Night of the Hunter

© 2002 Lee Garrett
All rights reserved.

Their teeth were sharp, a brilliant white, and their eyes blazed, ghost coins of yellow flame. Even from a distance, they chilled his soul. Four-footed death—running in a pack, the beasts were large as ponies. Dark-coated, heavily slathered with muscle, they ripped the ground playfully with their claws, sniffing at his wrecked car.

Though monstrously canine, there was something reptilian in the way they slunk low to the ground, slipping like shadow-striped wraiths through the scrub, disturbing little in passing—getting way too close.

Stryker retreated down a ridge that temporarily shielded him from the beasts. The hell-hounds bayed, slashing the sky with a savage dirge. They have my scent. Gotta run. No choice. Can't argue with a nightmare given form.

He ran awhile, sometimes stumbling, fighting for balance. By some miracle, he kept his feet. 'Nam was worse, but he'd been a younger man when he'd faced that terror. It was strange to find that fear had not forsaken him forever, though his ragged heartbeat warned him of his exertions. Can't push the pace much longer, not with my bum heart, but if I slow... Best not to think about it.

His mouth and throat were dry. The metallic tang of fear lay on his tongue, while terror jazzed along his nerves, driving his feet like pistons into matted autumn leaves. Another time, he'd have paused to enjoy the firestorm of colors: red, orange, aspen-gold, brown, bruise-purple—drinking the windfall of the dying season. But time, like hope, lay just out of reach. There was only this frozen loop of present, rewinding over and over, in a place outside of reason.

At least this is not a dream, he thought. Then, distance would be illusion and far would never be far enough. But I know these woods. Our corporation maintains a cabin retreat near here. Hoskins is there now, probably wondering where the hell I am. If I can just get there ... the walls ought to keep the beasts out. But those that follow the pack.... Well, one horror at a time.

God-have-mercy! The riders froze reason: animated corpses, stiff-limbed, with ice-cold fish-belly-white flesh, soulless eyes, wide and vacant. Despite their festive costumes, they radiated a melancholy air, masked in imitation of natural and unnatural creatures. Their bodies were sheathed in clashing colors, in diamond and striped patterns of silk, embroidered with metallic beads, glass jewels, oversized, meritorious ribbons, peacock feathers, seashells, and bells like grape clusters. For weapons, they brandished comically undersized bows, wearing quivers on their backs packed with badly feathered shafts.

The riders were dominated by an iron will. Stryker had sensed it at first glance. He knew the pale riders were victims of the same ghastly fate that reached for him now. Bringing up the rear was the master of the hunt, a solitary brute dressed in a mantle of black wolf-fur that swept down the back of his leather tunic. He rode a wild-eyed, blood-hued unicorn with a sulfurous mane and tail. At his side coiled a silver horn. It was strapped to a wide studded belt that also held a rune-etched short sword in scabbard.

The Hunter's face was a mystery of darkness. Under his hood, red coals smoldered where eyes should have been. Twisted antlers of smoke curled up into the wind from under the cowl, staining the air over his head. His skin was an odd mixture of olive green shading into brown, possessing the fine gloss of polished wood. Stryker wasn't sure if the rider was more or less than human, but either way, one look had been enough to etch him in memory.

Stryker knew a losing hand when it was dealt him. The knowledge drove him blindly on. He came dangerously near his limits, trying to distance himself from this engagement. The jungles of 'Nam had taught him that sometimes victory could only be defined by survival. He nursed a murderous rage, holding it as close as a lover to warm him against the chill of terror, to distract him from the gibbering fear that shrieked in the back-shadows of his brain.

As breaks in the forest ceiling appeared, the moon stabbed him with a manic glare. Her pale gold cratered face fell into focus. There was no man-in-the-moon, just a laughing skull that mocked his flight. The tyrant orb knifed him with light, pursuing him as well.

Stumbling, gasping, Stryker fell against a large tree bole. Its rough bark felt dry, powdery against his hands. Chunks crumbled off like cheese mold. The forest seemed to be in an advanced state of blight and decay, stricken with an unnatural corruption. He clung to the trunk, drawing thin gulps of breath through a throat painfully constricted by dehydration. Stryker coughed. The fit shook him violently, like a mouse in cat jaws, finally subsiding, leaving him weak, black spots swimming before his eyes from oxygen starvation. His vision cleared after a few breaths, and he realized the trees were staring at him.

