by Chad Lutzke
"I'll kill you!" Allen launched bile and spit as he screamed, tearing up his throat. "You're done!"
The man stabbed his fork hard into the meat, held it high as though toasting Allen, and stuffed his mouth full. Frustrated and nauseated, Allen retreated once again to his corner. He stared at the heavily chewed piece of flesh resting on the platform. He wanted it gone but couldn't bring himself to kick it to the ground, as though it would be the ultimate act of defilement toward his friend.
Allen rested against the corner and closed his eyes. He thought about his wife at home, about Greg and good times passed. He fought back tears as he attempted to fall asleep. Though physically and emotionally spent, the pain from his back and wounds stopped him from drifting off. A six pack would put him out. Allen opened his eyes as he recalled the muscle relaxants for his back he’d carried with him for the trip. He had put them in a Ziploc bag instead of their usual bottle in case they got wet. He grabbed the small baggie from his pocket and counted the pills. Twelve. He took two and chased them with water from the canteen. Rain began to fall, most of it being caught by the thousands of leaves above him. He grabbed one more pill and swallowed it to join the others. Sleep would come tonight no matter what.
**
Allen opened his eyes in the morning to the flesh that still remained on the platform with him. Flies were now marching across it, spastically tapping it with their fly parts. The piece of Greg was a morning-after reminder that the horror he experienced the day before was indeed a reality. He pulled his cheek up off the hard plywood floor and rubbed it. Bits of dirt and wood fell. He stunk of vomit and body odor. Pulling himself up to stretch, Allen spotted his pocket knife stuck in the tree near the bullet holes; the picture of his wife impaled through the chest. Another warning. Another mind game. He pocketed the knife and caressed the picture. I’m so sorry, hon. Guilt from being a lazy, incompetent husband filled him. He promised himself he would try harder if he got out of this alive.
“Morning,” the man said from below.
Allen ignored him and pocketed the picture. He would spend the day brainstorming; waiting for even the smallest opportunity. No longer would he be a helpless victim in this tree. Either he was going to die today or go home today. Allen watched as the man made himself some eggs. The chipper spirit of the man, while eight empty beer bottles lay on the ground around him, told Allen the man was used to an abundance of alcohol. Your average person didn’t rise quite so lively after a night of heavy consumption.
Allen searched his backpack again hoping to have overlooked something; anything to feed his aching stomach. He paused at the nightcrawlers. No! I’m leaving today or dying. I can hold off. He tried the cell phone for the hundredth time. Nothing.
From below, the man tried striking up a conversation. “No, I never served. They wouldn’t let me in. They said I wasn’t....” He trailed off. “Doesn’t matter why. Fortunately for me, the academy took me in with open arms. Narcotics division. That’s where I got Shadow, here.” He patted the shepherd. “But that was the old me. Too much stress, that job. Being out here there’s a freedom you can get nowhere else.”
Allen had no interest in engaging in discussion with the psychopath. His focus was devoted to getting home. The remainder of the day was spent watching the man collect wood for the fire, play with the dog, target practice, and making the campsite even more comfortable for himself by bringing a lawn chair, some books, and a refill on the cooler. Had it not been for the shade from the tree, the day-long wait would have been all the more miserable. Toward evening, Allen had developed a plan that could only begin once the man was asleep. He was counting on a repeat of heavy drinking to deepen the man’s slumber.
Darkness came and the smell of chicken being barbequed filled the woods. This time the man offered no food to Allen. It was clear that the night before was nothing but entertainment for the psychotic and not sympathy for the starving. Periodically, the man would shine a flashlight at Allen like some kind of bed check. Most of the night was quiet with minimal bursts of random attempts at conversation; all of which Allen ignored. Finally, two hours had gone by since the last bed check. It was time. Allen, very slowly and very quietly, peered over the edge of the plywood floor. The man looked asleep, but it was hard to tell. Most of him was covered by the tent, while his booted feet poked out the front’s wide opening. The dog lay asleep guarding the foot of the tree. Allen counted the empty beer bottles. Six. Not quite the indulgence as the night before, but close enough.
