Heines holds a finger to his lips, his gaze fixed on the back of the market. The shuffling sound comes again, closer this time. He can't risk whatever—or whoever—is back there getting to Maria and Samuel.
"Stay here," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "Both of you. Don't make a sound."
Maria nods, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and trust. Samuel clutches his teddy bear, his small body tense and still.
Heines moves slowly, deliberately, away from them, using the aisles as cover. The dim fluorescent lights flicker erratically, casting long, dancing shadows that play tricks on his eyes. He focuses, pushing back the fear, drawing on the umbrakinetic power that now thrums beneath his skin.
As he nears the back of the store, he strains his ears, trying to discern the nature of the sound. It's not the steady, rhythmic tread of a normal person. It's uneven, dragging, punctuated by soft thuds. He grips the hilt of his katana, drawing it silently from its sheath. The cold steel feels reassuring in his hand.
He peeks around the corner of the last aisle.
His breath hitches in his throat.
It's not a person.
It's a dog.
A large, emaciated German Shepherd, its fur matted and caked with dirt. One of its hind legs is bent at an unnatural angle, and it shuffles forward with agonizing slowness, whimpering softly. Its ribs are clearly visible beneath its coat, and its eyes are clouded with pain and hunger. The dog paws weakly at the makeshift barricade of overturned shelves and scattered debris, trying to find a way through.
Heines lowers his katana slightly, his heart softening. This isn't a threat. It's just a starving, injured animal, desperately seeking food or shelter.
But still, he can't be too careful. The sickness could affect animals, too. Rabies was one thing, but an Awakened dog? He doesn't want to think about it.
He takes a step forward, his voice low and gentle.
"Hey," he says softly. "Easy, boy. I'm not going to hurt you."
The dog stops pawing at the barricade and turns its head, its ears twitching. It eyes Heines warily, its whimpers subsiding into a low growl. He can see the hunger in its eyes, the desperation.
Heines glances back at Maria and Samuel, making sure they're still safely out of sight. Then, he reaches into his bag and pulls out a canned veal. He tears open the wrapper, the sound loud in the otherwise silent market.
He holds the canned veal out to the dog, his hand steady.
"Here," he says softly. "Eat. It's okay."
The dog hesitates for a moment, its nose twitching as it catches the scent of the canned veal. Then, with a final, wary glance at Heines, it takes a tentative step forward.
A rhythmic dripping sound starts from somewhere near the dog. Heines squints. It appears to be leaking some kind of black fluid.