Hunted Past Reason

by Richard Matheson

  Reaching forward, he brushed away more pine needles. This time there was a crevice nearer his left arm and reaching forward he dug the fingers of his left hand into the crack and pulled himself forward, this time forgetting and trying to use his feet, causing himself to begin sliding back again. He grasped at the crack as hard as he could and, with straining effort, pulled himself forward again.

  In this way, with agonizing slowness, he managed to reach the top of the slope and regained his footing.

  The explosive shot rang out ahead of him and suddenly the tree beside him was gouged by a bullet, detonating splintered fragments of bark by his face, some of them shooting into his cheeks, making him cry out in pain. He fell to the ground in shock, his thoughts a tangle of confused feelings, the main one being— totally stunned— Where did Doug get a rifle?

  When there were no further shots, he pushed up on his elbows and half crawled, half pulled himself across the rough ground until he reached a clump of bushes. Pushing his way through them, he got a glimpse of the slope.

  A man was standing by a boulder, wearing a plaid jacket and hat, a rifle poised in his hand as though in readiness to finish off his prey.

  "Goddamn it, what's the matter with you?!" Bob yelled. Even as he did, he wondered why he was yelling at a man who could save his life.

  The man's eyes squinted as he looked toward the bushes. "Where are you?" he asked; his tone more irritated than repentant.

  "Here," Bob said, "don't shoot at me again for Christ's sake."

  "Well, I thought you were an animal," the man said grumpily.

  Bob struggled to his feet and limped toward the man. "Do I look like a fucking animal?" he demanded, still unable to understand how he could speak so furiously to a man who might well be his salvation. "This is not a hunting area, you know! It's a national forest!"

  "Well, no one told me that," the man answered resentfully.

  As Bob neared him, the man grimaced in revulsion. "Jesus Christ, what happened to you?" he asked. Bob winced, realizing how terrible he must look.

  "Listen," he said. "I need your help."

  "You sure as hell look as though you could use somebody's help," the man responded, still making a face at Bob's appearance.

  "There's a man chasing me," Bob told him. "He intends to kill me with a bow and arrow— or a golak."

  The man's expression made it clear that what he had just been told didn't really register on his mind. "What?" he asked.

  "A man is chasing me," Bob said. "He means to kill me."

  "Why?" the man asked, still looking confused.

  "That's besides the point," Bob told him urgently. "I need your protection."

  "My protection." Now the man looked suddenly alarmed and cautious.

  "I need your rifle to protect me. Don't you understand?"

  "My rifle?" The man's seeming inability to understand what he was being told incensed Bob.

  "Yes!" he cried. "I either need you to protect me or I need your rifle!"

  "I'm not giving you my rifle," the man said, sounding offended.

  "Then protect me!" Bob said furiously. Was the man an idiot?

  "From what?" the man demanded.

  "I've already told you! There's a man chasing me who means to—!"

  "I know what you told me!" the man interrupted, suddenly angry himself. "How do I know what you're telling me is true?"

  "It is true, damnit!" Bob raged at him. "Do I look like I'm crazy?"

  "You look worse than crazy, pal!" the man said; he seemed to be regaining confidence now.

  "Goddamn it!" Bob abruptly struggled for composure. It was obvious that the more he ranted, the less the man would believe him. He noticed the man's guarded look at his cudgel and threw it down.

  "Listen to me," he said. "My name is Robert Hansen. I'm here from Los Angeles. I came out here to backpack with a friend of mine—"

  "A friend?" the man said suspiciously.

  "I thought he was my friend." Bob felt himself losing control of his temper again and fought to hold it in check. "He's not my friend. He's crazy. He's chasing me—"

  "I know; you told me," the man said. Bob felt incredulous. The sound in the man's voice was cynically dismissive now. He couldn't believe what was happening. The man had a rifle, he could bring down Doug and end all this.

  "Listen," he said, as calmly as he could. "You have got to shoot this man before he can kill me."

  "What?" The man's voice was querulous now, his expression unbelieving. "Shoot a perfect stranger? Are you nuts or something?"

  "No, he's nuts," Bob snapped back. He was not going to be able to control his anger much longer, he knew. "Listen," he said. " Sell me your rifle then."