Allen took out his baggie of pills and poured all nine remaining out onto the floor of the blind. He then fixed his gaze on the piece of flesh still resting on the platform. After a deep sigh, he grabbed the flesh and used it to wrap five of the pills; pushing them hard into the flesh. He looked proudly at the doggie treat he’d just made considering how tough the flesh had gotten in the last twenty-four hours. There was a concern that the impact of the ground would cause the treat to open and the pills to go undigested. He grabbed the end of the rope from the pulley system and frayed it using his knife. Once he got a long enough thread from the fray, he cut it and tightly tied it around the flesh. Greg the martyr. As appalling as the thought was, there was now some truth to it.
Allen took the towel out of his backpack, rolled it up tightly, and dropped it down on top of the dog, assuring it would be awake for delivery of the sleeping aid. The dog lifted his head, but the feet poking outside the tent remained still. Allen carefully dropped the morsel, which was quickly consumed by the shepherd. Concerned it may not be enough, he took the other piece from the bucket and repeated the process using the remaining pills. Again, the dog quickly devoured it.
Allen spent the next hour relearning how to properly tie a slip knot using one end of the rope; perhaps that summer spent in the Boy Scouts wasn’t a waste of time. When satisfied with his skill, he looked over the edge of the platform to find the dog unconscious. Its protruding tongue told Allen the sleep may be permanent. All the better. Allen slowly let the bucket make its way to the ground. Keeping a tight hold of the end of the rope with the satisfactory slip knot, he carefully descended the 2 x 4 ladder, closely watching the feet from the tent with each step down. Outside of wincing with each step, the pain in his leg would have to be ignored.
Allen stood on solid ground just inches away from the dog that helped kill his friend. He stared at the tent, afraid to move. He could see the butt of the rifle alongside the man’s leg. Allen longed to run rather than carry through with the rest of his plan but feared being stopped by a bullet. The warning shots proved the man was far above average in accuracy. Allen began the trek toward the tent; each step closer felt like hours. With teeth clenched so tight he thought they’d break, he prayed that the crunching leaves and breaking twigs under his feet would go unnoticed, blending with the crackle of the campfire.
Only two steps separated him from the man’s feet. Allen’s chest began to hurt. His shaking hands held up the knot. The anticipation was too much and his patience dissipated. His nerves forced him into action before he could stop them. Allen sprung forward toward the man’s feet looping the rope around them. The sudden movement caused his leg to give, tossing him into the tent, collapsing it in on the man.
“Shadow!” The man called out for his dog.
The man’s knees bent upward pushing Allen off from him, allowing Allen to quickly regain his footing. Allen turned and ran, jumping over the fire. He grabbed the other end of the rope yanking it hard. The rope’s knot tightened around the man’s feet. Struggling, the man grasped desperately at the blankets and tent, pulling them and everything inside them with him as Allen ran backward with the rope, pulling the man out of the tent, through the dirt, and into the fire. The blankets and vinyl quickly adhered to the man’s clothes wrapping him in a cocoon of fire and synthetic melting plastic.
“Shadow!”
Allen continued back and quickly wrapped the rope around a small tree behind him, as the rope pulled the man out of the fire an
d several feet into the air. The flashlight dropped from the burning mess while the gun still jutted out from within. Allen quickly grabbed the flashlight, turned it on, and hastily limped toward the cabin leaving the screams behind him.
The cabin door was unlocked. Allen frantically searched the cabin’s table, counter, drawers, and wall near the door for keys to the truck but found nothing. The truck! The psycho certainly wasn’t used to visitors. No normal precautions were taken to protect his property. Based on this, the truck seemed like a logical place to keep the keys. Allen ran out to the truck, and pulled open the driver’s side door. Greg lay slumped on the driver’s side covered in strategically placed gauze bandages wearing only underwear and blood.
