The Last Hunt

by Mike Dellosso

  When twenty minutes had come and gone and when there was no sign of Andy or Uncle Rick, Grandpa picked up his rifle and slid the bolt back and forward.

  “What are you doing, Dad?” my dad asked.

  “Givin’ ‘em the signal,” Grandpa said. He opened the cabin door just enough to wedge his bulky body between the door and frame and hollered for Uncle Rick, but his voice was lost in the wind and snow. He hollered again, waited a good ten seconds, then fired the gun into the night sky. He slid the bolt up, back, forward, and down and fired again, then repeated the process one more time. Three shots. That was our signal. If someone went missing or stayed out too long, we’d fire off three shots. The party that was still out would fire two off in return, letting those back at the cabin know they were okay and on their way. We all listened. I held my breath and imagined Dad and Grandpa were doing the same. Silence hung in the air between us like a death sentence. But no retort came. They had to have heard the gunshots. It had only been a little over twenty minutes; they couldn’t have gone that far. Not in the wind and snow. I knew in my gut that something had happened to them, but I tried to push the feeling aside. I kept hoping, waiting, to hear a gunshot or a holler, anything that would signal they were okay. Then we could all breathe easier. But nothing happened.

  After another couple of minutes, Grandpa fired off three more shots. Was he thinking they hadn’t heard the first three? I’ll never know, but it didn’t matter because there was still no reply.

  There was another moment of utter silence in the cabin. Dad sat on the edge of his bunk, his elbows on his knees, head in his hands, fingers laced through his coarse hair. Grandpa stood at the door, wind whipping at his thin white hair. He eventually did close the door, actually more like slammed it, then went back to his cot and pulled out his suitcase.

  Dad lifted his head and watched as Grandpa pulled out a pair of flannel lined khakis and a heavy flannel shirt. I knew what he had in mind, and I’m sure Dad did too. He was planning to go after them. I half expected my dad to try to stop him, wished he would, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood up and walked over to Grandpa, put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m going with you, you know,” he said.

  Grandpa looked up at him, and I saw tears in his gray eyes. It was the first time I’d ever seen my grandpa even look like he was going to cry. He was a tough man, the toughest I’d ever known. I guess I always thought someone like him didn’t even know what crying was for. He was a career military man, survived World War II and the Anzio beach landing, raised three boys, had gotten lost once on a hunting trip in Montana and kept himself alive for almost a week by eating wild berries and drinking from a stream, and killed more deer than I could ever hope to. And here he was sitting on the edge of his cot getting ready to cry. It was all I could do to swallow past the lump in my own throat.

  Chapter 4

  “What can I do?” I asked. My voice was shaky and thin. I couldn’t hide the fact that I was just plain scared.

  Dad looked at me, and I noticed a tenderness in his eyes that I couldn’t remember ever seeing before. “Stay here so when we come back.”

  I didn’t know what he meant by that, but I knew I’d be staying put. I nodded and wrapped my arms around myself.

  Ten minutes later Dad and Grandpa were bundled and armed and ready to leave on their rescue mission. I preferred to think of it as a rescue mission rather than a recovery mission. I was trying to keep hope that Andy and Uncle Rick were still alive. Wounded maybe, but still alive.

  Dad hugged me and told me to keep watch at the window. “We’ll be back,” he said, looking me right in the eyes, and I believed him. He then opened the door and a thin dusting of snow blew in over the cabin’s floor.

  Grandpa left first. Dad stopped at the door and looked back at me. I forced a smile. “Be careful,” I said. My throat was so tight it was all I could do just to get those two words out.

  “We will. Twenty minutes,” he said, and then he shut the door.

  I watched out the window until they disappeared into the darkness. It felt like that same darkness was working its way inside me, wrapping around my lungs and suffocating me.

  “C’mon, keep your head together.” I said it out loud hoping the sound of my voice would offer some comfort. It didn’t.

  I shook my head and took in a deep breath, filling my lungs from the bottom up, then slowly exhaled. I looked at my hands and they were still shaking. My watch read two-fifteen. I’d wait twenty minutes then fire off the signal. But I hoped it would never come to that.

