Being Hunted

by C A Gleason

  Their way had held them off so far, but he was only human and stretched to his limits. He’d been doing his best to hide his fatigue for days, masking it with anger and frustration at others, the perfect cover for someone who felt out of control. He felt he’d aged years in only the last few weeks. One of the reasons was that the creatures had been so persistent in their attacks lately; incidents had really amped up in a noticeable way, which was why they had no choice but to do at Fort Perry, a place many had considered home, what they’d done only at the firing line so far.

  Archard had mentioned he might command Perry to build another fort, not as another quarters but specifically for the Draw. That way somebody wouldn’t be pulled from the sanctity of their dwelling and forced into a cell. They would be transported there. It was an incredibly difficult position to be in, for everyone, chosen or not, so at least another fort built for that specific purpose would have no illusions.

  The real enemy attacked night and day as if the creatures sensed that Archard and his people—whether they were ex-soldiers, hostages, prisoners, families, whatever they actually were—were the last humans alive. Figuratively it was game time, and the last few minutes—the next battles—would determine the winner.

  Frox cupped his hands together, blowing hot air into them. Then he let his annoyance show because he could sense Perry’s ambivalence. “We got no choice. It’s either this or what?” Perry made a noise, the beginning of something said when caught off guard, but Frox didn’t let him answer. “Because of Archard, we’re alive, and we’ll stay that way as long as we continue . . . this.”

  Perry only cleared his throat and coughed. He knew it was true. Archard had joined communities together, gathered powerful weapons and those who knew how to operate them, and set forth a plan of action that had kept them all alive.

  Well, not everyone but almost.

  Because of enemy numbers—and it being impossible to know what those numbers actually were—and there being no communication with the rest of the planet, it was also impossible to go much farther than the firing line. The Draw was essential. The only other option was for people to go out on their own, and anybody who did that usually wasn’t heard from again. They probably didn’t live longer than a few weeks.

  Staying together was the best way to preserve what remained of the human species, even though what they did would no doubt be considered murder by most. Molting or expiring from exposure was no way for a man to die, but it was the best way to accelerate the inevitable. It allow them to control what would happen anyway. Molters attacked viciously, whether they were lone hunters, in a pack, or en masse.

  “I know all of that,” Perry said with more attitude than ever, “but . . . Shit. I forgot what I was going to say.”

  Good, Frox thought.

  “Hey,” Perry said. “I haven’t seen Otto move for a while.”

  “Stop saying his name. It doesn’t matter anymore,” Frox snapped.

  “How am I supposed to refer to him?”

  “I know who you’re talking about, so just say him, or he, or whatever.”

  “Fine. I haven’t seen him move in a while. And I still don’t think we should do this so close to home.”

  “This isn’t our home anymore.”

  “Sure it is. I sleep here. So do you.”

  “I can’t think of it like that, especially now, and would you be moving in this weather?”

  “He hardly said anything after they brought him back. Did the others get rounded up? The ones who ran off like him?”

  “Yeah. They’re at the firing line.”

  “Oh. Good. One’s enough here. After they put him inside, he did a lot of hollering, for obvious reasons. I would, too, if one of them were in there with me, but he never complained about the cold.”

  Frox laughed. “Why would he care how cold it is? There was a Molter in there with him. Besides he was a local. They’re used to the weather.”

  “I don’t think anybody ever gets used to this kind of cold. Look, I get what we do. There’s them down there once it takes place”—Perry pointed with one of his baseball mitt–size hands and then thumbed at himself—“and we’re up here, which makes us the good guys or whatever. But not everything goes according to plan, and I think an Infector bit him.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “It wasn’t planned.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I don’t know. He was supposed to stay human until it fed.”

  “It wouldn’t.”

  “I still don’t understand that. Then they come later, which we’re ready for. For now, though, I’m thinking he’s not moving because he got bit, not because he’s freezing to death. And I just feel like we’re trying to control something uncontrollable.”

  “We are. But there’s nothing else we can do besides run. I don’t want to do that, do you?”

  “Nah, ’course not.”

  “Infectors are sneaky bastards. I didn’t see it, but if they’re close, they’ll just do what they do. Not exactly what we intended but sometimes it is, and . . . all that matters is there’s someone in the cell.”

  “He’s not going to be a someone for long.”

  “Well, we wanted a Molter in there.”

  “We should just put him out of his misery. I’ve seen them attracted to dead men before.”

  “He knew what his fate would be once that door shut. After that, what’s it matter? Otto—fuck . . . that man was supposed to be its food. But it wouldn’t feed on him.”

  “But why? Never seen that before.”

  “I have no idea. It wasn’t even interested in him. It was so, so strange.”