  "What?" The tone even more querulous, the expression incredulous.

  "I'll pay you any price you ask," Bob told him. "I'm a writer, I have lots of money."

  "Writers don't make money," the man said contemptuously.

  This is a fucking nightmare, Bob thought. The man didn't understand any of this, was totally unwilling to help him.

  Abruptly he grabbed the rifle by its barrel. "I'm sorry, I have to have this," he said, his voice trembling.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?" the man said, his tone aghast. "Are you nuts?"

  "I need to kill this man," Bob said, teeth clenched. "It isn't only me he's after, it's my wife as well."

  "Oh, well, you're insane, man." The hunter pulled back at the rifle. "You belong in a nuthouse."

  "Goddamn it, I need your rifle!" Bob screamed in his face.

  They were wrestling for possession of the rifle, boots scraping and stumbling on the ground, when the buzzing sound streaked past Bob's ear. The man's cry was startled, like a child's.

  Imbedded in his neck, its bloody point protruding from behind, was an arrow.

  Bob recoiled in shock, staring blankly at the man, whose expression was dazed, confused. "What the—?" he began to say.

  The next instant, he had toppled backward, the rifle still grasped in his hands. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Bob whirled and stared into the forest. There was no sign of Doug. And yet he had to be there. Was that a movement in the distant brush?

  Abruptly he twisted around and, dropping to his knees, tried to pull the rifle from the dead man's hands. His grip had frozen on the rifle though. Bob pulled at it desperately.

  Another buzzing sound, an arrow hitting the ground several inches away, head buried in the soil. Dear God! Bob thought. He pulled at the rifle in panicked anguish. He had to have it or he was finished!

  Another buzzing sound, the arrow shooting past him to imbed itself beside the last one. Then Doug's voice, shouting from the forest. "Better run, Bob! You aren't going to get that rifle!"

  A burst of mindless terror drove Bob to his feet. He stumbled, almost pitched forward, then was able to regain his balance and break into a run for the nearest trees.

  "That's right, Bobby! Run like crazy! I'll be with you in a little while!"

  Bob lost all sense of time and direction as he fled through the woods, stumbling more than once, once falling across a tree root, gasping with pain. Ignoring the pain, he struggled to his feet and ran again, unthinking, stupefied, a brainless, fleeing animal.

  Finally, he had to stop, he couldn't find the breath to continue.

  Panting, sweat running down his face, mouth hanging open, eyes staring sightlessly, he turned. He had to know if Doug was running after him.

  There was no sign of Doug. Where was he? Beside him in the forest? Ahead of him?

  He had to know. He simply had to know.

  With what remaining strength he had, he managed to pull himself up into a tree that had branches he could step on starting close to the ground. He kept climbing, visualizing, as he did, Doug appearing just below, looking up with a grin as he notched his arrow into the bowstring, aimed, drew back the string, and shot an arrow into his heart.

  Using his tiny binoculars, he looked down, surpris
ed that he could see the dead hunter.

  What else he saw made his skin crawl and his stomach almost lose its contents. He made a gagging sound, spit out wet pieces of rabbit, and stared at what Doug was doing: removing the arrow from the dead hunter's throat, pulling it out from the front so the barbs of the arrowhead wouldn't get caught in the man's flesh.

  As he watched, he saw Doug— teeth gritted with the effort— yanking at the arrow until it suddenly came free, its feathered end soaked with the hunter's blood.

  Doug poured some water on the feathers and the arrowhead, cleaned them off with his fingers, and slipped the arrow back into its quiver; the two other arrows were already there. The rifle was nowhere to be seen. Doug must have flung it off the cliff.

  "No," Bob murmured, his expression suddenly twisted, sickened.

  Doug had taken the hunter's boots in his hands and was dragging him to the slope that ended at the edge of the cliff.

  "You son of a bitch," he murmured weakly. "You goddamn son of a bitch." Slip on the pine needles the way I did, he thought. Fall to your death.

  But Doug seemed to know about the pine needles. He stopped dragging the dead hunter to the place where the pine needles became a problem and laid the body parallel to the edge and sat down close to it, pressing his boots against the hunter's side.

