fell on ears that had no intention of heeding them.

Bound hand and foot, Clyde lay in the pasture. He was at the mercy of a faceless foe, one who moved with a purpose that left no room for escape.

The assailant’s boots crunched against dry grass as he walked back to the idling truck. A shiver ran down Clyde’s spine when the metallic glint of a propane torch and branding iron appeared, reflecting the scant light from the vehicle’s cabin. His breath hitched, heart pounding like a drum in his chest at the realization of what was about to occur.

“Please,” he croaked, the words barely escaping his throat, “you don’t have to do this.” The attacker remained silent, the tools in his grasp now casting ominous shadows on the ground as they returned.

The click of the torch being engaged shattered the quiet night, followed by a soft hiss as the flame came to life. It danced erratically, throwing a kaleidoscope of light across the pasture. Clyde’s pleas turned desperate, his voice trembled uncontrollably with fear. “I’m begging you,” he choked out, “have mercy.” But the cold silence that met his cries was more terrifying than any response.

The propane torch hissed like a serpent as the attacker held the branding iron in its blue flame. The metal slowly began to take on an ominous glow, the color shifting from black to a dull cherry red that deepened with every passing second. Clyde’s eyes, wide with terror, fixated on the growing heat signature of his impending pain.

With each labored breath, Clyde fought against the ropes that bound him, the rough fibers biting into his skin. His wrists burned from the friction, but he persisted, driven by the primitive urge to survive. Yet the knots held fast, expertly tied by someone who knew exactly how to contain a man’s frantic strength.

The branding iron was now a fierce red-orange, its hue a testament to the searing pain it promised. The attacker turned, the iron in hand, and stepped deliberately toward Clyde. Each footfall seemed to echo in Clyde’s ears, throbbing in time with his pounding heart. The air itself felt charged, thick with the weight of dread that pressed down upon him, suffocating and relentless.

“Wait! Please!” Clyde’s voice broke as he pleaded, the words dissolving into a ragged sob. His struggles grew more frenzied, muscles straining to the point of exhaustion, but escape remained a cruel illusion. Clyde Simmons, meat inspector and brother to the mayor of Trentville, was helpless. The bonds were as unforgiving as the shadowy figure approaching him.

As the assailant drew near, the branding iron’s glow illuminated his face in fleeting flashes, yet never long enough for Clyde to discern any recognizable features. The anonymity of his tormentor only amplified the terror gripping him, the unknown always more horrifying than the known.

“God, no!” he screamed, thrashing against the ground, his body slick with cold sweat. But as the hot iron hovered inches from his skin, all Clyde could do was stare helplessly at the weapon that would mark him forever, knowing his efforts to break free were as futile as his cries for mercy.