The Hunting Tree

by Ike Hamill

  Mike blinked hard and shook his head to snap himself out of his stupor. He raised the gun again and aimed at the newly healed chest and fired.

  The creature reacted instantly. Its long arm swooped down and plucked the paranormal attenuator from the floor. Mike got off one more shot to the creature’s chest, but before Mike could shoot again, the metal box was flying through the air towards his head. The dangling antenna fluttered behind, dragged along by its cord. Mike ducked and raised his hands defensively, taking the brunt of the missile with the shotgun.

  He tried to re-aim. The giant hurled the chair and it crashed into Mike’s pelvis and knees. He dodged to the side, to avoid being hit by the detector Bill had built to track the creature. Mike ducked into the master bedroom just as another chair crashed down the hall.

  Leading with the gun, Mike popped out into the hallway and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. The blow from the amplifier had damaged the action of the shotgun and the trigger would no longer squeeze. The cans of soda buzzed by Mike’s head and exploded against the wall at the end of the hall. He pulled back into the bedroom and tried to focus. Now that he’d injured the creature, his instinct to fight was powerful. Without a working shotgun, fighting would be suicide.

  The alarm system panel caught his eye. He crossed to it, and considered if he really wanted to activate the alarm. It might draw the authorities and buy him some time. On the other hand, he would be endangering the lives of people coming to his aid. The debate was moot—the display on the alarm panel flashed “ERROR.”

  Mike looked around the room for a telephone, but found none. He wondered about Ken’s cellphone and then remembered that his friend usually kept his cellphone on the counter downstairs at night. He had to run. Mike steeled himself and poked his head out through the doorway again. The monster had curled itself in the hall, around Bill’s body. Mike pulled back from the sight quickly, but the scene had burned into his mind. The creature was quickly eating its way through Bill’s corpse, and the results were evident in both its chest and head wounds. Each swallow was helping it regenerate its flesh, repairing the shotgun wounds.

  Mike hung his head and exerted all his control to subdue his nausea. The door to the bathroom, where Ken and Sharon presumably still lay unconscious, was still blocked by the dresser. He could move the dresser and get to his friend, but the other door to that bathroom led directly to the hall.

  Still carrying the broken gun, Mike sprinted for the window and threw back the curtains. In the ambient light from the downstairs windows he saw Ken’s back yard and a row of bushes on the ground just below him.

  It’s not that far, he thought frantically. Mike jerked on the window several times to no avail. He sat down the shotgun and tried again with both hands, but it wouldn’t budge. The window was locked. After disengaging the lock his next attempt almost pulled the window from the frame. He fumbled with the screen and let it tumble down into the night.

  He didn’t let himself think about the drop—he had never tried to climb out of a second-floor window, and didn’t intend to ponder too long in the face of what was curled up in the hallway. Mike thrust his leg out the window and straddled the sill while he ducked his head under upper sash. Lifting his upper body with his hands, Mike tried to pull his other leg through while his outside leg banged against the siding. His leg wouldn’t come. His pants were caught. As he tugged, his arms sagged, jamming his crotch painfully into the ledge. In desperation, Mike pushed away from the wall.

  His jeans held him briefly and then ripped at the cuff. He tumbled backwards with his arms flailing. Mike landed on the bush squarely with his back and rolled off to the side. He took his feet and hunched towards the door. His ankle had knocked into the window frame. He moved quickly despite the slight limp.

  Mike tugged on the back door. It was locked. His body wanted to run; to stretch his legs and run until they fell off. He actually entertained the idea for a second before his conscience took over.

  I have to try to help Ken, even if it’s probably too late, he thought.

  Holding his left arm close to his body, Mike hustled around the garage to the front yard. Each step seemed to bring a new injury report from a different part of his body, but he did his best to ignore the pain as he shuffled towards the front door. Just before his hand reached the knob, he realized it was probably locked. Bill had sealed the house pretty carefully before trapping the stairs. Not because he thought a locked door would stop the giant, but because he hoped it would force the monster to make noise while breaking in.

