Alive and Killing (A David Wolf Novel)

by Jeff Carson

  “All right, let’s set up our tents,” Wolf said as they reached the spot. “Make it quick. Then we’ll get some grub cooked up.”

  Wolf and Jack set down their bags and got started unpacking the tents.

  A few seconds later, Wolf froze as the boom of a rifle rolled up the valley, and twisted into the distance.

  “What?” Jack said looking at Wolf’s alarm.

  Wolf held out a hand and looked to the blue layers of mountains to the south, then stood up and held his breath.

  Another shot rang out, this time a little louder, perhaps riding a different pocket of wind. It was definitely a rifle with supersonic rounds, and not a pistol or a shotgun.

  “What’s wrong?” Jack asked.

  Wolf shook his head and waited for the next shot. It never came.

  “Nothing. Just a hunter.” Wolf flipped his backpack and unzipped the main pocket.

  “It’s not hunting season for months, isn’t it?” Jack asked.

  No, it wasn’t. Hunting season for any sort of game, big or small, wasn’t for at least two months.

  Wolf shrugged. “Probably just practicing. All right, let’s get set up.”

  “You wanna do a tent set-up race? I bet I beat you.” Jack was dead serious.

  “Pfffft. You don’t have a chance.” Wolf ripped into his backpack and pulled out his tent, setting off the latest competition between them, which were getting more frequent these days.

  Wolf feigned interest, all the while thinking about the shots. He would have bet his life that those reports had come from a rifle, or two different rifles, with supersonic rounds. What really bothered him was, the frantic man they’d passed hadn’t had a rifle.

  Wolf’s stomach churned as he pictured the scarred, bearded man, trapped under the crushing weight of his overstuffed backpack, taking his final breaths as he bled out somewhere far below.

  Wolf took a deep breath and calmed himself down. The fact was, those shots were close — at least closer than the man they passed would have been. That man would be miles down the trail at his car by now, around at least two bends in the valley.

  No. Wolf and Jack wouldn’t have been able to hear the shots with such clarity had that man just been shot at. Unless he had turned around and headed back toward us.

  Was Wolf’s imagination redlining? Or had whatever that man was running from finally caught up to him? Whoever that man was running from. And what did that mean for them?

  Chapter 7

  A half moon hung just above the eastern wall of the amphitheater valley, bathing the western shoreline with a soft glow, casting ink shadows of all shapes and sizes across their campground. There were no clouds above, only the stars, planets, galaxies, star clusters, and other relics of the ancient past gleaming in every nook and cranny of the sky.

  The flickering flames of the fire licked straight up in the calm night, as the air had gone completely still since sundown.

  “I definitely want to play football again this year.” Jack stabbed yet another hot dog on his pointed stick and stuck it in the fire.

  Wolf groaned inwardly. “Yeah?” He got up from his chair and crouched next to his camping stove, giving it another pump on the gas tank.

  “Yep.”

  “We’ll see.” Wolf said, hating the words coming out of his mouth as he spoke them.

  Jack turned to him with arched eyebrows.

  Wolf patted him on the back. “Don’t worry bud, we’ll talk about it in the fall.”

  “So I don’t get to play? Is this because of Mom?”

  Wolf shook his head and turned up the hissing flame of his camp stove underneath his simmering pot of water. “No, no. It’s just that, you’re kind of in a transition period, buddy. Right now the kids are getting a little too big, and you haven’t hit your growth spurt yet. Your Mom, and I, don’t want you getting hurt.”

  Jack huffed and studied his twirling hotdog.

  Wolf’s stomach sank. He felt like he’d just whipped his son with a leather belt.

  Jack was almost thirteen, and despite his smaller size compared to some of the other kids, he was a hell of a player. Wolf had been an all-state quarterback in his day, earning himself a full-ride to Colorado State before deciding to go into the Army. But Jack had his own set of strengths on the football field, seemingly opposite his father. He was fast, caught nearly everything thrown his way, and moved through the defense like a rabbit. But the fact was, right now he was also five-foot-nothing and weighed less than half of many of the boys out on the field.

