The Long Search For Home

by Ray Wench

  Bobby gave the order to advance, but they were much more cautious now. He looked left and right to make sure his team was still assembled, and then checked back and front. The darkness, the scream, and the knowledge a killer may lurk in these woods made for a lot of tension. Bobby couldn’t get his muscles to relax. The strain spread across his shoulders.

  Twenty yards inside the woods, he motioned for the others to stop and squat. He listened intently and tried to get the knots in his back to release, but they were having no part of his efforts.

  The rustling of branches moving off to the left gave them a direction. Bobby signaled and they crept onward. Then someone shouted, and what sounded like a herd of deer went crashing through the trees.

  They froze again until Bobby determined the sound was moving away from them. Whatever was out there was not an immediate threat, but how would they know if there was one? And would they be ready for it?

  Sixty-Six

  Mark crawled to the wounded man. The soldier started when he saw Mark. He whimpered and tried to pull his sidearm. Mark clamped a hand over the man’s, pulled it free of the gun, and took it out of the holster.

  “Please,” the soldier begged. “Don’t kill me.”

  “Hush!” he whispered. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Mark took the man’s combat knife. “Let me see where you’re hurt.”

  “The back of my foot,” the man said. “God, it hurts.”

  “There’s not much I can do for you. I’ll try to stop the bleeding.” Mark slid the knife inside the man’s pant leg.

  “Wh-What are you doing?”

  “Relax. If I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done it already.” He slit the pant leg up about eight inches and cut around it until he had a piece of material. He folded it and tied it as best he could around the foot. The killer had sliced through the man’s Achilles tendon. With no doctors around, the soldier would not be walking on that leg again.

  “You can either stay here until I can send someone for you, or you can try to crawl toward the base. It’s that way. Whatever you do, don’t try to walk on it.”

  “But what if the killer comes back?”

  “Oh, now you believe I’m not the killer?”

  “I’m sorry. But please don’t leave me defenseless.”

  Mark picked up the rifle and debated between leaving the man the knife or the handgun. He tossed down the knife. “Sorry, you’ll just have to hope I find him before he finds you. If you stay still, he won’t find you.”

  Mark left before the soldier could plead further. The man moaned. Mark shut him out. There were more important things to focus on.

  Grayson must have stopped. Nothing was moving. Mark moved in the direction they had gone. The killer was smart and liked to attack his prey from behind. He would’ve flanked the soldiers by now. With all the noise they made running through the woods, he wouldn’t have had to worry about making a sound.

  Mark changed course toward the tree line at the south end. Grayson should be to his left. If he guessed right, the only person in front of him should be the killer. He wasn’t going to take a chance. Whatever he saw he was putting down.

  Sixty-Seven

  The three of them moved thirty yards deeper. No new sounds came to them. Bobby held up a hand and listened. The complete quiet – absent of man, animal, or even insect noises – was eerie.

  He looked at Becca. She shrugged and began moving again. He looked at their new friend, Myron. If trouble started, Bobby hoped he could use that bow, but wished the other boy was carrying the gun instead.

  Before he could move, a voice came out of nowhere. Bobby tried to pinpoint the direction. It was coming from behind him. He ducked and took aim. Taking a quick glance over his shoulder, he could no longer see Myron and Becca.

  He didn’t dare move or try to signal them. It was his job to protect the rear. He waited, and the whispered voice came closer.

  “Please, God, don’t let him find me. Please. Just let me find my way back to the base.”

  The man moved straight for Bobby. What to do? He didn’t want to shoot if he didn’t have to. The shot might draw others. If he could, Bobby would try to knock the man out. He waited, ready to spring.

  The bushes parted in front of Bobby, exposing him. The man’s eyes went wide. He let out a scream and swung his weapon, an AR-15, toward Bobby. In his panic he triggered the gun before it came on target. Bobby leaped at the man, knocking him against a tree with a thud. The gun was still clambering away. Bobby feared the errant bullets might hit Becca and Myron. He had to stop the man from depressing the trigger.

