by C R Langille
“Toby… I—”
He couldn’t take another apology from her on the subject. Toby grabbed her by the shoulder and arm and dipped her toward the ground. She let out a small squeak of excitement, and he planted a kiss on her lips. Sebastian giggled from the living room.
Toby pulled her up into a strong embrace and kissed her again.
“I know,” Toby said.
“You better watch out mister, or you’re going to be late.”
Her pupils dilated, and a patch of scarlet blossomed on her chest. He smiled and winked.
“I’m already late as it is. Gotta go. But keep that thought fresh, and we’ll make good on it when I get back,” Toby said.
He opened the door to the truck and turned back to Linda. She looked so beautiful the way she looked at him.
“I love you guys,” Toby said and climbed into the truck.
“Stay safe. I love you,” Linda said and waved.
Toby sent a text to Chuck to let him know he was on his way. He fired the truck up and hit the road just as the rainclouds decided to spew their guts.
He drove most of the way to their traditional meeting spot in silence. The drone of the road did little to take his mind off of Sebastian. Next year for sure, he would take him hunting. The guys could deal with it or not; Toby didn’t give a shit. He switched the radio on.
“Authorities are still searching the collapsed Anasazi ruins in Canyon Shadows, Utah. The small town of Canyon Shadows fell victim to a massacre, which took the lives…”
It was more crap on Canyon Shadows. He was sick of hearing about it. It got more coverage than election season. Toby changed stations and drowned the news away with some Black Sabbath.
He pulled off the interstate and found his friends in the Arby’s parking lot. Chuck and Dave stood next to Chuck’s large blue Dodge Ram. Toby drove up next to them, rolled down his window, and screamed along with Ozzy.
They laughed and joined in, and for a moment, Toby’s problems disappeared.
Toby killed the engine and got out. The aroma of roasted beef floated on stale air and mixed with the cloud of car exhaust. The sun reflected off the parking lot, and the heat of the day punched him in the face. It was unusually hot for the season, which meant the leaves would probably still be on the trees and would make the hunt difficult.
Chuck Thompson sauntered up to him first. The big man clasped his hand and pulled him in for a “man hug” that consisted of a shoulder bump followed by several thudding blows to the back. Toby returned the embrace as best he could.
Toby was a big guy at 6’ 2” and 210 pounds, but Chuck had him by at least another four inches and a good 20 pounds. Chuck’s wild blonde hair and goatee got him compared to a Viking numerous times. If it weren’t for his unnaturally high-pitched voice, he would have completely fit the picture.
“About fucking time, Toby Dick,” Chuck said.
Toby gave Chuck the finger, which only elicited laughter.
“No shit, did you get lost?” Dave asked.
Dave wasn’t overly short, but average looked short when compared to the Viking. The group gave him a lot of shit about his stature, but he took it in stride.
Chuck looked past Toby, and the mirth on the big man’s face melted under the afternoon sun. Toby followed his gaze and found the source of the big man’s discontent. Chuck gave Toby’s shoulder a squeeze.
Brock walked out of the nearby restroom, finished a beer, and threw the empty can in the bed of Chuck’s truck. Toby tensed for a moment, and his cheeks went hot. He concentrated on keeping his hands from clenching into fists. For a split second, all he wanted to do was take the sonofabitch to the ground and beat the smirk off his damned face.
Brock strolled up and clapped Toby on the other shoulder and let out a belch. The smell of stale beer and bad meat washed over Toby. He turned away and gagged while Chuck joined Dave next to the truck.
“Jesus, Brock, isn’t it a little early for that shit?” Toby asked as his eyes watered.
“Whatever, we’re on vacation, man. Quit being such a pussy,” Brock said. He flipped open a blue cooler in the back of Chuck’s truck and grabbed another beer. Brock popped the top of the can with a deft movement of his fingers that would have impressed most magicians. He tilted his head back and let gravity pour the liquid down his throat.
