Buck Fever
by Robert A. Rupp
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including scanning, photocopying, or otherwise without prior written permission of the copyright holder.
Copyright © 2013 Robert A. Rupp
Past events are loosely based on historical fact. All characters and events are fictitious. Descriptions of actual locales are included for reader interest and should not be interpreted as contributing or participating in actual documented fact.
Published by DarastarLLC – http://www.rarbooks.com
Dedicated to:
The Rupp-Reimus Hunt Club
Contents
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Epilogue
2500 B.C. – Egyptian Influence
32 A.D. – Biblical Influence
1550 A.D. – Nostradamus
1692 A.D. – Salem Witch Trials
1888 A.D. – Jack the Ripper
Afterword
About The Author
Chapter 1
Eight round perforations into the thorax appeared as the Ogemaw County Medical Examiner pulled the stark-white sheet away from the large male body.
Mort Sulkin giggled nervously as he helped the Examiner inspect the remains for foul play.
“Should we open him up now? Can I do it?” Sulkin pleaded, taking several deep breaths. He spent most days embalming natural-death corpses for a West Branch funeral home. Today, he would get a chance to use his forensic-science training.
“Hold on, Mort, I need to take a few more photos first to add to the ones I took in the woods. I want to send them around to a few friends in the news business to see if they have encountered anything like this recently.”
The Examiner took a small digital camera from his coat pocket and shot images from different angles. “Okay, that should do it.” He then slipped on a pair of rubber gloves and gently inserted his right forefinger into several holes. “Hmm, the shirt is poked in from a spear-like object. About a half-inch round. Blood’s gooey and bright red. What do you make of that?” He marveled at the iridescent substance on his gloved finger.
“The blood looks alive like it has some living infection in it. Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen,” Sulkin said, leaning closer. He bent down to look inside a hole, then abruptly lifted his head. “Oh, shit,” he said, as the Examiner’s bloody finger rubbed across his balding forehead.
“Oops. Don’t touch it. Here, use this.” The Examiner grabbed a sanitizing tissue from a round dispenser sitting on a nearby surgical tool cart and carefully wiped the blood from his finger and Sulkin’s forehead.
Sulkin grimaced into a nearby mirror and rubbed the spot several times. “Dang it, it’s leaving a red mark.”
“I don’t think you have to worry. Just keep some antiseptic cream on it for a few days. I need to run and send out a few emails. I’ll call you tomorrow. In the meantime, keep Lickshill covered and refrigerated. If the family pushes for a funeral, give them the usual legal crap about Michigan law and preserving evidence to stall them, or have them call me.”
Chapter 2
A large antler-less deer gently folded its legs to lie down, its head landing on the stomach of a downed buck, stretched legs out on the ground below. The bow hunter, perched 20 feet up the oak tree, mused at the sight, his adrenaline pumping full force. He slowly inhaled brisk November air, pulled back the bowstring, aimed, paused, breathed deeper, exhaled slowly and relaxed the bowstring. His first razor-tipped arrow felled the eight-pointer minutes earlier. His second arrow laid waiting in the bow as he watched the doe poke her head at the motionless buck below her.
What the hell is she doing? Harry’s not going to believe this.
The doe rose up slowly and stepped forward, putting its teeth around the arrow shaft protruding upward from the buck’s neck. A quick tug freed the arrow.
John Greppleton, dressed in orange camouflage hunting clothes, legs dangling, head cocked forward with bow and arrow held in shooting position, silently watched.
“Crippletown…Crippletown…where’s your sorry ass?” a walking man shouted as he batted tree branches and brush away from his face.
Shit, not now, and stop calling me Crippletown. Greppleton’s unfocused thoughts led to confusion.
The doe backed into the woods out of sight of the approaching man and froze, ears up, eyes peering forward, the arrow still clenched in its teeth.
“Crippletown, where are—” The voice stopped, then continued in a half whisper. “Jesus, you’ve bagged one, John. Hah, you’ve finally bagged your buck.”
The doe remained rigid, ears twitching.
Suddenly, the buck flipped its head up.
“He’s alive. Son of a bitch. Shoot, shoot. He’s getting up.”
Greppleton fumbled his arrow sideways, trying to regain his balance in the tree perch. The buck held its head up again pulling forward and locking gaze on the approaching man.
“He’s looking straight at me, John. Shoot. What are you waiting for?”
Harry Lopez, also in full orange-camouflage dress, stood 20 feet back waiting for Greppleton to let the arrow fly. He had left his bow near another tree about 50 yards away. A long knife protruded from his right hand, ready to gut the kill.
The buck snorted as it stared intently at Lopez.
Greppleton reset the arrow, slowly pulled the bowstring to a full release position, and let go.
Zooooot. Thump.
The arrow penetrated the lower neck of the buck, forcing its head down again.
