The Hunted

The Hunted

The autumn chill turns my breath white in the quickly fading light. The leaves from the surrounding trees form a soft, wet blanket on the forest floor, making a soft whispering sound as my boots shuffle through them. A light fog has gathered, giving a ghostly appearance to my surroundings, preventing me from seeing more than ten feet ahead. Once night has fallen, finding my way back to the main road may well be impossible. I stop and strain my ears once more, listening for any hint of passing traffic nearby … nothing. If I am close, the fog must be muffling it.

A growl in my stomach reminds me that it has been some time since I ate last. How long has it been since I abandoned my car in search of the highway. Three hours? Four? I should never have taken the so-called “shortcut” through the woods. I should have turned back the moment the gravel ended. I should have done a lot of things different that led up to my being here. There’s no sense fuming about the past. I can’t change it now.

One advantage of being lost in the middle of nowhere by yourself, if one can call it an advantage, is you get a lot of time to think. Think about life, choices made, and what you may be missing out on because of those choices. No, there’s no changing the past, but if I get out of this, I will crawl back to Lauren on my hands and knees if I have to and beg her to take me back.

I shake my head trying to clear the memory of our last argument before I left. She was right, of course, but my pride wouldn’t let me admit it. How many promises had I made to her and then broken. This last minute business trip was just the last on a very long list. I argued how important it was to our financial future. Blowing off this trip, when it was clearly important to the Senior Vice-President, would be career suicide.

“This could be the trip that earns me the promotion into management,” I told her, “setting us up for life. We can finally get married without the financial concerns that have broken up so many other marriages.” The memory of those words seem to echo through my brain, as well they should. How many times had I said them over the past three years? Too many. I should have married her a year ago. Instead, I have caused the very thing I hoped to prevent many years down the road – a divorce; only this one came without the marriage.

I pull my lightweight windbreaker tighter against my body, realizing that the moisture from the fog is starting to soak through. I start to wonder what the coroner will list as my cause of death – starvation or hypothermia – assuming that anyone ever discovers my body.

A faint sound stops me in my tracks. It sounded like it was somewhere off to my right. I peer intently through the fog, willing it to part. There it was again! Someone coughing! I hurry in its direction as silently as possible, listening for any further sounds. The woods suddenly part to reveal a clearing with a solitary cabin at its center. I would have passed right by and never noticed it had I not heard something.

My first thought is of a telephone, but those hopes are completely dashed as I notice that there are not any phone lines or even power lines extending to the roof. I am surprised, however, to find an old man, who I can only assume is the cabin’s occupant, standing on his roof with his back to me, staring off into the gathering gloom.

I step forward to hail him, hoping to ask for directions, but before I can give a shout, a twig snaps beneath my heel, announcing my arrival. The old man whips around and levels a shotgun at my chest. “Climb up here, now!” he barks.

Fear roots me to the spot. “Put your arms down and get up here or you are dead,” he hisses. I lower my hands, not having even registered that I had raised them and move quickly toward the cabin, looking for a way up. “Use the rain barrel,” he says quietly and gestures to an old barrel with a board across the top, just below where he was standing. I scramble up on top of it, grip the edge of the roof and am able to pull the upper half of my body over the edge with my legs dangling below.

I scrabble for a handhold on the weather-worn and dampened roof and the old man steps forward and squats in front of me. I glance up to see the barrel of his shotgun just inches from my head. “Grab hold,” he says quietly, and I notice his hand outstretched towards me as well. Not having any choice, I grab it and he hoists me up the rest of the way with a surprisingly strong grip.

I roll to a sitting position and watch him warily as he stands and resumes his vigilance of the forest beyond the clearing. I glance quickly to see what it is he is looking at, but can see nothing but fog enshrouded trees. The old man starts to pace around the edge of the roof still peering outwards, not seeming to watch me at all. My first thought is to make a run for it, but, as I gauge the distance from the cabin to the forest’s edge, I know that I would be dead before I was even halfway to the nearest tree.

I jump as something heavy falls across my shoulders, registering seconds later that it is a heavy blanket. “You look like you could use that,” he whispers as he stands just off my left shoulder, his gaze still out into the gloom. I look up and notice for the first time just how weary he appears to be. A couple days worth of stubble darkens his jaw line. My stomach growls even louder and more insistently causing him to glance down at me momentarily before moving off to the other side of the roof again. I hear faint rustling sounds behind me and then the creaking of the roof as he moves back towards me.

