Ike Hamill - The Hunting Tree Trilogy

He tried to re-aim. The giant hurled the chair and it crashed into Mike’s pelvis and knees. He dodged to the side, to avoid being hit by the detector Bill had built to track the creature. Mike ducked into the master bedroom just as another chair crashed down the hall.

Leading with the gun, Mike popped out into the hallway and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. The blow from the amplifier had damaged the action of the shotgun and the trigger would no longer squeeze. The cans of soda buzzed by Mike’s head and exploded against the wall at the end of the hall. He pulled back into the bedroom and tried to focus. Now that he’d injured the creature, his instinct to fight was powerful. Without a working shotgun, fighting would be suicide.

The alarm system panel caught his eye. He crossed to it, and considered if he really wanted to activate the alarm. It might draw the authorities and buy him some time. On the other hand, he would be endangering the lives of people coming to his aid. The debate was moot—the display on the alarm panel flashed “ERROR.”

Mike looked around the room for a telephone, but found none. He wondered about Ken’s cellphone and then remembered that his friend usually kept his cellphone on the counter downstairs at night. He had to run. Mike steeled himself and poked his head out through the doorway again. The monster had curled itself in the hall, around Bill’s body. Mike pulled back from the sight quickly, but the scene had burned into his mind. The creature was quickly eating its way through Bill’s corpse, and the results were evident in both its chest and head wounds. Each swallow was helping it regenerate its flesh, repairing the shotgun wounds.

Mike hung his head and exerted all his control to subdue his nausea. The door to the bathroom, where Ken and Sharon presumably still lay unconscious, was still blocked by the dresser. He could move the dresser and get to his friend, but the other door to that bathroom led directly to the hall.

Still carrying the broken gun, Mike sprinted for the window and threw back the curtains. In the ambient light from the downstairs windows he saw Ken’s back yard and a row of bushes on the ground just below him.

It’s not that far , he thought frantically. Mike jerked on the window several times to no avail. He sat down the shotgun and tried again with both hands, but it wouldn’t budge. The window was locked. After disengaging the lock his next attempt almost pulled the window from the frame. He fumbled with the screen and let it tumble down into the night.

He didn’t let himself think about the drop—he had never tried to climb out of a second-floor window, and didn’t intend to ponder too long in the face of what was curled up in the hallway. Mike thrust his leg out the window and straddled the sill while he ducked his head under upper sash. Lifting his upper body with his hands, Mike tried to pull his other leg through while his outside leg banged against the siding. His leg wouldn’t come. His pants were caught. As he tugged, his arms sagged, jamming his crotch painfully into the ledge. In desperation, Mike pushed away from the wall.

His jeans held him briefly and then ripped at the cuff. He tumbled backwards with his arms flailing. Mike landed on the bush squarely with his back and rolled off to the side. He took his feet and hunched towards the door. His ankle had knocked into the window frame. He moved quickly despite the slight limp.

Mike tugged on the back door. It was locked. His body wanted to run; to stretch his legs and run until they fell off. He actually entertained the idea for a second before his conscience took over.

I have to try to help Ken, even if it’s probably too late, he thought.

Holding his left arm close to his body, Mike hustled around the garage to the front yard. Each step seemed to bring a new injury report from a different part of his body, but he did his best to ignore the pain as he shuffled towards the front door. Just before his hand reached the knob, he realized it was probably locked. Bill had sealed the house pretty carefully before trapping the stairs. Not because he thought a locked door would stop the giant, but because he hoped it would force the monster to make noise while breaking in.

Mike let the lock make his decision: if the door was locked, he would run off into the night and do his best to live with his failure to help yet another friend.

The door was unlocked.

Mike swung the door slowly inward, trying to make as little noise as possible. Once inside, he left it wide open, leaving himself the option of escape. His first objective sat on the counter. From the sideboard in the downstairs hallway, Mike pocketed Ken’s keys and turned on his cell so he could dial nine-one-one.

“What’s the nature of the emergency?” asked the dispatcher.

“There’s a man in my house,” said Mike, keeping his voice low. He recited the address and told her that his friend had been murdered by the intruder. She instructed him to get to a safe place as he stepped over the aluminum foil and broken glass to get to the kitchen. Without thinking, he hung up the phone as he turned the corner into the kitchen. They had left a few lights on, mostly the under-cabinet ones that cast a soft glow on the countertops. But a brighter light came from the ceiling, to the right of the doorway.

Mike’s attention was drawn up by the light cascading from the hole in the ceiling and he stepped right into a huge puddle. He stared upwards at the ragged hole, dripping with blood, as his foot splashed in the pool of Bill’s blood on the tile floor. He pulled away from the mess and braced himself against the center island. Fortunately, the item he sought sat only inches from his hand.

Mike grabbed the largest knife from the butcher block and pushed back towards the door. He wanted to act quickly, before the monster could recover further or hurt Ken and Sharon. Back through the hall he focused more on the staircase than the floor and he shuffled through the remnants of Bill’s booby-trap. The foil crackled as he stepped. He saw no movement from the top of the stairs.

The stairs were spotted with bits of flesh and blood from the creature’s wounds, but Mike didn’t see them. His eyes were locked, waiting for movement from the top. He froze in fear when the phone in his back pocket rang. With the knife held out in front of him, he reached into his pocket with his other hand and squeezed the phone, pressing all the buttons, until it stopped ringing.

Mike resumed his climb. He expected to see Bill’s body, but where it had lain, he found only a gory spot next to the hole. More disgusting than the slick patch of blood and guts, the sound of the monster feeding struck Mike’s ears. With one more step he could see the door to the bathroom. It stood open, and the giant’s feet poked out into the hall. Mike readied himself to attack, only hoping he was there soon enough to prevent more tragedy. With his next step, his hopes were dashed.

Ken’s head rolled from the doorway, between the monster’s legs. Mike dropped the knife and fled across the hallway and back down the stairs. In his imagination, every step he took was shadowed by the giant killer, but when he burst through the front door and hooked a left across the lawn, he could see no pursuit. Mid-stride, he pulled Ken’s keys from his pocket and thumbed the fob to unlock the SUV parked next to Bill’s dented car.

Panting, he kept close watch on the rectangle of light spilling from Ken’s door as he started the car. He gunned the engine and spun the tires while backing out of the driveway. The truck lurched as he slammed the brakes and tugged it into drive. He tried to press the accelerator gently, but fine control was not in his current repertoire. The tires chirped again as he swerved away. He tried to keep the car centered on the suburban street, but he spent more than half of his time craning his next around to watch Ken’s house for signs of the killer.