  With a sudden lunge of his boots, he shoved at the body violently. It rolled over and over, sliding on the pine needles until it reached the cliff edge.

  Then it was gone.

  Bob's stomach convulsed and, opening his mouth wide, he vomited, gasping, groaning.

  If there had ever been the remotest chance that Doug would change his mind, relent, that chance was gone now.

  If he failed— and how in God's name could he succeed?— to kill Doug, Doug was certainly going to kill him.

  It seemed as though, for the first time since all this had begun, he felt the actual, icy presence of death gathered around him.

  With a sob, he threw his head back, staring at the sky through tear-blurred eyes.

  "You aren't going to help me, are you?" he said in a choking voice. "You're there but you aren't going to help me. I have to do it all myself, don't I? All the lip service I give you isn't worth a damn, is it? I save myself or I die." He was crying now, disabled by fear. "Well, thanks a lot," he sobbed. "You've been a great help." His teeth clenched in an expression of rabid fury. "Guardian angel, my ass!" he snarled. "Ever-present consciousness, my ass! Wherever you are, you're not worth a pile of shit to me!"

  He leaned his forehead against the tree, weeping bitterly, no longer certain if he could conceivably survive this. Suffering with a sense of horror at the idea of leaving Marian to Doug's insanity, but totally unable to believe that he could do a thing to stop it.

  4:22 PM

  Nevertheless, I go on, he thought as he walked unevenly, almost staggeringly through the forest. He simply could not stay in that tree and wait for death. Once his initial sense of despairing submission had eased, he'd climbed back down. Doug was obviously confident in his ability to overtake him. Bob's last view of him was Doug sitting on the boulder the hunter had been standing by, casually eating.

  He is insane, Bob thought as he continued through the forest. He just murdered a man, yet there he sits calmly, eating. There were probably blood splashes all around him. Did they bother Doug? He had to assume that they didn't. He'd just pushed the hunter's corpse off the cliff. Why should a few bloodstains bother him?

  It was clear now that Doug did not intend to pay the price for either the hunter's death or his. He'd find a way to dispose of his body as well. Then on to the cabin and the performance of his life— anguish, guilt, tears, sobs of utter desolation.

  He could almost see Doug telling Marian the heartbreaking story— Bob getting lost, Doug searching in vain for him, then finally rushing to the cabin so they could drive for help; more of his stellar portrayal of the broken man to the authorities. That was the horror of it. Anyone else would arouse suspicion. Doug was not just anyone though, lying unconvincingly. He was an actor playing a chosen role. Not to the hilt either. No, he'd gauge it perfectly, keep it under skillful control.

  And where will I be? Bob wondered. No doubt off the same cliff as the murdered hunter. Two corpses shattered on the rocks below, probably never to be found. And even if they were eventually found, would there be any way to implicate Doug? For all he knew— now that it occurred to him, it seemed obvious— Doug had thrown his bow and arrow off the cliff as well; less evidence against him.

  Bob scowled. Then why remove the arrow from the hunter's neck? Unless— more than possible— he'd thrown, or would throw, the bow and arrow off the cliff far from where the hunter's remains lay splattered on the rocks.

  He might even bury the bow and arrows, kill Bob with the golak; it seemed obvious, for some time, that he'd prefer to murder Bob that way. When he tossed Bob's body off the cliff, the broken and bloody appearance of his body would most likely obscure the golak slashes.

  Then on to the cabin, he thought again. Marian. The performance. Anger made him tremble at the image in his mind. But what could he do to defend himself? He was beyond exhaustion now, on the verge of collapse. It seemed as though only mindless habit kept him going.

  He had been so engrossed in dark thoughts that he didn't see the lodge until he was almost up to it.

  A sudden burst of hope mantled his mind and body. My God, it's there, he thought. I've made it. If Doug had told the truth, the cabin was on the steep hill beyond the lodge. He might make it after all. He couldn't understand how he was still ahead of Doug but never mind, he thought. He still had a chance to reach Marian and get her out of the cabin, away from Doug.

  His burst of eager optimism was dispelled in an instant.

  "Well, I see you made it, Bobby boy!" Doug's voice rang out behind him.

