Alice Henderson - Voracious

She walked up the narrow dirt path to his doorstep and rapped on the door. An osprey cried out overhead, and she followed the sound to see the brown and white bird sweeping across the sky, probably heading toward the lake to hunt.

Returning her attention to the door, she knocked again. Not a sound came from within. He wasn’t home. Turning on the doorstep, she wondered where he might be. Maybe he wasn’t on duty today. Maybe he’d gone down to Missoula to visit his sister as he’d intended to do before.

She strolled around the cluster of ranger residences, hoping to run into someone who might know where he was. She didn’t feel right about knocking on doors. She wasn’t even supposed to be there, since they were private residences. Steve’s reaction when she’d first knocked on his door convinced her that annoying people frequently ignored the signs that said Private Residence. It was highly likely Steve didn’t know anything more than she did, anyway. Since he wasn’t the creature’s target and wasn’t currently in the way, she guessed he was safe for now. And would stay safer if she just stayed away.

She wondered how long Stefan would take to heal and how soon it would be before it chose another victim, if it hadn’t already. She strolled briskly back toward Noah’s cabin, her mind racing and anger swelling with each passing moment of uncertainty. Why hadn’t it killed her when it had the chance? Had it truly changed its mind, or was this just part of the chase?

She cursed aloud. Inaction wasn’t the answer. She had to convince Noah to get up, to find another way to kill the creature.

When she got back to the cabin, she unlocked the door quietly in case Noah was finally asleep. He definitely needed it after his sleepless night, and she wanted him fresh to think of new ways to tackle Stefan.

Quietly she shut the door and crept across the main room to the bedroom doorway. But when she peered inside, surprise hit her. He was gone.

The sandwich and soda sat untouched on the bedside table, where she’d laid it. She searched for a note on the bedside table and bed, then returned to the main room and searched the table and chairs. No note. Nor had there been one on the door.

Maybe he’d only stepped out for a moment. But her gut told her a different story altogether. It coiled and provided images of Noah distraught, maybe even crazy with hopelessness. What would he do in that state of mind? He’d go after the creature in a blind rage. Maybe right now he was lurching up the gravel road in his Jeep, burning to kill Stefan, even if it meant sacrificing his own life in the process.

He’d confront Stefan back at his rented cabin, which is likely where he’d gone to heal. If Noah had gone up there, he wouldn’t have left her a note, wouldn’t have wanted her to follow. Trouble was, if he did confront Stefan unarmed, he most certainly would end up dead before he succeeded.

Quickly she rushed to the back bedroom window and looked out. His Jeep was gone. She bit her lip.

Damn.

It was suicide.

And maybe suicide was exactly what he wanted.

MADELINEjumped in her VW Rabbit and started up the engine. The strong smell of the fire still filled the confines of the cab. Backing quickly out of the pine needle-strewn parking space, she pulled onto the main campground road, heading in the direction of Stefan’s cabin.

She didn’t get far.

The road was blocked about a thousand yards down the road. A line of traffic formed behind a ranger’s truck, the lights of which whirled and flashed, playing over the metal of the cars behind it. She couldn’t see why the ranger’s car was pulled over, though; the hulking masses of lined-up RVs saw to that. Most were so tall she couldn’t even see two cars in front of her.

Madeline tried to see what the holdup was by craning her neck and leaning over into the passenger seat. No luck. She could only see one corner of the ranger’s truck. She rolled her window down and instantly heard someone screaming angrily. A few people were out of their cars looking in the direction of the commotion. Some had even pulled out binoculars and stood on the doorsills of their RVs. The holdup showed no sign of clearing up quickly.

Madeline’s brow furrowed. She had to get to Stefan’s cabin. And this was the only way out.

“Goddammit!” she heard the angry voice scream. It was a man’s voice, but so hysterical and raging the guy barely made sense. What could have happened? Had someone tried to feed a bear and met with his just desserts? Was he even now cradling the stump of an arm or a chewed face, cursing at the park service?

The driver of the vehicle in front of her, a heavyset man with an Oregon Ducks sweatshirt on, was deep in conversation with the RV owner in front of him.

She tried to listen in.

“I don’t know,” Oregon Ducks was saying. “Just went crazy, I think.”

She wondered if he was referring to the screaming man or the possible bear who had mauled him for behaving stupidly.

Morbid curiosity tugged at her to go look at the source of the turmoil, but she knew she’d just get in the way. If some guy was injured or “going crazy,” the rangers would need space to work.

For three more minutes she sat in her Rabbit, and still the screaming persisted, though now it was completely incomprehensible.

“Why don’t they just tranquilize the guy or something?” murmured Oregon Duck to the other RV owner. “We’ve been here forever.” He had walked in front of the other guy’s RV, had his binoculars out, and was surveying the scene.

Finally Madeline decided to climb out and see what the fuss was. She shut the door behind her, pocketed her keys, and walked up to Oregon Ducks.

“What’s going on?” she asked him.

He answered without removing the binoculars from his eyes. “Some crazy guy is down there screaming at the rangers in the middle of the road. He’s poured gas all over himself but doesn’t have a lighter. He keeps telling them they’ve got to set him on fire. Can you believe it? They’re trying to talk him down. Jeez! This is just like an episode of Real Trauma !” The man’s face positively gleamed as he took in the scene, delighting in the stranger’s ordeal.

He made her sick.

She had no idea what Real Trauma was, but she suspected it was one of those reality shows where they showed people getting eaten by sharks or falling off bridges.

“You don’t understand!” she heard the man scream. “If I can’t kill him, what fucking use am I?” The suddenly coherent though still maniacal voice was uncannily familiar.

Madeline raced forward, down the line of cars to the front. Oregon Ducks yelled “Hey!” behind her.

When she reached the ranger’s truck, she immediately saw the law enforcement ranger Suzanne, who’d helped her the night she arrived desperate and wounded from the backcountry. Steve stood next to her, both talking quietly and serenely, their hands out in supplication. And in front of them stood Noah, doused head to foot in gasoline.

His Jeep was parked off the road with a dripping hose hanging from the gas tank.

“Help is on the way,” Steve was saying.

“I don’t want fucking help!” Noah yelled. “I want a fucking match and you people to leave me the fuck alone!”

For a moment, though the voice belonged to Noah, Madeline couldn’t even believe the figure before the two rangers was actually him. His blond hair lay plastered to his face, eyes red and enraged, fingers tensed into fists at his side, neck muscles and veins bulging. He stood hunched over, glaring at them with an intense hate she’d never seen in someone before, like a force of violent energy striking out in pulsating, visceral waves. If he had a gun right then, she had no doubt he would have shot the rangers. His demeanor made her think of a rabid dog, all sense of peace and logic gone, just a snarling, snapping beast in agony, lashing out at anyone stupid enough to approach it.