The Hush

by John Hart

  Randolph’s mouth flooded with saliva. He’d not had meat in three weeks. “Are you sure?”

  Herbert took a piece of jerky and passed the package. There was not much, but it was hard and salted, and it was meat. The boys ate in silence. Blankets steamed as frozen earth melted beneath them.

  “Tomorrow,” Charlie said. “We’ll kill something tomorrow.”

  No one had the will to reply.

  Snowfall thickened beyond the fire.

  * * *

  The morning broke cold but clear, and Randolph was up before anyone else. He stood by the fire and watched light filter through the trees. Best he could tell, they were on a spit of land with frozen swamp on three sides. There was a feeling of emptiness beyond the trees, a quiet and simple vastness. Snow had fallen most of the night, and it lay deeply around the camp.

  Randolph added wood to the fire, then wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and threaded between the trees until he reached the edge of a great, flat plain that he knew was frozen water buried beneath the snow. Pools of deep water dotted the swamp in places, and this was one of them, a half mile at its widest, with snow shaded at the far edge and a cool, pale yellow where the early sun touched it. He looked for tracks in the light, but the skin of snow was unbroken. It was so still, he heard air in his throat; so cold, the breath plumed.

  When he woke his friends, no one spoke of lost time or hard questions. The jerky was gone and it was a long day and they were already hungry. Packing the camp in silence, Randolph kicked snow on the fire and checked the rifle from long habit. Everyone understood the same truth: They had to find meat today. Otherwise, they’d starve or freeze or go home empty-handed.

  “Ready?”

  Herbert nodded, and the boys fell into the same order as before: Randolph in front, then Herbert, then Charlie. That meant Randolph had to work the hardest. Snow rose to his thighs, and breaking the trail was exhausting work. The swamp was his idea, though, and his plan. He led them due east because the heart of the swamp was in that direction.

  “What about the Freemantles?” Charlie asked.

  Randolph said nothing. He was breathing too hard.

  “Come on, man. What about the coloreds?”

  “I figure we’re north by two miles, and still a good ways west.” Randolph gestured vaguely. “If we don’t see anything by noon, we’ll head farther north. Either way, we’ll stay clear.”

  “That makes for a long trip home,” Herbert said.

  “There’s food here somewhere. There has to be.”

  They stopped at the edge of the same, flat plain. “You sure it’s frozen?” Charlie asked.

  “It’s frozen.”

  “How can you know?”

  It was a stupid question, so Randolph studied the boy who’d asked it. Charlie looked sunken in his father’s coat. His cheekbones were blades under the skin, his lips drawn back as he shook in the cold. Beside him, Herbert looked just as drawn and pale and frightened. “Anybody who wants to turn back, now’s the time.”

  Each boy kept his eyes down, and no one mentioned the day before—how they’d lost each other in the gloom and damn-near frozen—but it was with them all the same: the knowing of it, the feeling of wrong.

  “Charlie?”

  Charlie shook his head.

  “Herbert?”

  “Talking won’t put meat on the table.”

  “So we hunt,” Randolph said. “We get it done.”

  The moment held, but no one said another word. And when Randolph started walking, the other boys did, too. They moved across the frozen pool and into the woods. An hour later, Charlie was muttering to himself again.

  Nothing …

  A whole bunch of goddamn nothing …

  * * *

  By midmorning it looked like Charlie was right. Randolph stumbled again, and knew it was the hunger.

  Herbert asked, “How far have we gone?”

  “Three miles, maybe four.”

  But it was hard to know. Every step was a battle. The sun was high, but the temperature hovered in single digits. The snow seemed deeper. Randolph couldn’t feel his feet.

  “Let me lead.”

  Herbert had offered before. This time Randolph let him, and though it was agreed, no one moved. The boys bent at the waist. Charlie hung on Herbert’s shoulder. “Just take a minute. Everybody take a minute.”

  Charlie nodded, and tried to drink. The water in his canteen was frozen solid.

  “Well, shit.”