Suddenly, manna from heaven descends into my line of sight in the form of a lemon pudding-filled Hostess fruit pie. Junk food has never looked so good in my life! I snatch it from his grasp, tear the wrapper off and abandon months of healthy eating habits by shoving half of it in my mouth. Suddenly remembering at least half of my manners, I mutter a quick “Thank you!” around the mouthful of food, spraying bits of pie crust in the process. He gives me an amused glance before handing me a canteen full of water. Just as I uncap it to drink he quietly warns me, “Drink sparingly. It has to last.” I obligingly take only a short sip to wash down my first mouthful before replacing the cap.

The old man continues his pacing around the rooftop while I slowly enjoy the second half of my pie. My first thoughts are of how much I miss the junk food I had given up for my extreme-health lifestyle. My second thoughts are the realization of the fact that the old man may not be planning on killing me as I originally supposed. Why would he give me food and drink only to kill me later? I know that I am no expert on the thought processes of psychopaths, but relief washes over me in this new-found hope.

The old man finishes his second tour of the rooftop as I am taking a second short swig of water before capping the canteen and handing it back to him. “Thanks, again,” I quietly say as he hesitates just long enough to retrieve the bottle. I hear the rustling sound behind me again which I had surmised to be his rummaging in some kind of backpack or something where he stored his provisions on the other side again.

“Slide on up here to the crest of the roof, will ya?” his soft whisper sounds from the other side. I oblige and have just settled myself when the old man steps into view with a second shotgun in his other hand. I watch him warily. “You ever use one of these before?” he asks in the same soft voice. I nod to the affirmative, not knowing what to expect.

His skeptical look prompts me to expound: “My brother-in-law is an avid hunter. I don’t care much for it myself, but we would often shoot clay pigeons together back home.” He watches me for a moment intently, as if he is trying to detect any indication that I may be lying. Seeming satisfied with my answer, he hands me the weapon and a box of shells before settling himself at my side, though facing the opposite direction.

“Keep watch on that side for me so that I can rest for a bit and get a bite,” he instructs before digging into the pack that he had also dragged to the top. I notice that his eyes never look down. He still peers off into the distance while he rummages in the pack by feel.

“What are you looking for?” I ask, thoroughly confused by the situation. How I had gone from lost to hostage to rooftop guard within a matter of minutes was a little bit difficult to wrap my brain around.

“Dinner,” he replies, pulling a second fruit pie, cherry flavored, from the pack along with a bag of what appears to be home-made jerky. He offers me a piece of the latter.

“No. Not in the pack. What are you watching for out there? Why did you make me come up here at gunpoint? What is going on?”

He silently chews, saying nothing as his head swivels from side to side, surveying his side of the cabin. As the silence stretches on, I realize he isn’t going to answer. I follow his example and start to gaze intently into the gloom, hoping that some rational answer to my questions will rise up out of it.

Were there ferocious wolves roaming out there? If so, wouldn’t he just barricade himself inside for the night? Not to mention that I expected to have heard them howling at some point, calling the pack to the hunt. Perhaps there was a history of bear attacks in this area? But why would he stay here if that were the case? Wouldn’t he just move into town or to a safer location? Was he just a lonely old man who has lived as a recluse for so long and become completely unhinged?

That seems to be the only plausible explanation at this point, but I have a hard time believing it. He certainly doesn’t look crazy. Sure he is well-armed, sitting on his roof in the middle of nowhere, peering into the near-dark. His lack of grooming habits and scratchy beard stubble doesn’t speak highly of him either. But every time I sneak a peak at him out of the corner of my eye, I can’t help feeling pity for him and his situation. There doesn’t appear to be any madness in his gaze, only exhaustion and a trace of fear. In fact, since we have sat down to give his legs a rest, he appears to be deep in thought, with his mind going a million miles an hour.

The one thing that I can say for certain is that he certainly isn’t chatty. This explains why I started when he says, out of the blue, “Those shoes are too new for hiking and you obviously didn’t bring any water or food.” With an opening like that, I expect more to follow. A question of “What are you doing out here?” or a statement of “You didn’t come very prepared.” But there is only silence.

