The Hunter

by Kurt Robinson

  Instantly, John ran to the trunk that his stuff was sitting on and slung his backpack over his shoulder, tucked his rifle under his arm, grabbed his pistol with his left hand, and his phone with the other. He made his way toward the open door, but just before he reached it, Lewis fired his pistol aimlessly at John, missing. John ducked, but a bullet caught his right hand and hit his phone. His phone went flying across the concrete floor as he grimaced in pain. He then dove out the door as Lewis emptied his clip. Sparks were flying as each bullet hit the metal walls.

  “JOHN!” Adam yelled as loud as he could out of anger.

  “Goddamnit!” Lewis followed.

  John immediately stood up and took off running to a group of trees about twenty-five yards from the warehouse, leaving droplets of blood in the snow behind him. The bullet that hit his phone also went through his hand, which now had a hole in it and was covered in blood. Once in the woods he leaned up against a tree, away from the warehouse. He put his pistol on his hip, held his rifle in his left hand, and tucked his damaged shooting hand under his left arm to stop the bleeding.

  A snowdrift had formed in the trees to his left, so he moved toward it, got down behind it, and looked toward the warehouse; he saw nothing yet. He brought his rifle up to firing position against his right shoulder and aimed toward the door. He brought his injured hand out from under the opposite arm and grabbed the grip very carefully. It was extremely painful and still bleeding. He hoped he could still pull the trigger. He looked through the scope at the door and then Lewis appeared looking furious. He looked back and forth and then down and saw the blood. Then John pulled the trigger and sent a .30-06 round into the building to the left of Lewis who ducked and backed inside. John then pulled the bolt back, pushed in another round, and fired once more. Pulling the trigger and cycling another round in the chamber hurt like hell, but he fought through it. Lewis disappeared inside the warehouse.

  This was John’s chance. He stood up and ran further into the woods. As he was running, Cavanah and Lewis appeared from the door with M4 Carbines and fired in the direction John was running. Bullets lodged into trees, sending splinters of wood through the air, and snow, flinging it in every direction including on John. The both fired until they ran out of ammunition.

  “Motherfucker!” Cavanah said and then walked back into the warehouse, followed by Lewis. “Your best friend got away.”

  Adam looked at him with rage as he was tending to Travers’ bullet wound. Levinson got cut by the chair and was sitting on the floor holding his face, which had blood flowing down it.

  “What do you mean? Where’d he go?” Adam demanded.

  “Through the woods out back and toward those fields,” Cavanah told him.

  “Yeah, but he’s hurt. He’s bleeding. Think I hit him,” Lewis said.

  “Fuck. We gotta find him,” Adam told them. “Travers is fine, it went through. I’ll put a bandage on it. Get the first aid kit out of the trunk and give me the gauze and help clean up Levinson. Then grab ammo. And hurry the fuck up! We’re going after him!”

  John Watkins ran as fast as he could through woods and thick snow with his right hand back under his left arm. He was becoming tired from blood loss and his hand was throbbing. He looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was following him, and was surprised to see no one. He ran a little further and then reached a dormant field. He stopped and saw an old rusted hay baler next to the tree line where he came out, about thirty yards to his right. He made his way over to it as fast as he could.

  Once he reached the baler, he sat down behind it facing the field, and panted. He pulled his hand out, leaned his rifle against the baler, and pulled off his backpack. After unzipping it he reached for his small first aid kit that he always kept in there. He grabbed, opened it, and pulled out the gauze. Unrolling it with his teeth, he wrapped it around with his left hand and then pulled it tight with his teeth. He tried to move his fingers, but he could only movie his index and pinky fingers. His middle and ring fingers were not budging. He gave out a sigh and looked around at the white landscape.

  The snow was beautiful to him, and always had been to him and Adam. They played in the snow together when they were children and always joined the neighborhood snowball fights. Now, John couldn’t believe what was happening and wished he was back to those days. He and Adam were closer than anyone and Adam always had his back. Adam used to take up for him when bullies would target John in the snowball fights by taking cheap shots. Now, Adam was trying to kill him.

