Hunted Past Reason

  2. His right palm bruised and infected, his left palm abraded, both of them scabbing.

  3. His back and stomach still hurting from where Doug had punched him.

  4. His right side still aching from his fall on Sunday.

  5. His right arm and shoulder still hurting from grabbing onto that branch when he slid down that slope.

  6. His back hurting where Doug had jabbed him with his golak.

  7. His forehead aching where Doug had knocked it against that tree trunk.

  8. His rectum aching badly from the rape.

  9. A blister on his right toe and two more on the heels of his feet, the raw centers of them ringed with blue.

  10. His right cheek stinging, undoubtedly infected. The rest of his face feeling sunburned.

  11. Overall, every muscle in his body aching and totally exhausted.

  God but he felt like an idiot for having developed his metaphysical muscles so well and let his physical muscles go to hell.

  He was thinking that when, the fire out, his body huddled in his zipped-up sleeping bag, he felt the bottom drop out of his consciousness and fell into a dark, troubled sleep.

  Despite his exhaustion, he couldn't stay asleep; he woke up, his brain churning out dreads, apprehensions, dark imaginings. His mind seemed alive with thoughts, like maddened ants racing across it; it seemed as though he could almost feel them moving there.

  Where was Doug now? Was he stalking through the darkness, using his flashlight? Had he climbed the same cliff? Was he sleeping at all? Or subsisting on those ten-and twenty-minute naps he'd mentioned? He had to rest sometime; he really wasn't Superman. What was Marian doing? What were Randy and Lise doing? How would they react if they found out about what was happening to their father?

  He began to think about Randy and Lise, what it was like when they were born, what it was like raising them. What lovely children they were, how well they did in school despite occasional, expected slips. How he and Marian had enjoyed them both, how satisfying— yet, somehow saddening— to see them growing into teenagers, then college students, both of them at U.C.L.A., Lise planning to act (for her sake, he disliked the idea, knowing from personal experience what a draining lifestyle it could be), Randy drawn to writing. (Another possibly draining lifestyle but he couldn't very well try to talk him out of it, any more than he could try to discourage Lise. Especially when Marian was so supportive of them.)

  He grimaced, trying not to think about Marian and the kids. In some unnerving way, it was as though he was mentally saying good-bye to them.

  He tried to shake himself out of thinking at all. He had to sleep. God only knew what kind of day tomorrow was going to be. He thought again of giving up— or, with probably hopeless reasoning— waiting for Doug and trying to talk him out of this madness.

  His thoughts were broken off by the sound of something moving in the darkness.

  Had Doug caught up to him already?

  Then he heard the huffing cough of a bear and stiffened, face a mask of dread. Should he have tried to hang up his food? he wondered, then realized that he had no way of hanging it up. Anyway, all he had in his pockets was dry food. Surely, the bear couldn't smell that.

  He lay motionless except for his uncontrollable spasms of shivering, waiting for the bear to go away. Fighting off the perverse image of the bear climbing into the ring of boulders and tearing him to pieces.

  He didn't know how long it took for the bear to go away. At last, it did though and with startling suddenness Bob felt a cloud of sleep enveloping him.

  7:01 AM

  It was a difficult set of steps to ascend; they seemed to go on endlessly. He felt his breathing get more and more strained. "I have to warn him," he kept muttering to himself. The man had to leave right now or he was doomed.

  Finally, he reached the door— it was made of thick, heavy wood. He pounded on it with the side of his right fist, wincing at the tenderness in his palm.

  There was no response and he pounded on the door again. "Come on," he shouted. "For God's sake, answer the door!"

  No response. He looked around. Was there a window he could break, maybe kick in? No; the outside wall of the cabin was solid. "Goddamn it, what's the matter with you?!" he cried.

  He had just raised his fist to hit the door again when the door was yanked open by an irritated-looking man. "What the hell is it?" he demanded.

  "What the hell is it?" Bob raged. "Don't you know what's going on, for Christ's sake?"

  "No, tell me," the man said mockingly.

