Hunted Past Reason

by Richard Matheson

  Then reason set in. Or what passed for reason, it occurred to him.

  Was he just going to stand here and let death come visiting? Without resistance of any kind? What about Marian?

  He drew in a deep, laboring breath.

  "All right," he said. "All right, goddamn it."

  He'd climb the fucking wall.

  What?! his mind screamed. Climb it? Are you out of your goddamn mind?!

  "Well, what would you like me to do, you idiot?" he growled at it. "Just stand here until transfixed by goddamn arrows, chopped to pieces by that goddamn golak?"

  Okay, okay, his mind submitted. I guess it's better to die trying than doing nothing.

  For a few moments, he thought excitedly that if he could make it to the top and Doug showed up down here, he could roll a boulder from the top, hit Doug, maybe even start a landslide— a goddamn avalanche.

  "Well, don't go overboard," he told himself. "Just get up the damn wall first." He felt amused, almost exultant that he'd resolved to try to climb the wall. Doug wasn't going to paralyze him with fear, goddamn it! He was going to make it up this goddamn wall. "Damn right," he said. "Damn right."

  Until he took a closer— more practical— look at the stone wall.

  It was exactly that, a wall. Granted there were clefts in it, fissures, indentations, places he could place his feet, grab with his hands. But he had no experience at this kind of thing.

  He had to be successful on his very first climb. There was no such thing as a second chance here.

  "Shit," he muttered. If he only had that long rope Doug had— the memory made him wince— tied him up with. That way, he could fasten one end to his pack, climb with only the other end of the rope to worry about, haul up the pack after he'd reached the top.

  That was impossible though. Nor could he just leave the pack behind. He couldn't survive without his food and water, sleeping bag and pad, medical supplies. They had to go with him.

  First of all though, he had to examine the wall ahead of him to try to calculate a route to the top. He couldn't just start up blindly, find himself stranded halfway up.

  It wasn't a smooth face, thank God. There were ridges and indentations, and he could see, on close examination, that it wasn't totally vertical after all but rose more at an angle. A steep angle, yes, but not a vertical one. And halfway up was a ledge he could rest on. If you reach it, that is, the mocking voice addressed his mind. Oh, just shut up, he answered it.

  There were also bushes growing out of the wall that looked secure enough to support his weight if he took hold of them. Nodding to himself, he ran his gaze over the irregularities in the wall, some of them long cracks he could slip his feet into. He visualized a basic route for himself. With luck, he could make it. Never mind luck, he told himself. He had to make it.

  Doug was never going to get his hands on Marian.

  He realized now, however, that he had to lighten the load on his back. He'd never make it with this heavy pack dragging him down. He'd have to leave behind anything of severe weight.

  First of all, the water bottle. Unscrewing its cap, he took a long drink, then emptied out almost all the remaining contents of the bottle. Was this a bad mistake? he worried. What if he didn't run across more water? Dying of thirst was not a risk he wanted to take.

  He scowled at himself. First things first, he told himself. You have to make it up this wall or be caught by Doug. Nothing else mattered. Worry about water later. If you make it; the mocking voice again. Shut up! he told it angrily.

  All right, what next? he thought. What did he absolutely have to take with him? The sleeping bag, of course. He couldn't possibly reach the cabin today; hopefully tomorrow. So he'd be sleeping out tonight; he needed the sleeping bag's warmth. He could probably do without the pad but he had to have the sleeping bag.

  What else? he thought. Light stuff. Water packets. Dried fruit. Candy. Nuts, raisins. Energy bars. Jerky. Some bread. One mini-bottle of vodka. And, of course, your turkey tetrazzini, he mocked himself consciously. Yeah, he responded. Get back to reality now. Granola. Powdered milk. He'd pour out half of them. And coffee? Definitely; even if he had to drink it cold in the metal cup. He'd put the packages in his shirt pockets, under his shirt if there wasn't enough room in his pockets. It might all weigh down the front part of his body, but that would be the part against the wall. As little as possible on his back so he wouldn't be overweighted there. The sleeping bag, nothing more. He'd put the water bottle in his jacket pocket.

