Dogged in the Dirt

I’m hunched in the brush, miles into the forest, the brook quietly babbling behind me. I have a clear view of the packed-dirt pathway, the bright summer sun beating down on it. I’m wearing camouflage, which feels ridiculous. I’m no soldier, and I’m not a hunter—not of animals, anyway—so the camo feels like dress-up. But I can’t be seen. If I’m seen, the venture isn’t exactly over, but it won’t be as successful as it could otherwise be. And that would be a shame, because I’ve been working on this for about three months.

I consult my laptop. Ping, ping, ping. They’re getting closer, and my pulse kicks up a couple notches. I check my bionanite dish—the emitting signal is strong. I check the monitor to ensure all four digital video cameras—two in the brush, two in the trees—are working. Everything checks out, again. None of them have gone anywhere in the last hour since I set up.

She’s coming. I start recording, all four vids at once. It’s a beautiful scene. I’m excited in a way I haven’t been since I began videoing my wife and Gunther a few years back.

The market, the market. The market is merciless. They all want something new, even the kindest customers, and in truth, so do I. A new challenge, and this is a big one. Like I said, if it goes south, this is three months and a few thousand dollars mostly down the toilet. It’s not going to work if she knows what’s going on.

Ping, ping, ping. They’re almost here.

Laptop, broadcast dish, cameras and monitor. Check, check, check. If this works, I’ll have at least a couple of hours of footage to play with. I’m hoping at least two of the cameras get good angles.

First the birds go silent. Then the pounding of running feet, first hers, then the trot of her companion’s. Then the breathing—hers and his. Hers is faster than normal—she must be sprinting. Fantastic. She’ll be sweatier, ruddier, which I kind of like.

She rounds the corner to the straightaway, her long blonde hair in a tight, braided bun. An unobstructed view of her face—perfect. She pours it on. Her tight thighs, strong flanks, black sports bra hugging those big boobs, the running shorts . . . she’s proud of her body, and should be. She’s obviously very disciplined.

Because she’s sprinting, she’s ahead of her companion, but here he comes: A magnificent Great Dane, tongue flapping, happy as can be. He’s in good shape, too.

Have to time this just right. My hand moves to a switch on the emitting dish.

Three. Pulse in my head.

Two. Heart is skipping.

One. It’s like a jet engine in my skull.

I push the button. The dish sends out sequence of electromagnetic pulses. A billion bionanites in the blonde’s body flare to life.

The girl, she stumbles, falls to the ground, catches herself with her arms—it’s a perfect fall and catch. She isn’t injured. An injury wouldn’t have completely queered the deal, but I don’t want her hurt, and nobody else does, either. Well, most nobody else. Some of my market are into that, but I don’t cater to it. Hurting people without their consent . . . no, no, no.

I check the monitors and breathe easier. She’s fallen perfectly in the camera zones—all four of them! Someone up there clearly likes me. I’ll have more than enough footage to cut and splice and build on later, back home with my editing equipment.

I zoom in with the cameras, tailoring the shots. The camera at her rear captures her firm, high buttocks and curvy, muscled thighs. The cameras flanking her have a lovely view of her torso. And the one trained on her face—it’s perfect, capturing the blended expression of confusion and fear.

The Great Dane, her only friend right now, is concerned. He nuzzles and pushes her side, trying to prod her up.

I imagine what it’s like. I imagine what she’s thinking, while she can still think. What’s happening? Am I having a stroke? An aneurysm? But my head doesn’t hurt . . . Why . . . why did I fall? What’s . . . .

Now a new confusion plays across her face. She’s feeling something, something warm and wet down low. The camera at her rear shows what’s happening. Her crotch already had a damp line from the running. But now the damp is spreading. Her hand flies to it, to feel. I’ll wager she thinks she’s lost control of her bladder, that she’s peeing into her shorts.