  Wolf thought back to the previous fall season, and a kid on one of the Denver teams they’d played against. The kid had been taller and heavier than Wolf — a twelve-year-old behemoth who Wolf swore he’d seen eyeing mothers on the sidelines in between plays.

  Wolf had cringed that day for an hour and a half, watching Jack catch the ball repeatedly, just avoiding the man-child, who bowled over less fortunate kids like empty beer cans, leaving them whimpering in his wake wherever he went.

  The reality was, there were kids like that all over the state now. They were sprouting feet over night, gaining pounds, a bushel of body hair, a deep voice, and a shot of untamed testosterone that made them love smothering little grunts like Jack into the turf all the more. The scary part to Wolf and Sarah, was that Jack seemed to enjoy it all too much. Although Wolf was secretly proud of Jack for being such a dare devil, he felt like he was playing Russian roulette with his son’s safety with him being so small.

  What was the world coming to when an ex-collegiate level football player was telling his son he didn’t want him playing because it was too dangerous?

  Wolf took a deep breath and looked up at the stars.

  For a few minutes they crouched next the fire in silence. Jack’s aromatic hotdog sizzled and dripped hissing juices into the fire, and Wolf’s gas stove blasted, struggling mightily to boil Wolf’s water in the oxygen starved environment.

  “I guess waiting until I get bigger is no big deal.” Jack said, seeming to be completely over the argument.

  Wolf studied Jack for a few seconds. “You know, you don’t have to play football just because I did. If you don’t want to play, then don’t.”

  Jack looked into the fire for a moment, then up at Wolf. “I just want to be like you, ya know? Nate says you were an awesome quarterback. Everybody says I’m a wet receiver. I bet I could play college like you did.”

  Wolf rubbed his eye with his palm. “Buddy, you have to stop using that word. You guys just go around using that as an adjective now?”

  Jack looked embarrassed, like he realized he wasn’t getting a joke that everyone else was laughing at.

  Wolf couldn’t suppress his smile any more. “Eat your hot dog, it’s getting black.”

  “I like ‘em charred.” Jack made a psychotic face as he twirled the hot dog and then he laughed.

  Wolf laughed too, feeling a wave of pride for his twelve-year old son. With his blonde hair, grown out to the typical unkempt flop style of youth, and his wide pine green eyes, he was a good-looking kid, too. Wolf had always marveled at how his brown eyes and Sarah’s sapphire blue could create such a striking color in Jacks.

  Jack looked at Wolf. “What?”

  “Nothing.” Wolf turned up his stove a little more.

  Wolf tensed and froze when he heard the next sound. A snake wriggled in his gut when he realized the sound was the creak of straps and fiberglass rods stressing under the weight of someone sitting in his camping chair.

  Chapter 8

  “Ahhh,” the man sighed as he leaned back in Wolf’s Coleman chair. “Hello.”

  There was a revolver in the man’s right hand, shining silver in the firelight. Then there was a soft metallic click of the man pulling back the hammer. It was barely audible over the rushing blood in Wolf’s ears, but the sound was a clear enough signal to them. Stay put.

  In the other man’s hand was the barrel of a rifle, pointed to the sky, propped with the matte-black stock in t
he dirt. Affixed to the top of the rifle was a night vision scope.

  With a sinking feeling, Wolf recognized the revolver. It looked to be the same model the man from the trail had. Only, this certainly wasn’t the same man.

  Wolf shuffled to his left to shield Jack.

  “Don’t move.” The man said. His voice cracked and he cleared his throat.

  “Who are you?” Jack said defiantly.

  Wolf winced and put his hand up. “Quiet, Jack.”

  “Hey there, fella,” the man said. He scooted forward on the camp chair with a grunt, and his face came into the light of the fire.

  The man’s eye color was indistinguishable, and looked deeply sunk in his skull, surrounded by shadow. Three dark moles were underneath his mouth, black voids in an otherwise ghostly pale skin, giving the effect that he had globs of food on his chin.

  He didn’t blink, and his light, almost invisible, eyebrows were bridged with concern. His upper lip was pushed down, like a child about to cry. It was a severe expression of sadness.