  What else? He thought hard. The compass naturally. Sunglasses. Matches. The first-aid kit. Binoculars. Eyeglasses. The flashlight; he'd put that in his jacket pocket too. And his knife, of course.

  That would have to do him.

  He had his pack off now. Removing the sleeping bag, he started to roll it tight. Don't roll it, Doug's reminder struck him; ruins the fibers. Yeah, sure, he thought. I wouldn't want to ruin the fibers.

  With his knife, he cut off the waist, shoulder, and sternum straps from the pack, tied them around the sleeping bag and fastened it to his upper back, a strap under each arm. Then put all the food bags and packets in his shirt and under it.

  The discards he stuffed into his backpack, which he pushed behind some bushes. Why bother? he asked himself. Doug would undoubtedly find it. He shivered. Was he starting to imbue Doug with superhuman skill at tracking? He wasn't that good, was he? He had to have a few defects. Count on it anyway, he told himself. Maybe Doug wouldn't find the hidden pack or maybe he'd be astonished at the idea of his pathetic prey ascending this wall. Maybe.

  He'd try to believe it anyway.

  In the shirt pocket where he'd put it, he found the little booklet Marian had given him: Survival in the Wilderness. Of any value to him? he wondered. "Oh, what the hell," he muttered, sliding it back into his pocket. He drew in a deep breath. He was ready to go.

  As ready as I'll ever be, the thought chilled him.

  5:14 PM

  The wall really wasn't as vertical as it first appeared but it was steep enough, Bob saw as he started climbing, carefully searching for, then using foot-and handholds in the rock. He tried to find handholds no higher than his head; somehow, it seemed to him that handholds higher than that would be more difficult to navigate. He climbed slowly and, as best he could manage, methodically. The weight of the tightly rolled sleeping bag on his back felt minimal. He'd made a good choice lightening his load that way.

  It soon became clear to him that he only felt safe moving one hand or one foot at a time. He made certain that he kept his body in balance before releasing a hand or foot. The careful, snaillike progression of his upward movements pleased him somehow. Now he was intelligently fighting for his life. That was good.

  He tried not to let himself become disturbed by the fact that he was getting thirsty. He could scarcely stop for a drink. Hold on 'til you reach the top, he told himself, forcing himself to believe that he was confident he'd reach the crest of the wall. Every time a twinge of doubt threatened to undo this certainty, he willfully blanked it out.

  After a while, he stopped to rest although it hardly seemed like rest, clinging to a rock face like some ungainly insect. Still . . .

  Against his preplan, he looked down, shutting his eyes immediately and hissing, teeth clenched. Jesus Christ, he thought. He had to be at least thirty feet above the floor of the canyon. He felt his heartbeat quicken, his breath labor, his stomach writhe. Easy, he ordered himself. Don't— look— down. You're going to make it. And if Doug comes this way— which he undoubtedly will, he'll have to climb this wall as well. With his full pack, tent, sleeping bag, grate, bow and arrow, et al.

  The vision managed to amuse him. Then again, would Doug do the same thing he did, scrap everything but absolute necessities? No. He couldn't see Doug getting rid of all that expensive equipment, which would make this climb ten times as difficult. Maybe he wouldn't even attempt it, go back down the canyon, looking for an alternate route, lose time.

  Better stil
l, maybe he would attempt the climb, slip, fall, and crack his damn head open on the rocks below. That image pleased him even more. Let it be that way, he thought.

  The handhold above him looked unsound. How was he going to test it?

  After a minute or two of thought, he decided to hit the handhold with the heel of his right hand. Reaching up, he carefully did so, gasping as, momentarily, he felt as though he was going to fall backward. He pressed against the stone wall as hard as he could. Easy, easy, he told himself, swallowing dryly. Thirsty, he thought. He scowled. Just climb, he ordered. Forget about water.

  After several moments, he reached up again and hit the handhold more cautiously with the heel of his right hand. The rock sounded hollow to him. No good, he thought, seeing himself for several seconds, as some canny mountaineer. Yes, yes, he heard himself lecturing his novice class. If the handhold sounds hollow when you hit it with the heel of your hand, it is inferior, you must find another handhold to replace it. Selah.