  "Goddamn it, man, the mountain is getting ready to blow!" He looked across his shoulder at the mountain and saw the dome on its side swelling quickly.

  "You have to get out of here," he told the man. "Can't you see that?"

  "Listen," said the man. "I have a job to do. You want to take a powder, do it. I'm busy."

  "For God's sake, man, the mountain is going to explode any second now! Either you—!"

  At that moment, he saw the man look across his shoulder, an expression of shock on his face. Jerking around, he saw that the dome had exploded, sending a dark cloud of smoke high into the sky. "Oh, Jesus," he muttered. He couldn't understand why there was no sound to the explosion.

  He looked back at the man but he was no longer in the doorway, running to a radio transmitter. Picking up a microphone, he shouted into it, "Vancouver, Vancouver, this is it!"

  Bob whirled to see a cloud of gas rushing at him, a torrent of mud and rocks hurtling toward the cabin. Too late! he thought. Dear God, he'd never escape now. He was finished.

  He felt his body twitch so sharply that it woke him up. He sucked in at the chilly morning air. Dear God, he thought. It had been so real. But why such a dream now? Because it was a way for his subconscious to express itself because he was afraid he'd never escape from Doug?

  He shuddered and swallowed. His throat was dry. Feeling around for his water bottle, he found it, picked it up, unscrewed its cap, and took a swallow of the cold water, then managed to swallow two multivitamins.

  Putting the cap back on the water bottle, he slumped inside the sleeping bag. He still felt tired, bone tired. And yet he had to get going; he had no choice.

  He recalled the time he and Marian had driven up to the Mount St. Helens display building and seen the film there, the one that began with the last words of the observer in the area— "Vancouver, Vancouver, this is it!"

  The film had been horrifying. No sound of explosion because it traveled straight up— but a river of mud and rocks and magma hurtling down the valley at a hundred eighty miles an hour, the observer dying almost instantly, a man living miles away telephoning Vancouver to report that he had just seen the observer's car and cabin engulfed by the rushing wall and that it was headed for him. "And now it's going to get me," the man said in a dreadfully calm voice. Then he was gone as well.

  Bob shuddered convulsively, then checked his watch. Not quite quarter after seven. He had to move on right away. His clothes still felt damp but there would be no opportunity to dry them any further. He decided that he'd leave the sleeping bag behind, trusting the assumption that he'd reach the cabin today; anything to help him move faster.

  He winced as he realized that his face felt hot. He pressed a palm against his forehead. It felt warm but not as hot as it would if he had a fever. He realized then how badly he'd become sunburned. He gritted his teeth in a scowl. Sure, why not? he thought. Add it to the list.

  When he sat up, he saw the headless rabbit. It was impaled on an upright piece of branch the other end of which was pushed into the ground between two of the boulders.

  At first, his mind could not react. He stared at the rabbit blankly, then a rush of ice water flooded his chest and stomach.

  Doug.

  He gaped at the rabbit in sick, mindless terror. It had been skinned, its hide split open from tail to throat and peeled off carefully, its genitals and musk glands removed, internal organs lifted out, its bladder carefully cut away. Blood and tra
nsparent liquid dripped from its flesh.

  Thought suddenly returned to him, searing his mind. Why was he still alive? If Doug had caught up to him, why hadn't he hacked him to death with the golak? It didn't make sense and, in a way, was more frightening than the idea of him being killed as soon as Doug overtook him.

  Then he saw the note. It was impaled on a standing twig, written on a piece of cardboard torn from a box. One that he had or one that he found? he wondered pointlessly.

  For almost a minute, he could only stare at the piece of cardboard, unable to move, feeling that he was destined to be killed by Doug. But why the note? Why the rabbit?

  Reaching out a shaking hand, he pulled the piece of cardboard from the twig. The note was printed in small, uneven letters of ink.

  Bobby boy: Your giving me ambivalence, babe. It's too damn soon for the game to end. Can't you do a little better? I give you points for climbing that wall, that impressed me. I didn't bother trying it, dubled back and took another— shorter!— rout. That's how I caught up to you so soon. Looking down at you now, your sleeping like a baby— a tired one, I'll bet!