I finally break it by answering the questions he isn’t asking. I tell him of my car breaking down, the gas station attendant/mechanic who suggested the shortcut in the first place (I suspect he knows the man by the snort he gives when I mention him), the company I work for and why I am even on the trip, even the fight I had with Lauren and the ultimatum she gave me upon my departure. It was my whole story in reverse, coming out like a flood, impossible to stop once started. I find some measure of comfort in the retelling in that it fills the uncomfortable silence.

I finish with the same statement that has been rolling repeatedly through my mind since the first hour of my involuntary hike: “I shouldn’t be here.” My final words seem to hang heavy on the air as the occasional forest sound resumes its dominance in the silence that followed.
A pop and an immediate hissing sound breaks my thoughts followed by a deep grunt. I watch a red-flamed safety flare arch through the dark of night, creating little streamers of light in my eyes as it falls to the clearing floor in front of me. Similar sounds accompany four others until the cabin is illuminated by a dim ring of light.

“Neither of us should be here, son,” the old man says wearily, “and, now, I am afraid we are both going to die here.” My head whips around so fast that I hear my neck pop. “Keep watch!” he hisses sharply, jerking his head in the direction my body was facing.

“For what?” I hiss back, my frustration starting to show in my voice. I am no longer afraid of the old man. He obviously doesn’t intend to harm me, but his prediction of our joint demise unnerves me a little. I follow his instructions, though, and scan my side of the cabin once more. “You still haven’t told me what we are watching for,” I say in a gentler whisper.

“The beast,” he simply replies. I am afraid that he will lapse back into his stubborn silence again as he doesn’t speak for a couple of moments, but he finally speaks again: “Twenty two years ago, few dared to enter these woods. Those that did never came out alive. Marie and I believed it to be grizzly attacks at first, until I discovered the bodies of a young couple that had gone camping. Their backs were broken in a brutal manner, but neither the bodies nor the food they had brought with them had been touched. It was clearly not the work of a wild animal.

“I raced home to get Marie and report our findings to their Sheriff down in the town of Rockwood, but I was too late.” The old man’s eyes start to tear up as he continues. “The front door had been smashed in. What was left of it was only suitable to be used as kindling. Marie’s body lay in a heap by the stove. I rushed in to her, but she was already gone. As I clung to my dear wife’s body, I suddenly got the distinct feeling that I was not alone. The back door shattered off its hinges also as I spun with my shotgun. I fired repeatedly at the only shape I could see smashing through the forest.

“At first, I thought I missed. That was when I noticed the drops of blood. I tracked him for days. When the blood stopped, I followed any and every sign of his passage. I finally caught up to it at the cliffs looking over the Tonasket River. I didn’t know if my shot hit it or not, but I watched it fall into the swift moving current, never to resurface.”

The old man falls silent, lost in the memory. “It ended too quickly for my taste,” he finally says. “I always felt that it would come back. I knew it would come back for me.”

“If it isn’t a bear, what is it? What does it look—?”

“Do you hear that?” He jumps to his feet suddenly and looks about in a panic.

I jump up also, my body tense, ears straining to hear anything unusual. “I don’t hear anything,” I reply. It was completely quiet. I can’t hear anything – no crickets, no birds, nothing.

“It’s too quiet,” he whispers. “It’s here.”

We both scan the forest’s edge and everything between it and the cabin. My palms start to sweat as I clutch my gun, double- and triple-checking to make sure that the safety is off. Still not knowing what it is we are dealing with, I fearfully wait, half-hoping that whatever it is will appear before the tension kills us. I exhale suddenly and quietly gasp for breath after realizing that I had been holding it as I watch and listen.

A glint of light catches the corner of my eye just as I turn my head the opposite direction. I whip my head back, but can’t quite comprehend what I am seeing. What appears to be two massive hands have just clutched the edge of the roof, encased in some sort of metallic gloves. It is the flares’ reflection off the fingertips that first caught my eye. “What the –?” the explosion of the old man’s shotgun at my side drowns out all else as it disintegrates the very spot where the two hands had just been.

An unearthly howl erupts from just over the side as the old man runs to the edge. His gun fires again as he suddenly pitches forward and disappears over the side. His screams hadn’t even stopped when my feet hit the ground after jumping off the opposite side of the building.