  He grimaced, realizing suddenly how sore the palm of his right hand felt. He looked at it, wincing at the sight of the bruised skin, some of it oozing blood. He should have worn something over his hands. What, gloves, you idiot? he castigated the notion. Well, something, his mind defended. He'd think about it. If he ever got the chance to do anything, of course. Maybe clean off his palms— both of them were dirty and abraded he now saw— with some Bactine, put a little salve on them.

  Which would make them slippery, you moron, scorned his mind. He sighed heavily; for a few long moments suffered a surge of negative despair washing over him.

  The sun came out from behind white clouds as he continued climbing. He hadn't been aware of it but the climb, until now, had been a relatively cool if difficult one. Now he felt the heat gathering under his jacket and was glad he still had the hat on. He probably should have brought the sunscreen along as well. But, you didn't, so just forget it! he thought angrily. He felt sweat beginning to trickle across his temples and down the back of his neck. Just climb, he told himself. Ignore everything but the climb. Concentrate, Hansen.

  A bush above him. He reached up and took hold of it, pulling downward.

  No good! The bush pulled loose, raining dirt on his hat. It bounced off his head, making him gasp with pain. He pulled it off himself and tossed it away. So much for the aid of bushes, he thought in angry submission. He reached up carefully with his left hand and took off his hat, shaking off the dirt collected on its crown. At least, he hadn't lost his balance.

  Looking up, he saw a small growth of rock jutting out just above eye level. He took hold of it with a tight, clinging grip, then lifted his right leg to the next foothold and forced himself upward, groaning at the ache in his leg. Am I really going to make this? he wondered.

  He elected not to think about an answer to the question.

  Just above him, he saw the ledge he'd picked out when he'd mapped his climbing route before starting out. Thank God, he thought. A chance to rest. He reached up eagerly to pull himself onto the ledge.

  Moving too fast, he started losing his balance. "No!" he cried out, panicked, pressing himself against the rock face as tightly as he could, wavering between balance and loss of it. Gasping for breath, he clutched as hard as he could at a rocky outcrop on the ledge. Don't fall, don't fall, he told himself, jamming both feet in their holds as rigidly as he could. Don't fall!

  Balance returned at long last and slowly, carefully, using his legs more than his arms, he worked his way onto the ledge and eased himself over onto his back. He shifted the sleeping bag upward to form a pillow and groaned in relief, eyes shut, mouth open as he sucked in air. It seemed harder to breathe now. Was it because he was up higher or was it just his exhaustion? No answer to that, he realized.

  After several minutes, he unzipped his jacket and felt around in his shirt pockets until he located the small bottle of Bactine. My God, they're shaking, he thought in dismay, looking at his hands. He'd never make it to the top if he couldn't control that.

  He put down the bottle on the ledge and stretched out his arms, shaking them to restore circulation. Then he opened the bottle of Bactine and rubbed some on both palms, wincing at the sting. Putting away the bottle, he wondered what else he could do for his palms since rubbing salve on them would be stupidly impractical.

  Tape, he thought, wondering where the notion came from. He reached around inside his jacket again until he'd located the roll of bandage tape. Removing it, he tried to find the end of it; it seemed impossible with his shaking hands. "Come on, come on," he muttered. "Where the hell are you?"

  It took him more than a minute to find the end of the tape. Pulling it loose, he began to turn the roll tightly around his right hand, grimacing as the tape was pressed across the palm. Okay, that's enough, he thought, do the left hand now.

  The tape ran out when he had only wrapped a few turns around his left hand. "Damn," he said. Why didn't he bring a new tape instead of taking the used one from the bathroom cabinet? "Shouldn't you be buying yourself a new first-aid kit?" he remembered Marian saying. "Honey, I'm only going to be hiking for a few days, I'm not going to need major medical attention," he'd replied.

  "Yeah, sure," he said. "Idiot." He tossed the used tape roll off the ledge, heard it bounce once off a rock below then heard no more. Messing the environment, Dougie boy, he thought. So sorry.

  He drew in a long, shuddering breath of air and stared up at the sky. It was brilliantly blue with puffy white clouds drifting slowly. Beautiful, the thought came, unbidden. Immediately, he reacted against it. What the hell does natural beauty matter when a crazy man is tracking me to kill me?

