The Hunted Page 8

  Cummings grimaced. "Hunt a lion during daylight? Good luck. Most likely, if it is a lion, it'll be sleeping somewhere cool during the day. Lions are nocturnal; they do most of their hunting at night. We'd have a much better time of baiting it after sunset."

  "How'bout tonight then?" Joe said.

  "Perfect."

  CHAPTER 10

  USK HAD COME early, and the gray, clouded sky was quickly darkening. Joe leaned against his truck, waiting for Bob Cummings. They had agreed to meet at Harrison's Garage at five o'clock and hike into the woods together. But five had come and gone, and daylight was fading fast.

  Joe had been a hunter since he was old enough to carry a gun, but he'd never been both the predator and the prey at the same time. The butterflies were already flitting about in his stomach. He thought about praying. He knew God was there. He'd known Him once, trusted Him, relied on Him, found comfort and safety in Him, and talked to Him. But that was years ago, an eternity, it seemed. The way he figured it, he didn't turn his back on God; God turned His back on him when He let Rick die and left Rosa and Caleb to fend for themselves.

  Two headlights appeared, turning the corner onto McCormick. A large, royal blue Dodge Ram with oversized tires eased into the lot and stopped next to Joe's truck. The headlights winked out, and Bob Cummings opened the door and stepped onto the crumbling asphalt. The burly man straightened up, threw his shoulders back, and looked around as if awaiting applause. He was dressed in dark camo from head to toe. A bandana was tied tightly around his head; a wad of tobacco was nestled nicely in his lower lip. On one side of his thick leather belt dangled a survival knife with a ten-inch blade; on the other side hung a holster carrying what looked like a large revolver. Dirty Harry's .44 Magnum? From camoed head to booted toe, Cummings's whole ensemble and weapons load probably cost more than the GDP of Uzbekistan. If he was waging war against an irate horde of demented opossums, he may have been intimidating. But Joe doubted a lion would be all that impressed with his weapons cache, his attire, or his attitude.

  "Evening, Joe," Cummings said, spitting a mouthful of thick brown juice at the ground. "Sorry I'm late. Wanted to make sure I had everything we might need." He reached into the backseat of his truck and produced three rifles: a .30-06, a break-action shotgun, and the sleek .375 XCR he was no doubt itching to use. The .30-06 and .375 both sported large scopes.

  Tossing the .30-06 to Joe, he said, "Ever shoot one of these?"

  Joe caught the gun and grinned. It was a Remington 750 Woodsmaster. "Sure have. I have one just like it back home, minus the scope." He studied the scope. "What is this, night vision?"

  "Sure is. Gen 3. Ever use one?"

  "Never even seen one. At least not up close."

  Bob fingered some dials on the side of the scope. "This is your on/ off. And this is your focus. That's all you'll need to know in there. Just make sure you're looking through this before you shoot at anything." He gave Joe a wink. "Our target has four legs. Count 'em before you pull the trigger. I don't want any friendly fire coming my way."

  Joe slung the rifle over his shoulder and shook Cummings's oversized hand. "Gotcha. I figure we'd do best to head down to the old Yates place. That's where Caleb was mauled, and Maggie-Chief Gill-swore she saw something there too."

  "Sounds good. Let's do it. You got the meat?"

  Joe held up a plastic bag with five pounds of bloody steak in it. Dark red blood pooled in the bottom half of the bag. If someone driving by happened to turn his head at just the right moment, Joe would no doubt have been mistaken for a bloodthirsty, wannabe vampire, looking for a cheap thrill with GI Joe's grandfather. "I asked the butcher to add extra blood. He looked at me like I was nuts."

  Cummings laughed. "Maybe we are nuts." He then placed a heavy hand on Joe's shoulder and narrowed his eyes. "You nervous?"

  Joe nodded. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't."

  Cummings clapped his shoulder. "Good. Overconfidence is a hunter's worst enemy. If that thing's in these woods, it's going to know we're here, and it'll be hunting us just the same as we're hunting it. Jitters will keep you awake and alert. And that will keep you alive."

