TROPHY

by Paul M. Schofield

  Laying there in the dark, Martin remembered the night his father had disappeared. The following seventeen years he had grown very close to his mother. She worried about him during hunting season since this was the time of year she had lost her husband. He wished he were with her tonight, talking and laughing about old memories, instead of cold and hungry, waiting for dawn, and hiding under a tree from an unseen predator. Thinking of his mother cheered him, and fostered his inner strength, compelling him to be positive, to never give up. Under the spruce needle blanket with its faint refreshing smell, his warmth began to return. In minutes he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep under the guard of the giant spruce tree.

  Chapter X

  The first sounds Martin heard were familiar. The faint morning light filtered through holes in the roof of his den as he opened his eyes. The huge tree trunk rose above him as a dark shadow, like the mast of a great sailing ship. Chickadees were fluttering close by and the raucous cry of a jay high above shattered the silence. He painfully sat up and rubbed his battered legs and arms. He ached everywhere, including his stomach. He was hungry. Searching his pockets, he found only a squashed candy bar and a strip of forgotten jerky – not his idea of breakfast. He wolfed them down but the ache in his stomach remained.

  The upper branches of the trees creaked and swayed as the morning wind began. The blue sky of the day before was replaced with gray, and he could smell the heavier, humid air marking the change in the weather. Now and then a tiny snowflake drifted by, a prelude to something greater. It was a mixed blessing. A storm would make the going difficult but also provide the cover and secrecy he needed if the hunter was still after him. He shuddered again and wondered why anyone would go to such lengths to pursue him. It didn't make sense but he knew he had to escape the mountains soon or succumb to exposure and hunger. He was thirsty and needed to find the creek he had been following.

  The cold wind slapped Martin’s bearded face as he crawled out from under the great spruce tree. He paused for a moment, listening carefully, before slowly working his way down toward the creek. He found an open patch of water hidden behind a massive boulder and satisfied his thirst. With his rifle in his hands, he followed the creek downstream as the sky continued to darken with thickening snow clouds, driven by the increasing wind. He reached a narrow point in the canyon and climbed up the northern slope to a deer trail, a hundred yards above the creek. He spotted footprints recently made, beginning to fill with windblown snow. The footprints followed the trail as it descended the mountain, paralleling the creek. To continue along the trail would mean an ambush, no matter how stealthy he was.

  Martin glanced at his watch. 8:45 A.M. Looking again at the sky, he decided to go south, up the left side of the canyon. He began climbing up and the snowflakes started to fall, lightly at first, swirling in the wind, but quickly thickening until it was difficult to see ahead. He found another deer trail about the same distance above the creek. This one was untracked and led through denser growing pines and firs. With his rifle pointed forward and the safety off, he trudged along the trail, barely able to see, snowflakes stinging his eyes.

  Suddenly he heard a muffled snap, like a hidden branch trodden down beneath the snow. He stopped moving, even breathing, as he strained to pick up any more sounds. He flicked the caps off his scope and scanned the trees on the opposite side of the narrow canyon. It was difficult to see anything but white snow. Martin moved the scope slowly and soon his concentration was rewarded. Through the falling snow he could make out movement. A figure in dark clothing hugged the trail, winding around the bottom of an overhanging cliff.

  He remembered that cliff from a summer hike he had taken last year. A rock had nearly fallen on him, so he had investigated to see why. Another cliff jutted above the lower one, creating a talus rock slide at its base. The slide hung precariously just above the lower cliff. Wind, thunder, or too much rain would bring down the slippery rocks. Now the rocks were loosely frozen together and the snow was piling up, arching out in a cornice – anything would bring it down.

  In a split-second decision, Martin aimed his rifle at the cornice and fired off three rounds as fast as he could. A handful of rocks and snow tipped off the edge and chattered down toward the creek below. Time stood still with only the sound of the rising wind streaming through the swaying branches. Suddenly the mountain groaned as the snow cornice and a slurry of talus rock thundered down the lower cliff upon the darkened form cowering below. A hoarse, muffled scream was briefly heard and then only the continuing slide and chatter of the falling rock.