  Tell you what I'm going to do. When your ready to take off, blow your whistle twice. I'll give you a two-hour head start. How's that for fair? Good luck. You aren't going to make it but it's only decent of me to wish you well. I'm looking forward to catching you today. Getting the hots for you again. Maybe I'll fuck your asshole before you die. Or after you die! There's an idea! Always thought the idea of neckrofilia was kind of exciting. Yum. Going now to get some winkem, blinkem and nod. See you soon. Your friend and lover.

  Doug.

  Conflicting thoughts raced through Bob's brain, dread competing with fury. Goddamn the man. It's still a game to him, a sick, exciting game. He'd been here. Here. He could have murdered me in my sleep. But he wants the chase to go on. Never had he felt more distant from Doug's mind. He was sociopathic, that was certain now. How had he functioned as an actor all those years, as a husband, as a father, as a human being? Well, he hadn't, that was undoubtedly the answer. He'd hidden his diseased interior self with the skill of a trained performer. Now it was out in all its aberrant glory. The man who wanted to kill him was deranged.

  "Well, goddamn it," he said in sudden rage. "I'm not going to play the role of helpless victim for you."

  Moving fast, he unzipped the sleeping bag, pulled it off and slung it aside. Environmentalists, go screw yourself, he thought. He shivered, his clothes still damp, especially his jacket. For several moments, when he stood, all his angry resolve evaporated as he almost lost his footing, his legs feeling weak and rubbery. No! he commanded himself. Pulling on his boots quickly and fastening their laces, he stamped his feet on the ground to get their circulation going. That was better. He was going to move and move with speed. Doug had underestimated him. He shunted aside the realization that Doug had already caught up to him once. Well, it wouldn't happen again. It just wouldn't.

  He had the whistle to his lips when the idea came. Well, thank you, Doug, you idiot. I need protein and you've provided me with some, you dumb son of a bitch. You even prepared the rabbit for me. Thanks again.

  As quickly as he could, he opened his knife and hacked away a chunk of the rabbit's flesh, stuffing it into the right side pocket of his jacket. I'll cook it later. Now—

  He raised the whistle to his lips and blew it twice, as strongly as he could. He had no doubt whatever that he had two hours to get the jump on Doug who, in his own psychotic way, would abide scrupulously by the rules of the game.

  The rules of the game, he thought in sickened disgust. A game that belonged in another time, another place, not in California, U.S.A., in the twenty-first century. Well, so be it. Let the grinning sociopath play his crazy game. He'd play another one titled Escape and Revenge.

  Chewing on turkey jerky, he began to move as rapidly as he could through the forest. He had to force himself to move at a quick pace, force himself to ignore the aching pains in his body. He wasn't going to lose Doug's stupid, bloodthirsty game, he vowed. Allow him to take over Marian's life? Never!

  "You can't even spell, you stupid bastard!" For some bizarre reason, the thought pleased him.

  9:12 AM

  He kept thinking it over and over as he struggled through the forest, eyes staring, almost unfocused.

  Easy enough to say.

  Easy enough to say he was determined to live, determined to reach the cabin and get Marian out of there.

  How did he convince his body of it?

  He felt exhausted again, every muscle seeming to ache. He'd stopped once and attempted to move his bowels; completely in vain. Every effort to empty them drove streaks of pain through his rectum. Finally, he gave up, pulled his pants up, and continued on.

  His legs seemed strengthless now. He kept stumbling, tripping, stubbing his boots on the ground. How can I go on like this? he thought. He had the feeling that if he threw himself down and allowed himself to rest, even to sleep, he'd never be able to get up again, he'd be lying there, inert and helpless when Doug caught up to him, pulled out his golak, and hacked him to death. I can't let that happen, he told himself but with less and less assurance. He had the frightening impression that he wanted to fall, to rest, to sleep.

  To surrender.

  Still, he kept on going, his movements more labored and erratic as the minutes passed. He fell more than once, pushing to his feet each time, starting forward once more, as though he was impelled by some kind of mechanical force, walking like a robot, stiffly, devoid of will, unable to stop, his expression blank, his gaze directed ahead of himself yet seeing nothing but forest, forest, forest.

