Ike Hamill - The Hunting Tree Trilogy

“Nice one,” the coach called, clapping his approval with the bat tucked tucked under his arm. “Now, John,” the coach addressed the pitcher, “when that ball pops up you need to yell ‘Up!’ Got it?”

“So what’s your name?” asked the girl, snapping Davey back to their conversation.

“Davey,” he said. “What’s yours?” He squinted into the sun as he looked up at her.

“Charlotte,” she said, taking off her cap and running her fingers through her hair. “Hey! Watch out!” she barked.

Davey didn’t heed her warning quick enough. He tried to stop his feet, but they kept moving as he spun his head down to see the big sprinkler head sticking up from the field. This time nothing moved in slow motion, and he didn’t have supernatural control over his actions. His shoe bounced off the side of the sprinkler and his ankle crashed into the sharp metal of the head, scraping his skin away.

“Oh,” Davey said, sucking in his breath as he tumbled to the ground. He pulled his knee up to his chest, gripping his shin on either side of the cut.

“Jeez, that must hurt,” said Charlotte. “Are you okay? You want me to get your coach?”

“No,” said Davey. “I’m okay. Is it bleeding much?”

“Yeah,” commented Charlotte as she stood over him. “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig.”

“Thanks.” Davey squinted up at her.

“You’ll be okay,” she giggled. “It actually doesn’t look that bad. Here,” she said as she pulled a tissue from her pocket and folded it carefully, trying to find a clean side. “Hold your breath,” she instructed Davey. “Really hold it.”

When Davey puffed out his cheeks, Charlotte knelt next to him and grabbed the bottom of his calf. She squeezed her lips together with concentration as she pressed the tissue firmly against his wound. Davey’s breath exploded from between his teeth.

“Thanks for the shower,” said Charlotte. She wiped his spittle from her face with her shoulder without removing the pressure from his leg. “Does it hurt?”

“A little,” said Davey. “Not much.”

“I gotta go,” said Charlotte, removing her hand from the tissue and pulling one of Davey’s hands over to cover the spot. “Just hold that for another minute and it will stop.” She wiped Davey’s blood from her palm onto her bare knee.

“Thanks,” said Davey.

“No problem,” said Charlotte. She stood up and surveyed him one more time. She pulled her hat from her waistband and tucked her hair underneath as she put it back on. “See you later,” she said.

Davey watched as she bounced away towards the field house for her water break.

Charlotte washed her hands carefully at the end of practice that day, her right still sticky from Davey’s blood. From a hygiene perspective, she need not have bothered. The instant Davey’s blood had touched her sweaty palm, his aggressive white blood cells attacked her skin, burrowing through fifteen layers of dead skin cells until they reached live cells to penetrate and inject his mutated genes.

By dinner that night, genetic information from Davey would course through every part of Charlotte’s young body, setting up the machinery required for Charlotte to infect others. At first, she barely noticed the effect on her physiology. The next morning she was a little more tired than usual, but then her energy exploded and Charlotte felt like she could run all day. Later that week, her coach commented on how much her fielding had improved.

Two weeks after meeting Davey and touching his blood, the transformation of Charlotte’s body was complete. She progressed beyond infected and became infectious—able to pass the mutation through her blood and saliva.

“HI MORRIS, I’M MIKE,” he said, extending his hand to the expressionless man sitting in the booth.

Morris’s voice rumbled low as he spoke. “I don’t know what Roland told you, but I don’t support poaching,” he said, ignoring Mike’s outstretched hand.

“No, I know,” said Mike, sliding onto the other bench-seat of the booth. “I told him, it’s not like that.”

“That’s what he said,” said Morris. “Roland says a lot of things. He does a lot of poaching too.”

Mike reached out and moved the maple syrup jar. Each time Morris spoke, his resounding voice rattled it against the salt shaker.

“I’m not after an animal,” explained Mike. “And I’m not going to kill it. I just want to catch it.”

“And Roland said he owed you for what you did with the Loogaroo, but I don’t owe you. Just so long as we’re clear,” said Morris.

“Perfectly clear,” said Mike. “Just hear me out, and then tell me what you think.”

Morris nodded.

Mike started at the beginning and told his story. He didn’t leave out a single detail, from the ghost of the drowned woman through to his brief incarceration. Mike ended with telling Morris the revelation he’d had in the interrogation room—that the creature was headed for where Mike and Gary had first used the paranormal amplifier at the river.

Morris simply watched him talk. Mike finished, sipped his coffee, and waited for a response.

Morris slid halfway out of the booth before addressing Mike. “I’ve got to be up that way on Thursday,” he said. “I know where that trail is. I’ll meet you where The Ledges trail splits off.”

“Thank you,” Mike said to Morris’s back.

AS HE ASCENDED THE HILL, Mike began to suspect that Morris was no longer following him. He paused at the big rock to look back. He grabbed his chest, surprised to find the tall man directly behind him.

“You scared me,” he said, panting.

Morris stared at him, still emotionless.

“I forgot to show you this the other day.” Mike pulled out his phone and pulled up the picture of the print he had taken at the crime-scene house. “There’s no way to see the scale of the thing, but it’s a pretty good picture of the footprint. I guess it doesn’t tell you very much,” he babbled, waiting for Morris to reply.

“No shoes,” said Morris finally.

“Yeah, well sure, he’s barefoot.” Mike was puzzled.

“I mean he’s never worn shoes with a toe box,” Morris said.

“Oh? How can you tell?”

“Toes spread too wide. You might see that in a third world country, but not around here,” said Morris.

“I was just thinking,” said Mike. “If the man came down this way, I’m probably stomping all over his trial.”

“Nothing has been down this way,” said Morris. “Except you.”

Mike tried to keep his doubt from his face. His last hike on this trail had been more than a week before, and he seriously doubted that any tracker could speak definitively about activity on a rocky, gravel trail.

“Okay,” said Mike. He caught his breath to the best of his ability and scaled the rock that blocked the clearing. Dropping down on the other side, he was quickly followed by the large man.

“Stop,” said Morris. He blocked Mike with his arm.

Mike thought back to the explanation he had given Morris in the diner. He wondered if his description could possibly have informed Morris well enough for him to guess that this was the clearing.

Morris skirted the clearing, placing each foot carefully, and bent close to the ground several times. Finally, with Mike watching in awe, Morris approached the small opening to the cave. When he knelt to examine the entrance, he dropped behind a rock. Mike began to creep forward to try to see what Morris was doing. He stopped himself when he remembered Morris’s last order.

“It’s okay,” said Morris, still behind the rock.