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The Hunter, The Hunted
Copyright 1987 by G. Daniel Flower, All Rights Reserved.
Comments on this story
may be directed to "Sparks" in the Email or General message section
of the Gallifrey BBS system, and all such comments are invited.
The Hunter, The Hunted
by G. Daniel Flower
He ran through the woods, branches slapping at his face. Sweat
poured out of his body like a flooding river. His heart beat
thundered in his ears. This can't be happening, he thought. But it
was. His pursuer seemed happy to pace him, the distance between them
remained constant. He jumped over a dead fall and lost his balance
for a heart rending second. Then he righted himself and continued.
The woods, which had seemed so friendly and familiar just
thirty minutes before, were strange and sinister. The trees and
undergrowth conspired against him, tripping him, teasing him,
laughing at him.
He wanted to rest, to give up and let what happened, happen.
There was a stream up ahead, he could hear it. He headed in that
direction. At least the water would cool him for a short while. He
caromed off of a tree and lost his footing completely.
How easy it would be to lay here and let it finish. Giving up
was not part of his nature. He got to his feet and started moving
again. He could see the stream through the trees now. Just a little
further. His muscles moved like lead. The pain had disappeared long
ago. He braced himself against a tree on the stream's bank and
listened for his pursuer. Yes, still there. Moving steadily and in
no hurry. Moving towards him.
He took a quick drink of the cool water and then crashed
through the stream. The water that splashed onto his body was
refreshing. He wanted to lay down in it's rehabilitating coolness.
But to do so was death.
He climbed the opposite bank and continued his flight. A sound
up ahead froze him in his tracks. More then one! In front and
behind. Trapped, unable to continue. The will to live just a spark
in his chest. Enough of a spark to go on, to live. He started
running again, paralleling the stream.
The going was too rough along the stream's bank. Too much
undergrowth, trees too close together. Find the path of least
resistance; find the path to freedom and life.
A shot rings through the woods, reverberates from the
mountains. The bullet removes bark and wood from a tree by his
head. Close, so close, too close. Jump another dead fall. Not
feeling, moving by instinct. Get away.
Another shot, a burning fire in his leg. Mind blocks out the
pain, have to survive. Blood pours. Must rest. Need help. Someone.
Anyone. Help. Stumbles, almost falls. Keep going. Another shot,
closer. Bark stings his eyes. Slowing down.
Still can't see his pursuers. Won't even know what his killers
look like. Can't find out why. Why me? I've never hurt anyone. Run.
Escape. Can't outrun bullets, senses this truth, almost gives up.
NO! Won't give up. Another shot rings out. He goes down. Pain in
chest. This is it. Dieing now. The sweat on his body has turned to
foam. His legs keep moving, for even in death, there is life. The
legs slow down. Eyes close against the pain. Feels the warm, sticky
blood on his chest. Not long, now. Almost over.
The life runs out, legs twitch spasmodically one last time.
The last, unheard thought courses through his brain: WHY?
Willy Cranshaw wakes with a start. His bed sheets are crumpled
into a ball. His mattress is soaked, as is his body. He reaches with
shaking hands for a cigarette. Another nightmare. Third one this
week.
Gets out of bed and walks to the kitchen. Removes a beer from
the refrigerator and sits at the table. Wipes his face with a
towel. What does it mean, he wonders. Each dream has gotten worse.
He had escaped in the first two dreams. He does remember being shot
at in the second dream, but whoever was shooting had missed. He
took a long pull from the beer.
It has to mean something. Everything has a purpose, even if
man doesn't always understand. All he knew for sure was that he had
never had a dream like these before.
Maybe I'm going crazy, he thought. Should bring this up with
my analyst during our next session. He finishes the beer and goes
back to bed. No use crying over spilled milk he thinks.
"Another hunting accident, Sheriff?" Deputy Jim Marshall asks.
"Looks that way." Sheriff Bob Russell said "That's the only
thing I can figure. One shot to the head, no sign of anyone else.