“Greg!” Shouted Allen. He grabbed Greg and checked his breathing. He was alive but barely conscious. Except for the bandage on his leg where the dog had mauled him, the rest were cut in various rectangles covering his back, sides, and thighs. The man had been picking away at Greg, snacking on him.
“I’ve got you, man.” Allen carefully pushed Greg over to the passenger seat; a set of keys fell from his hand during the move. Allen grabbed the keys and slid one into the ignition.
He grabbed Greg by the shoulder and gently squeezed. “We’re going home, buddy.”
The truck started. In the rearview mirror, Allen could see an orange glow through the trees. As he drove away from the cabin, Allen could smell a familiar scent in the air.
The man was done all right. Well done.
Notes on One Up a Tree
This story is a good example of my wife allowing me to bounce ideas off from her. I recall sitting in our living room where I gave her a brief summary of this story, but at the time the antagonist was a zombie…or a bear. All I knew is that I wanted a guy to be stuck up in a tree for days. I had no idea how he was going to get down. I just wanted two guys lost in the woods, one dies, and one is up a tree. I hated the idea of contributing another zombie story to the already-saturated undead market, so I tried thinking of something else. A bear wouldn’t stick around for days so that wouldn’t work. As I kept throwing ideas at my wife, I eventually talked myself into having some lunatic keep him up there. The problem was that I knew in order to make a real impact, to show the reader that this guy wasn’t messing around, that I would have to kill one of the trespassers. Initially it was to be Allen, because he’s not very likeable. But I felt killing Greg would be much less predictable and, well…bothersome. I threw in the twist so Greg never had to die and we all live happily ever after—minus a little skin.
Collecting Cats
Last summer I had developed the habit of collecting cats—well…of rescuing them. My fondness for the creatures began as a child, when my mother would bring home strays to care for. We lived in the country and at one time had a total of fourteen cats. During these years, I learned to administer shots and even perform both minor and major surgery on them. I had even removed a broken leg and mended the wound, to which it healed to perfection with barely a hair out of place, as though born purposely lacking a leg. Never did I dream I would use these skills later in life.
On my own and no longer living in the country, it was never my intention to act as a rescuer for the cats. But as they’d wander helplessly to my doorstep through one particular summer, I saw myself as a bit of a savior for the suffering felines. During the spring and summer months of that year, my home acted as shelter for the maimed and broken. My bathroom had temporarily turned into a surgical suite, laden with scalpels, sutures, syringes, and anesthesia.
My first solo experience with them was a pair of cats that had been shaved of all their hair. Spring had barely begun, and I spotted the poor things outside my window, near frozen and bleeding from the rough shaving. Weeks later, after the hair had begun to grow and the weather warmed, I let them go. Eventually they returned to me but with different physical ailments, followed by more cats—missing limbs, eyes, ears, or tails. At one time I had obtained a cat with only two front legs; its hips near callused from dragging itself around. Yes, my doorstep had become a safe haven; almost as though word had spread.
They were coming to me for help.
Over the course of several weeks, it was revealed to me the reason for these little abominations. As the weather warmed, I often sat on the balcony of my small house which overlooked a large cul-de sac at the bottom of a hill. The glow of patio and porch lights touching the darkened grass filled me with peace, as I watched the neighborhood sleep. As a ritual, I would sit on the balcony and read while sipping on a deep glass of brandy. The neighborhood before me held pets throughout, both dogs as well as cats. I gathered that I most likely held many of them in my home already, recovering from their various injuries.
One evening while enjoying my customary routine, I spotted a man prowling around behind one of the houses below. I could tell he didn’t belong there, as he would pause at the windows of the house and intermittently duck down. He was a large man, sluggish in his movements. But as he weaved only through the shadows—and never into the glow of a light—I could make out no other details.
