Adams dove to the side of the road and scrambled under a bush. The hiker stood still, waiting as the car rounded the turn and gunned down the road. The vehicle slowed and a kid, around eighteen, with a backwards baseball cap, threw an empty can of Pabst Blue Ribbon at the hiker’s feet and yelled, “Faggot!”
The car accelerated and in a few seconds it was just a low rumble in the distance.
Sheriff Adams emerged from the bush laughing. “What’s your dad doing out here, Tex?”
“Shut up.”
“Bunch of kids. Going into the woods to get drunk. I’ve busted ’em a few times before. They hang out around Tucker’s. Leave trash everywhere.”
Tex’s heart rate gradually returned to normal.
“This is what kids do for fun around here. Drink in the woods. Drive fast. Fuck their sisters. What do you do for fun, Tex?”
“I don’t know. Hiking?”
“Hiking! Ha! I’ll bet your hiking days are over.”
They heard a gunshot in the distance.
“Probably those kids. They like to get drunk and shoot their guns off, too.”
They resumed walking. Some time later, Adams held up his hand up to indicate that they stop.
Silence. Silence. Silence. Then—crunch—a footstep in the forest.
A wave of Crenson cultists emerged from the darkness.
Chapter One Hundred Fourteen
“Why can’t Alex come?” Susan said, feeling strained and anxious again.
“I don’t trust Alex,” Scott said. “I don’t trust him and I don’t like him.”
“Scott, what are you talking about?” Susan protested. “He’s fine.”
They left the trees behind and walked down the auxiliary road. Alex remained behind. Susan turned back and saw Alex standing beside the circle of trees. His form seemed on the verge of evaporating into the shadows.
“I don’t think we should leave him alone.”
“Don’t be stupid, Susan. If we bring him, we’ll increase our chances of getting caught. Just one more person to fuck everything up. Don’t you want to get home? Don’t you want to have that baby?”
He reached out his arm and rubbed her shoulders. Susan jerked back. Her own reaction startled her. She made herself hold Scott’s hand.
“Scott, do you hear that? Stop!”
They ceased walking. Susan listened. The sound came again—a hollow thumping, like bamboo clunking against a rock. Scott shot the flashlight beam around the path. On each side of the road the eye of light revealed the same thing, deep brown brush with a thick crosshatching of sticks and twisted thorns.
Clunk, clunk, clunk.
“It’s above us,” Susan said.
Scott tilted the light into the canopy of trees. Green leaves swayed in the wind.
“Over there!”
Scott followed Susan’s pointing finger and raced the bead of light to the mid-section of a tree about ten feet away.
A set of deer antlers clicked against the trunk of a tree. Susan huddled close to Scott.
“What is it, horns?” Susan asked.
“Deer antlers.”
Susan stared up at the cluster of white bones, which had grown still with the dying breeze.
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. The sound came from somewhere above her this time.
“Scott, shine your flashlight around.”
The light skittered through the trees. The sphere of illumination displayed the same twisted thorns, the same fractured sticks, the same dark green leaves. Then she saw it.
“Stop! Shine it right there!”
Another rack of deer antlers hung suspended from a tree. Scott adjusted the head of the flashlight, causing the beam to widen out and splash over a greater area. From every tree hung a pair of antlers. Some clean and white. Others ripped hastily from the skull, flesh still rotting on the bone. A rancid aroma filled the air.
“My God, Scott! What is all this? What the hell is this?”
A gust of air cut through the trees and the multitude of antlers resounded their hollow song, like a collective wind chime of death.
Scott swirled the flashlight back and forth, up and down, but everywhere the beam fell, a cluster of antlers appeared.
Then the light went dead.
Chapter One Hundred Fifteen
“Scott! Scott!”
Susan pushed her hand into the darkness, searching for her husband. The moon was gone, the stars expired. She saw only the vague distinction of two shades of black where the sky met the tree line.
The antlers clunked.
“Scott! Turn the light on!”
She poked her hand out again, while drawing her other hand in, protecting her face. Her arms began to shake as the realization of solitude descended upon her.
The animal bones knocked against the trees. Susan heard laughing from all around her. She was about to yell for Scott again, but instinct told her to remain still. She crouched low and listened.
The knocking sound increased and developed into a rhythmic percussion. She realized that the beat was not merely the result of the wind, but rather a precise pattern of pounding. Someone was smashing the trees with a stick. Or a bat. Or given the metallic tone of the reverberations, maybe a knife.
Susan whimpered. She gripped her knees and curled into a ball on the forest floor. A light flashed through the trees. Not the artificial beam of a flashlight, but rather the flickering octane of fire. Torches. People are coming with torches.
She thought of the baby. The one she would never have. Mom, Susan thought, my stupid college nickname. What a cruel joke.