  Mike let the lock make his decision: if the door was locked, he would run off into the night and do his best to live with his failure to help yet another friend.

  The door was unlocked.

  Mike swung the door slowly inward, trying to make as little noise as possible. Once inside, he left it wide open, leaving himself the option of escape. His first objective sat on the counter. From the sideboard in the downstairs hallway, Mike pocketed Ken’s keys and turned on his cell so he could dial nine-one-one.

  “What’s the nature of the emergency?” asked the dispatcher.

  “There’s a man in my house,” said Mike, keeping his voice low. He recited the address and told her that his friend had been murdered by the intruder. She instructed him to get to a safe place as he stepped over the aluminum foil and broken glass to get to the kitchen. Without thinking, he hung up the phone as he turned the corner into the kitchen. They had left a few lights on, mostly the under-cabinet ones that cast a soft glow on the countertops. But a brighter light came from the ceiling, to the right of the doorway.

  Mike’s attention was drawn up by the light cascading from the hole in the ceiling and he stepped right into a huge puddle. He stared upwards at the ragged hole, dripping with blood, as his foot splashed in the pool of Bill’s blood on the tile floor. He pulled away from the mess and braced himself against the center island. Fortunately, the item he sought sat only inches from his hand.

  Mike grabbed the largest knife from the butcher block and pushed back towards the door. He wanted to act quickly, before the monster could recover further or hurt Ken and Sharon. Back through the hall he focused more on the staircase than the floor and he shuffled through the remnants of Bill’s booby-trap. The foil crackled as he stepped. He saw no movement from the top of the stairs.

  The stairs were spotted with bits of flesh and blood from the creature’s wounds, but Mike didn’t see them. His eyes were locked, waiting for movement from the top. He froze in fear when the phone in his back pocket rang. With the knife held out in front of him, he reached into his pocket with his other hand and squeezed the phone, pressing all the buttons, until it stopped ringing.

  Mike resumed his climb. He expected to see Bill’s body, but where it had lain, he found only a gory spot next to the hole. More disgusting than the slick patch of blood and guts, the sound of the monster feeding struck Mike’s ears. With one more step he could see the door to the bathroom. It stood open, and the giant’s feet poked out into the hall. Mike readied himself to attack, only hoping he was there soon enough to prevent more tragedy. With his next step, his hopes were dashed.

  Ken’s head rolled from the doorway, between the monster’s legs. Mike dropped the knife and fled across the hallway and back down the stairs. In his imagination, every step he took was shadowed by the giant killer, but when he burst through the front door and hooked a left across the lawn, he could see no pursuit. Mid-stride, he pulled Ken’s keys from his pocket and thumbed the fob to unlock the SUV parked next to Bill’s dented car.

  Panting, he kept close watch on the rectangle of light spilling from Ken’s door as he started the car. He gunned the engine and spun the tires while backing out of the driveway. The truck lurched as he slammed the brakes and tugged it into drive. He tried to press the accelerator gently, but fine control was not in his current repertoire. The tires chirped again as he swerved away. He tried to keep the car centered on the suburban street, but he spent more t
han half of his time craning his next around to watch Ken’s house for signs of the killer.

  He slowed briefly at the stop sign, pulling the car to the right and skidding into the oncoming lane before regaining control. Mike willed himself to calm down and pull his foot from the accelerator. When the SUV had settled down to a reasonable speed he noticed the sirens approaching. The flashing lights appeared next, and Mike pulled over to them pass in the opposite direction. Panic gripped his heart again as he realized that his maps and all his notes were still sitting in Bill’s car.

  How am I going to warn Melanie? Mike thought. Her phone number is back at the house, which should be swarming with police soon. Maybe I won’t have to—maybe the police will stop it.

