Hunters

by Chet Williamson

  "You sure that's not just his dick?" Sam replied, and the two of them laughed.

  "I'm disappointed, Jim," Chuck said. "I thought you'd have underwear with them little hearts."

  Jean gestured toward his midsection with the gun barrel. "Get it off."

  "Christ, Jean," the man called Michael said.

  "What?"

  "Give him a little dignity, that's all."

  "Did he give that animal hanging outside any dignity?"

  "I don't understand," said Jim. He could feel tears trickling from the corners of his eyes, but was powerless to stop them. "Why are you doing this to me?"

  "Because," Sam said, "it's easier to gut you if we don't have to undress you first."

  "Gut...gut me?" Jim felt as though he wasn't even there anymore, as though he were dreaming it, or watching it all on TV. Things like this didn't happen.

  "Jim," the man called Chuck said, "I just got one question that'll wrap this all up. How old are you?"

  He would have told them anything they asked at that point. His mind was on overload, running on automatic pilot." "Fifty-two," he said dully.

  "That's old enough," said Chuck, and he brought up his rifle and pulled the trigger.

  Jim didn't hear the sound of the shot, but he saw what seemed like a wisp of flame lick from the muzzle, and just before the bullet struck and ended everything for him, he thought that he had never actually seen the end of a firing muzzle before, and how he would have to tell Ben about.

  "'That's old enough!' Did you love that or what?" Chuck Marriner threw back his head and bellowed a laugh. "I thought that was one helluva line myself, that was a real Ah-nult line. 'Dot's oalt enuff,'" he said, in a passable Schwarzennegger accent. "And kaboom. Classic."

  "What the hell did you do that for!" Jean shouted.

  "Shit, Jean, what were you gonna do, look at his dick and let him go? I'm your soldier, babe. Your Class-A numero uno death machine. You point, I shoot. I mean, you did want him dead, yes?"

  "Not...like that."

  "Look, babe, I'm straight. I only sexually torture women, okay?"

  Sam giggled again, and Jean gave her a look, then turned her attention back to Chuck. "Did it ever occur to you that I might have wanted to do it?"

  "Hey, you're the leader, you shouldn't get your pretty hands dirty."

  "Jesus Christ!" Michael shook his head angrily. "I can't believe we're standing here arguing about who should've shot this guy. He's dead, all right? And his friends could be coming any minute now."

  "Hey, that's right," Chuck said. "Okay, Jean, you can shoot the next one. Happy now?"

  "Fuck you!"

  "Hey!" Michael barked. "We're all fucked if we don't get our shit together. Now they can come from four different directions, so let's stay inside, one of us at the door and the others at each of the windows." He gestured to the windows at each side of the cabin. "Bust out a pane of glass in each one, and we can shoot them as they come in, okay?"

  Jean looked sullenly at the floor. Chuck, still sitting at the table, smirked, and Sam, seemingly delighted at the chaos and the carnage, grinned openly.

  "We're in this together, folks," Michael said. "Let's not blow it. Jean, which station do you want?"

  She grudgingly chose the front door. Chuck got up and stretched. "Since I got first crack, guess I'll take the back window. Nobody ought to come that way. Maybe that'll cheer Jeannie up for losing her geezer."

  Jean ignored the comment and kept looking out the partly opened door. Sam sauntered over to a window on the right side, between a pair of bunks and a cupboard that held vast stacks of mismatched dishes. Michael yanked a blanket from a bunk and spread it over the dead man on the floor and the rapidly growing pool of blood underneath him that the old floor boards slowly soaked up.

  "Offend your sensibilities?" Chuck asked.

  "Why look at it if we don't have to?" Michael answered, going to the window on the left.

  "Gonna see a lot worse than that before today's over," Chuck said, and turned back to look out at the brown forest, the heavy gray sky above.

  It was true. The first man came in only fifteen minutes later. Jean didn't tell the others about him. She simply lined him up in the crosshairs, waited until he came closer and was walking directly toward her, and pulled the trigger.

  Startled, the other three leapt and cursed and turned to look at her as she fired again. The first shot had taken the man in the shoulder and spun him around before he fell. Jean, never having shot anyone before, was shaken by the power of the bullet she had fired, and missed her second shot completely. By that time, Michael was behind her.