  Twenty minutes later I was still standing in the same place by the window, staring into the endless dark, willing my dad and Grandpa to appear. Five minutes later there was still no sign of them, and my palms began to sweat. I headed over to my cot, reached underneath and pulled out my Remington Model 700 .280. I’d gotten it just a month before the big hunt for my birthday. It was already loaded and ready to go. I opened the door, steeling myself against the bitter cold air that slapped at my cheeks and robbed my throat of air. I held the rifle with both hands, pointed the barrel at the sky, and squeezed the trigger. The blast seemed to be muffled by the wind, but I was sure Dad and Grandpa could hear it. Wherever they were. I reloaded and fired again, then one more time. Three shots.

  Then I waited. Nothing was in my head. I intentionally left it void of any thought, knowing the first one I’d have would not be a good one. I looked at my wristwatch and counted as it ticked off two minutes. No answer to my signal. I gritted my teeth, shoved my rifle skyward, and fired three more shots into the howling wind. Two more minutes passed and still no reply.

  Finally, I shut the door and sat on one of the wooden chairs. Fear and confusion and grief ballooned in my chest. Questions swirled around in my head like the snow outside. But there were no answers. To my questions or my gunshots. And that scared me. Scared me almost stiff.

  But I had to do something. I couldn’t just sit there in the cabin all night. Dad and Grandpa might be out there, hurt or unconscious. Andy and Uncle Rick too. But there was no way I was going off in that darkness and snow looking for them by myself. My only hope was to take the Wagoneer into town and get help, maybe a search party or something. I knew it would be a rough drive. Over two miles of rutted trail now covered with almost an inch of snow. But the town of Fawn Gap was my only hope. And maybe my dad’s and grandpa’s and Andy’s and Uncle Rick’s only hope too.

  I pounded my knees with my fists and stood, determined to do the manly thing: swallow my fear, take what I’d need, and go to Fawn Gap.

  It only took me five minutes to change into my camo overalls and pull on my coat. I wore a ski mask too, just in case something happened to the Wagoneer and I had to hike it out of there. I went over to Uncle Rick’s bed, pulled out his suitcase, and started hunting for the keys to the truck. My hands still shook, not that I expected them to be doing anything else, and I was sure my heart was lodged somewhere between my chest and mouth.

  After not finding the keys in the suitcase, I returned to the table and cranked the wick of the oil lamp a little higher; the interior of our little cabin glowed brighter. I knew the keys were around there somewhere, they had to be. Without them my little rescue plan was a moot point, and I would be faced with a whole new dilemma—do I go after them on foot or not? I didn’t want to think about that at the time, though, and pushed the thought from my mind. The keys had to be there.

  After searching for a few minutes I found something I thought I’d never see in that cabin. Tucked under Uncle Rick’s pillow was a little black Bible. I picked it up and walked over to the table, holding the book close to the lamp. The cover was still shiny and the pages crisp. Some of them stuck together when I opened it. It had probably never even been opened let alone read. Inside the cover, written in what looked like a man’s scrawl was the inscription: To Ricky, may this lamp always light your path. It was signed M. Erickson and dated 1953. I knew Uncle Rick was three years older than my dad and Dad was born in 1946. So that
would have made Uncle Rick ten-years-old when M. Erickson gave him the Bible. Whether he ever read it or not, the book obviously meant something to him for him to keep it all those years and hide it under his pillow like that. I tucked it into my coat pocket and resumed my search for the keys.

  After wasting ten minutes (which seemed more like thirty) I finally found the keys hiding in one of Uncle Rick’s gloves. He’d probably placed them there so he wouldn’t forget them. I stuck the keys in my pocket, grabbed my flashlight and rifle, and stood by the table surveying the cabin. A gnawing nausea had settled in my stomach, and I found it hard to swallow. I walked over and looked out the window, hoping with all hope to see the familiar form of my dad trudging through the swirling snow. But all I saw was swirling snow. And darkness.