Brush isn't too thick, though. Whoever shot him must have had a
good look at him, unless he was hit by a stray bullet. We'll do the
usual check on him, but I have a feeling it will be as inconclusive
as all the others."
"Okay, I'll start checking around, see if I can find anything.
Do you want to tell his wife?" Jim said.
"No, not really, but I guess I have to. You go ahead with the
background check while I do that."
They both jumped when they heard someone coming through the
woods. Sheriff Russell relaxed when he saw who it was. "You sure
didn't waste any time, Mike. How's life?" he said.
"Can't complain, Bob. Sally got hold of me before I went back
to town. Figured I should swing by while I was out here anyway. Got
another 'accident' on your hands?" Mike Howard, ace reporter from
the Addison County Free Press, said.
"Yeah, it sure looks that way. The deceased is Ned Williams,
age 42, from Cornwall. Estimated time of death was around eight this
morning. He was discovered by John Fields, from Middlebury at two
this afternoon. Apparently died from a rifle shot to the head. The
next of kin hasn't been notified yet, so hold off on printing his
name until I clear it, okay?"
"Sure, no problem. Is this one the same as the others?"
"It appears that way. We'll do the normal checks, but I
wouldn't hold my breath for any new developements. That's off the
record, too, by the way."
"Any signs of anyone else?"
"No, not yet. Deputy Ames is looking right now."
"This is the fifth death since the season opened, Sheriff.
Certainly you can come up with something?"
"So far there are no indications that any of those deaths are
related, and until I find evidence to the contrary I have to log
them as hunting accidents. We're still waiting on the ballistics
reports from the State Police. Until we get those in we're at a
stand still."
"What would you advise other hunters to do in the mean time?"
"Make sure of what they are shooting at, and make sure that
they are visible to other hunters."
"Anything else?"
"No, not right now. If anything comes up you'll be the first
to know. I have to go now. You can hang around here with Deputy
Marshall until the coroner shows up."
"Okay, thanks for the info."
Sheriff Russell hiked the half mile back to the truck lost in
thought. The first of the ballistics reports should be arriving
today from Burlington. He knew deep in his heart what they would
say, "Remington 30-06, 270 grain, fired from the same weapon."
He got in his truck and picked up his microphone. "Dispatch
this is the Sheriff, over."
"This is dispatch, go ahead Sheriff."
"I need the address for Ned Williams. He lived in Cornwall
somewhere."
"Okay, will do. Oh, Sheriff, three of those ballistics reports
came in today."
"I'm on my way."
The sound of a shot rang through the woods. A brief flare of
pain arced across his back. He smelled fear in the air. His own.
Run. He dodged trees and branches. Have to get away. Can't let them
get me. Sweat stung the wound on his back, stung his eyes.
Breath coming in short gasps, heart pounding in his ears. Help
me, someone help me. WHY? Another shot. Dodge to the left. Swerve
to avoid a tree. A clearing ahead. Pick up speed. No trees to worry
about, no branches. Almost through the clearing. Have to make it.
The next shot punches through his chest, rips open the lung. He
falls. Got to run. Gets up. Stumbles, recovers. Body laced with
pain, so much pain. Another shot, he doesn't hear it. Bullet
severs the spinal cord at the neck. Collapses, lays twitching on the
ground. HELP ME!
"Damn, I knew it!" Sheriff Russell says.
"What's that, Sheriff?" asks Deputy Ames.
"According to ballistics the bullets in the first three cases
came from the same gun. The logical conclusion is that all of the
killings are related. Our jobs just got harder."
"Unless we want to acknowledge the fact that someone is
hunting hunters, what's the connection? All of these men have
different back grounds and everything Sheriff."
"I know, I know. Damn. Get me Mike Howard on the phone."
He fiddled with a pen as Deputy Ames dialed. The burning in
his stomach increased. He popped a couple of antacid tablets as
Deputy Ames handed him the phone. "Hello, Mike, I've got a statement
to make. Are you ready?"
"Go ahead, Bob."