  “What have I done!” Martin said in shock. Had he just killed a man? Was he thinking too fast? Should he try to help him? His mind raced with the adrenaline surging through his trembling body. Why should he help him? He got what he deserved. The mountain killed him. But that reasoning felt hollow. What if it wasn't his pursuer? What if it was another hunter, an innocent man? With doubts beating his conscience, Martin decided to at least find the dead man's broken body for identification. He crept along the descending deer trail to a small open meadow and struggled across the creek. He began climbing back up toward the rock slide, two hundred yards above him through the thick timber.

  The climb was steep and he slipped many times. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and pulled himself up through the trees with both hands. He yanked on a rotten branch that snapped, sending him back down the last ten feet he had just scaled. At the same instant, a tree exploded above him and the powerful roar of a rifle shocked his senses. Somehow his hunter had survived! He not only survived, but was seemingly unhurt and still bent on his malevolence.

  In desperation Martin slid down the mountainside and positioned himself behind some rocks and thick brush. Peeking through the leafless branches, he searched through his rifle scope for his assailant. The swirling snow was blinding and coated the lenses, but he wiped them off and persevered in his search. He finally saw the dark movement of a man, ignored his conscience, and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. He had forgotten to load another cartridge into the chamber of his rifle. He quickly cocked another one in place and looked through the scope. The figure was gone.

  Suddenly the rock beside him sparked as a bullet ricocheted close to his head, followed by a deafening report, and the pungent odor of pulverized stone. Martin noticed movement and instantly aimed and fired at the barely visible form above him. With the roaring of his rifle he watched the figure of a man tip and slide down the mountainside until he could no longer be seen. That was enough for Martin! He turned and labored through the deep snow back to the creek and followed it downstream. He found the deer trail again and slogged along for a mile before turning south, heading up the mountainside towards the ridge.

  He was sweating and gasping for breath as he reached the ridge top. Like a bare shin on the mountainside, the ridge was clear of trees for some distance down its long face. He welcomed the easier walking across the open ridge although the wind-whipped snow stung his face. He was close to the tree line on the opposite side when he felt uneasy. He lunged for the cover of the trees. At the same instant a bullet splintered the tree beside him at chest level, and the powerful roar flooded his mind with fear. Panic drove him stumbling down through the trees on the south-facing slope. Falling and sliding, he scrambled to pull himself behind a large fir tree but was thrown behind it with a hard slap on his leg. Intense pain burned in his left thigh. The thundering report in his ears sickened him. He had been hit!

  “No! No!” he said in despair. But his despair turned to rage. Enduring the pain, he shifted his position, and peered around the base of the tree. Through the scope he could make out the gray outline of a figure moving closer. His leg was throbbing as he touched the trigger. He started to squeeze it, but the figure disappeared behind some trees. He kept searching through the scope, the agony became more intense. He had to do something to stop his attacker. He saw movement again. Desperate, Martin squeezed the trigger.

  He watched his target through
the scope, the bullet should have found its mark. The figure was standing still, and upright. A faint luminescence flickered and then went out from the gray outline. Fear clutched at Martin’s heart. What was he up against? Was there anything he could do to stop this monster? Seized by panic, he struggled to stand and hobbled down the mountainside, every step bringing waves of pain. The bullet had missed the bone, the bleeding was light, but he felt weak and nauseous, wondering if the nightmare would ever end. He stumbled down the mountainside toward the creek at the bottom expecting to be shot again at any moment. He collapsed behind a boulder at the edge of the stream, trying to calm his thoughts and collect his strength. This creek was bigger and not frozen over, but quick running and shallow for some distance. Here was an opportunity to hide his obvious trail of footprints and blood. He slung his rifle over his shoulder in case he fell. The snow was falling heavily as he stepped into the creek and the icy water seeped over the top of his boots. His leg was numb and now his feet as he struggled and slipped along the icy creek bottom, stumbling numerous times but somehow catching his balance. He skidded on an ice-covered boulder, falling on his hands, arms, and forehead upon the rocks protruding above the freezing water, leaving him dazed, swollen, and bleeding. He fought for concentration as numbness spread throughout his body and mind. He took his rifle in his hands and stiffly climbed up the south bank of the creek, struggling up the steep, forested canyon wall through swirling clouds of snow, slipping many times, and falling against rocks and sharp branches. He didn’t feel the pain anymore, he was numb everywhere. Only sheer concentration and strength of will compelled him to continue until his breath came in heaving gasps, his lungs aching from the cold that penetrated to his core. He stiffly propped himself under a large fir tree to rest and catch his breath but the tree offered little protection from the wind driven snow that stung his eyes. Shutting them for a moment to ease the pain, he huddled down behind the tree and fell very still.