  I slung my rifle over my shoulder, tugged my ski mask down over my face, went back to the table and cupped my hand around the top of the oil lamp’s glass globe and blew. The light went out and the cabin was enveloped in darkness until I switched on my flashlight. I then headed for the door and cracked it open. The cold air hit me again and sucked the air out of my lungs. I looked around at the falling snow and the blanket of white that now covered the ground. The Wagoneer sat quietly under a thin layer of white no more than fifteen feet away. I quickly calculated that it would take me approximately five steps to reach the door of the vehicle, no more than three, maybe four seconds. I pointed my flashlight at the Wagoneer but the beam of light only illuminated the whipping snow, worsening visibility. I imagined a bear broad-siding me as I dashed for the truck, then proceeding to gnaw on my head until I lost consciousness. I’d just have to make a run for it. I pulled my rifle off my shoulder and held it out in front of me. If there was a bear nearby, I at least wanted a fighting chance. I tried again to swallow, but my throat was lined with cotton. I counted to three in my head and made a dash for the Wagoneer.

  Chapter 5

  Surprisingly, I made it there in four steps, threw open the door, jumped in, and locked it behind me. No problem. What was I afraid of? The inside of the Wagoneer was cold and quiet, the windshield blanketed with snow. For some odd reason I thought it felt like a tomb or a coffin.

  I flipped the flashlight on, reached into my pocket and fished out the keys, and slid one into the ignition. After pumping the gas pedal three times I turned the key and pressed on the gas. The engine whined and moaned but wouldn’t turn over.

  “Come on.”

  I tried again. Turn key, give it some gas. More whining, but no life.

  I hit the steering wheel with the heel of my hand and cursed.

  Pushing the key forward two clicks, I flipped the switch for the wipers. I could at least clear the snow from the windshield while I waited a few seconds before trying again. The wipers sprang to life, sweeping a wide arc clear on the glass. The snow was light and fluffy and blew away like powdered sugar. Now at least I could see out the front window, though all I saw was blackness.

  I tried the ignition again and got the same result as before: a lot of whining but no success. The windshield was covered with a dusting of snow already so I hit the wipers again and watched as they slowly slid across the glass right to left then reversed. Searching with my left hand, I found the switch for the headlights and pulled it toward me.

  I can’t accurately describe what I saw standing there in the snow just inches from the hood of the Wagoneer. I’ve thought about it for two decades, have tried to erase the image from my mind and have had some success only to dream about it or have it triggered by some horror movie trailer. I suppose I never will rid myself of the memory. Eyes are like cameras and everything we see is captured and stored somewhere in the convoluted twists and turns of the noodle in our head. No matter how hard I try to stuff an image in some far corner and lock the door securely, it eventually finds its way out and pushes itself to the forefront of my mind. And then it’s there, staring at me with those black eyes and twisted smile.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. At first I thought it was a man. Just to see anyone standing out there in the snow made me nearly jump out of my skin. He was at least seven feet tall and thin. His skin was black, or maybe dark brown, and stretched taut over an angular face, like a burn victim. His cheekbones were like razors trying to push through that leathery skin, and his jaw was square and ended in a narrow chin. His head was hairless, his nose just two holes in his face, and his eyes . . . black and cold as coal, and lifeless. No whites to them at all. He had what looked like a black or brown blanket wrapped tightly around himself and just stood there, snow whipping around him, staring right at me, though at the time I would have sworn he was staring right through me. The sight of him set my scalp and face to buzzing and my hands were suddenly numb.

  A dozen thoughts swept through my mind. Who is he? How did he get here? Is he hurt? Did he see Dad or Grandpa? Did he hear the screams? What happened to his face? Isn’t he cold? Should I help him?

  Should I help him. Half of me wanted to, thought I probably should. If he was injured or lost I had a responsibility to help him, didn’t I? But the other half of me wanted to shut off the headlights and pretend I never saw him. He stood motionless, blanket wrapped around his thin frame, staring at me and it just plain gave me the creeps. No, more than the creeps. It scared me. He scared me. Like I’d never been scared before. The longer I looked at him and he looked at me with those dead, black eyes, the deeper the fear bug burrowed into my soul.