Maybe I was wrong. This is the madness of nightmare. Maybe I'm still in my wrecked car, unconscious. This can't be real.

Wooden forms, male and female, young and old, protruded from nearby boles. He lifted his head. A perfect leg emerged from the trunk he leaned against, only to turn back at the knee and return to captivity again. Stryker gazed higher and saw the arched, fluid lines of a female torso trusting from the tree. Its arms dwindled upward, becoming common branches. Her elongated fingers splayed in all directions, a study in static desperation. The tree's human dace was frozen in mid-scream, eyes wide with terror, cheeks glittering with crystal tears that clung to the wood like embedded gems. He recognized her—Julie, a vice president with his own firm.

A shudder went through Stryker; the tree was moaning—alive. Her voice turned hard, cutting the wind. Other trees sobbed along. The sounds washed across his spirit, a song of the damned. Alien thoughts fed into the pool that was his mind. Run, just a little farther. You must escape the forest or you will become the forest.

Stryker climbed a small pile of rock and reached out to lean against a bole. He brushed the side of the face imprisoned there, surprised by its warmth and hardness, confronting life reduced to petrification.

"I wish there were something I could do for you," he whispered.

The voices came again in unison, chopping through his sympathy like an ax. Run-run-run...there's little time...

"This is madness." His whisper was a rough, broken thing. "How can such thing be?"

The breeze winding through the branches answered. Yesssssssssssssssss! This is madness, and you are doomed, for you are not the dreamer.

Who is? And which of my many sins demands this atonement?

He slid down to the ground and mentally shook himself, pushing away from the trunk. He staggered on, keeping an eye out for some place halfway defensible. All choices dwindled to two: fight or surrender. Surrender was the easy way out, but he couldn't crawl, he'd never learned how, and he was too old to start. Lay down and die? Rest in peace? Hah! Too easy. I never do things the easy way. The only way I'm resting in peace is if I'm torn in pieces. Death can only have me kicking and gouging every inch of the way.

He found what he needed along the base of a bluff: a trail that forked. One path went up sharply to the top of the bluff, while the other clung to its base. Stryker left a clear trail as he followed the lower path. He meant to. Loping on, with the ghost of a second wind, he soon reached the other end of the bluff, where the high trail came back down to join the main trail again. He climbed the high trail, heading back the direction he'd just come from.

Along the high trail he passed large outcroppings of loose rock, like widely spaced jack-o'-lantern teeth, along the lip of the drop. As he reached them, Stryker added extra rock for fulcrums and planted broken branches seesaw fashion over the stones to act as levers. This magnified his strength for what had to be done.

He set his traps, moving quickly. Just as he finished the fourth, he heard a savage refrain from below. It was time to rock-and-roll but ... he froze, choking on a burst of pain. Fire snaked down his left arm, from his heart. His clawing fingers buried themselves in his shirt while his breath hissed out like air leaking from a punctured tire.

Not now, Stryker demanded. I've no time for weakness....

Strangely enough, the pain obeyed him; it eased off, draining away. Stryker pulled himself up and staggered back to the previous deadfall. He wrapped his right arm around the branch and waited, willing his left arm back to strength.

The dire-hounds passed the end pile, reaching a closer position. He dropped his full weight on the lever. Rock toppled, fell. Confusion followed. Hounds yelped in panic and pain. Stryker didn't waste time surveying the damage. He staggered to the end pile and threw himself on the lever there as well. He was just in time.

Boulders slipped from their places, gathering lesser fragments of rock in their train. They fell to the lower path, another storm of rock, dust, and shale. The broadside caught the main party. Horses cried in terror and pain, dancing on hind legs as retribution thundered by.

Half of the riders were thrown to the trail. Others were carried or dragged away by horses out of control. The wounded were left without regard, broken, bloody, and trampled on the trail, while the main party pushed on to escape the threat of granite hail.

He bared his immaculate teeth in savage joy. Now he'd be able to use the remaining deadfalls. He ran flat out for the farthest one. Many of the hounds got through with sheer speed. The riders weren't so fortunate. They took the brunt of the next attack.

Stryker ran back to the remaining deadfall. If he were lucky ... yes! The hunters were tired of falling rock. They reined in, turning back the way they'd come. Like sheep to the slaughter, they approached the last deadfall, not knowing that they'd won clear to safety. Their own retreat would destroy them.