I stagger and fall from the impact before surging forward and racing for the forest’s edge. I crash through the thick underbrush and collide with a tree moments later before my eyes can adjust to the darkness. The logical side of my brain registers that the collision has knocked the gun out of my hands and it lies somewhere in the bushes. The emotional side is screaming, “Run! RUN!!!”

I give in to the emotional and run at full tilt into the depths of the forest, leaving the logical side behind. Time has no meaning as I run through the darkness, veering only when something springs into my path directly ahead. Who knows how long or how far I have run before my chest is heaving painfully and my legs start to become lead weights slowing me down. I am no stranger to physical exertion. I had run a marathon last year after training the previous two. But this is an endless Olympic sprint and I know that there I am as inclined to be second-best as a gladiator in the games of ancient Rome.

As pain and agony catch up to me, so does the logical half of my brain. “What was that? Where is it now? Where are you going? You can’t run forever.” All this pours through my mind as I settle into a steady pace in hopes that my heart will stop pounding in my ears.

But the pounding doesn’t stop, it only grows steadily louder. The crack of a branch behind me makes me realize that those are footfalls I am hearing and they are right behind me! I instantly return to full speed in panic. I can hear its panting as it draws ever closer. I can’t keep this pace much longer and it is still gaining ground.

I am out of time and my heart is trying to burst from my chest. With my flight reflex having failed, I spin around to face my pursuer. Stars burst before my eyes momentarily and pain explodes in my jaw as a large, rock-hard object strikes it. The blow sends me into a nearby tree trunk. Using the second impact to stay on my feet, I sprint in the new direction I am facing to gain some space. The scrabbling noise on the forest floor tells me it is turning to follow.

I run for several more minutes before turning again, this time to feel a blow crash into the left side of my face. The force of the blow turns me again and I run doggedly on, tearing through bushes and branches. Mere scratches and whipping branches are nothing to the pain I am already feeling. Why hasn’t it killed me? It is so close behind me that I have no doubt that catching me would be an easy feat for it. I am so battered and tired that I know that I am no longer a challenge. I then realize it is enjoying the chase!

I blindly crash through a wall of brush when the sudden appearance of light ahead dazzles me so that I turn again. I heard a loud Crack! as the next blow lands solidly in my chest. The impact lifts me up and backward. When my feet hit the ground, I am flung backwards again and my legs fly over my head. My body is gaining instead of losing momentum as my body slams to the ground again and again.

Suddenly, I stop with a very loud thud and all the air is immediately knocked from my lungs. The light is brighter yet and blinding me. A strange, loud roaring noise fills my ears along with a fainter, yet more familiar noise. I struggle to roll to the side when I feel myself fall a shorter distance and collide with an even harder surface, my head hitting yet again.

I roll onto my back, shutting my eyes against the stars. The roaring is receding and the familiar noises become louder and closer. The brightness behind my lids dims slightly as something grabs me. I yell in surprise and my eyes pop open to two human faces hovering above me. “Are you okay?” one of the faces asks. “What happened to you?”

I cast my eyes frantically about, completely confused as to where I am and how I came to be there. I quickly ascertain that I am laying in what I guess must be some sort of shipping yard, based on the large crate I am lying next to. The roaring noises are trucks pulling in and out of the yard and the more familiar noises are the workers voices. “Go get some help,” the first worker orders the other. Directly behind the crate is a steep embankment with the dark shadows of the forest at the top.

My eyes widen as I see something move among the shadows. Although I can’t quite make it out, I can tell that it is huge. “Run,” I croak at the two workers. They stare stupidly at me. The shadow seems to hover forward from the edge of the hill and then starts to grow larger – No! Not larger, but closer! “Run!” I scream, roll over, and force my aching body to respond to my own advice.

I hear the sound of smashing wood as if the crate behind me is suddenly hit by twenty sledgehammers at once. The beast’s arrival is accompanied by short-lived screams from the two workers, silenced with a loud Crack! and two successive thuds of their bodies hitting the ground.

Chaos erupts around me. I dodge among crates waiting to be loaded, screaming, “Run!” every few steps. Workers run screaming and yelling in all directions. Certain pitches of voices are suddenly cut short periodically. At one point a lifeless body lands with a thud to my right.