  With a jolt, he shook himself awake. He had fallen asleep from exhaustion. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, probably only minutes, but it frightened him and wiped away the numbness in his mind. The intense pain in his leg throbbed as he struggled to his feet and hobbled across the windswept ridge, starting down the other side to what he hoped was the main Portal Creek Road far below. Clutching his rifle, he stumbled forward on unfeeling leaden feet, constantly slipping and falling as he descended the steep mountainside, the howling wind swirling around him, each jolting step racking him with pain.

  Without warning, he was thrown to the ground with a deafening roar from behind. Martin struggled to bring up his rifle but it was gone, fallen in the snow. He had no feeling in his right arm, only an intense burning pain. He screamed with fear and desperation, struggling to crawl away from the horror behind him. Staggering to his feet he tried to run but another blast slammed him to the ground, sending him skidding down the mountainside in the icy snow. A tree stopped his slide and Martin lay there motionless. The pain and pressure in his chest was intense, excruciating, his breath coming in short, painful gasps.

  All he could wonder was why. Would he ever find his father or see his mother again? He tried to move, but it was too hard, too painful. It was so much easier to lie there. He felt numb all over, even warm, but he was so tired, so tired. He wanted to rest and sleep.

  The snow swirled about him as he laid face down, a reddish cloud spreading out in the snow under him on both sides, fading as the falling snow quickly covered it like multiple gauze blankets, layer upon layer, diluting red to pink, and pink to white.

  Slow footsteps approached, the steady squeaking of boots in the snow grew closer. To Martin it seemed remote, as if in a dream. It frightened him and he wanted to run away, like a young boy escaping his nightmare, fleeing to the arms of his mother. He yearned for that peace and comfort.

  With a swift kick an icy boot in his ribs turned him over. The kick was painful, like a lightning bolt surging through him, but the relieving numbness quickly returned. Martin gazed up at the hunter. He tried to speak but his mouth and face were too cold to move. All he could do was gasp and stare with half-opened, glassy eyes.

  As if from a great distance he heard a rich, deep voice with an unusual accent slowly speak to him. “We meet again, young hunter. You were a worthy chase, you almost beat me. And now I am going to give you the honor that you so richly deserve!”

  The words echoed in Martin’s mind. The hunter laughed and Martin shuddered with anguish and complete despair. He helplessly watched as the hunter pulled a long, strangely luminescent knife from a black sheath and move closer to him. Memories of the headless deer floated through his mind as he felt an icy touch at his throat. He felt no pain, and Martin drifted off to sleep, to the rest he yearned for.

  Chapter XI

  Earth Date: December 10, 1975, Ancient Calendar

  Location: En route to the Kuiper Belt

  The light was soft and muted when Martin first opened his eyes. All he could see was a light gray sheen that wrapped around him. He tried to move his head, but his muscles didn’t respond. He could hear a faint whir or hum that seemed to pervade all other sounds. He strained to hear something else – anything. But the humming noise, or sensation, was all there was. All there was. That thought disturbed him and increasingly so as he reflected on what had happened in the last few days and hours. Everything was a blur, surreal, leaving him confused and disjointed in his thinking. He vividly remembered the ordeal he went through to its ghastly end, but how could it have been real? It must have been a dream but where was he now? He needed answers about what was real. He needed time to think because now his only reality was his own consciousness, the light gray sheen that encircled him, and the almost undetectable but all pervasive hum.