Toby rolled his eyes. Brock Kingston did what Brock Kingston wanted to do. The man acted the same since Toby met him six years ago at a rendezvous in Fort Bridger. It only worsened after Brock’s wife left him. The muscles in Toby’s jaw tightened and twitched.
Before he could say anything, Chuck stepped back into the circle of tension.
“Well, at least the rain finally let up,” Chuck said.
“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Dave said.
“Let’s get what we need and hit the road. We can be in Argyle Canyon in a couple hours, maybe even do a little scouting tonight,” Toby said.
“Fucking A’, Cotton! We’re burning daylight,” Chuck said.
Brock let out another belch and threw the empty beer can on the ground before he climbed into Chuck’s vehicle. Toby knelt down and picked it up. It was going to be a long weekend.
***
Toby readied his rifle. He had worked hard the last hour to call the elk in while his friends tried other spots on the mountain. The crash and crack of tree limbs told him all he needed to know.
Toby would only get one shot. It was muzzleloader season, and even though he was fast on the reload, the elk wouldn’t give him another chance.
“Hey, Toby Dick, get ready,” Chuck said.
The big man’s voice carried through the radio and into the ear bud. Toby didn’t reply. If he talked or made any noise at all, the bull would spook.
Chuck was on a nearby ridge. It put him far enough away to see everything and report in with Toby. Dave and Brock were in another part of the area involved with their own hunt.
The sky overhead blushed with the morning sunrise as the bull stepped out into the clearing. It wasn’t the biggest he’d ever seen, and few of its tines were broken, but Toby never passed up on a legal kill. He wasn’t a trophy hunter; he hunted to provide.
Toby steadied his breathing and waited for the exact right moment to exhale. His shot presented itself, so he exhaled half of his breath and squeezed the trigger.
Snap.
The elk stopped mid-stride and looked right at him. The percussion cap went off, but it didn’t ignite the powder in the gun.
Toby kept the rifle steady for a moment and waited to see if it would go off. He hoped it was a hang-fire and not a misfire.
Nothing. The elk took the opportunity and sprinted off toward the trees.
“Fuck!”
He put another percussion cap on and brought the rifle up once again. The elk sprinted farther away, more than two hundred yards. Toby tried anyway and squeezed the trigger once more. The gun kicked and sent a large plume of smoke shooting from the end of the barrel. A small mote of dust kicked up about a hundred feet away from animal. He’d missed.
Another shot echoed from Chuck’s side, but the elk kept moving. Toby growled and watched it disappear into the trees.
He started to reload the gun but stopped mid-action when the sky darkened. Toby knew the weather could change in a blink of an eye in the mountains, but this was something else. His heart pounded as the sky grumbled. A slight quiver started in Toby’s hands, and he dropped the lead round-ball he was about to load.
The sun’s light disappeared in an instant, and the valley fell under shadow. Dark clouds rolled and grumbled above him.
The purple and black clouds swirled and twisted overhead. The wind picked up and blew dead branches and leaves all around him. Within moments, the sky spewed chilling rain.
“Toby, w— cov—!” Chuck said.
The transmission
crackled, and the wind blew so loud Toby couldn’t hear anything else.
Coarse hairs on his arms and neck stood at attention moments before lightning crashed nearby and split a tree. The boom and crack of the tree caused his ears to ring and flung him to the ground. Its flash turned Toby’s world white. The smell of ozone flooded the air, and his muscles twitched and convulsed involuntarily for a few moments. He gripped his gun and stood up on shaky legs. Toby stumbled a few steps before a rock caught his foot and he face-planted into the dirt. Fire lanced through his skull.
Toby rolled to his back and groaned. His vision returned, but his ears continued to ring. Clouds swirled overhead in a tight circular pattern. Dust flew into his face and made it hard to see through anything but almost closed eyes. He touched his forehead, and his fingers came away covered in blood.