  A little over two miles away, in his beat-up, rusted trailer, Stevie Bauer was stretched out on his sofa, playing a handheld electronic jeopardy game. He always lost to the computer, but someday he would beat it. Someday he would shut up that little arrogant voice that jeered "INCORRECT" every time he thought he knew the right answer.

  He scrolled through the categories and was surprised to see DINNER TIME flash on the little screen. Never saw that category before, he thought, and pushed the button for $200.

  FEEDING TIME FOR KITTY scrolled across the screen.

  What the-? Stevie sat up and looked around the room. His palms were suddenly damp with sweat.

  WHAT IS:

  A-THE YATES PLACE

  B-THE YATES PLACE!

  C-THE YATES PLACE!!

  Pause.

  "CORRECT!" The electronic voice was loud and forceful.

  Stevie leaped into the air. The tabby cat, which had been curled up in a ball next to the sofa, jumped to its feet, arched its back, bristled its fur, and let out a low growl.

  "Kitty!" Stevie shouted. He thrust both hands in the air and arched his back. "It's feedin' time!"

  When Joe and Cummings finally arrived at the old Yates place, any daylight that was left had almost completely surrendered to the oppressive darkness that surrounded the house. The stone walls jutted out of the ground like ancient ruins, casting a dark shadow on whatever chose to find solace within them. The trees circling the clearing towered overhead, their twisted arms black silhouettes against the charcoal sky. There was no visible moon-it would be a black night.

  After securing the meat five feet off the ground along the front wall of the house, Joe settled into a spot near a giant walnut to the left of the house, a forty-five degree angle from the doorway. Cummings headed for a fallen oak on the opposite side of the clearing. Both would have a clear view of the bait. And a clear shot when the beast showed itself.

  Setting his flashlight and backpack on the ground, Joe crouched on his haunches, lifted the rifle, and peered through the scope. The still forest glowed an eerie green, like a Martian landscape. From where he sat he could see Cummings clearly, sitting on the oak, watching the house, rifle resting on his lap. Armed to the mutton chops and exuding arrogance, he reminded Joe of Jesse Ventura's character, Blaine, in Predator, just before the hunt ended very badly for Ventura and his fellow commandos. Joe hoped this hunt would have a happier ending, and he really hoped what they were hunting didn't turn out to be a self-cloaking alien bent on bloodshed and mayhem.

  Regardless, if whatever was in these woods, whatever was in that old house came this way, somebody was going home with a new trophy.

  It was getting chilly, and Joe was glad he'd decided to wear his long underwear. He opened his backpack and removed the handheld radio Maggie had given him. "Stay in touch," she had said. "I'm just a call away." Rosa had given Maggie the key to her house, and Maggie was going to stay there all night in case she was needed. Officer Wilt, who was patrolling the graveyard shift, would also be available.

  Joe leaned his back against the rough bark of the old walnut and closed his eyes, listening, getting acclimated to his surroundings. Below him, not fifty yards away, Hunter's Creek bubbled. Further downstream, the creek opened into a small pool, almost seven feet deep. He and Rick used to swim in it. They'd tie a rope to a sturdy branch overhanging the pool and spend hours on summer afternoons outdoing each other's best flips and cannonballs. Rick would dangle from the rope and let out a Johnny Weissmuller jungle cry. To his surprise and great chagrin, no animals would charge to the scene offering their aid, no leopards, no tigers, no hippos, not even the ever-curious and oft-underestimated chipmunk.

  To Joe's left a squirrel chattered, settling in for the night. Behind him some leaves rustled. No crunching, so Joe determined it must be something small-a chipmunk or m
ouse looking for an evening snack. Overhead, a light breeze moved through the tree tops. Branches creaked like arthritic joints.

  The hospital was quiet, and the ICU was even quieter. Caleb slept peacefully, his chest rising and falling without the aid of the respirator. Rosa stroked his hair, remembering how, only days ago, she entered his bedroom at night and just watched him sleep. It was something she did often. Sometimes she would even pick him up and hold him in her lap, admiring his soft features and how much he was looking more and more like Rick. He was only one when Rick died. Poor boy, he never even had a chance to know his daddy, to play catch with him, hunt with him, ride bikes with him. But Rosa made sure to tell him at least one thing about Rick every day. It had become a ritual both of them looked forward to. She never wanted to let the memory of his father fade.