  Wolf couldn’t tell if the man was mocking them, or was actually sad. Or maybe he was even crazier than the man they’d seen on the trail earlier.

  Wolf took in the rest of the man in a glance. He was dressed lethally, wearing a black wool cap, black coat, black pants, and matte leather boots. There was only one thing that outfit was for, and that was for sneaking up on people at night. He’d done a good job of that.

  Wolf cursed himself for not noticing. “What do you want?” He asked.

  The man stared unmoving, then slowly leaned the rifle up against the chair armrest behind him. Then he took a deep breath and exhaled. He itched his face and looked between Jack and Wolf. Then he reached in his coat pocket and produced a radio. He twisted the knob and two staccato beeps pierced the silence.

  “I’m here,” he said into it.

  The radio crackled. “So?”

  “Just some guy and his kid.” He kept his finger pressed on the button and sighed into the radio. “Just some guy and his kid.”

  “He isn’t just some guy mister,” Jack’s voice was defiant. “He’s the sheriff of—“

  “Keep quiet,” Wolf said, keeping his eyes on their intruder.

  Jack did.

  The man looked at Wolf like he’d just run into an ex-girlfriend. “I guess this guy is a sheriff.” He clicked off the button and pressed the radio to his forehead. “Where you sheriff of?” he asked Wolf.

  Wolf narrowed his eyes. “I asked you a question. What the hell do you—“

  The radio scratched. “Well, you know what you have to do.” The man on the other end used an unmistakable tone. It was the tone of a father telling his son he had to take the dog out back and shoot it.

  The man sat up a bit and looked at Wolf. He seemed to turn even paler. “No. I can’t. You know that.”

  There was a long pause, and Wolf watched the man in the chair fight his thoughts.

  “We’ll be down. Keep them there.”

  Wolf had heard enough. He twisted and grabbed the wire handle of his nearly boiling water pot and stood. Like a collegiate softball pitcher, he threw the pot underhand, and then charged behind it with as much ferocity as he could muster.

  The man was caught completely off guard. He screamed and crossed his arms in front of his face, dropping the radio and pointing the revolver at the moon as the water exploded against him in a puff of steam.

  Wolf dove, landing an elbow in the man’s face and clutching the man’s wrist at the same time. As Wolf landed on the man’s upper body, the chair tipped back fast. The man tensed under Wolf with surprisingly strong muscles, and pulled Wolf over the top of him. After what seemed like minutes, Wolf finally landed, still with a tenuous grasp on the man’s wrist that held the gun. He pulled himself onto the man in an instant, and then Wolf’s teeth clicked together and his whole head thumped as the man connected with an uppercut punch out of nowhere. He rolled sideways, and Wolf’s grip slipped.

  Wolf exploded into frenzied action, twisting to get on top, seeking the revolver with his hands before it went off.

  But the man was bigger and stronger than Wolf anticipated, and turned on top of Wolf, mashing him into the ground under his pressing weight. Wolf found the man’s wrist again, clamped both hands around it, and pointed the gun toward the lake.

  “Get him Dad!” Jack’s frantic voice came from somewhere. “Get him!”

  Now inches from Wolf’s face, the man sprayed warm breath through clenched teeth, and his eyes were wide with murderous intent.

  The gun went off, and the recoil jolted Wolf’s arms. Hot gas from the muzzle stung his hands and forehead, and his hearing cut out to a single screaming tone.

  The bullet had sailed somewhere toward the lake. Harmless this time.

  Wolf dug his thumb into the pressure point on the man’s wrist, so hard he felt warm blood trickle down his nail. The revolver dropped out of the man’s hand, and he screamed in agony. Wolf punched the man’s forearm, and it cracked with the sound of an exploding ember in a campfire.

  Wolf felt the man slack, and he full took advantage. He smashed the man in the face with another punch and pushed him off, then picked up the gun in a lightning move, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

  The .357 Magnum flashed and the air shook with a deafening boom.

  Though he couldn’t see through the blue floaters in his vision, Wolf had pressed the barrel so close, there was no doubt he’d hit his target. Any concern if he’d missed evaporated as acrid smoke filled his nostrils, mixed with the metallic smell of blood.