  Once, as he crossed a sunlit clearing he thought: I've paid no attention to the house I live in. I've spent too much time thinking about where I was going when I left the house, in the meantime letting the house get run-down and in desperate need of repair.

  Now that house was on the verge of collapse, ready to fall because of his neglect.

  Then he was in the forest again, his mind unable to concentrate. There was only one thought he could manage. How far behind was Doug? Had he already recommenced his stalk? Goddamn the man, didn't he ever get tired? Who was he, goddamn Superman?

  He stumbled over a fallen branch and, without volition, reached down and used his boot to break off a piece of it, strip away its twigs and leaves. A cudgel, he thought. Good. If he had the chance, he'd use it on Doug, kill him if he had to. He knew it was an unlikely weapon since Doug had the bow and arrow and could kill him from a distance. But if he could hide somewhere, so that Doug came close without knowing he was there. A sudden blow then, directly on Doug's skull.

  He frowned in confusion as he stumbled on. Hadn't he already thought about waiting to ambush Doug? And didn't he discard the idea as unfeasible?

  He grunted, gesturing weakly. Just keep walking, he told himself. Keep walking as fast as you can. He checked the compass again. He was still moving in the right direction. He'd use that distant pine tree standing by itself as his immediate target. Walk, he told himself. Keep walking. Fast. Forget about your body. Your body is irrelevant. Will yourself on. No other way. Try to ignore— no ignore!— the aches and pains, the devouring fatigue that threatened him, at every moment, with collapse, surrender. Keep moving. Move. Move.

  He tried to deflect his sense of exhaustion by looking at the area he was passing through. On each side of him were darkly forested hillsides that disappeared in heavy mist. The entire valley he was walking through had a low ceiling of mist, lying like pale wool above the trees. He could barely see the target pine tree through the mist. The valley was dead still. The only sound he could hear was the crackling stumble of his boots. He hoped he would be out of the misty section of forest soon. His jacket, still damp, felt cold on him.

  Still, the silent valley was extremely beautiful, he thought, then recalled that, somewhere he had read that, just before death, everything looked beautiful. He forced away the notion but realized that his resistan
ce was becoming weaker and weaker. He had to face the facts. At any moment, he might break down, crumple to the forest floor, and lie there helplessly, unable— even unwilling— to go on.

  Don't, he pleaded with himself. Just keep moving, moving. Doug couldn't run after him; he had to be tired too. His grip tightened on the cudgel. Just keep on, he thought. Keep on. Keep on.

  Keep on!

  10:48 AM

  His gaze nearly out of focus, he almost walked directly into the mountain lion.

  With a dry gasp, he recoiled, hearing the hiss and snarl of the lion; it was big, its tawny body eight feet long. He froze, preparing himself to die. There was no possible way he could escape.

  But the lion didn't attack. As he stared at it in terror, he saw it slump back on the ground, its greenish-gray eyes fixed on him, its mouth open, teeth bared in a threatening growl. Why doesn't it attack? he wondered. Surely, this was not another apparent miracle of protection.

  Then he saw the reason. The mountain lion's right rear leg was pinned beneath a fallen tree, it was unable to do more than try to stand on its front legs.

  "Oh, you poor thing." Bob couldn't help but feel sorry for the trapped cat. "How long have you been that way?"

  The mountain lion growled again, a rumbling in its throat and chest.

  "It's all right," Bob told it. He quickly put down his branch cudgel. "You don't have to growl." He made shushing noises until the mountain lion grew still. Bob saw now that its tongue was hanging out and it was panting. "You're thirsty," he said. "Well . . ." He couldn't very well put water in his palm for the cat. He'd lose his hand if he tried.

  He stood immobile for a while, wondering what to do. Practicality advised that he move on, Doug was still after him.

  He couldn't though. He knew that if Doug ran across the mountain lion— and he probably would— he'd immediately fire an arrow into the trapped cat. Or cut off its head with his golak.