  She knelt by Caleb's bed and started praying, something she did at least three times a day.

  She prayed for her son, that God would heal his broken body and mend his wounds, that even in his comatose state, God would send angels to minister to him, comfort him, and protect him.

  And she also prayed for Joe. Father, Joe needs You. Her heart was heavy for her brother-in-law and friend. He knows You, I know he does. But he has lost his way. Bring him back to You; remind him of Your love for him. She paused, letting that request linger in her mind. And Lord, protect him now. Wrap him in Your arms; shield him from the fiery darts of the evil one. Set a hedge around him and preserve him. Show him Your might!

  At the edge of Yates Woods, just inside the tree line, Stevie huddled close to the ground, perched on all fours with his chest almost touching the leaves. He unzipped his thick wool coat and allowed the tabby to escape and land softly on the leaf-covered ground.

  The cat looked at Stevie questioningly and tilted its head to one side. Stevie giggled with excitement. "Well, go on," he whispered, shooing the cat with his hands. "Go get your dinner. I didn't bring you out here for nothin'."

  The cat turned and bounded into the darkened woods, the sound of its soft footsteps fading quickly.

  The temperature had dropped into the low forties, and Bob Cummings was feeling it. A quick shiver rippled through his heavy muscles. He looked at his watch and pushed the button for the light-twenty after one. His view through the scope showed Joe sitting against a tree, rifle balanced in his hands, eyes open. Good, at least he hadn't fallen asleep. His hunting instinct told him they were not alone in the woods, and he didn't want to make any sound. His shotgun was loaded and ready, leaning against the fallen oak. He'd use it only if he had to, preferring the .375 instead. If there was a big cat out there, and if he had the opportunity to bag it, he wanted to be able to mount it and show it off. Besides that, in these thick woods, and with it being so dark, he figured he'd only get one shot. With his .375, that's all he would need.

  Slowly and silently, Bob unfolded his large frame and stood. His knees were stiff and sore, but that would soon pass. He had to focus, listen, smell, keep his eyes alert and his trigger finger ready. It was close; he could sense it. It probably knew he was there and had much better vision at night than he, so it would have the advantage. He clutched his rifle and scanned the luminous green woods through the scope, watching for any movement, any misplaced shapes.

  This was a hunt. This is what he lived for. Advantage or not, he had to be ready. Tonight it was kill or be killed.

  Joe's eyelids were growing heavier by the minute. He was fading in and out of a light sleep. Breathing in, he filled his lungs with the cold, moist air and shook his head. He looked at his watch-one-fifty. Leaning his head against the tree, he let his eyes slowly shut again. For some reason his thoughts went to God, and he again thought about praying.

  No way. He wasn't going to be one of those people who pray only when they want something.

  But the more he tried to get God and praying out of his head, the more he thought about it. Words ran through his mind. Bible verses he had read and memorized, sermons he had heard.

  I will never leave you. I'm with you always. Call on Me. Fear not. Fear not. Fear... not.

  His eyes popped open. What was that? A stick snapping? Was it real, or was his mind playing tricks on him while he lingered on the edge of sleep?

  There. He heard it again. Definitely a twig snapping. Coming from Cummings's position. Was Cummings moving? Walking? Making that much noise? Surely he knew better.

  Joe was fully awake now, eyes wide, gun to shoulder, sweeping the bright green surroundings for any movement. His ears were alert, listening, straining to hear even the slightest sound. He swept the scope's field of vision to Cummings's location. The big man was gone.

  Did Cummings hear it too? Did he go after it?

  Oh, man. This is it.

  Joe stood slowly and shook the stiffness from his legs. His heart bounced in his chest.

  Another branch popped, the sound echoing in the stillness like gunfire, ringing in Joe's ears. This one was closer, right on the other side of the clearing. Right where Cummings was. The hair on Joe's neck stood on end. His heart now hammered. Every nerve in his body was alert, ready to spring into action. But still there was no sign of Cummings.