  "Christ," he muttered, and nudged her out of the way. He stepped onto the porch, aimed with his own rifle, and fired. The bullet snapped the struggling man's head back, and he lay still among the dry leaves. Jean came out onto the porch, followed by Chuck and Sam.

  "Nice shot," Sam said.

  "Forty yards with a scope?" Chuck said. "What's so nice about that?"

  Michael leaned his rifle against the porch rail and started toward the dead man. "Come on, let's drag him out of sight."

  Jean followed mechanically. She had shot the man, but she hadn't killed him. She would prove herself, though, before this day was over. It would be easier, she thought, now that she had at least shot a man.

  She knew that she could kill. After all, she had tried to kill Craig, hadn't she? And she would have too, if he hadn't been so damn quick on his feet. She hadn't told the others about her failed attempt. It only would have made her look ineffective, and she couldn't afford that, especially with two men who had slept with her and a little bitch who seemed to have no respect for her whatever.

  Jean didn't have long to wait for her next chance. A half hour later she saw two men come walking along the stream. They looked weary, and relieved to see the cabin. She turned to the others and said, "Two of them heading this way."

  Michael was at her side in an instant. "Let me take care of one, Chuck the other. We're the best shots."

  "Bullshit," Jean said. "We'll all shoot. Twice the chance of hitting them."

  Michael thought for a moment, then nodded. "Good idea. You and I will take the one on the left, Sam and Chuck, you take the other one."

  Chuck nodded matter-of-factly and shouldered his rifle, while Sam did the same. The four of them were careful to stay out of each other's way. They remained several feet back in the shadow of the cabin's interior, with their guns pointed through the door. Michael and Chuck remained standing while the women knelt on one knee. When the two hunters were fifty yards away, everyone aimed, and Michael said, "On three. One...two...three."

  The four shots went off as one, a tremendous din that deafened the shooters. But they kept their eyes open, and saw the two men crash backwards, their rifles flying to the side. The man on the left's hat flew off in a cloud of red spray. Its owner fell like a rock and did not move, but the hunter on the right twitched until the four were at his side.

  Jean gritted her teeth, chambered a round, and fired a bullet directly into his head. His leg continued to spasm for several seconds, while she felt a vicious sense of triumph. There. She had killed, just like the rest of them.

  They dragged the two men into the wood shed where they had put the second victim, and covered them with a tarp. Then they went back to wait for the final two men.

  Sam Rogers bagged the first. He came into the camp just before 4:00, and she downed him with a shot that caught him just above the breastbone. When Chuck remarked what a sweet spot it was, she shook her head. "I missed, man. I was tryin' to get him in the fuckin' eye."

  The last hunter came in at dusk. Chuck saw him through the window, dragging a deer. The man seemed exhausted, and he stopped every few yards to rest. "Hey, we got a customer," he called softly to the others, who came to the back window.

  When Jean saw the dead deer the man was dragging, she became livid. "That bastard. Don't shoot him yet. I want to talk to him." She stormed through t
he cabin and out the front door, her loaded rifle at the ready. She walked over the tiny bridge across the creek, and down the beaten path along it.

  The man was concentrating so much on his dead burden that he didn't see her until she was only twenty yards away. When he did, he let his drag rope fall and straightened up. His rifle was slung over his back.

  Just as Jean was about to talk to him, a hole punched itself into the front of his down filled hunting coat, she heard the sound of a shot, and he toppled backwards, falling over the body of the deer he had been dragging. Her shock lasted only a moment, and she swung around to glare at the rear window of the cabin, where Chuck Marriner was leaning on the sill, rifle in hand.

  "You shit! What the hell did you do that for? I wanted to talk to him!"

  "You wanted to pussywhip him," Chuck called back, "and we got no time for that. Getting dark, and we got a lot to do before we go."

  The son of a bitch had contradicted her again, this time with a bullet. But she knew he was right, goddamn it. She had wanted to pussywhip the man, humiliate him, make him feel like a living shit for killing that deer before they killed him. But they didn't have time for such luxuries now. They had to get the job done and get the message out. Only that would keep the hunters out of the woods tomorrow. Only that would keep the deer alive.