"It now appears that the five hunting deaths that have occurred
during the last week are related. The only connection that is
evident at this point in time is that all of the men were hunters. I
would strongly encourage all hunters to buddy up from now until this
case is solved. Anyone noticing anything unusual is asked to contact
the Sheriff's office immediately."
"Whew, thanks Bob. I'll get this out as soon as I can." he said
as he hung up.
"Get the radio stations on the horn, Ames, and tell them the
same thing. Ask them to get it on the air as soon as possible."
"Right, Sheriff."
He senses their presence in the woods. They are close. He has
to fight the impulse to take flight. Stay here, they won't find me.
Don't move. Someone help me. He catches sight of the man through the
undergrowth were he hides. He is carrying a stick in his hands.
Searching. Looking for me. Walking right towards me. Muscles tense,
ready to run.
His fear is intense. Why? Why do they do this? He watches,
nerves and instincts screaming. RUN. But he doesn't, not yet. There
is another one, he senses. Where? Must know where. A twig snaps off
to the left. There. Another. Carrying a stick too. The first man
raises his hand in greeting.
The deer watches as the second man raises his stick to his
shoulder. Fire, smoke and noise come from the end of the stick. The
deer bolts. Must escape. The first man's head explodes. He lies
quivering on the forest floor.
The second man watches the deer bound through the woods. Go my
friend, you are safe now.
Sheriff Russell looks at the body. Number six, he thinks,
where will it end. He looks at the hunter's friend. He is in shock,
unable to grasp what has happened here today. He is no help. Heard
a shot and thought his friend had bagged a deer. Found his friend
quivering on the ground instead. At least this time they had a
witness, if you could call him that.
They had confiscated the hunters gun. It was a 30-06. A
popular gun in these parts. The Sheriff doubted if anything would
come of it. At least this time there would be less of the woods to
search.
The murderer must have left the scene going away from the
hunters friend. The two deputies were busy searching that area now.
The odds were that they would find something that would point to the
killer, eventually. Sheriff Russell hated playing the odds. More
hunters would die before they could do anything to stop this maniac.
"Hey, Sheriff." Deputy Ames yelled "I think we found
something."
Sheriff Russell ran over to where Ames was searching. "What
have you got?" he said
"Boot print."
They studied it together. The Sheriff noticed two things about
the print. One, it was a popular brand sold by L. L. Bean; two, it
had a chunk missing from the left side of the sole. "Way to go,
Ames." he said "Just earned yourself an extra day off. Get the
plaster kit from the truck."
Well, my friend. We're closing in. Sooner or later you're going
to make a mistake and then you'll be ours.
Willy Cranshaw whistled as he drove home from work. The dreams
were still there, but he didn't worry about them anymore. They had
become his friends, and as friends he welcomed them every night.
He was glad that tomorrow was his day off. Time to do some
relaxing. He thought he worked too hard, but someone had to pay the
bills.
Maybe he'd do a little hunting tomorrow.
The hunters moved cautiously through the woods. Only a week
left in the season and none of them had bagged a deer yet. With
work and everything else they might be able to get two more full
days of hunting in. The three of them were separated by seventy-five
yards. They'd seen a lot of deer sign, but so far today no deer.
John Hanson was ready to shoot his first deer. Although he was
twenty-three years old this was only his second season. His parents
had never allowed him to hunt when he was a teenager, so he was
trying to make up for lost time.
He'd gotten a couple shots off earlier in the season, but his
aim wasn't that good. That he should get some target practice in
before the season started never occurred to him.
He scanned the woods in front of him, choosing his steps
carefully. He saw a flash of international orange in the bushes
off to his left, about eighty yards ahead. A lot of hunters out, he
thought. He looked to his left and saw Charlie Sole. He couldn't
see Harry (Charlie's brother) though.
He looked towards the other hunter. He saw him aiming in
Charlie's direction. John tried to see what the other hunter was
aiming at. The report from the rifle startled him. He had scanned
the woods and the only thing he saw was Charlie. He saw Charlie jump
and then fall forward. John looked back to the unknown hunter and
saw that he was moving away from them.