  “A few more hours,” Randolph said. “We’ll find something.” Charlie nodded again, but around them the stillness was aching in its perfection. “East.” Randolph pointed. “We’ll go another mile, then make the turn north.”

  He motioned, and they fell into the new order: Herbert breaking trail, Randolph at the rear.

  The day got colder.

  Nothing moved.

  A hundred yards later Charlie said, “Do you feel it?” The words were light, a scrape. “That weight. Do you feel it?”

  “It’s nothing,” Randolph said; but he felt it, too. It had been building all day, slow at first, and now unmistakable. Everything was heavy. The sunlight. The air. They pushed through a deeper drift and moved beneath a wall of trees. A half mile later the day was only heavier. Herbert stumbled and fell. He was slow to rise. The other boys helped him. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m okay.” But his skin was powder blue, his eyes half-closed where tears had spilled out and frozen. They needed food and a fire. “Does this look right to you?”

  His breath rattled as he straightened and tilted his head to better see with the half-shut eyes. Randolph didn’t get it, but then he did. All around them trees rose, barren and bent. Not one cast a shadow.

  Charlie said, “What the—?”

  “Hush for a minute.”

  “Don’t hush me, Randolph. Jesus Christ. What the hell, man?”

  His mouth opened again, but Randolph spoke over him. “Just walk, Charlie. All right? Come on. One step at a time. Keep your eyes open.”

  They pushed on, but every boy felt the difference. There was malice in the air, a sense of movement glimpsed and then gone. Randolph saw it like a haze at the corner of his eye, a gray flicker. But every time he snapped his head right or left, there was nothing but wood and snow and blinding light. They stumbled on, driving through deep snow until sweat sheeted and froze and sheeted again. Charlie talked all the time now, the words too quiet to hear anything but the pace of them. Fast. Unceasing. He was falling like the rest of them, almost running at times. Randolph knew they should slow—that exhaustion would take them—but nameless fear drove them to harder effort. Herbert pushed through another drift. They dropped into a gully, clambered up the other side. And all the while it paced them, this thing, this awareness. Randolph wasn’t the only one who sensed it. Herbert’s head was snapping left and right. Charlie’s, too. And every minute they seemed to move faster, breathe harder. They broke from the trees and found a windswept clearing, an island in the distance. The snow was shallow on the ice, and in unspoken accord, all three boys broke into a run, holding each other as they stumbled. They felt the same thing; Randolph knew it. Something was out there, and it wanted them gone.

  “There,” Herbert said. “Trees.”

  No one argued when he angled for the closest cover. They were naked on the ice, wind-blind in a sudden gust. In the trees, Randolph took the lead. He bent away from the lake, beating through vines and brambles and scrub. He wanted away from the pressure; followed the path of least resistance. A gap here. A low place there. He slid into the shelter of a giant spruce, but pushed out the other side just as fast.

  It was out there.

  It was coming.

  Panic was a nail in his heart. He felt the pressure, the pain. He fell against a tree, and took skin from his face. No one slowed. No one broke ranks. Single file, they ran through woods and snow until suddenly Randolph stopped at a broken trail.

  Footprints.

  More th
an a single set.

  Randolph made the decision on his own, turning left to follow the tracks. Whatever made them was human, and that meant help maybe, and maybe food. The path was easier, and pressure lifted when he turned onto it. They moved more quickly, fell less. Randolph led his friends between trees and over frozen creeks. At a small clearing he drew up fast and hard. His heart was in his throat. He felt sick. Herbert and Charlie stumbled to a halt beside him, and stared at the same impossible sight.

  A dead fire.

  An old campsite.

  Charlie said, “Is that…?”

  He never finished; didn’t need to. The truth was plain enough.

  It was their fire.

  Their campsite.

  “But how?”

  They’d walked due east for miles. The campsite should be behind them. Hours back. Lost.

  “It’s not possible.” Charlie was shaking in the big coat, his skin as translucent gray as the frozen sweat that hung in his hair. “Randolph?” He wanted an explanation; Randolph didn’t have it. “Tell me how this is possible.” When Randolph showed his eyes—just as frightened and lost—Charlie shook his head twice, then threw up a gush of thin bile. “No,” he said. “This is not possible.”