  All right then, Chuck was right, and a real leader would admit when she was wrong, not pile stubbornness on top of faulty judgment. She had shown them that she could kill, now she would show them that she could admit to a mistake as well. She would be bigger than they.

  So she nodded and tried to smile. "Good point," she shouted. "Let's get this piece of crap dragged up to the camp and get to work."

  Several minutes later, when they had all the bodies out on the ground, they cut off the clothes. Everyone worked in silence, except for Sam, who made several remarks about the dead men's buttocks and penises that even Chuck ignored.

  "Okay," Chuck said when the bodies all lay naked in front of them. "Anybody need a refresher course?" He took two sheets of papers from his pocket, unfolded them, and set them on the ground, using rocks to keep the cold wind from blowing them away. They were cut from a book on deer hunting, and showed, in a dozen color photographs, how to field dress a deer.

  Jean took a deep breath, slid a long skinning knife from its sheath beneath her jacket, and eyed the pipe from which the one dead deer hung. "Do you think there'll be room for all of them?"

  Chuck nodded. "They'll be cozy, though. Hell, that's probably the way they woulda wanted it."

  Sam knelt on the ground, her knife out, next to the body of Jim Lincoln, but Chuck put his hand on her shoulder. "Hey, babe, how about startin' on somebody else. I got special plans for Jimbo."

  Sam frowned up at him. "Special plans?"

  "Yeah." Chuck grinned. "You ever hear of caping out a trophy?"

  "Found your hideout," Larry Moxon said as he came through the door.

  It was 6:00, and it had been dark for nearly an hour. Ned was glad to see his friend, and he was sure that Megan was too. It had been a long, gray day, with the look and feel of approaching, implacable snow making it even more oppressive.

  "Damn, it's cold," Larry said, taking off his hat, coat, and gloves. "Good thing you got your love to keep you warm. You're gonna need it."

  "That sounds threatening," Ned said.

  "Coffee coffee coffee," Larry chanted, making his way to the kitchen.

  "There's some made," Megan said.

  "Bless you, my child. You're so good to me I'm starting to feel guilty." He poured himself a steaming mug.

  "You going to share this with us?" Ned asked. "Or will you crate us up and ship us to the mystery spot by UPS?"

  "Mmm-mmm." Larry shook his head and waited until the first hot swallow of coffee had gone down his throat. He sighed in satisfaction, then smiled mischievously. "Thanks to Bill Whitson, you two have just won yourself an all expense paid, government funded trip to the beautiful and breathtaking Aurora Fire Tower."

  "Be still, my heart," Ned said. "Where in God's name is that?"

  "In God's Country, my boy. Northern Potter County, to be exact. Two counties northeast of us, and up in the northeast part of the county. I'd say it was in the middle of nowhere, but that would make it sound more accessible than it is. Aurora is the nearest town, and that's fifteen miles away. The last three of it, is dirt, and closed to the public."

  "A fire tower?" Megan said.

  "If you can call it that. Still functional, but it's scheduled to be torn down for scrap next year. Bill said it's in worse shape than the Cornwall tower—you remember that one, Ned? They fenced it off since, took out the bottom two flights of steps."

  Ned nodded. They had visited that tower on a trip to Harrisburg two years before. Neither Ned nor Larry had gone up, but the condition of the tower had been obvious even from the bottom. It was rusted badly, the metal joints were loose, and Ned thought even the wood of the steps looked rotten. The trapdoor on the bottom of the cab, the square room at the tower's top, had been padlocked, but that didn't stop people from climbing the rickety steps for the thrill and the view. Now the fence would stop them.

  "Well, the spotter at Aurora got sick yesterday. There's a retired tower man who went up today, but his eyes aren't what they used to be. Everybody else is so damn busy with the hunters this week that they'll welcome your going up there."

  "So I'll...be the lookout?"

  "Yep. Sound okay?"

  Without hesitation, Ned nodded. "Sure." Larry knew nothing about his fear of heights, nor would he have to, Ned thought. He shouldn't have a real problem with the tower. He didn't like it, but he could hold on to the handrails on the way up and down, and once inside the enclosed cab, it would just be like a room with one helluva view.