The doe spooked, reared on its hind legs, pranced backward several steps and bolted from behind trees.
“Holy shit, where’d she come from? She’s got an arrow sticking out of her mouth and running straight at me!” Lopez shouted.
The doe approached within two feet and stopped. Lopez jerked b
ack, stumbled on a downed tree and fell. He grabbed his half-cocked glasses and reset them with his left hand as he waved the knife in his right toward the doe’s head.
“Oh man, she’s looking at me like she’s going to jab me with it. Shoot her, John. What are you waiting for?”
Greppleton twisted his head around the tree behind him.
“I can’t see. Hold on, I’m coming down.” He threw his bow and quiver to the ground. He stood up on the perch, turned his body to face the tree and peered around it. “That bitch is not going to hurt you. She’s just scared. Get up. She’ll run away.” Greppleton lowered his boots onto metal pegs he inserted as part of a tree ladder and stepped down to the ground.
Lopez sat shaking, trying to anticipate the doe’s next move. The snorting animal stepped closer and over his body. As Lopez moved slightly left, the doe moved in unison, cocking her head sideways to point the arrowhead toward Lopez’ chest. Lopez raised his knife and poked air near the doe’s eyes. The determined deer shifted right and jammed the razor-sharp arrowhead onto Lopez’ fisted hand, slashing the back of several fingers. Lopez immediately dropped the knife and pulled his hand to his chest.
“Damn, she stabbed me. The bitch stabbed me,” he said, kicking his legs forward, pushing him back out of reach.
Greppleton ran toward the doe, swinging his bow, jabbing her right hind leg. The animal slumped briefly, reared up with front legs in the air, made a bleating sound, turned, and forced her hoofs down onto Greppleton’s chest. He dropped the bow and fell onto a pile of leaves. The doe’s legs followed him down, landing on his chest with the arrowhead now pointed directly at his face.
“Shi...shi…iiit.” Greppleton groaned and puffed for air. “She’s heavy. I…can’t breathe…Here, take…this, bitch.” Greppleton heaved his legs up and into the doe’s groin, causing an immediate reaction.
Her jaw opened, dropping the arrow on Greppleton’s chest. She snorted in pain, backed off limping and disappeared into the woods.
The men lay on the ground staring at each other.
Lopez muttered several Spanish expletives, sat up and adjusted the frame on his glasses. He studied his bloodied hand reflecting on his experience as an army medic, wiped his knuckles across his shirt and declared the cuts healable without stitches.
“Ain’t nobody gonna believe this—hah—we got ourselves a hell of a deer-hunting story. I need a beer,” Lopez said.
Greppleton giggled and slapped his leg. “I got my buck. I got my buck. Let’s get this beauty gutted and go celebrate. Ooh, shit, I’m going to have two nasty bruises, here,” he said, rubbing his chest while straining to move his legs.
The two men regained their senses, stood up, grabbing knife and bow, and walked over to the motionless buck.
“Damn, he’s gorgeous. That rack’s going to look sweet over the fireplace,” Greppleton said.
“Yeah, right. You’re so wife-whipped. Mary’s going to force it down to the basement in no less than two days from when you hang it.”
“No freakin’ way she can do that. This is my buck, man—my buck. Hey, look at this. Looks like dried blood on the antlers. What do suppose caused that?” Greppleton said, examining the antlers for a place to strap on a deer tag. He reached into his pocket. “Shit, I left the tag in the truck. Remind me to put it on when we get out of the woods. I better clean this rack so Mary doesn’t get all bent out of shape when she sees it.” He wiped each point clean of the blood-red stains using wet leaves.
“The buck’s been in a fight over some doe; I’ll bet that doe. Might explain why she got so hot and bothered.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Greppleton wielded the knife and proceeded to slash through layers of hairy skin revealing steaming intestines.
“God damn, it stinks. I don’t remember that smell when I gutted my buck last year. Maybe it’s diseased. Whew, I’ve got to get some air,” Lopez said, backing away from the carcass.
“I just cut through his stomach. Of course, it’s going to stink like shit. What’d you expect?” Greppleton continued to cut and tear out entrails. “Here, take over. I’ve got to take a leak.” He offered the knife to Lopez.
“I don’t want to get that shit all over my cut hand, could give me an infection.”
“You suck-ass pussy, take the damn knife.”
Reluctant, Lopez took the knife, knelt down and reached into the open cavity. Greppleton stood up and walked several yards away.
A fine yellow mist floated past Lopez’ face.
“Do you have to point this way? What the hell did you eat, asparagus? Christ, the wind’s blowing it into my face.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Greppleton stepped back several feet and turned away.
“That’s weird.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t smell now.” Lopez leaned closer and sniffed the oozing intestine next to his leg. “Smells sweet. Aw shit, where’s my ring? I lost my wedding ring in there.” He proceeded to reach into the bowels in search.