  Eleven

  1998 - 20 Years Earlier

  An eight-year-old John Watkins was in his upstairs room in his parents’ house putting on his snow boots when the doorbell rang. He knew who it was, so he hurried up, tied the second boot, and grabbed his hat and thick University of Kentucky winter jacket. He ran out his bedroom door, down the stairs, and to the front door where his mother met him, a tall, blonde-haired beautiful woman.

  “Whoa there, buddy. Slow down. Here,” she said as she took his hat from him and put it on, covering his bright blonde hair. “Need to keep your head warm, don’t want you to get sick. Keep it on, okay?”

  “Okay, mom,” John told her.

  “Alright,” she said as she opened the door and revealed John’s best friend, Adam Hart. He was a year older and slightly taller with much darker hair. He was covered in his winter gear as well.

  “Hi, Mrs. Watkins!” Adam said, smiling.

  “Hi, Adam.”

  “You ready, Johnny?” Adam asked.

  “Yeah!” John yelled with excitement and then ran out the door with Adam into the falling snow.

  “You boys be careful! Stay on our street!” John’s mother yelled at them as they ran through the yard.

  It was a few days before Christmas and the schools were on winter break. It began to snow the day before and had not let up. It had slowed down now, however, and was only a light flurry when John and Adam ran outside. They ran through the several inches of snow in the yard and down the shoveled sidewalk. The road had been plowed too, but snow still stuck to the surface as it fell. They ran fast and neared the group of neighborhood children who were throwing snowballs and making snowmen. The kids were in the middle of the road and yards of their houses. It was fun to be a part of and they did it every year whenever it snowed.

  John and Adam neared the kids in a snowball fight in the middle of the street. They joined the kids on the side they came to first. The snow had piled up alongside the road and at the ends of driveways, which made for good cover. Snowballs were flying, missing and hitting their targets, and John and Adam slid behind one of the snow piles.

  “You ready!?” Adam asked John as he was forming a snowball.

  “You bet!” John told him, making his own snowball.

  They made a few more snowballs, stacked them up, and then stood up from cover and threw them at the kids opposite them. There were several others to their left and right launching snowballs as fast as they could as well. Some were laughing and having fun, while others took it seriously and got mad when they got hit or missed their target. John and Adam were having fun as they grabbed snowball after snowball and hurled them down the street, watching as the snowballs disintegrated on impact. They continued the snowball fight for another several minutes when all the sudden a fast-thrown snowball hit John in the back of the head from behind them; a cheap shot.

  “Ow,” John said rubbing his head.”

  “You okay?” Adam asked, not seeing the snowball hit his friend because he was throwing his own.

  “Hey, J-J-Johnny. W-W-What a-a-are you d-d-doing h-h-here?” The bully began. “This fight is for n-n-normal kids, g-g-go h-h-home!”

  John Watkins had a mild stutter when he was a kid. It wasn’t bad, but was worse when he was in school and nervous, particularly in class. The first time he stammered it gave the bullies something to make fun of and they didn’t stop. John did eventually get over his stutter, when he was a junior in high school, but right now, he was the t
arget of bullies. However, he had Adam.

  “It’s h-h-him,” John told Adam, now nervous because the bullies were now here.

  “Oh, Butch The Tush,” Adam said, coming up with the name he called Butch Anderson, the ten-year-old neighborhood bully. He was a large kid, with black hair, and a large butt, thus the nickname. They looked at Butch who had his posse of three other boys with him.

  “Hey! Butch The Tush!” Adam stood up and yelled. John stood up next to him.

  Adam had called Butch that before and it was a name he didn’t like because he knew he was a big kid. “I told you not to call me that!” Butch shouted back in anger.

  “You make fun of John, I make fun of you!”

  “Oh, are you his bodyguard?

  “No, I’m his friend and friends have each other’s backs! But you might need three or four friends to have that back, if you can find any!”

  “You little…” Butch The Tush began but then hurled a snowball in their direction. His posse began throwing snowballs too. John and Adam dodged and then returned fire. A completely new snowball fight broke out.

