Matt

Pretty normal.

If you camp in the desert enough, you get used to coyotes as background noise.

But then it changed.

The yips stretched out, became long, almost human wails.

Not quite screams, but close enough that my brain had to work to convince itself it wasn't listening to a person.

There was something off about the rhythm too, like the voices were trying to sync up and failing, overlapping in ways that made my skin crawl.

Miguel went quiet mid-sentence, his beer halfway to his mouth.

Tell me that's not as freaky as it sounds, he said.

Ryan poked at the fire with a stick, eyes on the darkness beyond the circle of light.

Probably a pack getting worked up over a kill, he said.

They sound weird sometimes.

Another howl rose up, closer than the rest.

It started as a low, growling note and then cracked into a shrill half-laugh, half-scream that sounded nothing like any canine I'd ever heard.

It cut off abruptly, like someone had jammed a thumb on a mute button.

The wash swallowed the echo.

I realized I was gripping my camp chair harder than I meant to.

My knuckles were white in the firelight.

Yeah, Miguel said quietly.

That's not sometimes they sound weird.

That's something else.