  Wrapping his left hand around the gun hand of his opponent, Bobby drove his fist into the man’s face twice. The blows stunned him, allowing Bobby to strip away the AR. Bobby took a step back to get some distance and drove the butt of the rifle toward the man’s face. However, the soldier ducked and the gun slammed into the tree behind him. From a sitting position, the man lurched for Bobby before he could deliver another blow. He wrapped an arm around Bobby’s leg and pulled. Bobby fought for balance.

  The man had more weight and drove Bobby to the ground. Before his opponent could establish a superior position, Bobby squeezed out from underneath. He swung a leg over the man’s back and tried to slide an arm under his chin. The soldier ducked his head tight to his chest denying entry and reversed Bobby.

  Using his speed, Bobby scampered away and regained his feet. His opponent was slower to his feet, and when he stood, held one leg behind him as if wounded. Bobby took advantage of it by landing a kick to his face. The blow sent his opponent backward. He rolled to his hands and knees. Bobby stepped forward to deliver a kick to the ribs, but the man anticipated that and trapped his foot against his chest. He stood in a burst, lifting Bobby’s leg.

  Bobby tried to hop on one leg to keep his balance, but he was at a severe disadvantage. The larger man hauled Bobby’s leg higher. Unable to keep his balance any longer, Bobby spun and dived to the ground. He caught his weight on his hands, cocked his free leg, and snapped it into his attacker’s knee. The man yelled and backed a step. Bobby kicked his other leg free.

  He got to his feet, and before the other man could raise a defense again, Bobby popped him twice in the face with his fists, and the man went down. He rolled in semi-consciousness. Bobby, breathing heavy, pulled his sidearm. He waited several seconds for the man to try something else. When he didn’t, Bobby put a knee on his back and stripped him of any weapons. The injured man was breathing, but not moving. Keeping his handgun trained on the inert form, Bobby backed away to find the rifle. Once he retrieved it, the prone man began to stir. Bobby was about to go back and knock him out for sure when he heard a shot. His lone thought was of Becca.

  He turned and moved toward the sound of the gunshot.

  Sixty-Eight

  When the shot rang out, Mark dived to the ground. The shot had not been aimed at him, but still he waited. Something thrashed ahead of him.

  Grayson’s voice boomed, “Show yourself. You gutless bastard, face me like a man.”

  If Grayson were going to make all that noise, maybe he would draw the killer to him. Mark would use him as bait this time.

  Grayson continued to shout and fire a random shot. It was easy to zero in on him. Mark stopped next to a tree. Some undergrowth covered his face. Grayson stood just beyond in a small clearing. The moonlight that dropped through the opening in the canopy above shone on him like a spotlight. He was alone, turning in circles, calling challenges in each direction.

  Mark scanned the edges of the clearing for movement. So far they were alone. Grayson screamed as loud as he could. If only he could hold it together long enough to entice the killer.

  “I’m waiting.” He fired again. “Come on, you bastard.”

  On the far side of the clearing, some of the foliage grew denser. Mark used the rifle’s scope to look closer. Grayson kept walking through his sight line. As he stepped to the side, Mark caught a glimpse of the shadow wi
thin the shadow. It was large and dark and had a wild hairy face. The killer had arrived.

  “Becca, your brother’s not here.”

  Becca stopped and looked behind her. Where had he gone now? She was in no mood to wait for him. She whispered, “He’s probably just watching our backs. He’ll catch up.”

  She started to move.

  “Shouldn’t we wait for him?”

  She turned her gaze on him. “Are you afraid?”

  “N-no, I’m not afraid.”

  Just then, multiple gunshots sounded, sharp and close, behind them where Bobby might be.

  “N-now, I’m afraid,” he said.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Becca crept closer to the source of the shot. When the shooting stopped, so did she. She listened. There was the sound of movement in front of them. She moved again.

  Then, a shot was fired from the other direction, behind Myron. In a flash, Becca changed course and stopped next to Myron.