  A wave of panic and fear swept over him when he realized he wasn’t breathing, and yet he was still alive and conscious. He could see parts of his face as he moved his eyes, the top corners of his mouth, the edges of his cheeks covered with his auburn, gray flecked beard. He could move these as well as his eyes in what felt like a normal fashion. An indistinct smell lightly touched his nostrils, reminding him of overheated electrical components. He was afraid to speak, for fear that he could, even without breathing. He tried and was surprised to hear his voice, although it sounded flat and confined as if in a small space. He shouted, marveling at the volume with seemingly little effort. Shouting again, he began voicing his frustration. “Where am I? Why am I here? Is there anybody here?”

  Almost imperceptibly, the light gray sheen began to darken. As it darkened the vague outline of a man’s head began to emerge as if out of a thick fog, which the bright morning sun slowly burns away, until details are sharp and crisp. The softly lit face of a man, strangely familiar, looked squarely at Martin from about three feet away. All was dark around him, only his face could be seen. Martin stared at him. Martin was full of questions with an apprehension he couldn’t explain. The man was a big man, bald, and very tan with full thick lips, strong facial features, and dark brown eyes. But the whites of his eyes were a purplish color. His right cheek had a fresh, nasty looking gash. A slow broad grin was spreading over his face, revealing gold rimmed teeth that gleamed softly in the dim light. His smile was not benevolent. The man spoke and Martin recognized his unusual foreign accent.

  “We meet again, indeed, my young opponent. From your shouting, it was obvious that you finally awoke. It has been some time, almost three standard days, I was starting to grow impatient.

  “But in answer to your questions – I’ll answer them in random order. My name is Bestmarke, Galen Bestmarke. And where you are? You are on my ship, although it is probably much different than any ship you have seen before. Let me just say that it is a very powerful ship, a very fast ship.

  “And now your best question, ‘Why am I here?’ That is, of course, why are YOU here? First, let me explain that I am a businessman, a very good businessman. And because I am rich, as you would say, I can afford to do m
ore than work. I can do what I like to do. I like to collect things, rare things, one-of-a-kind things. And I am much like you, Martin Bucklann, or shall I call you Marty? Yes, you and I have a lot in common. We are both hunters. Yes, Marty, hunters. Sportsmen! Are you beginning to see why you are here?”

  Martin said nothing, only stared.

  “Come now, my worthy opponent, it is so plainly obvious. You belong to me now. Yes, I know it is shocking to think about – but it is true. You belong to me. I have collected you, so to speak, and now you join my other collections in my grand display room. My trophy room, if you will. Yes, now – you – are – my – trophy,” he said, letting each word sink in. He gloated, savoring the shock on Martin’s face.

  Grinning broadly, Galen studied Martin’s face for a few more moments and then asked him quietly, almost whispering: “Do you want to see my other conquests, my prize trophies, my now complete collection?”

  Martin could only stare blankly, wondering what bizarre and horrible creations this madman had invented. But Galen wasn’t waiting for an answer. Stepping back and turning around with both arms held out, he said: “Behold, my grand trophy room!”

  As the illumination spread and grew, Martin realized he was at the side of a circular room, richly finished in dark, polished woods on the walls with deep forest green carpet. The ceiling was not defined, but was like the blue sky of a sunny afternoon. Its height was difficult to judge as the walls seemed to diffuse into it with no corner or pronounced division. But these things were secondary to what caught Martin’s widely opened eyes. All along the perimeter and at various points near the center were heavy carved wooden pedestals or platforms of different sizes and shapes. A shimmer like very clear glass, almost invisible, sparkled faintly above each. One by one, starting at Martin’s immediate right, and working around the room in a counter-clockwise manner, the sparkling sheen above each pedestal gave way to a shape, the head of an animal. Martin watched and listened with growing horror as he recognized different animal heads. He heard a cacophony of different noises: bellowing, roars, and bleating. Screams of terror and growls of anger filled his unbelieving ears while his eyes tried to comprehend the sheer ferocity, the lunacy, of this visual circus, with the sickening realization that all the heads were somehow alive. They were alive and he was like them. Living trophies, captured and put on display.