  Then I noticed it. The blanket. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before because once I did it was quite obvious. Probably because I wasn’t looking for it. It was no blanket at all. They were wings. Large, leathery wings stretched tight like webbing between long, bony fingers, wrapped around his body like a bat does when it hangs upside down. Thin, twisted veins coursed through the webbing. It reminded me of the stuffed cabbage Mom used to make.

  A whole new wave of chills raced over my body, puckering my skin with goosebumps. Bile surged up my throat, and I had to swallow hard to keep it down. But I couldn’t swallow; my heart was lodged in my throat. I looked at the thing’s face one more time and click, the photo was snapped. It was as if it could read my mind or feel my fear, because a smile tugged at one corner of its mouth, pulling it up and back and revealing a row of sharp, needlelike teeth. And that’s the image that haunts me in the middle of the night, that’s burned into some neural pathway in my brain and refuses to leave me alone.

  The thing nodded at me then, not a friendly nod, but more of a challenge, and I felt it peering into my soul, looking for some weakness to expose or feeding off the fear it found there.

  Quickly, I slapped at the light switch and shut off the headlights. My heart was thumping in my throat like a kettle drum. My breathing was short and rapid, a dog’s pant. I reached over and grabbed my rifle, half tempted to send a bullet through the windshield and blow that thing to kingdom come. I tried to think but my mind was like greaseless gears grinding to a halt. No solution came. No plan of action. In spite of it being cold enough to freeze the pee in my bladder, my palms were sweaty against the stock of my rifle. After a few minutes of sitting there in the darkness, trying to pry my mind loose from the vice fear had on it, I thought about the Bible in my pocket. Why that thought slipped into my head, I have no idea, but it seemed comforting at the time.

  I reached into my pocket and retrieved the little black book. We were never a church-going family, but we’d visited St. Martin’s a few times, mostly on holidays or when someone in the family was really sick or we were in hard times financially. I didn’t know the first thing about reading the Bible, though. I tried to search my mind for some memory of a Sunday school lesson or Bible story or something. Some starting point. All I could think of was Psalm 23. I slid the rifle between my legs, reached for my flashlight and clicked it on, then opened the front cover of the Bible. Flipping to the table of contents, I found Psalms and fingered back to chapter 23. My hand was shaking so terribly, both from the cold and the encounter, that I coul
d hardly turn the pages.

  As I read, the words seemed oddly familiar and certain phrases jumped off the page and melted into my mind.

  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

  Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I shall fear no evil.

  Fear no evil. Whatever was out there was evil, I was sure of it. I thought of it, standing in front of the Wagoneer like a demon waiting to snatch my soul from this earth and carry it to hell or wherever it was from. I turned my flashlight to the windshield and pressed it against the glass. I didn’t see the thing there anymore so I reached down with my left hand and pulled the headlight switch again. The lights sprang to life and illuminated a swirling wall of snow. But no demon, or man, or whatever it was.

  Chapter 6

  My heart banged against my ribs. I kept expecting that angled face to appear against the glass of the Wagoneer or one of those webbed wing-hands to explode through the window. I pressed the flashlight against the side window and swept the beam through the darkness. My breath steamed the window so I wiped it clean with my sleeve. White flakes lit up like fireflies against a velvet backdrop. But there was nothing out there but snow.

  I turned the flashlight back to the Bible and resumed my reading, keeping one ear open to the silence that surrounded my little shelter.

  As I read the Psalms the words seemed to ooze into my heart and warm me from the inside out. I’d never felt anything like it before. It was as though the words were alive, feeding a part of me that had been undernourished and starving my whole life.

  The thought of it eventually faded to the background until it was jerked to center stage of my mind again by the scream. It came from my left and the sound of it tightened the skin across my head. I whipped the flashlight around and pressed it against the window, scanning the tree line for the now-familiar black form. The snow had slowed to a flurry and it looked like the wind had died down as well.