  A short time later, a third was triggered, and then a fourth. The shots became a beacon guiding them to the shooter.

  In a sudden move, Becca dropped to the ground. A large shadow rose in front of them like a demon from hell.

  “Oh God.” Myron covered his mouth.

  Sixty-Nine

  The shadow moved. The motion was so slow, it could have been branches blown by a soft breeze. Except there was no breeze despite the chill he felt. Mark pushed to his knees and stretched to a standing position behind the tree.

  The shadow was working its way behind Grayson. Mark slid the rifle along the trunk. He tried to line up a shot at the shadow, but Grayson kept getting between him and the target.

  Grayson stopped. He stood with his head down and rifle hanging at his side pointed at the ground. His hand was on his face, and he looked like he was crying. He would have no chance to defend himself if the killer sprang. Mark needed to move to get a better angle.

  But it was too late.

  The hulking shape burst through the branches directly behind the unsuspecting lieutenant.

  Mark stepped into the clearing as well and shouted, “Grayson, behind you.”

  Grayson, seeing Mark’s rifle pointing in his direction, swung his rifle up and fired. Mark froze, his heart threatening to explode through his chest. The repeated click of a dry fire allowed Mark to breathe again. He quickly refocused. The knife rose above Grayson’s head. The arm, or left shoulder, were Mark’s only targets. He took the shot at the larger mass.

  The shot ripped past Grayson’s head and tore through the killer’s shoulder. It spun him, the blade hitting the lieutenant’s shoulder. He dived to the ground, clutching his arm. The killer howled in pain.

  As soon as Grayson was out of the way, Mark lined up the next shot, but the killer hurled his knife at Mark. Mark ducked and rolled in case the wild man followed the knife. When Mark regained his feet, the killer was gone. The knife was embedded in the tree.

  Mark ran to Grayson. “You okay?”

  Grayson, on one knee, pulled his hand away from his shoulder. It was wet. “Yeah, it’s just a slice.”

  Mark gave it a quick look. “It’s not deep.” He pulled the handgun from his belt and handed it to him. “Here, in case he comes back.”

  Grayson took it and grabbed Mark’s arm. “I’m sorry.”

  “We’ll worry about that later.”

  “Get that bastard.”

  Mark took off in pursuit, not sure where his prey had gone.

  Seventy

  Becca had begun crawling closer to the shadow.

  Myron had no desire to move closer to danger, but he hated having Becca think him incompetent, or worse, a coward. Regardless, he did as she commanded.

  He watched as Becca crawled forward, marveling at the courage that drove her into combat. Everything in him screamed to turn and run the other way. In fact, before he met Becca, that’s what he would have done, every time. Was it possible for a lifelong coward to find courage? And if he got shot, whose fault would it be? Becca’s for leading him into danger or his for being dumb enough to follow?

  He shook his head. In spite of his nature he would not leave her. He sighed. “Don’t get me shot, Becca,” he whispered.

  Becca saw the shadow move. The figure was too large to be her father, and it didn’t look like he was wearing a uniform. The way he moved was what set the alarms off in her head. The man was tracking something, or someone, like a predator stalking prey.

  She crept closer. She wanted a better view of him. Then he rose to full height and disappeared. He was there one second and then just … gone. Had he pounced on his prey? Was that prey my father? Her heart pounded faster. She advanced with her knife ready.

  A shout and a shot froze her. They came from her right. Someone was hit, because a howl of pain followed the shot. Becca leaned to her left, trying to see past the trees.

  Before she could dodge away, a monster ripped through the branches and crashed into her. She hit the ground with a thud. The air was knocked from her lungs. Pain shot through her.

  The body that hit her rolled over her and lay there as stunned as she was. She shook the fog from her head and patted the ground for her knife. The hairs on her neck and arms stood up. She whipped her head behind her. The monster was crouched and smiling at her.