  But somehow it was.

  A straight line had become a circle.

  * * *

  They spent the rest of the day huddled around a fire so large, it raged. Words were few, and when they came, they died awkwardly and quick. No boy wanted to confront the horror of his own fears. Charlie’s stomach continued to clench, though nothing remained to purge. Herbert stared, unceasing, at the fire. His lips moved in silence, and the shapes they made formed the name of his mother, over and over, a prayer or an apology. Randolph didn’t know. He played the day in his mind: the walk out, the sun on his face. It seemed innocent, at first.

  They were friends.

  There was hope.

  When did it get so god-awful, seriously scary?

  Randolph risked a glance at his friends across the fire. Charlie lay huddled on his side, his knees drawn up beneath the blanket. He was shaking; every muscle bound tight. Herbert stared into the fire, his eyes as restless as his lips. They were terrified, all of them.

  The only real conversation had been an argument. Herbert and Charlie had wanted to leave immediately, to turn back to the trail and follow it all the way home.

  To what? Randolph had argued. A starving family? A slow death?

  Better than dying here, they’d said.

  Better than freezing.

  What no one mentioned was the one truth they could not ignore. They were frozen half to death. No one had the strength. That alone had tipped the argument in Randolph’s favor. They would warm themselves, and then decide. It was four o’clock when Herbert finally spoke aloud.

  “I’m sorry, Randolph. I’m not staying here.”

  Charlie struggled up, already nodding. “Amen, brother. Let’s get the hell out. Come with us, Randolph.” Randolph said nothing. “Please, man. Please don’t make me beg.”

  Randolph pictured his mother in a cold kitchen. She stood at the window, watching a frozen yard. Behind her, every cupboard was bare. “Go ahead,” he told them. “I can’t.”

  “Don’t be a hero, man.” Herbert leaned closer, his elbows on his knees. “You felt it out there, same as us. You feel it out there now.”

  “I don’t know what I feel.”

  “That’s a lie,” Charlie said. “You were as white-faced and shit-scared as the rest of us. Whatever that thing is, it’s real.”

  “What thing? I don’t see any thing.”

  “Lie to yourself, then. That’s fine. But people die here. They die or disappear or go insane. It’s not a story anymore, it’s real: the Dreds, the Miller boys.”

  “You won’t get out before dark.”

  “Close enough.” Herbert rose, and tossed a blanket over his shoulders. “Anything is better than this. Charlie, you coming?”

  “Damn straight.”

  Randolph watched them go, and felt as if his courage were a string that trailed behind them, a line dragged through the snow and drawn, frozen, from his chest. Each step they took pulled out heat and heart, so that by the time they reached the trail’s first bend, Randolph wanted to run, calling behind them. But he could not move at all. He watched his friends pause where a sour gum pushed against the trail and turned it south. Charlie raised a gloved hand that glinted with ice and frozen snot, and for an instant there was communion between them, a look from Charlie that said: Careful, brother, we love you. At that moment Randolph wanted more than ever to rise and follow, to make them understand or somehow make them stay. He felt it clearly now, this risk of going separate ways. It was adrenaline and pure terror, a need deep inside to shout and say Yes, I feel it and Yes, it’s real. Because whatever the force that tracked them, it gathered unseen in the gloom beneath the trees. It watched and was torn. Follow the two or stay with the one? Hate and indecision filled the air like a keening, barely heard. But it penetrated, deep and sharp, so that Randolph covered his ears and opened his mouth as if to relieve the pressure. He was frozen, terrified, dying. He tried to call out, but the icy glove fell, and his friends, at last, turned south. It was terrible, that hollowness, and for an instant Randolph was simply bereft. But pressure mounted by the second: pain in his head, a piercing.

  Randolph rolled into a ball and covered his ears. Embers popped in the fire. A coal landed in the snow and sizzled. He was almost in the fire, but it was cold, so cold. Randolph thought he was keening, too, but knew nothing for sure. Pressure mounted, a wail in his mind as knifelike as wind through a mountain pass. He wanted to die, and that was real: the weight, the utter dread. He kicked out, thrashed in the snow.