“Maybe you lost it over where the doe attacked you.”
“No, I just saw it a minute ago. It must’ve fallen off when I pulled his stomach out.
Lopez’ face suddenly flushed deep red. His eyes bulged as he struggled to suck in air.
“You okay Harry? What’s wrong?” Greppleton grabbed Lopez’ left arm and shook it, then slapped his back. “Are you choking? Good God, man, what’s happening?”
Lopez continued gasping for air. My inhaler, need my inhaler, he thought. He fumbled to open his left shirt pocket, stuck his right hand in and pulled out a small canister.
“Asthma…are you having an asthma attack?” Greppleton asked. He took the canister from Lopez’ hand, forced the opening into Lopez’ mouth and squeezed twice.
Lopez’ body became limp, his breathing shallow.
Damn close, Greppleton thought as he checked Lopez’ pulse. A similar crisis happened two years ago at a surprise birthday party complete with two strippers. Lopez spent the following week in a hospital. Doctors said it was post-war stress caused by too much excitement.
“Wake up, man. Wake up.” Greppleton laid the drooping body on the ground several feet from the deer. “Man, you are a piece of work. Wake up. Don’t make me lose this deer.”
He knew what he had to do: drag Lopez to the car, take him to a hospital, and leave the buck behind.
Chapter 3
The Tuesday drive north from Detroit to West Branch took three hours. The men had only four hours to hunt before returning home. It was the first day of gun-hunting deer season. Until now, only bow hunters roamed the woods.
Typical mid-Michigan November day, about forty-five degrees, Jack Hermanski thought. Overcast, no wind, ideal.
“If we are going to get lucky, I say we head through those trees and not waste any time,” Hermanski said, while maneuvering his aging Hummer onto a side road marked as public land.
Three eager men, outfitted in camouflage hunting clothes with bright orange vests and hats, departed the vehicle. They opened long gun cases, removed their weapons and chatted about ammunition and scope adjustments. With barrels held down, they marched single file toward a tree line of tall pines towering over knee-high brush.
“Another truck passed through here in the past day or so,” said Dillon Lacarter, probing tire tracks with his boots.
“They definitely dragged something out,” Hermanski said, examining a trampled path into the woods.
“Bet it was a small buck. The big one is probably still in there, Jack. I can feel it,” George Montagno said.
“Yeah, right,” Hermanski said, forcing an encouraged smile.
~ ~ ~
The three business partners and close friends spent the previous three weeks together reviewing invoices. Hermanski acted as the boss and directed the work. As partners in a firm supplying small dashboard switches to a major auto company, they had to make every penny count. The competition from foreign suppliers was fierce, causing the men to work long hours with little tim
e off. Last year, they took a week off around Thanksgiving to hunt. This year, they had one day and had to make the best of it.
The public land off highway 55 bordered several farms. The deer would pass through the cornfields looking for food, then wander back into the woods for shelter. It was the perfect setup to bag a couple of white tails with full racks as they had a year earlier.
~ ~ ~
“I can taste the venison already,” Lacarter said, now about 25 yards in. “Remember to shoot into the neck, here to penetrate the windpipe, and here to pierce a major artery feeding the brain. That should bring him down quickly and preserve the meat,” he continued, pointing to his neck. “I think I’m going to stay here next to this tree.”
“You showed me that sniper trick last year, and I’ll say it again, I’m no sharpshooter. Anyway, deer don’t wear armor; why not just shoot them in the heart?” Montagno said.
“Spoils the meat, we need a clean kill.”
“Seriously?” Montagno said. “You said you learned that in Desert Storm. Why were you worried about a clean kill over in Iraq? You weren’t going to eat those people. Plus, why waste a shot to the windpipe first? Deer don’t yell out like humans, just shoot them in the jugular vein. Plus, we don’t use silencers, so the first gunshot will alert other deer in the area anyway.”
A dried-up cornfield appeared through the brush facing west.
“Just shoot to kill any way you can, who gives a shit, okay? I’ll be down wind about fifty yards. I’ll call you when I get there,” Hermanski said, tapping his wristband walkie-talkie.
“I’ll stay here with Dillon, if you don’t mind. If we see a deer, he can shoot it. I’d rather be drinking a few brewskis,” Montagno said, grabbing pocket pouches on his pants, bulging with beer cans.
“Suit yourselves, but for God’s sake, don’t shoot each other—especially not in the neck.” Hermanski laughed at the thought, shook his head and walked on through the woods.
~ ~ ~
Hermanski eventually approached an aging-plywood deer blind next to an open wet field. A small six-foot-round patch of rust-colored wheat stalks stood in water nearby, half with tops gone. The rest of the twenty-acre field was plowed under. A small animal lay on the ground next to the wheat patch.
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