  The crazed laugh he let out drove panic into her soul. She had never known fear this debilitating before. He stood and pulled a knife from someplace. Becca scooted backward as the animal advanced. She whimpered. When she moved, Myron’s knife nicked her finger. She grabbed at it, ignoring the pain as the blade sliced her fingers.

  The man lifted the knife, took one step, and drove it downward. Becca slashed her knife across the big man’s thigh. He screamed and hopped to the side. She slashed again and cut through the calf of the other leg. He fell, but right on top of Becca.

  She kicked and screamed, but her arms were pinned beneath the monster’s weight. She screamed again. His foul breath blew in her face as he grunted from pain. He put one hand on her chest to push him upright, and then lifted the knife. He lowered it toward her face. Becca continued kicking and screaming, but in the end all she could do was close her eyes.

  Seventy-One

  Myron lost track of where Becca was. He was torn between wanting to be with her and doing what she said. Someone fired. In an instant, he was paralyzed again. His breathing was short quick gasps, and the tightness returned to his chest like a vice. But his thoughts were not for his own safety, but for Becca’s. He knew she wasn’t using her gun. If someone fired, it wasn’t her. Was the shot directed at her?

  Myron had to know. Becca might need his help. The thought of her hurt was enough to evaporate his paralysis. Pushing his fear aside, he crawled forward. He was making too much noise, but time was a factor.

  He stopped when someone began running through the woods in front of him. Another howl brought back his fear, but when he heard Becca screaming, Myron broke into a run.

  Under the tiny streams of moonlight, Myron saw a massive man sitting on top of his girlfriend. The shock exploded into a rage. The knife descended toward Becca’s face. Before he was aware he had done it, the arrow was nocked, the bowstring drawn tight against his cheek. There was no shake in his arm.

  “No!” Myron screamed as the point of the blade hovered over Becca’s eye. The arrow took the beast through the throat and protruded out the other side. The force pitched the man backward, freeing Becca.

  Myron raced toward her, lifted her in his arms, and held her. Becca clung to him and shook. Just then a man burst through the trees and pulled up in front of them with his rifle pointed.

  Myron turned his body to protect Becca from this new threat, fumbling to pull the handgun from his belt.

  “Oh dear God! Becca!”

  Thank God. “It’s all right, you’re safe. It’s your dad.”

  Becca, who had been gently crying on Myron’s chest, turned her head. “Daddy?”

  Myron set her down and she ran
into her father’s arms. They hugged while Myron watched. Something disturbed a branch behind him. Myron whirled, ready with another arrow, the bowstring drawn tight, next to his cheek.

  Bobby came into sight and pulled up short when he saw the arrow pointed at him. He held up his hands. “Whoa!”

  Myron released his breath and slowly slacked the tension in the string. He stared at the bow, not remembering drawing an arrow. Then he looked at the killer.

  Bobby walked to the body. The man was writhing on the ground, trying to pull the arrow from his throat. A constant gurgling bubbled from his mouth.

  Myron had trouble pulling his gaze from his handiwork.

  “Damn, Myron, that’s a helluva shot,” Bobby said, patting him on the back as if it had been his first deer kill.

  Becca moved from her father’s side and hugged Myron. “You saved me. Again.” She kissed him on the lips this time.

  He gasped, blushed, and put both hands to his face.

  Mark said, “Come on everyone, let’s go. We have some wounded to collect.”

  Mark led and Bobby followed. Becca took Myron’s hand and led him away from the killer. Myron couldn’t break eye contact with the man. The trees obscured the sight but not before Myron witnessed his last breath.

  Would his forefathers be proud of him now?

  Did it matter anymore?

  Seventy-Two

  “I owe you a massive apology, sir.”

  Mark smiled. “Yes, you do.”

  Mark had sent the others back to camp, but he stayed the night on the base. Something was going on and he wanted to know what it was or if it affected the community.

  “Lieutenant Grayson said you saved his life.”

  “We both would’ve died if he’d had any bullets left.”

  “Well, thankfully it worked out.”

  Worked out? You lost four men out there.