  "The accommodations are nothing special," Larry went on. "Like most of those cabins. A couple light bulbs and an outhouse, woodstove, state-issue dishes, a few sticks of furniture. Pretty rough."

  "We'll manage," Megan said, squeezing Ned's arm. He wondered if it was a romantic gesture or one telling him not to worry about the tower. He patted her hand.

  "You might want to take your climbing stuff along, Megan," Larry said. "Tower's right on the edge of a big old rock cliff, maybe three, four hundred feet to the bottom."

  Megan's squeeze came again, and this time Ned knew it was a don't worry squeeze. He chuckled to let her know it was all right. "She'll be on that cliff like a bear on a honeycomb," he said. "She's climbed all the good ones around here."

  "Oh, by the way," Larry said, "I ran into Chief Statler this afternoon and told him that you were headed out of town for a while. He said no problem, just to let him know where he could contact you. The hearing on that shooting probably won't be for a couple weeks. They still haven't even ID'd the guy you shot."

  "That's the least of my worries. Statler said it would just be a formality anyway. Self-defense is a pretty good reason when there's already a first victim at the scene." Ned went to the coffee maker and poured himself a cup. "So when do we leave for the great beyond?"

  "Tomorrow morning. ASAP. I got a map how to get there, and you'll need it. The old tower man will meet you there, fill you in on everything you need to know. You ever been a lookout before?"

  "No, never was."

  "Nothing much to it. Relaxing really. Main thing is not to fall asleep up there."

  "I wonder if there'll be much to see," Megan said. "Have you heard the weather reports?"

  "Yep," Larry said. "They're saying we're gonna get it before morning, and then it's gonna keep on, what, a foot and half, two feet? So I suspect what you two are gonna have—if the snow doesn't keep you from getting there—is a nice, snowed-in vacation for a few days."

  "Shouldn't be a problem," said Ned. "Chains on, that Blazer'll get through almost anything."

  "You may see almost anything, pal," Larry said, and took another huge gulp of coffee.

  It was long past dark by the time Jean,
Chuck, Sam, and Michael got to the end of the access road that had led them to Camp Kessler. They drove out of the Moshannon State Forest, Chuck and Sam in the Bronco, Michael and Jean in the jeep.

  While Chuck and Sam headed back to St. Mary's, Jean headed west on 948, then north on 219 until they arrived in Ridgway. She pulled over at a phone booth near a closed gas station and Michael took out a handwritten piece of paper from his pocket and dialed the number of the St. Mary's police department. Jean had wanted to call in the message, but Michael had told her that a woman's voice would narrow down the search too quickly to women hunters, who were far in the minority.

  "St. Mary's Police Department," a man said on the other end.

  "Listen to me carefully," Michael said, pitching his voice lower than its natural range. "This is a member of the Wildlife Liberation Front calling. We were responsible for the executions yesterday in McKean, Jefferson, and Clearfield Counties, and one the day before in Elk County, when one of our brothers was murdered. Our latest visit has been to Camp Kessler in Elk County. We suggest you go there immediately to learn the fate that may await all those who hunt and kill the wildlife of this state. The work of the Wildlife Liberation Front has only begun." He did not wait for a reply, but hung up.

  "You want to wipe things off?" Jean asked. "The receiver?"

  "I'm wearing gloves, Jean," he said, holding them up. Then he remembered the quarter. "Oh shit."

  "What?"

  "The quarter I put in the phone. I couldn't get it out of my pocket with my gloves on, so I took them off to get it."

  "Did you put them back on before you put it in?"

  "Yes, but I didn't wipe the fucking coin, it could still have my prints on it." He looked around. "How can we get it open?"

  "Jesus, I don't know, shoot it?"

  "No, somebody would hear the shot, see the jeep, maybe get the license plate."

  "Well, we can't wait around, they may be tracing that call already. Don't they have machines that do that?"

  "Hell, I don't know, maybe. Oh shit."

  "Look, there are lots of quarters in there, right?"

  "I don't know. Maybe they just emptied it."

  "And maybe there are a hundred in there. Michael, get real, they are not going to fingerprint every quarter in there, and what if they do? Have you ever been arrested? Are your prints on file with police anywhere?"