  He saw it before he heard it-the flash from the barrel of Cummings's .375 bursting bright white in the scope. Gunfire pierced the night air, exploding like a stick of dynamite in the darkness. Joe lunged into the clearing, rifle stock pressed into his shoulder, trembling finger resting on the trigger.

  Something big blurred past, quicker than he could focus on it.

  Cummings yelled, a hideous scream. Then a muffled groan. Then a rustling and crunching of leaves. Then nothing.

  Joe's heart was in his throat. Adrenaline surged through his veins like jet fuel. He moved across the clearing in short, even steps. He didn't want to; he wanted to turn and run, run for his life. But something pushed him forward. Pushed him toward the sound of Cummings's scream. The woods around him fell still again.

  Help me, God!

  It was a prayer of desperation, of fear, but he didn't care.

  When he got to the edge of the clearing, he paused and listened. Nothing.

  Nothing but a voice in his head.

  Fear not.

  Leaves crunched to his right. His hands buzzed.

  Before he had time to react, something large hit him from behind, slammed into his back, and knocked him to the ground with a heavy thud. The smell of rotted meat assaulted his nose. His first thought was that Cummings had mistaken him for the beast or stumbled upon him in the dark, but he didn't remember the large man boasting such a ripe and interesting body odor. Reflexively, he squeezed the trigger of the .30-06not really aiming at anything-and gunfire exploded around him.

  He heard a snort over his left shoulder, followed by a short growl. Definitely not sounds Cummings would make unless in the middle of a deep sleep sans nasal strips.

  Somehow, he was able to chamber another round, throw the gun over his shoulder, and pull the trigger again. Another explosion.

  The beast flinched and retreated, disappearing into the darkness.

  Joe jumped to his feet and scanned the clearing. Was it there? Hiding in the blackness, waiting to pounce again?

  His heart raced so fast and hard it felt like it would burst right out of his chest. Then he heard it again, the popping of a dry branch, like when he was a kid and would break sticks over his knee. He chambered another round, squeezed the trigger, and fired off round after round, not even counting how many he discharged, aiming at nothing. He couldn't see the beast, but he knew it was there, waiting to strike and devour him.

  He pulled the trigger again. Click. Nothing. He was out of ammo.

  Quickly, instinctively, he ran to where Cummings had been and saw him lying prone in the leaves. He rolled the larger man over and moaned in shock and disgust when his hands found Cummings's face. Or where his face used to be.

  No time to grieve. He groped about until he found Cummings's revolver, slipped it from the holster and liste
ned, waiting for any sound, any indicator of where the predator could be. The woods were filled with silence, silence so deadening Joe could hear the blood pushing through his ears.

  He heard something to his left that sounded like air moving. It was the thing, breathing. It had to be. In one quick motion, he spun to his left and fired off a round. The barrel exploded with a flash of light, and Joe could see the glow of the beast's eyes. He pulled the trigger again and again and again and kept squeezing off rounds, the gun bucking in his hands, until the revolver answered with an empty click. Silence filled the woods. Joe's head ached and echoed the loud retort of the handgun.

  Adrenaline coursed through his arteries, and he did the only thing left to do-run.

  CHAPTER 11

  OE CRASHED THROUGH the overgrown woods like a runaway bull, running, stumbling, groping his way through the darkness. In his panic he'd forgotten the flashlight, the radio, and the backpack. It was just him, an empty revolver, the darkness... and it.

  He knew it was stalking him, toying with him, lurking just out of sight. He could sense it, smell it, and periodically, when he would trip over a fallen branch or rock and momentarily lie motionless on the ground, he could hear it, softly, quietly navigating the maze of undergrowth.

  He had no idea which direction he was headed, but he knew sooner or later he would be out of the woods-if the beast didn't get him first. His mind argued with reason: maybe the predator was a self-cloaking alien bent on bloodshed and mayhem. He hadn't gotten a good look at it after it bowled him over. It was too dark and everything happened in a blur.

  I'm going to die! The thought pounded in his head over and over. But beyond that voice-his voice-was another one, calm, soothing, confident. A voice from the past. Still and small.

  I am with you always.

  Then he saw it-a flicker of hope. No, a beacon of salvation. Was it a porch light? A lamppost?