Richard Matheson: Hunted Past Reason

“Oh, for God’s sake, shut the hell up,” he ordered himself. Drawing in a deep, he hoped, restoring breath, he continued walking.

As he got into a rhythmic stride, he began to think about Doug.

Was it really necessary for him to go on ahead and leave me behind? he wondered. After all, how much more difficult would it have been to set up camp if they’d gotten to the place together, wherever it was?

This was their first day out too. Doug knew he was uneasy. He knew that Marian was uneasy. Was it really thoughtful of him to hurry on ahead to make camp? Or had there been something mean about it, something actually a little cruel under the circumstances?

He thought about the few years they had known Doug and Nicole, then, limitedly, Doug by himself. They were never really close. They’d had a few laughs together but their personalities didn’t really blend that well. Nicole was pleasant enough, very beautiful (she’d been a model), but a little cut off and remote. And, from the very start, she’d obviously been unhappy about her marriage to Doug. The death of Artie had really torn what threads were left intact in their relationship.

What Doug and he had shared most in common was their knowledge and attitudes toward the motion picture and television business. They were both highly dissatisfied and frustrated by it, Doug more than him because, as relative as the pain was, actors did have it worse than writers. He could, at least, submerge his disappointments by writing a short story or a novel. Doug could only do a little theater that while creatively fulfilling involved no monetary satisfaction at all.

In other words, Bob thought—in other words, had there always been an edge of envy, even resentment in Doug? And had he just demonstrated a small bit of that by leaving him behind in the woods?

“The forest,” he said. “The forest .”

It wasn’t any charming, sweet, endearing woods.

It was BIG. Powerful. Unyielding. A massive, silent being that could and had swallowed men alive.

That’s a charming image, he thought.

But he couldn’t dispel it.

Well, here’s another goddamn thing he didn’t tell me about, he thought.

He stared glumly at the fast-moving stream in front of him. On its opposite shore, the path obviously continued.

Now what? he thought. It was definitely getting darker and there was no way he could see to cross the stream: no fallen tree trunk, no stepping-stone boulders.

“Well, what am I supposed to do now , Dougie boy?” he asked loudly.

Breaking a tiny piece of twig off his staff, he tossed it into the stream and watched it be swept away by the bubbling, splashing current. Great, he thought, his face a mask of annoyance. Now I know it’s moving fast. Thank you, Douglas, for that enlightening bit of woodlore. It changes everything.

He drew in a quick, convulsive breath. This isn’t funny, Bob, he told himself. What was he supposed to do, walk across the stream, get his boots and socks and trousers soaking wet? Screw that.

“Well…” Grimacing, he started walking along the edge of the stream, hoping to find a narrower part of it.

Up above, a wind was starting to blow in the high pines. Great, he thought, a storm.

He shook that away with a scowl. Stop being a baby, he told himself. Doug got across the damn stream, so can I.

For a while, he imagined Doug coming up with a rope from his pack, hurling one end of it across the stream, encircling a branch with it, and swinging across like Tarzan.

“Not likely,” he muttered, moving guardedly along the stream edge so he wouldn’t stumble on a stone.

About twenty yards down, he came across a tree trunk fallen across the stream. “Ah,” he said. “Ah.” You might have mentioned it to me, he said to Doug in his mind. You know this goddamn forest, I don’t.

As he crossed the trunk, it shifted with him. “ Oh , God,” he muttered. Flailing at the air for balance, he lost hold of the staff and dropped it in the stream. By the time he’d fallen to one knee on the tree trunk, grabbed hold of it, and regained his balance, the staff was long gone, washed downstream by the leaping current. Great, he thought as he made it finally to the other side of the stream. Easy come, easy go.

He walked back along the stream until he reached the trail and started along it again. This is a goddamn national forest, he thought as he walked. Why didn’t they put some kind of bridge on the stream so the trail could be followed more easily? It might have been considerate to novices like me.

He concentrated on walking erect, not slumping, lifting his feet, keeping a steady stride. Well, he should be at the campsite soon. He swallowed uneasily. He’d better be. The light was fading fast. At least, it seemed to be. Maybe it was because of the thick tree growth.

Just keep going, he told himself. Erect. Feet lifted. Steady stride. He walked through the deep, silent forest, trying to remain convinced that he would reach Doug soon, have that vodka, dine on chicken à la king, and, most of all, rest his weary bones.

“Good God,” he muttered.

Just ahead of him, the trail split.

He stared at it in utter dismay. For the first time since he’d started after Doug he felt a genuine sense of fear. What was he supposed to do now? Doug did it on purpose, he found himself thinking.

He’d gone on ahead, not to set up a camp but to leave him behind, hopelessly lost.

A spasm of coldness shook his body. No, you’re being paranoid, he thought. Would Doug have taken him all the way up here for some kind of terrible revenge? Revenge for what? Envy, okay, maybe so. A little jealousy. But this?

“No,” he said. “No. No.” He shook his head. He was being ridiculous. There was some other reason. Doug hadn’t been up here for a long time. He’d forgotten that the trail split, that was all.

“In that case…” he murmured.

He looked at the bushes and trees around the dividing trail. A piece of paper, a note, a scrap of rag. Something to mark the trail he was supposed to follow.

There was nothing. It was shadowy beneath the trees but surely he’d see a rag or piece of paper if Doug had placed one to mark his way.

He drew in a deep, trembling breath. Dear God, he thought. He really didn’t know which way to go. And Doug had not left any sign to help him.

He swallowed dryly. His throat felt parched. Removing the top of his water bottle, he took a sip. Not too much, he cautioned himself. You don’t want to run out of water.

“Sure,” he said cynically. That’s what really matters. I can be totally lost in the forest, but so long as I have water, I’ll be fine. “Damn,” he muttered. “Stupid idiot.”

All right. All right. He straightened up, a look of determination on his face. Maybe this was a test, a goddamn test. That sort of thing Doug would do. He was setting up a situation where logic could tell him which half of the trail to follow.

All right, think, he thought; think, you moron.

The right-hand trail looked as though it was beginning to angle downward. That would indicate that it was heading toward the lake Doug had mentioned. Was the answer as simple as that?

No, the left-hand trail could also be leading to the lake. Couldn’t it? The lake could be to the left, not the right.

Which leaves me right back where I started, he thought. He tried to find some measure of amusement in the thought but couldn’t really do it; the situation was too potentially serious to be amusing in any way.

Well, for Christ’s sake, make up your mind! he ordered himself. He couldn’t just stand here like a bump on a log and—

He had to snicker at the memory. A bump on a log? He hadn’t thought of that phrase since he was a boy. His mother had used it often.