The final deadfall was triggered. The results were much the same as before. Peering over the edge of the bluff, Stryker saw that the riders were greatly thinned. But his satisfaction cooled. The smoke-horned rider was not on the lower path. After the rock slides started, he must have backtracked to the fork in the road, leaving the other riders behind as bait—and I fell for it. I've been unbelievably stupid.

Stryker was pissed with himself, but he had to nod grudging approval of the Rider's tactic. It left him flanked and vulnerable. Just what I would have done if I were the hunter and not the prey. He was bottled up; the last of the hounds would be closing in from one side while the Hunter came from the other end of this higher trail. They'd be converging on him rather quickly now; it was endgame, time for final moves to be played.

Fortunately, the cabin was close, just over the slope, through the thinning trees. The way was hard but manageable. If the Hunter followed him, it would have to be on foot. So, now it all comes down to a final race for home. Stryker climbed the rough terrain. He slipped a few times but gouged the earth and struggled on, becoming something like a four-footed beast himself in his desperate scramble for life. Pulling on roots and scrub, he rolled over the crest, slid a few feet, and stopped for a few heaving breaths.

He smelled smoke from the cabin, but went back up a little to look along his back trail. The rider stared up at him from the lower road. He was off his mount, starting up the slope by foot. Don't stare, don't stop, Stryker told himself. Move! You're almost there. There's the clearing down below ... and the back of the cabin.

He descended, scrambling, sometimes sliding. Rocks cut his palms, making his grip slippery with blood. He knew enough not to resist the occasional tumble. The only way to control a wild fall was to jump into it so you kept your feet.

The trick served him well. He reached the back of the cabin in one piece. "At last!" He circled to the front door and burst in.

The place was cluttered. Food was on the table. Two places were set. There was a bucket of Champagne, a box of Cuban cigars, and a lit oil lamp to reward his arrival.

He slammed the front door and dragged over the heavier furniture for a barricade.

"Hoskins! Are you here? Come help me."

There was no answer. Stryker became aware of incense curdling the air; he smelled burning rainforest. It cast his mind back to the napalmed jungles of another world. In a strange contrast, the stereo played German opera, Wagner, summoning images of robust Viking women screeching above the bloody battlefields of the ancient Rhine.

Stryker's eyes fell on the bedroom door. A curious suspicion raised the fine hairs of his neck. Where was Hoskins? Why didn't he answer? Had the rider already visited this place once before?

He picked up a steak knife, stalking toward the door. Stryker tested its edge with a thumb, grinning approval. Crouching low, balanced, he eased open the bedroom door.

"Hoskins, you there?" he called.

Inside, the bed was in use. Hoskins lay there, dreaming, his closed eyes shifting side to side. On the table next to him was a bottle of sleeping pills, a lamp, and a weird icon, a dancing figure with four arms, an elephant's head, and three lidless eyes.

Stryker remembered seeing something similar in Cambodia once, on a mission that never officially happened. He'd been alone, pinned down by enemy fire in a ruined temple that was choked with vines. He'd hidden behind such a figure, toppling it from its dais onto the men hunting him. It was a story he remembered telling Hoskins one long night over an endless succession of beers.

Taped to the head of the figure was a note. He was about to go check it out when a dark figure burst into the room through a side window. Glass glittered, spraying inward, falling slowly as time turned gelid. Stryker took a small step and threw the knife.

It buried itself to the hilt in Hoskin's chest. The old man expelled a last whispery sigh and died.

The Hunter kept coming. Stryker raised his hands defensively. The apparition surged over him like a dark wave. Flattening, fragmenting, the Hunter broke across Stryker's substance. Dying on an adamant reef, the night shade passed like a dream. It was finally over.

Stryker nodded at the confirmation; with the dreamer dead, the dream could not last.

He advanced on the table and turned the lamp on. By its light, he read the note aloud.

Dear John,

 

I have inoperable cancer. I can't keep the company under my hand much longer. I must pass it on to one who is tried, tested, and true. That is the reason for all this. The last VP I invited out here failed in a number of respects. She is buried in the woods. I hope you do better.

 

Hoskins

P.S. I dislike awakening to disappointment. Please, don't let this happen.

Stryker looked at Hoskin's liver-spotted face, silent a long while. Finally, he spoke with cold and lethal tones.

"Like riding a bike, old friend. Some things, you don't forget."

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