Richard Matheson - Hunted Past Reason

“Bob!” Doug cried. “Take it easy. Let me—”

“Take it easy?!” Bob almost yelled. “I was fucking terrified out there! Terrified! I screamed your name as loud as I could! I blew your goddamn whistle until I was out of breath!” He knew his voice was breaking and he sounded on the verge of crying but he didn’t care. “What the hell was wrong with you, leaving me alone like that?! You know I’ve never done this sort of thing before! You know it goddamn well!”

Doug tried to grab Bob’s arm. “Bob, will you kindly let me—”

“Why didn’t you tell me there was a split in the trail?!” Bob shouted.

“I didn’t remember that there was!” Doug answered sharply.

“Oh, well, great, great!” Bob said. “What was I supposed to do, guess which trail to follow?”

“No, Bobby, no,” Doug said, sounding angry now. “I did mark the left-hand trail! I did mark it!”

Bob felt struck dumb by Doug’s words. Then suspicion struck again. “How?” he demanded. “There was no note, no piece of paper, no piece of rag.”

“Did you look at the ground?” Doug demanded back.

“The ground?! It was so dark there I could barely see the ground!”

“Well, if you had—if you’d thought for a moment to shine your flashlight at the ground, you’d have seen that I made an arrow out of stones there! Pointing toward the left-hand trail!” Doug was glaring at him now.

Bob stared at him, speechless.

“And even if you hadn’t seen it—which you obviously didn’t—I’d have gone back to find you after a while. Do you think I’d have just left you out there, for Christ’s sake?!”

How strange, was all Bob could think. How instantaneously rage could turn to guilt.

He tried to speak but couldn’t; his throat felt so dry and raw. He took a sip of water, noting that his hand shook holding the bottle.

Then he drew in trembling breaths.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know, I didn’t understand.” He couldn’t lose all his anger though. “You really shouldn’t have left me alone though. I was scared to death, Doug. Alone in the dark forest? Jesus Christ. I didn’t know what to do.”

Doug’s expression had softened now. “Okay,” he said, “I probably shouldn’t have left you alone. You just weren’t up to it.”

That’s right, make sure you get a little dig in, have the final word. Bob pushed aside the thought, he was so relieved now that the nightmare (albeit minor) had ended.

“I know what it’s like in the forest after dark,” Doug said. “Although it wasn’t really dark yet. It’s just getting dark now.”

“Under those trees it was dark,” Bob said.

“Granted.” Doug nodded. “It can be hair-raising. All the noises.”

Bob managed a weak chuckle. “I even imagined that mountain lion getting me,” he said.

Doug’s smile was perfunctory. “I told you they don’t want anything to do with us.”

Bob sighed. “I know you did,” he said. Can’t help getting in one more little lecture, can you? he thought.

“Here, let’s get that pack off you,” Doug said.

Bob groaned with intense pleasure as Doug removed the pack and put it on the ground. “Now I know what Quasimodo must have gone through,” he said.

He saw that Doug didn’t get the point and let it go.

“Here, let me get that scrape on your cheek,” Doug told him.

“Scrape on my cheek?” Bob looked confused. “Didn’t know I had one.” He’d forgotten all about it.

He sank down with another groan of pleasure as Doug got a small plastic bottle of alcohol, a cotton ball, and a tube of ointment from his pack. “That for me to drink?” Bob asked.

Doug made a sound of vague amusement and got down on one knee before Bob. “Take your cap off,” he said.

Bob removed his cap and lay it on the ground as Doug opened the small bottle of alcohol and, up-ending it, wet the cotton ball.

“This’ll sting,” he said.

Bob stiffened with a faint cry as Doug wiped the cotton ball over his cheek. “Not too bad a scratch,” Doug told him.

Bob nodded as Doug took hold of his right hand and lifted it up, palm raised. “This is going to sting too,” he said.

“Oh!” Bob jerked, eyes closed, teeth clenching as Doug wiped the cotton ball over his palm. Are you enjoying this? he thought, then frowned at himself for the uncharitable thought.

He sat quietly, gazing at Doug’s intent expression as he spread salve on the cheek and palm. I’ve wronged him, he thought. He never meant for me to come to harm. It was my own fault. It would have been better if Doug had stayed with him. Still, there was a camp now. Doug’s tent was up. He saw their sleeping bags inside, the pads underneath them. And, of course, the fire. The crackling yellow-orange flames and radiating warmth were really comforting. Especially after what he’d been through.

Doug finished applying the salve and looked up with a slight grin. “That should do it,” he said. “Try not to fall down again.”

Bob thought for a moment that Doug was razzing him. Then he let it go, smiling at Doug. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said.

“No problem,” Doug answered, “I’m sure the Writers Guild insurance will pay for it.”

“Yeah.” Bob chuckled, taking it for granted that Doug was joking.

“Well, I guess you could use one of your little bottles of vodka right now,” Doug said.

You got that right, Bob thought.

Bob leaned back against his pack with a sound part groan, part sigh of pleasure. “I feel alive again,” he said. He took a sip of the instant mocha coffee he’d brought along. They had cooked and shared the chicken à la king, two slices of bread, and, for dessert, two cookies and an apple each. He hadn’t even minded that Doug had made fun of him for putting some of the condiments that Marian had packed for him on the chicken à la king.

“A little bit of civilization in the north woods, eh?” Doug had said with a teasing smile.

He hadn’t even responded.

“Too bad you didn’t bring a pair of slippers,” Doug said; he had brought a pair and was wearing them.

“Yeah.” Bob nodded. Of course you never told me to, he thought, but then I suppose I should have thought of it myself.

“How’s the blister?” Doug asked.

When Bob’d taken off his boots, he’d become aware of the blister on his right big toe. Doug had put a bandage on it, one with a hole in its middle so as not to irritate the blister itself. While he was putting it on, Bob asked him, only half jokingly, if there was anything about backpacking he didn’t know.

“Not much,” Doug replied and proceeded to inform him of ways of knowing direction while hiking.

Moss grew more thickly on the shadiest side of the tree, which would be the north side of trees that were fairly out in the open where sunlight could reach them all day.

Vegetation grew larger and more openly on northern slopes, smaller and more densely on southern slopes.

You could prevent yourself from traveling in circles by always keeping two trees lined up in front of you.

Then, at night, there was the north star…

“Enough,” Bob said, chuckling. “I’ll never remember any of it.”

“Well, you might need it someday,” Doug told him, “you never know.”

“I know,” Bob said. “This is my one and only backpacking hike.”

“Oh.” Doug nodded, an expression of remote acknowledgment on his face.

Bob tried to soften what he’d said by remarking that he could see how wonderful backpacking must be; he was just not inclined toward it, but Doug’s nod was no more than cursory.

Doug had been quiet for a while, staring into the fire, and Bob decided that he really must have offended him by so casually negating any possibility of him ever backpacking again. Doug didn’t have to do this; it had been and was a generous offer. He had to try to say something to lighten Doug’s mood.