  He sighed wearily. Should he try a ten-minute nap? the thought occurred. Sure, that's a good idea, he told himself. Turn on your left side to get comfortable and plummet to your death.

  Bracing himself, he forced his gaze downward. "Jesus," he muttered. He must be more than a hundred feet up by now. Quickly, he averted his eyes, feeling his heartbeat jolt, his stomach roil again. Don't-look-down-for-chrissake, he ordered himself. Yessir, he answered.

  He considered, for a few moments, getting one of his water packets out, vetoing the idea almost immediately. He might need that water desperately later on. And he couldn't assume that he was going to run across some water later— a lake, a river, a stream, a creek, a pond even. No, he'd wait, be sensible.

  He caught his breath as he looked up at the sky again. A butterfly was fluttering a few yards above the ledge. It was multicolored, its wings looking as though they had been painted by some artist with a stunning taste in color and design. He saw green and brown and yellow, even tiny spots of red.

  Well, hell, he thought. It's beautiful, no other word for it. It was ironic that at this perilous moment in his life, this exquisite life form should be fluttering above him like this. It's a sign, he imagined. Something is telling me that there's still beauty in the world so I won't give up, so I'll keep trying.

  His smile was sad but accepting. No sign, he thought. No message from the cosmos. Nonetheless, it did provide a brief, pleasurable moment for him. It was true.

  In spite of everything, there was still beauty in the world.

  Standing carefully, he ran his gaze across the rock face just above him, then placed his right foot in an opening in the rock just above his knee. The opening was deep and gratefully he pushed his entire foot inside it, wedging it there.

  The handhold above was a wide vertical crack in the granite. Tentatively, he put his hand inside it, trying to locate a grip. But the opening was too wide. After several moments, he fisted his hand, his palm facing the left side of the crack. He did the same with his left hand, then started to lift his right foot.

  It wouldn't move, it was stuck.

  "Oh, God," he murmured. What now? He realized that he shouldn't have put his entire foot into the opening. He wiggled his boot, trying to free it, realizing that his left leg was now forced outward, that he was losing balance. No, he thought. After all this? To fa
ll now? It was too much.

  "No, goddamn it, no," he said, enraged and terrified at once. "I am not going to fall. I'm not!"

  He moved his right boot more strenuously, trying to release it from its trap. His fisted hands began to ache. He ignored them. Get the goddamn foot out first, he told himself.

  The right boot jerked out from its hold and suddenly he was hanging in space, held up only by the two fisted hands inside the vertical crack. The pain in them was agonizing, the pull on his arms excruciating. All right, this is it, he thought abruptly. Give it up. Forget it. Just let go. Fall. Die. There'll be pain but then it will all be over. You'll survive, move on. Time to test your beliefs, boy. Let go, maybe this won't qualify as suicide.

  But the entire time he thought it, to his astonishment, his legs were straining upward, right foot feeling for the hold it had been in before.

  He found it and instantly the pain in his fisted hands and hanging arms was eased and he was standing against the wall again, still alive. Son of a bitch, he thought. Son of a bitch. I really don't want to die. To die would be too easy actually. He had responsibilities.

  He found himself chuckling at the notion, amused at himself, amused at life. One clung to it as hard as possible. Funny. Crazy. But funny.

  He gritted his teeth. All right, he thought. Pain and all, he was going to keep on climbing. He was going to reach the top. He was going to protect his wife. He was going to kill Doug Crowley. Many responsibilities, he thought. Too many to let yourself die. Forge on. You're a total mess but forge on.

  Slowly, teeth remaining gritted every moment, he climbed the vertical crack, using his fisted hands— the tape did help somewhat he was glad to note— and, very guardedly, putting his right foot, then his left into the crack, twisting them slightly to strengthen their hold but careful not to wedge them in too tightly and make them difficult to pull free.

  He fell into a slow, unthinking rhythm of movements as he ascended the crack. Right foot, right hand, left foot, left hand. Maybe I'll go into rock climbing, he thought once. Then, after scorning the idea, shutting down his brain again and keeping himself a slow, laborious climbing machine, inching his way up the rock face.