  The snowball fight went on for some time. John and Adam ran to the other side of the large pile of snow they used as cover. Butch The Tush and his posse went their own ways, hiding behind trees, cars, and other tall piles of snow. John and Adam made snowballs as fast as they could and launched them in the direction of the bullies. They missed their targets as they ducked behind their cover. The posse missed John and Adam as well as they timed the throws perfectly, throwing them at each other.

  Butch The Tush hid behind a snow covered car as he stood up and down to throw his snowballs and hid from incoming ones. Finally, he got tired of that and told one member of his posse he was going around to the right and through a yard, to flank John and Adam. The word made it to the other posse members and they all made several snowballs and then gave him suppressing fire. He made two snowballs himself and took off, around that tree, through the front yard of a house, and then far enough to where he could see John and Adam behind the snow pile.

  “Got you!” He yelled and threw the two snowballs as quickly as he could. John and Adam saw him, but were not fast enough, and one snowball hit John in the head again and the other caught Adam on the arm.

  John held his head as Adam got up holding several snowballs with his left arm and, in a fit of rage, ran as fast as he could toward Butch The Tush and threw each snowball as hard and as fast as he could. He hit Butch The Tush in the chest, then the stomach, and then the groin. With each hit, Butch The Tush bent over further and further. The second to last snowball hit him in the head, which caused him to fall to the ground with a bloody nose. That one hurt a little more because Adam had put a rock in the middle of it. He had one snowball left and didn’t hold back. He stopped and launched it right at Butch The Tush’s face again and the bully yelled out and began crying.

  Adam, still carrying the rage inside him, jumped on Butch The Tush and just began pummeling him in the face. Butch The Tush tried to cover his face, but then Adam went down to his torso and began beating him there. Butch The Tush had no choice but to move his hands down to protect that area. Just as Adam was about to lay a hard hit on Butch The Tush’s exposed bloody nose, the posse grabbed him by the arms and pulled him back.

  John also had a hold of Adam yelling, “Adam, stop! That’s enough!”

  It took all of them to drag Adam back and dropped him on the snow. Butch The Tush’s posse then ran over to him to check and see if he was alright. He was crying, with blood still running down his face. Adam stood up with John as they looked down on the fallen bully who had finally gotten a taste of his own medicine.

  “Now, you listen! There’s plenty more where that came from if you pick on John again. You hear me!?” Adam yelled down to the posse.

  “Yeah, yeah, okay,” Butch The Tush said holding his nose and fighting through the tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  “Good! Now beat it! This is our street!”

  The posse helped Butch The Tush up and they ran off through the yards and into the distance. John looked at his best friend and smiled.

  Twelve

  Present Day

  Saturday - 7:25 A.M

  John Watkins had a faint smile on his face that quickly faded when he brought himself back to reality. He looked at the landscape once more and put the first aid kit back into his backpack and zipped it shut. He got on his knees, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and grabbed his rifle with his left hand. He sat there and tried to figure out what to do next. He had no idea where he was, had no phone, and was on his own. John was going to have to survive by using the hunting and survival skills he had picked up over the years. He hoped he would run into a house or road sooner or later. Right now, he just had to move.

  There was a barn at the other end of the field he was next to, and John thought there might be something in there he could use. He got an idea to make some sort of trap for them, just not sure what. Sure, he had his gun and knife, but he was outnumbered and wanted to be as quiet as possible. Moreover, his dominant hand was severely injured, and he wasn’t sure how he would be able to hold his knife or fire a gun. The way he saw it, this was his only defense. He stood up and ran as fast as he could toward the barn. He knew they were probably not far behind him.

  Once he reached the barn, he stopped and looked behind him, toward the hay baler, but didn’t see anyone yet. He grabbed the old wooden door, slid it open just enough, and stepped inside. A bush hog and old tractor sat in the middle, a small sprayer on one side, and barrels and an old wooden stepladder next to that. There was a pile of stacked wood on the opposite side, next to that was a barrel with farm tools sticking out of it, and beside that was a small toolbox on wheels.