A heavy blow hits the back of my skull, sending me headfirst into the side of a crate I was just about to dodge around. I stand and run two strides before another blow smashes into me from the side, bouncing me off another set of crates. Every time I stand, my body is bashed from every side, colliding with crates as I fall. The stars swim continually before my eyes, now.

The last blow sends me flying into something short and metal, accompanied by the tinkling of glass where my elbow struck. I fall heavily to the pavement and something falls into my lap. Panting, I wait for the deathblow to fall. I welcome it, hoping for it to end my pain and suffering.

Slowly my vision clears to reveal the steady drip of blood from my shattered nose onto the object in my lap. Through the fog finally comes the recognition that it is the nozzle of a gasoline pump. A smash, a thud to my left and another lifeless body lands next to me. A shiny silver object falls from his lifeless hand.

The loud panting noise coming closer tells me that death has arrived. I try to force my eyes upward, catch one glance of the beast before it is over. Stare death in the face. But, for some reason, I can’t tear my eyes from the silver object. I know it holds some significance, but my head hurts so much that I can’t think straight. I feel that I nearly understand why the object is so important when two massive feet appear just at the edge of my field of vision.

Curiosity overrides all else and my eyes travel upwards. Two hairy legs the size of tree trunks are attached to those feet. Giant hands, human hands hang just below the waist with fists the size of basketballs. Above these are arms that are large enough that they could probably crush a compact car. Long, dirty, scraggly hair falls over its bare chest. If there is a neck, it is impossible to see from this angle. Looking further up I confirm that the old man’s beast is no beast at all, contrary to the predatory look in its eyes. It is the largest, dirtiest, most lethal looking man I have ever seen.

He is easily over seven feet tall and his build would put a professional weightlifter to shame. His unwashed stench washes over me at this distance, mixed with the sharp smell of fresh blood, human blood, which covers his fists and is splattered across his chest and arms. How much of it is mine and how much came from others?

He stands expectantly and I wonder what it is he is waiting for. “Rrrrnnn,” he growls. When I don’t move he growls again, “Rrrrrnnnn!” His left hand nudges me hard, knocking me sideways. I sit back up and realize that he is trying to tell me something. “Rrrrrrnnnnnn!” he growls more insistently and louder, looking more threatening by the second, nudging me yet again.

Then it clicks. Run! He wants me to keep running! He isn’t tired of his sport yet and he wants me to keep moving. “No!” I yell sharply, and then softer, “No more running.” I couldn’t get up if I wanted to. Just sitting back up to face him takes everything in me as my whole body screams in protest at every movement. My hand closes over the fuel nozzle and I feel the shiny metal object with the tips of my fingers on my other hand. Glancing quickly down, it dawns on me what it is!

Looking back up, I see the so-called beast squat down, bringing his face closer to mine, baring his teeth and growling again, “Rrrrrnnnn.”

“No,” I reply and shake my head.

With a roar his left hand shoots out with lightening speed and seizes me around the throat. I clutch the nozzle with my right hand and seize the silver object with my left just in time as he raises me right off the ground by the throat. I am dimly aware of his other fist being cocked back to deliver the death blow. In the half-second before I am to die, I squeeze the handle of the nozzle, aiming it at the creature’s eyes. His roar of pain would have been deafening had I not plunged the nozzle, still pumping, into his throat simultaneously with the now-lit silver cigarette lighter.

I feel momentarily weightless as my body is hurled far to the side, catching only a quick glimpse of shooting flames. Gravity quickly reasserts itself and I come crashing down next to a pickup truck some twenty feet away. A sharp snap and crunching noise in my leg tells me that there really will be no more running for quite a while – assuming I survive. Glancing back I see a seven foot, roaring pillar of flame, thrashing about. The nozzle is shooting flames that are climbing up the sides of the pumps.

I frantically use my good leg and arms, ignoring every sharp and shooting pain, and drag myself behind the truck. The explosion is deafening and flaming bits of metal rain down around me. A loud thud and the crackling of flames causes me to look up in alarm. The stench of burnt flesh assaults my nostrils as the burning carcass lands just in front of the truck. It thrashes about with the arm that is still attached before lying still at last.

