Causeway Prowler

The guardrail paced us halfway across the six-mile causeway. No car had used it in fourteen years. Posts lifted one after another, and chrome flashed under the weeds.

Hask stepped around a washout. Four wet paws landed on the yellow line. The Prowler had a cable spine, bent reflector plates over its shoulders, and lane-marker fragments in its jaw. It rushed him, cut behind the median, and came out three car lengths ahead before his cry ended.

We dropped both rail sections into the bay. It stopped on the bare asphalt, stranded between the water on either side.

Any strong line can become its hidden run. Guardrails and cable routes work, but so do painted stripes, balcony edges, and hard moon-shadows. It probes from parallel cover, clips a slow traveler, and returns before a counter lands. Broad irregular ground makes it abandon the chase.

Packs are rare. Mated pairs may work opposite sides of a causeway and trade targets at median breaks. Metallic tapping excites them, like a loose reflector in traffic wind. Interrupt every visible line and they stop, cable whiskers twitching as they search for a route.