  And like that, everything broke.

  The keening ceased; his head cleared.

  Randolph clawed to his knees, and under the damp wool and heavy coat was shaking like a beaten child. Breath was glass in his throat. No strength. His head hung, and he stared at empty woods.

  No Charlie or Herbert.

  Nothing.

  Randolph blinked, and in dull pain a thought came, unbidden: that whatever moved between the trees had made its choice, and the choice was to follow Randolph’s friends.

  * * *

  Herbert felt it come at the same moment as Charlie. He stumbled once, looked back, and saw wild fear all over Charlie’s face.

  “Just go, man, go!”

  Charlie flung out an arm as he shouted, and Herbert needed no urging. Fear was a wind at his back, and everything was as clear as water: footprints and black branches, striations in the bark as he crashed between the trees.

  “Come on, man!”

  Herbert risked a glance and saw the same gray flicker. It paced them from behind and to the right. It was a blur, a trick of light. They were a half mile from the fire, hours from the edge of the swamp. They fell into a creek bed, slipped on ice and frozen mud.

  “Do you see it?”

  “I don’t need to see it.”

  “What about Randolph?”

  “Randolph made his choice. Come on!”

  Herbert hauled Charlie up the bank and dragged him through the snow. Five minutes became ten, then fifteen. “It’s following us.”

  “Not following.” Charlie gasped out the words. “Herding.”

  He was right, and Herbert knew it. Whatever it was, it kept them on the trail and moving fast. If they slowed, the pressure mounted. If they drifted, it turned them right or left. After an hour, Charlie said, “I have to stop. I can’t…”

  “Yes, you can.”

  But he couldn’t, not for long. He fell a dozen times as the day died and purple light bled from the trees. Herbert dragged him, and then carried him. Fifty yards, another mile. He fell himself, and the wail that rose on still air robbed the last of his warmth. “What do you want? What?” He shouted, “Tell me what!”

  He was bawling and screaming, firing blindly with the .22 until the h
ammer dropped on an empty chamber. Then he was up, and Charlie was on his shoulders, as loose and lifeless as a murdered dog. Herbert pushed harder, and the light faded. He didn’t want to be in the swamp, not in the cold and black, not at night. But daylight ended and stars appeared. He could have dropped his friend—he thought about it—but in the end, he didn’t slow. He struck trees and bloodied his face, stumbled on long-frozen feet. And all the while, Charlie was muttering: “It’s coming, man. It’s coming.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I think I see it.…”

  If he did or not, they never knew for sure. Herbert blasted through a tangle of vine and found open land beneath a prickling of stars.

  They were out; they’d made it.

  He managed a hundred feet, then dropped to his knees as a final sound welled from the swamp behind them. Not words, he thought, and nothing kind. But it was familiar, like a knife was familiar.

  Laughter, Herbert thought.

  Whatever it is, it’s laughing.

  * * *

  Randolph didn’t move for thirty minutes, thinking that if he did, it might sense him and return. The cowardice shamed him, but it was the hunger that made him stir. On his feet, he felt dizzy and near hallucinatory. The sun was less dim, and the day not so bitter. Shadows stretched where none had been before. Turning at a sound, he saw a rabbit as white as the snow and less fearful than any he’d ever seen. It rose on hind legs, sniffing, and Randolph was so stunned by the sight, he could only stare, thinking: Life! There is life here after all! By the time he remembered the rifle at his feet, the rabbit had returned to all fours and disappeared under a thicket. Even then, Randolph didn’t move. Birds flitted in the trees, and all around him were the tracks of deer and fox and smaller things. Some of the tracks were fresh, and others half-filled with snow.

  The effect on Randolph was a weakness beyond that of emptiness and aching ribs. Leaving the fire, he stumbled along the freshest tracks. Deer, he thought, and recent. He touched a print, and it collapsed at the edges. Above him, a squirrel chittered, and Randolph felt superstitious dread so sudden and intense, he shook even harder.