  Wolf stood straight and was startled by Jack standing no more than three feet away.

  Jack stared down with wide eyes and a gaping mouth, holding a jagged rock the size of a cantaloupe.

  Wolf realized what had happened. Jack had slammed the guy against the side of the head. That’s why the man had abruptly gone slack.

  “Good job.” Wolf said. His own voice sounded muffled with pillows.

  Jack kept his eyes down. His mouth was gaping, and shiny with saliva.

  Wolf followed his gaze. A dark pool was expanding out from underneath the man’s head, and a small stream of smoke seeped out through his wool cap in back. It looked like the man’s face was half buried into the ground, but in fact, the front of the man’s head was gone. Wolf knew a .357 Magnum exit wound would do that.

  Wolf put his hand on Jack’s shoulder and shook gently. “Hey buddy. Look at me, don’t look at that. You okay?”

  Jack stared at Wolf.

  “You saved me.” Wolf said.

  Jack closed his mouth and said nothing.

  Wolf felt an overwhelming pride once again for his son. Then he looked back down at the man and felt shame grip his heart. Why? He’d had no choice. He didn’t want to kill the man, but he was forced to. It was kill or be killed. Kill or have this bastard kill his son.

  But he’d hoped, countless times in his life before this moment, that his son would never have to see such things. And now he’d killed a man no more than three feet from him. In the most violent way Wolf could have imagined.

  “Jack.”

  Jack was staring at the body again. “Yeah?”

  “You okay?” Wolf gently turned Jack’s face away from the bloody mess.

  “Yeah.” Jack dropped the rock and swallowed, then turned to the bushes and heaved.

  The radio crackled, and a tinny voice came through it. Wolf picked it up and put it to his ringing ear.

  “…on? You there? What’s going on?” The voice was excited.

  Wolf stared at the radio for a few seconds.

  There was a blast of static. And then silence.

  Wolf put a finger to his lips and made eye contact with Jack. Wolf cleared his throat and pushed the button of the radio. “It’s done.”

  Wolf cringed at the voice he used. It was all wrong, the wrong pitch.

  Five agonizing seconds of silence passed. Wolf twisted the radio. Had he pushed the right button? Yes
, he had.

  They had to know it wasn’t their man talking.

  The radio crackled. “We’ll be right up.” The voice said.

  Wolf stared at the radio, then turned to look up the slopes of the surrounding cirque valley.

  Chapter 9

  Wolf picked up the man’s rifle off the ground and inspected it. It was a lightweight, black, Steyr Scout, with a fifteen round magazine. On top was a night vision scope that he’d never seen before.

  He turned to the west. The steep mountain slope above was awash in moonlight. With the naked eye, details of the terrain were muddled and faint. He stared for a moment, looking for movement in his peripheral. There was none.

  He flipped the power switch on the night vision scope and pressed the rubber eyepiece to his eye. The area was transformed into a bright black and white image, like an ultra high definition monochrome computer monitor with the contrast cranked high.

  The scope was a white phosphor display, rather than the green he had experience with. Wolf hadn’t used one until now, but he knew the recent technology was all the rave of military outfits and outdoorsman. Wolf twisted the magnification knob and his vision was pulled closer into the terrain.

  All the cracks and depressions of the mountain were revealed in the scope. Still nothing moved.

  He scanned back and forth, high to low. Then he started from the bottom and scanned back to the top. He didn’t worry about scanning the sheer cliffs to the right and left, just the navigable slopes. He scanned all the slopes surrounding them on three sides, and couldn’t see any movement anywhere.

  He lowered the rifle and crouched to study the ground. He flipped on his headlamp and looked for shoe prints. If he could figure out the direction the man had come in from, maybe it would give him a definitive clue as to where the other men were.

  Jack watched on in silence as Wolf studied the dirt, brittle grass, and rocks around the camp. It was no use. The tracks led to the woods, straight toward the steep slope to the west. But that didn’t prove a thing. The man could have come from the mouth of the cirque, to the south, and circled around them, and Wolf didn’t have the time to look.