Richard Matheson - Hunted Past Reason

“All right,” he said firmly, “which way, Hansen, right or left?”

The right-hand path seemed the most likely. It was angling down and that would indicate it heading toward the lake. And Doug had said it might take him less than an hour to reach the campsite. So the right path was the most logical one to take. There you go, Bobby, he imagined Doug telling him when he reached the campsite. You just passed your first test in Woodlore I.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, starting forward onto the right-hand trail.

The trail kept getting steeper as he moved along. He found himself tending to lean back, trying to center the weight of the pack so it wouldn’t pull him forward.

The path was also getting darker as he walked. Looking up, he could see, through rifts in the tree foliage, that it was still light. You’d never know it down here, he thought.

He kept looking to the right, trying to catch a glimpse of the lake. But all he saw was endless forest. Was this the right way after all? Had he made a mistake? Maybe—

He gasped out in shock as something rolled beneath his right boot and he found himself lurching helplessly to his left. “No!” he cried, starting to fall, thrashing, into some brush.

His right palm, flung down automatically to brace himself against the fall, hit the ground and was scraped across it, making him hiss in pain. A jagged streak of pain stabbed at the right side of his back as he thudded to a halt, a bush twig raking across his right cheek, making him hiss again.

He lay motionless in the brush, gasping for breath. Oh, Jesus, what if I’ve broken something? he thought, terrified. What if I’m on the wrong path and I’ve broken a bone?

The sound he made, intended to be a despairing laugh, came out, instead, as a sob. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” he murmured, eyes tearing. What am I doing here? he thought. His throat felt dry again. He lay immobile, aware of his body twisted into a heap. I’m finished, he thought. I’m gone.

He forced air into his lungs. Shut up, he told himself. Just shut up. He’d taken a clumsy tumble, nothing more. It’s not as if that mountain lion is about to pounce on me and bite off my face.

He grimaced at the thought. Great imaging, he told himself.

“All right, get up, for chrissake,” he said irritably. “Get off your ass—or whatever you’re lying on. Night is going to fall too if you don’t get moving.”

Laboriously, with slow, groaning movements, he struggled to his feet. His back felt sore and tender, his right palm hurt. But, at least, he didn’t appear to have any broken bones.

He got back on the trail and stood still, wondering what to do.

“Doug?!” he shouted. He had to clear his throat, took a sip of water, then shouted again. “Doug! Doug!”

Was that an answer? he thought, suddenly excited. He shouted Doug’s name again and again, finally realizing that what he was hearing was the echo of his own voice.

“Oh… shit,” he muttered.

The whistle! he thought suddenly.

Fumbling through his jacket pockets until he found it, he blew on it as hard as he could. He had to drink more water; his mouth felt dry. He blew on the whistle again, struggling to make the sound as loud as possible.

There was no response.

“You bastard,” he muttered. “You lousy bastard.”

He continued down the path, moving with cautious steps. What the hell had rolled beneath his boot anyway? A twig? A rock? A pinecone? Whatever it was, it had sure made him take a real flop into the brush. For a few moments, he visualized John Muir accosting him and saying, “Bob, if I were you, I’d go back to Los Angeles, you really don’t belong out here,” and him replying, “Mr. Muir, how right you are.”

Twelve minutes later, he reached the lake and the end of the trail. The open area of water made the light brighter; it wasn’t that close to darkness after all.

Neither was it any spot for a campsite. There was thick growth all the way to the shore, no possible flat, open areas anywhere in sight. So the trail had been the wrong one after all. Great. Sorry, Bobby, you just failed test number one in your Woodlore course, Doug told him in his imagination. Try again.

“You son of a bitch,” he said. “You miserable son of a bitch, not letting me know which trail to take.”

He winced as he realized how his right palm hurt. Looking at it, he saw dried blood streaks across it, imbedded dirt, scrapes, and scratches.

Kneeling—the movement sent a streak of pain across the right side of his back that made him cry out softly—he put his palm in the cold water of the lake, and removing his handkerchief, he rubbed it on the palm as gently as he could to clean it off. “Oh… Jesus,” he said, his face contorted from the stinging pain.

How am I supposed to write a convincing novel about backpacking if I’ve never backpacked once, he heard himself telling Marian. He sighed heavily. Would that I had written that novel about Hawaii she suggested I write, he thought.

He straightened up with a grunt of pain and effort.

“Doug!” he shouted. “Damn it, where are you?!”

This time, the echo was more distinct. What, the open water? he wondered.

“What’s the difference?” he said as he started back up the trail. Now how long was it going to take to reach the campsite? he thought. Would it be dark by then? He blew out hissing breath. Good ol’ Doug, he thought. My pal.

He stopped to take another sip of water, then continued up the trail, leaning forward to keep the weight of the backpack centered. His water was really getting low now. What if he still wasn’t able to find Doug? What if Doug did do all this to lose him? He shivered, grimacing. Come on, he told himself. Don’t be goddamn paranoid. You do this all the time. What was that song Mel Brooks composed for The Twelve Chairs ? “Hope for the best; expect the worst,” he sang softly. Something like that. And that was him. “You’re a goddamn pessimist, Bob,” he informed himself. As if I didn’t know, he thought.

When he reached the split in the path and started along the left one, he tried to see what time it was but it was too dark in the heavy shade for him to read the watch face. He stopped and retrieved his flashlight. Don’t forget to reverse the batteries, he thought. Oh, fuck you, he answered himself, switching on the flashlight and pointing the beam at the face of his wristwatch.

“Oh, my,” he said. It was seven minutes after seven. This time of year, it was going to be dark soon now. Thank God they hadn’t left after daylight savings time had ended or it’d be dark already. Damn you, Doug, he thought. Why did you do this to me on the very first day? It was unconscionable, really unconscionable.

He became aware that he was limping slightly as he walked. All I need, he thought. Days of hiking ahead and a limp. “Swell,” he muttered. He was really getting angry with Doug now. What the hell right did he think he had to leave him alone on the first day of their hike?

His anger kept mounting as he limped along the trail. By the time he saw the glow of the campfire ahead, there was nothing left in him to react with relief at the sight. He was all anger.

“Hey, there he is,” Doug said as Bob walked up to the campsite.

“Don’t-ever-do-that-to-me-again,” Bob told him in a low-pitched, shaking voice.

“What?” Doug looked perplexed.

“Do you have any idea what I’ve been through?” Bob demanded. “You don’t tell me there’s no way to cross that stream at the trail. You don’t tell me there’s a goddamn split in the trail.”

“Bob—” Doug said.

“So I go down the right-hand trail and fall because it’s so damn steep! I hurt my back, I scrape my palm! I find the lake and there’s nothing there but water!”