John didn't think about what he did next. He braced himself
against a tree and took aim at the other hunter's head. He braced
himself against the kick of the rifle and pulled the trigger.
Sheriff Russell stared at John Hanson. "So you don't know if
you hit him or not?" he said.
"No, I don't. I thought I saw him jump, but I'm not sure. I'm
not the greatest shot in the world, so I probably missed him."
"Did you recognize him?"
"Didn't see him that close. All I noticed was that he seemed
to be lanky, average height. It looked like he was wearing an
international orange vest and hat. That's all I saw before he
disappeared into the woods."
"Okay, I want you to meet me at the office in about an hour."
The Sheriff walked towards Deputy Ames. He was getting tired of
pulling hunter's bodies out of the woods. "Find anything yet, Ames?"
he called.
"Yeah, Sheriff. He was hit. Got some fresh blood here on some
bushes, looks like he's hurt bad. Ought to get the dogs out here,
see if we can track this guy down."
"Right. Get the samples, I'll call for the dogs."
Deputy Marshall showed up twenty minutes later with the dogs.
By that time the coroner had removed the body. Another head shot.
Guy knew how to shoot, that's for sure.
The three men set off on the trail. For someone who was
wounded this guy sure doesn't take it easy, thought the Sheriff.
They twisted and turned through the woods. The dogs hadn't been
necessary so far. The guy was losing a lot of blood. They finally
found him a mile from the scene of the shooting.
He was laying face down on the forest floor, his back covered
with blood. The Sheriff carefully picked the rifle up. Remington
30-06. They turned him over and searched for an ID.
"Says here his name is William Cranshaw, from East Middlebury.
Either of you guys know him?" the Sheriff asked.
Both of the Deputies shook their heads. The Sheriff checked
the guys boots. One of them had a deep gouge missing from the left
side of the sole. "Well, looks like we got our man, fellas.
Ballistics will be able to confirm it. I wonder why he did it?"
The deer ran through the woods, ignoring the pain of the
slapping branches. His heart thundered in his rib cage. Got to get
away. He sensed the presence of his pursuer. Still there. Leave me
alone. I've done nothing wrong.
He jumped a dead fall and swerved to the right to avoid the
tree. Sweat soaked his body. Spittle flew from his mouth. Need to
rest. Can't rest. Must run. Survive.
He senses the presence of the stream. Cool water. Need to
drink. He pauses at the stream's bank, listening. Still there,
closing in. Takes a quick drink of the cool water. Continue. He runs
through the water, a little bit refreshed. Rest, must rest, can't
rest. Why? Why is he chasing me? Get away.
The shot reverberates through the woods. Fear increases. Help
me, someone help me. Please! Keep going. Life.
The second shot hits his right ear, tears it from his head.
Pain, red hot, shearing, unrelenting. Can't stop, can't slow down.
Run.
The third shot enters between the fifth and sixth ribs, rips
through the lung, enters the heart. The big heart stops beating in
protest to this unholy intrusion into it's domain. He falls in a
tangle of feet and lays twitching on the forest floor. Help me!
Sam Dimick sits up with a start. His body is covered with a
cold sweat. His bed is a mess of bunched up sheets and blankets.
What a nightmare, he thinks. Whew. He gets up and stretches his
aching muscles. Why is he so sore? Especially his ear and his chest.
The last time he felt pain like this was when he broke his leg when
he was twelve.
He goes to the bathroom and wets a wash cloth with cold water.
Oooh, that's nice, he thinks, as he rubs the wash cloth over his
face. He takes the aspirin bottle from the medicine chest and takes
four of them with two glasses of water. If this pain keeps up I'm
gonna have to go see the Doc, he thinks. Probably just pulled a
muscle during that nightmare.
He straightens the bed up and lays down. Everything will look
better tomorrow, he's sure.
Copyright 1987 by G. Daniel Flower, All Rights Reserved.