I start to drag myself away from the grizzly, burning corpse. As I do so, the flames suddenly appear to die down rapidly, darkening the night once more. Pain washes over the full length of my body and I realize as my vision darkens further that I am blacking out.

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My eyes pop open and I lurch to a sitting position. I am in a room, but it isn’t a hospital room. My t-shirt sticks to my chest, but sweat covers it, not blood. I also don’t feel any pain anywhere on my body.

Realization dawns slowly as I lurch from my bed. Ripping open the curtains I take in the parking lot and the familiar motel sign at the side of the road. I am back in the same room that I stayed in last night. I walk in the bathroom and splash cold water over my face, clearing the fog that clings stubbornly to my brain. My hands are still shaking. It can’t have been a dream, can it?

I snatch the phone receiver from its cradle at my bedside and phone the front desk. “What is the time and date?” I ask. 1 a.m. on Friday, July 22. I did dream it! “Thank you,” I say absently and return the phone to the cradle. It all seemed so real. I can remember sights, smells, pain, everything! I have never had a dream like that.

As the memories and feelings wash back over me, I feel a stab of panic and the need to not be alone. I pick up the receiver and dial a number that is more familiar than my own. “Please pick up,” I whisper as it rings again and again. “Lauren! Thank goodness…. No. No, I am okay. Just please don’t hang up. I’m sorry for calling so late, I just really need to talk to you….”

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We talk for hours until the sun starts to sneak a peek over the distant mountain tops. We haven’t talked like that for the last few years. I apologize for the way we had left things. I apologize for even leaving and tell her I will turn around and come home right this second if she asks me to. She declines, saying that she can’t ask me to break my commitment to this trip after chastising me for breaking commitments in other areas. I promise that from here on out my first commitment is to her, first, and work, second.

I plan to speak to the Senior Vice-President when I return and report the results of this trip. If I don’t receive that promotion, then I will go work for a company that appreciates and rewards hard-work and dedication.

She is crying as I profess my love for her and we say our goodbyes. I know she has waited a long time for me to come around. I quietly promise myself that not one more month will pass before I place an engagement ring upon her finger – assuming she says “Yes!” of course.

Sleep won’t come after I had hang up with her, so I pack up and check out early. After a couple of hours of driving, I pull off the highway into a small town to fuel up. As I pump the gas at an old fueling station a friendly voice calls out from behind the pumps, “Good morning!”

“Good morning,” I answer back.

“You picked a fine day for traveling, yes sir.” I glance upward at the clear blue sky, feeling the sun on my face for a moment. “Which way you headed?” the voice continues.

“River City,” I respond, hanging up the fuel nozzle and start to screw my gas cap back into place.

“Is that so? You know, if you are up to it, there is a shortcut that I can show you that will take you through the most beautiful parts you will ever see on God’s green earth.” My head whips around at those words and I stare at the face of a vaguely familiar man dressed in grease-stained coveralls befitting a mechanic. It was then that I notice the sign overhead – Rockwood Gas & Garage. “Are you feeling okay?” he asks with some concern as I stare about wildly.

My mouth has gone dry, but I manage to ask hoarsely, “Do you happen to know an old man living up in the hills whose wife’s name is Marie?”

“Sure do. That’s old Ed Townsend, but Marie’s been dead for years. Wild animal attacked her or something. How do you know them?”

I ignore his question as panic floods my brain. “Get the sheriff!” I gasp. “Get the sheriff, tell him to take some men, heavily arm themselves, and go get Ed! He is in danger!”

“What are you talking about?” the mechanic asks, looking at me warily. “What is going on?”

“Marie’s killer is back,” I say, grabbing the startled mechanic by his coveralls. “Her killer is back and he is after Ed. He’s trapped and he is going to die if you don’t get the sheriff right now! Go!” I bark, shoving him away. I only watch for a second as he runs down the street, his yelling for Sheriff Johnson fading as he goes.

I jump back into my car, fire it up, slam it into gear, and hear the squealing of rubber on asphalt as I accelerate towards the highway. It isn’t until I am a few miles away from Rockwood before I can start to breathe easy. Glancing in my rearview mirror at the rapidly shrinking forest behind me, I say softly, “Try and catch me now.” And, whether real or imagined, a distant roar of frustration sounds out as the prey escapes the beast.