  Mike knew he couldn’t rely on the authorities to dispatch the beast; its strength and survival instincts were too strong. Besides, they had been hunting the thing for a while and had been unable to stop it. He didn’t realize he was slowing down until he saw the headlights behind him and got his foot back on the accelerator pedal.

  I can beat it there, he thought. Then I won’t have to warn her.

  He drove another mile before his realization: he had Ken’s phone in his pocket, and that’s where he had stolen Melanie’s number from in the first place. Mike dug the phone out of his pocket and stole glances at it to find her number in the recent calls. Her number was on the list from that very morning.

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  Davey

  BY THE TIME they got home, the pill started working. His mom had stopped at a drive-through for fast food and insisted they eat something in the car, so Davey would have a full stomach as the prescription recommended. Davey felt different—less paranoid and able to think clearly—but didn’t feel any profound effects from the medication.

  When his mom pulled into the driveway, Davey unbuckled his seatbelt slowly and climbed deliberately out of the car, placing his hands and feet with care, as if these small motions demanded his full attention. Without being told, he gathered the fast food trash and his mom’s bag from the store. He wasn’t sure if his mom noticed the change in his behavior, but he wanted to be subtle, so he underplayed what he assumed the effects should be.

  Davey put the trash into the large can in the garage and smiled to himself when he remembered that it was trash night. He would have extra time to play out his act. He pulled the can back on its wheels and moved it slowly past his mom’s car. His sister had already gone inside, but his mom was still collecting her work from the back of the car. She paused to watch him go by. Davey swallowed a tiny yawn.

  He left the trash can at the curb and shuffled back to the house. His mom met him at the door.

  “Where’s your bag?” asked Melanie.

  “I left it at the Career Center,” said Davey. He looked at his feet. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “Do you have stuff for catcher’s camp tomorrow?”

  “All except knee pads,” he answered. “But I can borrow those.” He walked over to the kitchen table and sat at his place, looking at the placemat. Although his torpor was mostly an act, he did find it very easy to concentrate on very small details for a long period of time. He could have suggested that he go to bed early, but he knew it would carry more strength if it came from Mom.

  “Did you get enough to eat?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, not bothering to look up at her.

  “Your sister is watching TV,” she said. “Do you want to go watch with her.”

  “No thank you,” said Davey.

  “Ice cream?”

  “I’m stuffed, thanks,” said Davey. He regretted this last answer immediately. Davey sensed that turning down ice cream might be too obvious, but to his surprise, she seemed to believe his answer.

  “You seem tired, honey,” she said, walking over to stroke his hair. “Do you want to go to bed early?”

  “I guess,” he said, staying put in his seat.

  “Come on,” she said, tugging at his arm, “You’ve had a long day. Let’s get you to bed.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  * * * * *

  ONCE ALONE, DAVEY WENT through all the motions of preparing for bed. After his shower, instead of wearing his pajamas, he pulled out fresh clothes and dressed himself before climbing between the sheets. When Melanie tucked him in, he wore everything except the windbreaker, hanging from his doorknob.

  In the dark, Davey shut his eyes and thought about the hunter—the monster working its bloody way across the state to reach his family. If he were dreaming, he would be able to watch its every move, but he didn’t dare sleep. It was too close. The best he could do while awake was to form a general sense of its actions. Flashes played across his closed eyes. He saw Doctor Stuart’s kind face twisted in agony. He saw another woman. He didn’t recognize her, but she was also connected to his blood.

  Davey opened his eyes in the dark and tears escaped the corners of his eyes. He had almost gotten used to waking from horrible nightmares, but watching the monster eat its prey was too much for his conscious mind to bear. Davey panted as he slipped back into the mellow funk of the drug. He craned his neck and watched the band of light under his door. Footsteps crossed from left to right. The bright hall light was doused. He heard his mom padding down the stairs.