  He jerked around, breath catching in his throat.

  Doug stood about fifty yards away, grinning like a happy kid. Bob saw that he was right. The bow and arrow were no longer evident; he had gotten rid of them.

  His heartbeat lurched inside him as he saw Doug shuck his backpack and toss it aside, then slowly draw the golak from its sheath.

  "Time to say bye-bye, Bobby," he said, still grinning. "I'm about to cut you up in little pieces now."

  He started forward.

  Bob whirled and ran toward the lodge, terror fueling his body with adrenalined strength.

  "Oh, you can't get away from me now!" Doug called. "You've had it! I'm surprised you made it this far but it's the end of the line now, Bobby! You are finished!"

  Bob dashed inside the lodge, tripping over a raised board and sprawling onto the floor. Shoving up with a gasp, he looked around the shadowy, rancid-smelling entry hall and saw a flight of stairs across the way. Why don't I have that club now?! his mind cried.

  "Here I come, ready or not!" Doug called outside. Bob heard the crackle of his boots as Doug came walking through the dry grass toward the lodge.

  He started up the stairs, trying to manage two steps at a time. Halfway up, his right boot crashed through a rotted step, his leg plunging down to its knee; he felt long splinters driven into his leg through his pants.

  "Time to find out if there really is an afterlife, Bobby!" Doug called. "Aren't you excited?!"

  Bob fought to lift his leg from the jagged hole in the step. At first, he couldn't pull it up because his pants leg was pierced by the splinters. Oh, God, not like this! the terrified thought exploded in his mind. He jerked up at his leg convulsively.

  "Here I come, Bobby boy!" Doug called.

  With a hiss of frenzy, Bob yanked up his leg again, tearing his pants free and pulling himself loose. He started running up the steps again, now sticking to their sides, using his grip on the banister to pull himself faster, hissing as his palm and fingers were imbedded with more splinters—

  "Bobby!"

  Bob jerked his head around to see that Doug had just run in below. At first, Doug di
dn't see him, looking around with quick movements of his head.

  Then he saw Bob near the head of the stairs and said, with joyous expectation, "Ah! That's good there, Bobby boy! Don't make it too easy for me, that wouldn't be any fun. Act three, baby. Needs to wind up with a bang." His laugh was more a breathless croak. "And when I say a bang, you know exactly what I mean. I'm getting hard already."

  Bob twisted around and dashed along the second-floor hall.

  "Look out, look out, wherever you are!" Doug called. Bob heard his footsteps thumping slowly, loudly on the stairs. "Here comes a candle to light you to bed!" Doug said with obvious relish. "Here comes a golak to chop off your head!" His laugh chilled Bob as he reached the door to a room and ran inside.

  It had obviously been the master bedroom of the lodge, he saw, about twenty feet long and fifteen wide. There was still some furniture inside it, a rickety chair and, against the far wall, a heavy bureau.

  Hastily, he reached down for the chair. One of its legs was almost broken off. He grabbed it and pulled hard, teeth bared. The leg broke off. Okay, he thought, you'll have to fight me now, I won't just stand here, waiting.

  He started across the floor, only, at the last moment, seeing that the large, moth-eaten rug was sagging in the middle. There had to be a hole in the floor.

  "Here I come, lover!" Doug was in the hallway now.

  As quickly as he could, Bob pulled the edge of the rug until it lay flat, hiding the hole that had to be beneath its center.

  He moved around the rug as quickly as he could and moved to the end of the room. The bureau stood several feet from the wall; it looked enormously heavy. He moved behind it, staring toward the hallway door. His heartbeat pounded, drumlike, in his chest. If Doug would cross the rug, he thought.

  Doug entered the room. "You in here, Bobby boy?" he asked. He peered across the shadowy room. "Oh, there you are, you little devil, hiding behind— what is that, a bureau?" His chuckle made Bob shudder. "Isn't going to save you, baby. Nothing's going to save you now." His voice grew suddenly vicious. "You're a dead man, Bobby. I am going to fuck your dead ass, then go up the hill and fuck— oh, no." His tone abruptly lightened again. "I'll fuck her, yeah, but not until we're married. Won't that be a kick in the head, Bobby boy?"