The metallic drumming increased in fury. More percussionists joined in. Susan felt leaves and twigs raining down on her. Low chanting accompanied the beat.
She crawled on her belly through the woods. The spiderwebs she had feared only minutes ago were irrelevant now, as she twisted through the brush in search of an escape.
Her hand fell upon a warm body. Her fingers scraped across short, coarse hair. “Scott?” she whispered. “Scott?” Her hand explored the thing, silently searching the angles. It was not Scott. Not even human.
She listened close and heard a wheezing death rattle from damaged lungs. A deer. Her hand touched the cold nose, traveled over the eyes, and rested on the top of the skull, wet with blood. Why would someone do this?
“Susan.”
The voice was masculine, deep, rural. The way it carefully picked through the two syllables of her name gave her the shivers.
“Susan.”
She remained still, unconsciously clutching the dying deer.
A few more torches dotted the horizon. The percussion faded until only the constant ping of the knife remained. In the darkness, Susan could feel her invisible attackers planning their assault.
Suddenly the deer sprung to its feet and attempted an off-balanced lunge towards the road. It managed one clumsy step; then a knife whistled through the moonlight and struck the creature in the neck. It collapsed again, more definitely this time. Scott, Scott, she thought to herself, too afraid to utter the words aloud. Where did you go? Why did you leave me?
Now the footsteps began. The knife thrower was coming to retrieve his weapon. The shuffle of boots through the woods echoed louder and louder until they were almost upon her. She curled tighter and pulled her knees deeper into her chest.
Susan heard the rustle of leaves as the carcass of the deer was easily lifted and the knife expertly extracted. Blood spurted from the wound and landed on Susan’s face and arms.
In the moonlight, Susan looked at a black leather boot, cracked with age. Peering up, she studied the man who stood in front of her. His curly black hair was framed by the moon like a dirty halo. A flashlight beam blinded her.
Martin smiled. It was time.
Chapter One Hundred Sixteen
He held the knife against her cheek. She sniffled but remained stone still. The blonde, Martin thought. It’s the blonde. He had always liked the blonde the best. The black-haired girl wa
s filthy. A slut. He’d watched her have sex in the tent with the other guy. She was rough and crude and all wrong. But the blonde was pure.
He flipped the blade, now letting the cool side of the metal rest against her face. He thought of those commercials he’d seen before his father declared the television an instrument of the devil and threw it in the garbage. The ad was for the Army or the Marines or something. He remembered a high-ranking officer placing a battle sword against each shoulder of a freshly anointed soldier. He had loved that commercial, only the image didn’t go far enough. He’d always hoped that the blade would cut deep into the side of the unsuspecting soldier’s neck, causing an eruption of blood. But it never did. His father found television scandalous.
Martin Levy simply found it boring.
“Susan?” he asked, the sound of his own voice surprising him. He didn’t speak often. Didn’t have the need to. Killing people for Father Glick didn’t require much in the way of conversation. He’d sometimes missed talking to people. He talked to dogs a lot. And deer. They never answered. Perhaps that’s why he killed them.
“How are you, Susan?” he asked. She replied with a grunt, and began crabbing backwards through the woods, kicking feebly at his shins. Her arms gave way and she fell flat on her back. In a moment, he was on top of her.
“Don’t be mad.” He let the blade slide down her face, over her breasts, and nestle between her legs. “I would never hurt you.”
He felt the familiar itch in his leg. Right now he didn’t want to take the blade off Susan. He would let the itch pass.
“How do you know my name?” she blurted.
It was a good question. Certainly he’d overheard it when he spied on their campsite from the perimeter of the woods. But he’d also read her trail journal entry. He couldn’t make out most of the words, having left school after the 5th grade, but he did remember the name: Susan Ginder.
“You’re Susan Ginder,” he said.
She writhed beneath his feet.
“God! How do you know my name?”
He grew excited by her exasperation.
“I know everything,” he taunted. “I know Scott. I know how he killed someone in college.”
She looked up at him, wild-eyed. “How do you know that? How the fuck do you know that? Who are you?”
He momentarily lost focus. Perhaps I’ve said too much, he thought. He’d promised himself not to reveal anything. But the unbelievable coincidence of Scott returning to Crenson with his wife was just too much to ignore.
He pressed the knife hard against her zipper and Susan let out a small cry. Martin shut his eyes. He suddenly remembered about the others. Father Glick’s followers, probably watching in the darkness, helping him with the hunt.
He turned around and saw a few torches in the trees. Saw the eyes. “Go away! Go back,” he commanded.
He watched as the torches receded. Now it was just the two of them.
Susan rolled toward him and drove a fist into his groin. Martin Levy growled and bent forward.
He glanced up and saw Susan disappearing into the moonlight.
