Ike Hamill - The Hunting Tree Trilogy

Squeezing through the narrow frame, Crooked Tree dropped to a crouch and infiltrated the house. The owner’s hot, sleeping breath filled the small building. The cat regarded him through lidded eyes and then returned to licking its paw and Crooked Tree moved through the living room. Behind the staircase, Crooked Tree found the bedroom door cracked open several inches. The sleeping man didn’t even stir when the floor groaned, signaling Crooked Tree’s approach.

Once close to the man, his face inches from his snoring face, Crooked Tree wondered why this man had clouded his lock on the boy. His sickness didn’t smell contagious, and Crooked Tree couldn’t sense that it was hereditary or likely to be passed on in any way. Without considering why, Crooked Tree reached one thick finger forward and tapped the sleeping man on the forehead.

He woke with a snort and a fart, deep within the covers.

“Babe?” he asked, squinting into the dark. “Is that you? Who is that?”

Crooked Tree backed off a few inches, so the man could see his visitor.

One sick hand fumbled out from under the covers. Without looking away from the giant looming over his bed, the man switched on his light and grabbed his glasses from the nightstand. Once his vision had cleared, the man took a deep breath between pursed lips.

“I’ve dreamed about you,” he said to Crooked Tree. The admission was quickly followed with a racking cough which doubled over the supine man.

Crooked Tree tried to parse the words, repeating the sounds in his head. “Ooo,” he croaked.

“I’ve prayed for you to come…” He interrupted himself with his coughing, “while I still had the strength to beg one request before you send me to hell.”

Crooked Tree straddled the corner of the bed and rose up until the tops of his shoulders and back of his head rubbed the ceiling.

“So…” the man wheezed “big.” He squeezed his hands together in front of his chest and hunched forward with his final words. “Could you take my…”

The man’s request was cut off as Crooked Tree’s fist crashed down, splitting the man’s skull. The giant killer brought his enormous fingers together and split the sick body from top to bottom, exposing his organs to the lamplight. He picked through the remains eagerly, taking what could help him understand why the proximity of this man had been able to blur his perception of the boy. As Crooked Tree knelt on the bed, feeding, the cat ambled through the open door and hopped up on the mattress next to his dead master. Crooked Tree and the cat paid no attention to each other as they both chewed the man’s flesh. With each organ he ate, Crooked Tree took in the man’s memories. Integrated with the knowledge he’d picked up from his previous victim, the new memories help Crooked Tree piece together a deeper understanding of the world he now inhabited.

A COMMOTION OUTSIDE woke him up. After his latest kill, Crooked Tree had found an empty house which hadn’t been entered in months. Breaking in as quietly as possible, he had made his way to the building’s old root cellar, damp and dark, to sleep through the day. But now something was happening outside his lair.

He sniffed the air and reached out with his mind. The approaching dusk had brought scores of men and dogs. They had found his trail. He had been careless and not put enough distance between his victim and his current hideout. His impression of the warriors of this era was unfavorable. In fact, all the people he encountered, sequestered in their rigid homes, seemed oblivious and weak. He snapped a fist-sized rock from a corner of the stone foundation.

Crooked Tree crept towards the rickety stairs and left the dirt floor of the cellar, climbing to the dark kitchen above. A man, dressed in black, held something in front of his face at the back door. In the shadow of the basement stairs, Crooked Tree watched as the man nudged the door inward with his toe. Although he couldn’t see them, Crooked Tree sensed several other men on the other side of the door, ready to pounce with the door-nudging man.

These men moved like warriors, protecting their blind spots and moving as a unit, but Crooked Tree could smell ripe fear baking from their skin. He raised his right hand in the shadow, cocking back the rock. One of the men whispered. Crooked Tree couldn’t make out the words, but recognized the communication as a signal to attack. Before they could attack, Crooked Tree unleashed the rock, sending it splintering through the wall, just to the right of the doorframe.

The wall exploded outward with the force of Crooked Tree’s throw. Still moving at a murderous speed as it exited the other side of the wall, the rock knocked two men flat. The third, on the other side of the door, flinched back and away from the flying debris. His flashlight came on as he spun. It described a long arc across the kitchen ceiling.

Crooked Tree sprinted to the door as the men fell away. He heard another contingent of men bursting through the front door as he stepped on one cowering man lying on the porch. With three big strides, Crooked Tree had nearly traversed the long back yard. His destination was a high stockade fence. Dogs barked and snarled behind him, straining to be unleashed. He judged that he could clear the fence easily.

He didn’t bother to weave or crouch as he ran—none of the men carried slings or even spears to hurl at him as he fled. His confidence plummeted as he heard the explosions behind him. Before the bullets closed the distance, Crooked Tree had guessed the source of the sounds.

Hot metal tore through his calf as he cursed himself for not predicting that these small soft men would have superior weapons. Another bullet lodged in his thigh as he reached the fence. He dove towards the top of the fence and barely cleared it, tucking into a roll as his horizontal body reached the other side. With one tight tumble across the neighbor’s yard he rose, barely slowing his pace.

By compensating for his injuries, Crooked Tree managed to even his stride, sprinting through the adjoining yards. He bounded over fences until he found the next side street. When he hit the asphalt he achieved even more speed. An approaching car only saw a flash as Crooked Tree jumped its length and wound left through another set of yards. Reaching out with his senses, he tried to gauge his lead on the hunters. Their pursuit had begun slowly, but now they had picked up speed.

Crooked Tree scanned the horizon, looking for the densest forest. He knew these men spent most of their effort on making open spaces and wide roads, so he guessed he could outpace them in the woods.

North showed the most promise. He turned and lengthened his stride, pushing himself harder. Confidence returned as the bullet once lodged in his thigh slipped out of his muscle and the wound closed behind it. He smiled as his full strength returned. One row of houses still lay between him and the wooded hillside. Roving lights approached from his right, and Crooked Tree realized that the hunters were trying to cut him off before he could reach the forest.

He shortened his stride and bounded across the yard of a one-story house, preparing for a jump. Vaulting from one leg, he lifted his other and landed on the roof and climbed up and over the peak just as his angry pursuers arrived at the front yard. Crooked Tree sprinted down the back slope of the roof and dropped to the ground. Men approached, coming around either side of the house, but he could see the woods calling to him from the back of the dark yard and he decided to take his chances.

This time he did weave—fearing the sting of their explosive weapons—but still made it to the tree-line before the men had time to fire. He sprinted up the wooded hillside, taking no time to look behind himself until he reached the ridgeline. Through the leaves behind him he saw the twinkling settlement, with lights from the houses shining in the dusk. The men below him had entered the woods, but moved at a fraction of his pace.