Richard Matheson - Hunted Past Reason

He finished dressing and put on his jacket. He sat down to pull on his socks and boots.

“Well, how about the coffee , Bobby boy?” Doug snapped.

“As soon as I get my boots on,” Bob told him.

“I don’t have my boots on,” Doug said.

Well, what the hell am I supposed to do about that? Bob thought. Utter a lament?

He finished lacing his boots. Doug had placed the frying pan on the grate and added some oil to it. It still had fragments of trout in it. Shouldn’t we clean it first? he heard himself asking Doug. That would be a mistake. So he’d eat his pancakes with trout fragments in them. Better that than agitating Doug any more than he was already agitated.

“You want a little orange juice?” he asked.

“No thanks,” Doug responded flatly. “I would like a cup of fucking coffee though.”

Jesus, he is pissed, Bob thought. At what though? Everything? Was this day going to be a total nightmare?

He poured some water in his pan and put it on the grate next to the frying pan. He almost winced, seeing the bubbling pancake batter because the frying pan looked so begrimed. But would he dare tell Doug he’d rather not have any pancakes? That would only set Doug off again.

He opened one of his small boxes of orange juice and drank some. It tasted very good to him, tart and refreshing. He washed down a multivitamin with a second swallow.

“Sure you don’t want some of this orange juice?” he asked, trying to be amiable.

“Did I say no ?” Doug demanded.

Bob was going to repress his reaction. Then abruptly, he decided that the two of them simply could not go on like this for days on end.

“Doug, what’s the matter?” he asked.

Doug didn’t answer, flipping over the greasy-looking pancakes with his small spatula.

“If it’s something I’ve said, I apologize,” Bob told him, wondering if he really felt a genuine concern or was just trying to mollify Doug because he was becoming more and more unnerved by him.

Doug said nothing, his lips pressed together. Bob drew in a quick breath. Let it go? he thought. Or confront it?

He chose the latter, even though it troubled him to consider the possibility that it would only rile Doug further.

“Doug, we can’t just go on like this for the rest of the hike,” he said.

“The hike?” Doug snickered. “What hike?”

“Doug, I know I’m a total flop as a backpacker, but—”

“That you are,” Doug cut him off. “Total.”

Bob felt himself getting angry now. Menace or not, he couldn’t see himself enduring these endless gibes from Doug.

“All right,” he said. “A total flop. But we still have to get along for the next two or three—”

“Why?” Doug demanded.

Bob stared at him in disbelief. “Why?” he repeated Doug’s challenge. “Are you prepared to let it go like this the rest of the time? Nothing but tension?”

Doug didn’t answer. He poured some instant coffee in his cup and added hot water, wincing as the lifting of the pot of water made his shoulder hurt.

Bob made himself a cup of coffee and took a sip. Now what? he thought. Should he pursue this? Or was it better just to leave it alone? Get through the next few days in alien silence? Somehow manage to survive it as it was?

Doug put two of the small pancakes on a paper plate and tossed it on the ground in front of Bob. “There you go,” he said. “ Specialité de la maison.” One of the pancakes flopped onto the ground.

“Thanks,” Bob muttered.

He tried to eat one of the pancakes but it was still doughy, almost tasteless except for the fragments of trout.

Doug obviously noticed his distaste for the pancake. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Not up to your usual gastronomic expectations?” For some reason, Bob felt that Doug was quoting a line from some movie or teleplay he’d been in, maybe a stage play. He wasn’t used to hearing such fancy language from Doug.

“Doug,” he said.

“Mr. Hansen,” Doug responded.

“What the hell is wrong?” Bob said. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what ?” Doug countered.

“Doug, you’re acting like you hate my guts. That the way it is? If so—”

“Oh, shit,” Doug muttered, looking past Bob.

Bob turned to see what Doug was looking at.

A black bear was standing near the edge of the clearing staring at them.

“Oh, my,” Bob whispered. He felt as though his breath had stopped.

Doug shoved to his feet, screaming, causing Bob to twitch in startlement. “Get out o’here, you son of a bitch!” Doug shouted, waving his arms. “Get the hell out o’ here!”

The bear drew back a little but didn’t leave, answering Doug’s shouts with low, moaning growls and a popping of its teeth, a noise that sounded like dead sticks breaking. Doug picked up a stone and hurled it at the bear. It flew past the bear’s head, making it snarl.

“Well, help me for Christ’s sake!” Doug snapped, picking up another stone and pitching it at the bear. Bob tried to stand but his legs went limp beneath him and he fell back on the ground. He’d never seen a wild animal so close before. This wasn’t zoo time, this was real.

Doug kept yelling at the bear and throwing stones in vain. The bear began to pace, back and forth, swinging its head from side to side, grunting like a pig.

“Get out o’ here, you black bastard!” Doug yelled at it. “Go on! Go on! Get out o’ here!” He glared at Bob. “Well?!” he demanded.

Bob managed to get to his feet and started to wave his arms at the bear. Doug glared at him, teeth clenched. “Yeah, that’s going to help a lot,” he said. He threw another stone that hit the bear on the shoulder and made it jerk back, baring its teeth and growling.

“Well, why the fuck won’t you go, you bastard?!” Doug shouted at it.

“Go on, go away,” Bob said, his voice sounding thin.

“Yeah, that’s gonna scare the shit out of him,” Doug said furiously. He hurled another stone. “Goddamn you, beat it!” he yelled at the bear. “Get out o’ here!”

The bear moved forward slightly, growling.

“Son of a bitch, they don’t usually act this way,” Doug muttered. He screamed at the top of his voice, waved his arms wildly, threw two more stones. In vain. The bear wouldn’t leave. It started edging forward again.

“Fuck it, I’m gonna kill the bastard,” Doug said breathlessly, moving quickly toward the tent.

“ Kill it?” Bob look at him in disbelief. “No,” he muttered. “No.”

He never knew what made him behave as he did. It wasn’t that a sudden burst of daring had filled him. It was more, he conjectured later, that the idea of the bear being killed for doing what came naturally to it was too painful for him to accept.

Whatever the reason, he found himself walking forward toward the bear, arms at his sides. “You have to go,” he told it. “You’ll be killed if you stay. Go on. Please leave. Please.” He wondered later at the gentle, soothing quality of his voice as well. Basically, he knew that he was terrified. Maybe it was the kind of mad reaction terror sometimes brought on. But he simply couldn’t bear the idea of the bear lying dead and bloody with arrows sticking out of it. He kept on walking slowly but steadily toward the bear. I’m going to die, it’s going to kill me, he thought. But he couldn’t stop himself, kept approaching the bear with small steps, speaking to it constantly. “Go on. Please go. I don’t want to see you killed. Just go. Turn around and walk away. Please .”

The bear growled, pawing at the ground. Then it started walking to and fro, emitting odd coughs and high-pitched growls, gnashing its teeth and raising and lowering its upper lip in what looked like ominous grins.