The wind increased in speed and uprooted a massive pine. As it fell, it took large chunks of earth with it. When it crashed down, it sounded like a bus slammed into a brick wall. The hairs on the back of his neck danced again as a bolt of lightning smashed into another tree close by.
He rolled onto to his hands and knees. The world spun and made it difficult for him to focus on anything. Toby only made it two steps before he fell back to the ground and retched. He looked back into the sky, and his heart dropped into his now empty stomach.
A tornado of lightning arced to the earth. The electric cyclone touched down in the draw, and Toby watched, awestruck, as it tore through the trees and set the small grove ablaze. The twister roared and blared out all other sound. He needed to get away, or it would tear him to shreds.
His Air Force survival training didn’t prepare him for this, but he didn’t need specialized training to know to run.
Toby tried to walk again, and the world spun. As he took a step, the world turned the other way, and his legs tangled on one another. He fell to the ground again. The tornado inched closer and closer until the electricity in the air crackled.
Through the clamor, he could only think of his wife and son. He would never see them again.
Looks like Daddy isn’t coming home. Maybe next time, buddy.
Toby growled and tried to move, but his limbs gave out and the darkness took him.
***
Toby woke to Dave screaming in his ear. He sat up and looked around. His friend wasn’t there, just felled trees and torn landscape. The mountain was quiet, like it waited for a signal to return to normal.
“Dave?” Toby called.
His voice rasped out dry and parched. He waited a moment for a response, but none came. Toby stood, and the muscles in his body screamed at him for action. It took much longer and more energy than he thought just to stand. He tried to stretch, but it caused spasms to run down his back.
Toby found a nearby log and sat down. He scanned his surroundings again. The landscape seemed to pitch and roll, and he fell forward but stopped the fall with an outstretched hand. It took a moment to realize it was his vision spinning and not the valley.
Dave screamed again. He flinched at the high pitch of the radio transmission. He scrambled for the radio at his belt.
“Dave? Are you there?”
“Toby?” Dave responded.
“Yeah, where are you? You okay?”
Dave said something in reply, but it came in broken and covered in static.
Toby looked at the radio’s screen. The battery indicator showed low and blinked. Regardless of low power, the transmission should have been clear. The radios could communicate over a mile away from each other. They tested them the day before with no problems.
“Say again, you’re coming in broken,” Toby said.
“It’s coming!” Dave yelled. The man said more, but Toby couldn’t understand anything.
“Dave?”
The hollow report of a gunshot echoed across the mountainside. Toby whipped around and tried to pinpoint the location of the shooter. A wave of nausea rolled through his body, and he fought to keep from throwing up. Then it dawned on him.
The campsite.
A lazy cloud of black smoke billowed from their camp. Too much smoke for a campfire.
Maybe they were all back there, waiting for him. Perhaps they made it out okay and were kicking back with cold brews. Yeah, and maybe he was the king of fucking Canada.
“Dave, come in, are you okay?”
The radio died.
“Damn it.”
He grabbed his muzzleloader and brushed off the dirt. Toby used the gun to support his weight and got to his feet. After another wave of vertigo, the world righted itself, and he could stand on his own. He finished reloading his gun and gathered the rest of his things. Before he headed toward camp, he faced the valley and cupped his hands.
“Chuck! Brock! Hello!”
His voice rolled across the countryside. The coppery taste of blood caked his mouth, and he spit to try and clear it. He tried calling for his friends a couple more times and then started toward the camp.
A small stream, which cut through a patch of pine trees, separated him from the camp. The copse of trees was not overly wide, but it was thick. The sunlight tried to break through the trees to reach the forest floor, yet it failed and only managed to create an ever-present shadow throughout. The overcast sky blocked the sun and cast an even deeper gloom in the woods. The soft trickle of water helped him navigate, and it wasn’t difficult to find the stream. He stopped in his tracks at the edge of the water.
The elk he shot at lay eviscerated in the middle of the small creek. It was definitely the same animal. He recognized the antlers. Its intestines drifted lazily from its body and floated on the current like a jellyfish. The fetid smell of offal wafted through the air. Flies gathered around the open wound and created a haze of buzzing stench.