A few nights later I saw the same sight but in a different yard. Again, both the distance and shadows played a role in my not being able to observe much. A week had gone by without another sighting of the mysterious figure, until one night I had just finished bandaging a stray that had stumbled to my door with only one ear and a missing hind leg. I provided the appropriate care and had set the poor thing in a crate to rest for the night, when through my open window I heard a crash—like the pummeling of garbage cans. The cats in my care took to howling as though a thousand times in heat, but I could tell it was fear that drove their wailing and not their loins. Immediately I recalled the prowler from earlier in the week and ran to my balcony. He was there, running through someone’s yard, but this time from a different house. He took to a line of trees and disappeared beyond the stretch of any light. I perched on the balcony for the remainder of the night until I could no longer keep my eyes open. But he never showed again. It was late so I made note to take a drive the next day to the neighborhood below and warn them of what I’d witnessed.
Between the many errands involving the cats, including a trip to the store for food and bandages, as well as medicine from my veterinarian friend, it had slipped my mind to warn my neighbors. It would have to wait another day. Other than a long night for one of the suffering cats, the evening was uneventful, as was the remainder of the week.
Finally, I had made one attempt at bringing my concern to the neighbors but none were home at the time. I keep to myself and don’t make socialization a habit, so the one attempt was rather generous. If there was a next time, I would merely call authorities and have them deal with the voyeur.
Weeks went by, and I had taken to keeping my binoculars on the balcony at all times. I anticipated the stranger to show again one evening and I would hate myself for being unprepared. Giving an appropriate description to the police would certainly be more helpful than merely describing a six-foot tall, slumped and darting shadow. Coincidently, I had noticed a decrease in feline traffic to my home within the last few weeks. Those I was caring for were healing nicely, and I would be removing sutures and letting them go within a few days. Surely they had homes nearby that they would make their way back to. This was not an area ripe with strays.
On the planned day of release for all but one of the healed cats, it stormed furiously throughout the day. Their discharge would have to wait. That evening, after the rain dissipated, I took to the balcony with book and brandy in hand. The air was crisp with wet grassy earth, and the moon now shone through the parting clouds—a beautiful distraction as I tried to read.
An hour into my book, the cats began to stir in their crates. Something was distressing them. I rose to investigate, when it occurred to me the cats had howled each night I had seen the prowler. I looked out over the neighborhood but saw nothing. I held still and scanned the backyards that faced me, until I saw slight movement near
a pair of garbage cans. I grabbed my binoculars and searched again for the man. After little effort, I saw him. He had crouched down next to the garbage cans, his hand extended holding something. I looked in the direction of his hand and saw that a white cat was slowly approaching his offering. A cat thief? No, that made little sense. My back room full of these crated creatures was proof enough that they were not being stolen in the neighborhood, but only temporarily lost as they sought and received aid. Perhaps he was merely the owner, whose cat would flee home on a regular basis; the owner would roam the neighborhood in search of his pet—a simple explanation.
I nearly laughed out loud at myself for my thoughts concerning his seemingly perverse behavior. I watched and rooted for the man as he carefully and stealthily coaxed his cat to him. The crying of the cats from within my house continued. Finally the man was able to snatch the cat, though roughly. I gave a quick smile at the owner’s victory. But my smile was replaced with horror as I watched the man quickly snap and dismember one of the cat’s legs, then remove an ear with the brisk chomping of his teeth. The thing screamed and clawed at the man, eventually being released. Now in shock, the newly mutilated cat ran surprisingly well and fast.
The man stood up into the path of a patio light that gave detail to his features. His neck was garnished in lumps of fur, appendages from previous victims. He wore a makeshift hat constructed from fur and other bits. The howling behind me grew louder than before. I began to understand. The screams weren’t just warnings, they were sympathetic cries for their kin. They knew what had just happened. They’d all been there before—tricked and then dismembered or maimed. I cried at the thought of the poor creatures sacrificing limbs for the affection of a human. Their summer had been filled with tortuous happenings at the hands of a lunatic.