Chapter One Hundred Seventeen
Alex stood in the circle of lights. How could Scott and Susan leave me here alone? It all happened too fast—first Scott’s decision, and then the two of them receding in the darkness, without so much as a goodbye. His friend was mutilated. He almost got killed himself. He studied the bloody stump in front of him. This place is fucked up.
Now that Scott and Susan were gone, and he was completely alone, he had difficulty remembering what was real and what was a nightmare. Being with other humans had helped him make a distinction. Made him remember he was alive. Now he just had the darkness.
He couldn’t simply stand in the ring of trees forever. He started up a different trail than the one Scott and Susan had taken. A twisted and rocky path, which he hoped would lead to the parking lot. He worried about the man in the red shirt. Martin Levy. They’d last seen him on the shore while they rowed away on the lake. Could Martin have circled around to catch us on the other side of the lake? Could he move that fast? Alex had told himself no, when he was on the boat, because that seemed like the thing to do: positive thinking. Now he was alone, and there was no one to convince but himself, and his bravery was growing thin.
He kept remembering the glint of the blade. The way the man sank back into the tree line like an animal. Alex had the uneasy suspicion that traveling at night through the forest would be a simple task for the man in the red shirt.
Alex banged the side of his flashlight, trying to coax a solid beam out of the dying yellow light. The trail reflectors glimmered more faintly by the moment.
He heard murmuring in the woods. The kind of voices people use in church when they’re trying to be quiet. Murmuring and chuckling. Some far off laughter.
Who’s out there? He was ready for the guy with the knife, but people? Lots of people? What are they doing out here at night? Why are they laughing?
He walked faster, unsure if he was heading toward or away from the laughter, but feeling that speed was important, regardless of the direction. His light sputtered intermittently. What the hell? Not far ahead, six torches were spiked into the trail. They burned furiously, smoky and bright.
He looked around. Laughter swirled between the trees. He turned and started back down the trail toward the circle of trees. No! Six blazing torches this way, too. Alex shivered. His flashlight failed. He smashed his open palm against the shaft, the light flickered and remained. He shifted direction and sprinted into the woods.
As soon as he hit the forest he heard them. All of them. Yelling and hooting. At least twenty or thirty people, he thought. His shoulder bashed into a tree trunk and he spun off balance. His flashlight cut out. He hit it again, but it was hopelessly dead. He twirled in the darkness. He ran blindly one way, and then another, his chest burning with fear.
A hand touched his face—and then another. Laughter. Calls. Whistles. He ran into someone and heard, “Ufff.”
He swung his fists wildly, grazing clothes. He connected with what felt like a face. Good. If I’m going to die, at least I hit one of them. He dove in a different direction, but the hands found him again. His progress slowed, as if running in water. The hands tried to find purchase in any part of his body—mouth, eye sockets, nostrils. They dug their fingernails into his flesh. He spun, protecting his face, and fell down. Then they were upon him. Pulling his hair, ripping his clothes, thrusting their knees into his chest.
He tried to roll onto his stomach and let the ground protect him, but they were too heavy. He remained on his back. They pulled and dug and choked and kicked. He saw the flash of eyes, the torches, the smiles.
They ripped him apart. The blackness of the sky fused with the blackness of his mind as he slipped into his final nightmare, dead on the trail.
Chapter One Hundred Eighteen
When Scott determined he was far enough away from Susan, he flipped his flashlight back on. He walked assuredly now through the dark woods, reorienting himself with the area. Tucker’s Store is ten minutes north of here. The Church of Crenson is about twenty minutes west. He could always take the trail back to the parking lot, get in his car, and go home—but then he’d miss all the fun.
He thought about Susan. He wondered how she’d die. Would Martin Levy’s knife end her life? Or would the Crenson cultists tear her apart? Either way, he was sorry he’d miss it. But it’s probably best if I’m not near the murder scene, when I have to explain things to the cops, he thought. What a stroke of luck it was for Jack to suggest this new spot. His old friend Martin would take care of Susan. Everything happens for a reason. He continued down the trail, smiling.
There were still a few flaws to his story he had to amend. The stray hiker that Jack had killed didn’t really fit in with his alibi. Nor did the cop. He hoped Sheriff Adams was dead by now. Judging from the way Adams handled himself in the woods, death seemed the most likely outcome.
Scott
turned left and hiked down a series of steep switchback trails, which he believed led to the old church. He hoped he still remembered the way.
He heard a muffled scream in the distance. It wasn’t Susan, the scream sounded masculine. Alex? The hiker they left behind? Scott triggered the mini-light on his watch and smiled. Eight minutes. Not bad. The Crenson cultists work fast.
He splashed through a small creek. The dankness of the evening reminded him of the first church Glick built, that cold stone cathedral hidden in the woods. He remembered the sacrifices, the sex, the promises.
The Trail Page 26