Toby searched for cougar or bear tracks. He looked for any indication of what killed the animal. The last thing he needed was a pissed off cougar on his ass.
He couldn’t find anything in the immediate vicinity. Toby crept up to it and crouched down to examine the wound. A set of four claw marks raked the side of the elk. The slashes were clean, almost surgical. Sliced bits of flesh, fur, and muscle decorated the elk’s neck and exposed a ripped windpipe as well as the animal’s spinal column. Whatever killed it hadn’t stopped to eat any of the meat.
Toby got the distinct feeling something watched him from the dark. The woods were murky enough he couldn’t see more than a few dozen yards in any direction.
He took a couple of jogging steps, but a small voice in the back of his head screamed for him to slow down. Don’t become the prey. The headache returned in full force, and his ears started to ring. He fought his natural instincts and picked his route carefully. Toby slowed down, took a few steps, and stopped to listen before he moved any farther.
His S.E.R.E. instructor at Air Force survival school taught him to watch his movements, keep his head on a swivel, and stay quiet. The training kicked in, and he made his way through the gloom and trees. He neared the end of the tree line when a low growl rumbled from within the forest behind him.
Toby stopped and crouched. He pulled the hammer back on his weapon and placed a percussion cap on the muzzleloader. For several minutes, he stayed hunkered down. The muscles in his arm burned, and he lowered the gun. He couldn’t wait here all day. His friends needed him, and he needed them. Toby stood from the crouch as some twigs snapped behind a large pine tree not more than ten feet away.
He shouldered the gun and bore down on the tree. Sweat poured down his head and into one of his eyes. He used his shoulder to try and wipe it away, but the salty sting remained with him. A low mewl of pain radiated from where the twigs snapped.
You reap what you sow, Tobias.
It reminded him of the time when he was a kid and shot a cat with his BB gun. He’d wanted to have some fun, Toby didn’t think past the moment, but the BB
hit the cat in the head. The cat started to wail and moan and hid in his father’s workshop.
When Toby’s father came home and found the cat crying in his shop, he brought Toby out. The cat sat in a cage with blood caked all over its fur, one of its eyes missing. It lay on its side and let out a low, gurgled mew. Toby wanted to look away, he didn’t want to see it anymore, but he couldn’t.
“You reap what you sow, Tobias. It’s your kill, now finish it.”
His father’s tone held a strained passiveness; Toby knew the tone well, and knew it brought consequences when questioned.
A large crash boomed from farther back in the woods and pulled Toby back into the moment. He moved his aim to the new threat and caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. A deep bellow thundered from the forest, followed by the sharp cracks and snaps of small pines and aspens. It sounded like a mix of a bear’s growl, an elk’s trumpet, and a human’s scream of pain. Birds took flight and cawed their annoyance and fear at whatever barreled through their homes. Toby followed their lead and left the trees.
The subdued sunlight was warm against his skin, and for some reason reassured him. He was safer out of the trees than inside. He walked backward for a few steps and kept his gaze locked to the woods, then turned back toward camp. The thing bellowed again, this time louder, as if it were angry. After a moment, it moved further into the trees until the snapping and cracking receded into the distance.
The campsite sat within view of the tree line, but it wasn’t a pretty spectacle. The view of the wreckage punched Toby in the gut, and he could only stare at it in disbelief. The storm had decimated everything. Chuck’s blue Dodge lay upside down and looked like a group of punk kids used it for batting practice. A fallen pine now called Dave’s truck home; the cab lay smashed under the heavy weight of the wood. Yet, Toby’s truck took the worst of it.
His F-150 burned. Black scorch marks scarred the sides of each quarter panel. The fire consumed the engine and left nothing more than a shell. The vehicle smoldered, and smoke drifted into the air. As he scanned the scene, he finally caught sight of someone who sat in a folding chair near the truck.