Richard Matheson - Hunted Past Reason

“Please go away,” Bob told it, “just go away.”

The bear made huffing, puffing noises now, body lurching back and forth with small jerking motions, clawing at the ground brush like a bull. He’s getting ready to attack, Bob thought numbly. Why was he still approaching the bear? It seemed totally insane but something kept him advancing, slowly but steadily. “Don’t hurt me. Please,” he said. “Just go. If you stay, you’ll die. I don’t want you to die. This is your home. You live here. Go—please go.”

The bear stopped growling now and stared at him in what seemed to Bob to be confusion.

“Go on now. Go,” Bob told it quietly.

Then Doug yelled from behind him. “Get the fuck out of the way, you idiot!” he said. “You want the arrow in you ?!”

Deliberately, Bob eased to the right so that he’d be blocking Doug’s line of fire. “Go, please go,” he said to the bear. “I don’t want to see you killed.”

“Goddamn it, Bobby, I am going to shoot!” Doug threatened.

Bob gazed intently into the bear’s eyes. “Go,” he pleaded. “Go. Please go .”

To his astonishment—he realized later that he had never really expected it—the bear turned abruptly and moved off into the forest.

Bob felt his legs suddenly lose strength beneath him and he flopped down into an awkward half-sitting, half-lying position. Jesus, he thought. Jesus Christ. What did I do?

He flinched as Doug ran by him holding the bow with an arrow set in it.

“Don’t!” Bob found the strength to cry. “He’s gone!”

Doug ran a few yards into the forest, stopped, stood motionless for twenty seconds, then turned back, a look of incredulous disgust on his face.

“Are you fucking crazy?” he said. It certainly wasn’t a question. Obviously, Doug thought that he was crazy. He wasn’t so sure it wasn’t true.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, Doctor Fucking Doolittle or something?” Doug demanded angrily. “I could have killed you, you dumb bastard.”

“I didn’t want you to kill the bear,” Bob told him, his voice shaking.

“And almost got yourself killed instead,” Doug said with angry scorn.

The look on Doug’s face, the tone of his voice, the emotional reaction to what he’d just done suddenly caused an eruption of fury in Bob. It felt like something hot and thick rushing up from his insides.

“What’s the matter, are you upset that you couldn’t kill it?!” he raged. “Did I spoil your goddamn sport?!”

Doug didn’t respond in kind. The look he gave Bob caused a chill to snake up his back.

“You really think you’re hot shit, don’t you?” Doug said in a soft, cold voice.

The rage had vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. “No, I don’t think I’m ‘hot shit’ as you put it so colorfully,” Bob said. “I was just trying to save the bear’s life, that’s all. It lives here. It was only doing what comes naturally to it.”

“Oh, now you’re a fucking wildlife expert,” Doug responded acidly. “I’m impressed. Where did you pick up all this wildlife lore? At the Bel Air Hotel having a power breakfast with some big-time producer?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Doug, let’s not go into that kind of talk again,” Bob said. He tried to push to his feet.

To his startlement, Doug pushed him back so that he landed hard on his tailbone. “Ow!” he said. “What are you doing?”

“I wanna talk about it,” Doug said angrily. “About your big-time career in the biz. About how you could give a shit if I succeed or not.”

“Wait a second, wait a second, what are you talking about?” Bob demanded. Again, he tried to stand up and, again, Doug pushed him back. “Goddamn it, stop that,” he said. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing you can help,” Doug told him. “Nothing you’d care to help.”

“What are you saying?” Bob asked, trying to understand. “That I’m somehow responsible for you having trouble in the business?”

“You haven’t been any help, that’s for sure,” Doug snarled.

“Doug, I have tried to help you—”

“Bullshit!” Doug cut him off. “You’ve said you tried to help me, but I don’t remember any jobs I got because of your help. You think I’m not aware of all the parts I might have played in your scripts that I never got called on to audition for? All you ever recommended me for were a few Mickey Mouse bit parts, a few lines here, a few lines there.”

“Doug, I recommended you for any role I thought you were right for, no matter what the length.”

“Bullshit,” Doug said, scowling. “You never recommended me for any part worth a damn.”

The anger, hot and unavoidable, was surging up in Bob again.

“Maybe if you didn’t always come on like the greatest fucking actor in the world, you might have gotten some of those roles.”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault,” Doug snarled through gritted teeth.

“No, Doug. No. Of course not. Nothing at all in your life is your fault. It’s all been just rotten luck. Your marriage, your career, your kids, everything. Someone else is to blame, not you. Just rotten luck, that’s all. Just crappy karma slapping you down at every turn.” Bob knew he was jeopardizing their relationship but couldn’t stop himself. He was fed up with Doug’s everyone’s-responsible-but-me attitude.

He had no idea how much he’d jeopardized their relationship. Not until Doug said quietly, in a malignant voice, “You’re right, Bobby. I do hate your guts.”

Bob was conscious that his mouth had fallen open in reaction to what Doug had said. He couldn’t speak at first. Then he swallowed dryly, trying to draw himself together.

“Well, that’s great,” he said. “Just great.” He drew in labored breath. “How many days left to reach the cabin? Two? Three?”

Doug didn’t answer. He kept staring at Bob, his expression hard, disquieting.

Bob inhaled again. He seemed to be having difficulty getting enough air in his lungs.

“I suggest we pack up and get on our way,” he said. “Go as far as we can before dark. I’ll try to hold myself together so you won’t be inconvenienced anymore. I suggest we travel and don’t talk. We seem—”

“Oh, is that what you suggest?” Doug broke in. “You’re running the show now? How odd. I thought I was running it.”

Bob fought for patience. “Doug, you are running it. I’m just trying to suggest how—”

“Well, don’t suggest,” Doug said with a sneer, and Bob became even more distressed.

“Doug, anything you say,” Bob told him. “Just let’s get going. When we reach the cabin, we’ll go back to Los Angeles. Or if you want to stay at your cabin, I’ll phone for a car.”

“A limo, of course,” Doug said contemptuously.

“Jesus, Doug,” Bob pleaded. “Can’t we—?”

“Well, there is no phone,” Doug interrupted. “It’s not a fucking lodge, you know. I’m not successful enough to afford a phone.”

Bob tried to reply patiently but firmly, “Then you can drive us to the nearest town and leave us there,” he said.

“Oh, is that what I can do?” Doug asked. Amazing how his questions were rarely questions, Bob thought.

“I’ll get ready,” he said, starting to push up.

Doug flat-handed him on the shoulder, knocking him back on the ground.

“Is that necessary?” Bob asked quietly.

Doug didn’t respond.

“Let’s just get out of here,” Bob said. He pushed to his feet and started toward the tent. Again, Doug flat-handed him, this time on the back, this time with greater force. Bob lost his balance, stumbling forward. It took several yards before he could regain his footing. He turned angrily. “Is that really necessary ?” he demanded.