  John closed the door and walked to the barrel of tools; he saw a hoe, several shovels, a rake, and two pitchforks. Next, he quickly opened the drawers of the toolbox. John saw an assortment of old tools including screwdrivers, hand drills, a small ripsaw, rusted C-clamps, pliers, rusted screws, nuts, and bolts. In the last drawer, he saw an old ball of small twine. He looked at it for a second, picked it up, and then thought about what he could do. He looked through the stuff again and saw the C-clamp, the ripsaw, flathead screwdriver, and then looked over at the pitchfork.

  Adam Hart, Sergeant Cavanah, Officer Levinson, Officer Travers, and Officer Lewis raced through the woods, dodging trees, branches, thick snowdrifts, logs, and stumps. They were all carrying either an M4 Carbine or a Benelli M4 Super 90 Tactical Shotgun. They were following John Watkins’ footprints and drops of blood. Finally, they came to the open field and followed the prints to a hay baler. They saw he had done something there, concluding that he had wrapped his wound when they looked to the next set of prints, and saw no blood.

  “I betcha he went to that barn,” Cavanah said as he pointed.

  “Let’s fuckin’ go,” Adam told them.

  They followed the footprints all the way to the large sliding barn door. Adam gave the order to stack up with Cavanah in front, Adam behind him, then Lewis, Levinson, and Travers. Cavanah looked back at Adam who gave him a nod. Cavanah handed Adam his shotgun and then grabbed the left side of the sliding door and pulled it open. But, the door suddenly stopped when it opened just far enough for one man to walk through. He gave it a tug, but it wouldn’t budge. He stayed hidden on the outside of the barn door, took his Benelli tactical shotgun back from Adam, and slowly stuck his head around edge of the door to look in the barn.

  He scanned the barn but no sign of John. He stepped back, put the butt of the shotgun against his shoulder, and stepped forward into the barn to sweep it. His fellow officers would follow. On his second step, his foot caught a piece of rope twine that had been tied to the end of both barn doors, which stopped it from opening any further. Cavanah was moving at such a fast pace that he couldn’t stop himself from falling. He fell forward on the ground and was met with extreme pain in his left shoulder and just above his right breastp
late. John had stuck the handles of two flathead screwdrivers in the dirt of the barn floor. The tips of the screwdrivers went right through his skin. Cavanah yelled in pain as Adam and the others stepped forward to look and saw the tight piece of twine going across the opening.

  “Are you hit!?” Adam asked.

  “No, something fuckin’ stabbed me. I can’t roll over, you gotta pull me straight up,” Cavanah told him.

  “Alright, hang on,” Adam said and began to step over the twine until he saw Lewis bring his M4 Carbine up and point it at the barn door.

  “Fuck this!” Lewis said, fed up.

  “No-“ Adam began, but it did no good.

  Lewis opened fire, sending bullets through the wooden barn door and walls. The bullets hit the tractor, sprayer, barrels, toolbox, and support beams. It was loud and messy. Splinters of wood flew through the air, as did sparks from the tractor and barrels. Holes appeared in some poor farmer’s sprayer and the tractor tires had new holes now with air hissing out of them. Some bullets even went through the other side of the barn, going God knows where.

  “Cease fire! Cease fire!” Adam yelled, but Lewis fired until he emptied his clip.

  “What the fuck are you doing!?” Adam demanded.

  “Making this fuck up go by faster.”

  “What if he’s not in there!? And he’s probably not! You just wasted an entire clip you fuckin’ idiot!”

  “This needs to end as soon as-“

  “No! It ends when I say it ends!” Adam roared. “And who knows how many people just heard that!”

  “Can someone please help me!?” Cavanah howled, still on the ground with the screwdrivers stuck in his body and blood on his clothes and the ground.

  “I’m in charge here, not you. Get that through your fuckin’ head,” Adam said as he gave Lewis a dishonorable look and then stepped into the bullet-riddled barn to help Cavanah up. Lewis stared back at Adam with content and reloaded his M4.