  In the kitchen, the house phone rang. Davey recognized his opportunity and slipped from between the sheets. He grabbed his jacket from the doorknob and pulled his door shut behind him. His plan was simple, but relied on some luck. At the bottom of the stairs he caught his first break—his mom’s bag sat next to the coat closet. He crouched and rifled through the bag, grabbing her cellphone, keys, and wallet.

  The front door was closest, but it made terrible squeaking noise when opened and a loud click when closed. He needed one more bit of luck to get away. Stuck to the side of the house, his mom’s office had a sliding door which he could open and close silently. It led to the side yard. Unfortunately, to get to the office he would have to pass right behind the couch where his sister was watching TV.

  Davey crept past the closet and halted behind the potted palm so he could spy on his sister using the reflection in the window. He stood so still that his legs started to burn with the exertion. The volume on the TV was low and above it Davey heard the steady flip of magazine pages. Just from the sound of her page-turning Davey knew his sister was mad at something. He froze, watching the reflection of the back of her head. As perceptive as his sister was normally, when she was angry she was even more so: apt to complain that he was breathing too much or his heart was beating too loudly. He knew he couldn’t dare try to sneak past her.

  He turned back towards the front door, ready to take a chance. Just as his foot crossed back into the hall next to the stairs, he heard his mom on the phone, pushing her way through the swinging door from the kitchen.

  “I just think we’re not going to have time for that,” she said into the phone. Davey pulled his foot back and pressed himself flat against the wall. His mother was right around the corner; he heard her talking as she bent to pick up her purse. “Hold on, I’ll ask her royal highness. Susan?” she yelled, retreating down the hall.

  “What?” he heard his sister from his other side.

  His mom called something from the kitchen that Davey couldn’t quite hear. She addressed his sister from the other side of the TV room. Davey compared his options again. The front door was too risky, but now that his mom was on the other side of the TV room, she would see him sneaking into her office.

  “Okay, I’m coming,” he heard his sister say. “God,” she said, exhaling.

  When he heard his sister’s discarded magazine hit the table, Davey took a gamble. He sidled down to the plant and checked the reflection in the window one last time. As quickly and as quietly as his sneakers would allow, Davey tiptoed behind the couch and made the safety of his mom’s office without being seen.

  He slipped out the sliding door, closing it harder than he intended. Glancing in t
he window, he found he was safe—his sister and mom were deeply engaged in the kitchen. Davey moved across the side yard and crossed through the Jankovick’s yard to get to the alley between the houses.

  Crouched behind the bushes, Davey dialed Paul’s number.

  “Hello?” Paul answered the phone timidly.

  “Hey Paul, it’s me,” said Davey.

  “Jesus, Davey,” Paul said, “I thought it was your mom. You know I’m not supposed to get calls on this phone. My mom’s gonna kill me if she finds out.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Davey, “she won’t find out. You don’t get charged for nighttime calls, and she’s not going to look at the bill if there are no unexpected charges.”

  “Yeah, but she could,” said Paul.

  “Look, I need your help,” said Davey.

  “No way,” said Paul. “My mom might eventually let us hang out together after I get back from vacation, she even said so, but if she catches me helping you with something now, she’ll never forget it.”

  “I’m totally serious about this,” said Davey. “If you don’t help me now I might not be around when you get back.”

  “Seriously?” Paul’s voice became very small at the other end of the call.

  “Yeah,” Davey said with a heavy sigh. “You know I wouldn’t joke with you about that.”

  Davey waited while the phone was silent. He knew Paul and knew that his deliberation couldn’t be influenced once it began.

  “Yeah, okay,” Paul said eventually, “what do you need?”

  “Meet me out back your place,” said Davey, “and bring the keys to the shed.”

  “How come?” asked Paul.

  Davey waited again while Paul figured it out. He suspected that if he stated the request aloud, it would be easier for Paul to deny.

  “No!” said Paul. “No way. Anything but that. My brother really will kill me.” Paul muffled the phone with his hand, but Davey still heard him address his mother—“Nothing, Mom. It’s my game.”