  When Otto had been forced inside the cell, a Molter had already been in there too. They wanted to keep the Molter fed and active to draw more in. The task had always been accomplished by Wayne—before he got himself killed—and this time it had taken nearly twenty men to do what he used to do alone. Typically a Molter sunk its teeth into whoever was put inside with it immediately. That was when it was easiest for those in charge. That way the men and women tasked with guarding a cell and getting ready for what happened next wouldn’t have to listen to the person pleading for someone to let them out.

  “It didn’t even care about him,” Perry said, his eyes getting huge, “all it wanted was to get up here.”

  The Molter had stared up at the top of the fort for days and even a short while after Otto had been put in with it. Before they’d had to kill it, it had started digging. None of them had done that before, ignored a chance to drink the blood of a human, which made it even more difficult on everyone. Otto’s pleading had been almost unbearable, especially because it’d lasted through the night. Frox had almost wished the forthcoming battle would happen sooner.

  The Molter had seemed to want to destabilize the fort, or at least that was what Frox was afraid of, but did they actually want anything? Other than to kill and feed? Regardless, they definitely couldn’t have one of them running around. Even if it disappeared into the distance, far into the trees, it would likely return and most likely with others of its kind. Once Molters knew people were present somewhere, that place became somewhere to hunt. Or a killing ground.

  “Poor bastard,” Perry said. “I wish it would have just killed him quick so we didn’t have to hear him.”

  I wish that too. “There has to be an occupant. Man or Molter or both until one is dead.” Frox shook his head. “I have no idea why they do what they do, but one thing I do know is they’re drawn to each other.”

  “I know why we do this, and I don’t need a biology lesson, but you weren’t here the whole time when it was looking up at me. It didn’t care about him.”

  Frox suspected he had more to say. “Explain.”

  Perry took off his brown stocking cap and rubbed a big, calloused hand across his head with a scrape. Perry shaved his scalp with a long knife and hot water every few days. He often had nicks and cuts all over, as he did now. Then he pulled the wo
olly cap back on tight. “It was like it was only interested in other people it could feed on, us, and if it escaped. We had to put it down. We never had to do that before.” Perry squinted. “Did you see that? He just . . .”

  “What?”

  “Moved.”

  “So?”

  “Did you see it?”

  “No, I was looking at you.” Frox raised the binoculars.

  “He might still be human.”

  “Impossible. He’s been in there too long. I think you’re right. An Infector must have bit him.”

  “They freak me out, man. They’re smart too.”

  “Infectors?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, they’re not. You’re just being paranoid.”

  “That’s why I’m still breathing. I couldn’t be sure with him all slumped over like that. And you took the binoculars with you when you got something to eat. That’s when I saw him twitch before.”

  “Does it change anything?”

  “Well, no. I just like to feel in control. I hate being surprised.”

  “No matter what happens to him now, it’s how it should be. He’s in that cell, and he’s not getting out.”

  “I just wish you could corroborate it so I’d be sure. So I know I’m not going nuts.”

  “You’re not. And a man’s gotta eat.”

  “Tell me about it. You should have left the binoculars with me, though. You always have them even if you don’t need them.”

  “They’re mine.”

  “What good they do you while you’re getting some grub? Just saying. You should start handing them off.”

  Frox felt like he’d had the same argument before. Except he’d been ten, and one of his childhood friends had been mad at him for not sharing. “All right, all right. I’ll leave them with you from now on. Man, I’m tired.”

  “I feel like I could hibernate until next winter, and we’d both be asleep already if things hadn’t gotten all fucked up. The battle would probably be over by now. Gotta hit the sack soon, man. Why can’t things go right when you really need them to?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Both stared down at the man in the cell, the man whose name they didn’t want to think about, the current result of the Draw. None of them felt good about it, not them, or any of the armed men and women farther down the wall to their left and right, or anyone else at Fort Perry. None of them were monsters, but they had to do this because of real ones.

  Wayne, before he died, had been skilled at tracking people as well as trapping Molters. Archard had picked a replacement, but he had already gone and got himself missing. Probably molted, came back, and somebody killed him already.

  “I think some Molters are smarter than others,” Perry said.

  Frox humored him because he knew Perry would never stop talking. Although it was a bit annoying right now, it was one of the reasons Frox like him so much. He was always thinking. Kept things interesting for both of them. Most of the time. In a way it was like being bored at any regular job, and conversation was often the best way to pass the time. What Perry had said was a disturbing thought, though.

  “Like people can be,” Perry said.

  “They’re not as smart as us,” Frox said.

  “No, but I mean how some people are smarter than others. That has to be possible, right? Doesn’t that make sense?” Perry looked like a scared child who wanted his mommy to make him feel better. “Something was up with that one in the cell. I’m telling you. It looked different than the others too. It was green instead of pale pink or white or whatever they usually are. Did you notice?”

  “Yeah. Maybe it was older than the others. Maybe they turn green if they live long enough. And the longer an animal lives, the more it can change physically.”

  “And is better at hunting. How much more older could it be?”

  “I don’t know. Only a few months. Maybe years.”

  “They all cocoon after a certain amount of kills, right?”

  “Yeah, but maybe it only had to feed one more time before it did that, but it didn’t happen because we trapped it.”

  “You know what I think?” Perry said and waited.

  Frox chuckled. “You’re going to tell me anyway, so you might as well say what you’re going to say.”

  “They’re different now. Not all of them . . . but some. They don’t all look the same anymore. Not to me anyway. I think they’re changing.”

  Frox didn’t know what agreeing with Perry would accomplish. Neither of them were positive about anything. “I don’t want to talk about this shit anymore. Look, if he”—Frox nodded toward Otto—“doesn’t molt or ends up being dead and there is no battle, we’ll just do it all again.”

  Perry exhaled with disgust. “The man in charge will have to give us a list of new names.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “What a pain in the ass all this is. They’ll probably run too.”

  Frox felt a pit form in his stomach. “Nobody wants to get overrun. It’s why we do it. It keeps their numbers under control.”

  Perry’s response was only another exhale that turned into a growl. They had to survive. The aftermath wasn’t talked about openly, but many hinted at how once this was over, if it happened, if it was even possible, that normal, whatever that was for anyone with their own skin on their backs, would never be the same.

  That may be true, Frox thought, but grilling beef on any afternoon any day of the week would sure be good therapy, and that meal would probably never taste so good to him.

  Discovering the inner self, the one who was really behind the hands on the clock, could be surprising. Frox was fascinated that he could be in charge of someone so much bigger and stronger than him. If Perry wanted to, he could grab Frox or practically anybody and kill them with his bare hands. But then someone else would be in Perry’s shoes, and Perry would have to deal with the consequences. He would likely find himself one of the men chosen by Archard. Murderers were always a part of the next Draw.

  Frox shivered, saw Perry take notice, as if he were surprised, but neither said anything about it. Frox had eaten recently after all. He usually got cold after a meal, no matter how many layers he wore. Difficult to avoid winter, and its partner, wicked wind, and both seemed to take joy in their attempts to chill humans to the bone.

  Each person on guard held either a bolt-action rifle or an assault rifle. American or Russian weapons left over from bases scattered over Deutschland. Although some bases still had weapons, quite a few had been cleaned out. It was as if someone had known where it all was and had been anticipating the Molting so they could loot all of it. Fortunately for them the looter, or looters, had been interested only in the small arms. Archard’s willing muscle had transported the big guns to the firing line.

  The fort, which Perry had designed, helped build, and overseen the construction of, had been where they’d lived after joining Archard. People still lived there, but it had also become a backup offensive in case the firing line was overrun. Archard had instituted a rotation of the Draw that now included Fort Perry. Frox, Perry, and their group would stay until the current one was complete, and then they would return to the firing line, and another group would move in to guard, be ready, or implement another Draw.

  All of the Draws had taken place at the firing line so far, but the creatures kept getting through, and too many folks were getting killed while their backs were turned. Personally, Frox was looking forward to going back to the line. He’d rather be actively reducing their numbers than staring at one cell, waiting for a man to die or molt inside, essentially allowing a fellow man to die by his hand and an extension of Archard’s rule. He had no idea if this Draw would work or not.

  The rest of the armed men and women were farther down the wall. All stood at the top of the fort atop a platform that ran continuously aside from the rows of sharpened tree ends that jutted inward every ten meters or so. They were grouped together to defend openings for sec
tors of fire. They aimed their guns downward with such intensity it was as if they believed the man could somehow molt, destroy the metal surrounding him, and scramble up and get at them before they could pull triggers.

  When what was supposed to be the inevitable happened, and a mass of them did finally appear, using the trees surrounding the fort to climb would be impossible because they’d been cut down a hundred feet in every direction. At least they had that going for them. Still nothing could distill the boredom, and with boredom came eventual complacency.

  That was usually when Molters attacked, as if they somehow knew when human defenses were weakest, so Frox decided to walk the platform, reminding them all of that fact. It helped him stay warmer, the walking around, and also gave him a break from chatty Perry.

  CHAPTER 6

  Steam rose all around him as Jonah lay in the tub. All of his sore spots, mostly his hands and feet, throbbed. Doreen had gotten his bath ready while he shoveled snow off the roof. Only in spring was shoveling not necessary all the time, but at such a high elevation, it seemed like it was always snowy. When they’d arrived, the roof had been heavy with powder but still intact. Whoever had built the cabin had planned on living there for a while. It wasn’t just some retreat, which was reassuring.

  Why were they in that cave?

  It was frustrating that he could be so vigilant, yet Molters could practically be directly under his feet. Obviously it was possible for them to dig with those claws of theirs, but it wasn’t the how. It was the why and the question of there being more caves. There was something about the place that wasn’t normal for them, that was unusual compared to what he’d already encountered and beyond what Jonah and Sven had figured out in Henrytown. The mysteries of the Molters seemed endless, so he might as well enjoy his bath.