Richard Matheson - Hunted Past Reason

He suddenly recalled what Doug had said about the vivid panoply of hues in some of the trees. It signified the destruction of the leaves; they were dying in a blaze of color. How appropriate a memory, he thought.

It occurred to him—causing a chill to wrack his body—that Doug didn’t have to kill him with an arrow, dismember him and bury the parts. He could just as easily, catching up to him, throw him off a cliff or drown him. That way, he could still enact his “Oscar-caliber” performance for Marian and the authorities. An accident. He tried to protect Bob while they were climbing, while they were crossing that river. It just happened so fast. Tears and sobs. Guilt presented with performing skill.

“No,” he said. “No good.” Doug wanted to kill him with an arrow, two arrows, then use his golak to hack him up. Why was he so sure of that? He just was. It was as though he’d seen, full measure, into the blackness that pervaded Doug’s mind and there was no room for any further doubt.

Doug would do what he said he would.

“If I let him,” Bob muttered angrily. “But I won’t. I won’t .” Never mind what he believed. It wasn’t of any significance at the moment. At the moment, he almost agreed with what Doug had said to him just before he left.

“Your philosophy is shit, Bobby. A lot of stupid words. You have to fight for what you get in this lifetime, not fucking meditate on the glories of the fucking universe. You grab and you take—that’s the only way to live. Survival of the fittest, Bobby. Ever hear of that? Well, you better take it to heart or you’ll be skewered before sunset.”

Still, as he walked, he began to wonder that if the moment had actually occurred, that his ploy of waiting behind the tree had worked, that he’d actually been able to lunge out from his hiding place and use the club on Doug, would he really have been capable of killing Doug? Easy enough to rationalize that it would be self-defense, kill or be killed. But what he’d be doing was committing a violent homicide. Despite all considered facts of the situation, would he have been able to live with the realization that he was now a murderer?

He didn’t know. He simply did not know.

His jaw dropped as he crossed the brow of the hill and saw a lake below.

It was a big one, deep blue, with a tidal current of its own. Should he go down there and refill his water bottle?

Leaning against a lodgepole pine, he took out the compass to check his bearing. Jesus Christ, he reacted. The forty-degree bearing was straight across the lake. Did Doug know that? Son of a bitch, he thought. He looked up at the distant mountain peak; grimaced. The view of it was also straight across the lake.

He put the compass back in his pocket and checked his watch. There was a cold, dropping sensation in his stomach as he realized that Doug was on his way now, probably running through the forest with a crazy glint in his eyes, the hunter tracking the hunted, never doubting for a moment that he’d overtake his prey and kill it. It, he thought. That’s probably exactly what he was to Doug now. An animal without an identity. A quarry not to be concerned about but run to earth and dispatched with quick efficiency.

He shook himself. Stop brooding about your crazy stalker and start planning your escape. Escape? challenged his mind. You think you’re going to escape?

“Yes!” he cried.

All right. First step: He should refill his water bottle, drop in several iodine tablets to purify it. How did he know if there would be any other water once he left the lake behind? Of course, he’d have to move around the border of the lake; the left side looked more possible than the right, which was so far away he couldn’t even see it. Then, when he’d circled the lake, he’d relocate his bearing again, move on toward the mountain peak.

The descent to the lake was steeper than he’d thought it was. Almost immediately, he slipped and started to slide down on his back. Oh, Christ, don’t break a bone! he thought in panic as he half thrashed, half slithered down the overgrown hill, wincing as he brushed against bushes, bounced over stones. Stop! he told himself. For Christ’s sake, stop!

He managed to grab on to the trunk of a small tree as he passed it. The wrenching on his arm and shoulder made him cry out but his rapid, uncontrolled descent was stopped. He dug his boot heels into the ground and drew his hand away from the tree trunk. “Oh, God ,” he muttered, wincing in pain. Now I’ve sprained my arm and shoulder. What more can I do to make my flight impossible? He closed his eyes with a groan. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” he murmured.

The name made him think—more wish, he sensed—that taking all his grand beliefs into consideration, he could convince himself that “outside” help was available. Pray? he thought. Oh, yeah, that would do a lot of good. The Lord helps those who help themselves, Bobby boy, his mind chattered irritatingly. Thanks a lot, he answered it. Very reassuring.

He sighed heavily. Well, he already knew that was the case. No white-robed angel with fluffy wings was going to swoop down, pick him up, and carry him to sanctuary. He could pray until the snow fell but he’d still have to make his way to safety on his own two weary, aching legs.

For a moment, what he suddenly saw was so astounding to him that he was unable to react.

Then he gasped. “My God,” he said, his voice barely audible.

A boat had appeared from behind the headland of a cove, moving across the lake. It was a motor launch with an awning roof, three people sitting inside.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” he said. He shouted. “Hey! I’m up here! Wait for me!”

He knew he wasn’t loud enough and, hastily, took a sip of water, threw back his head and gargled with it, spit it out. “ Hey!” he cried as loudly as he could. “Come back ! I need a ride!”

He stared at the boat. Surely, they’d heard. It seemed to him that his voice had rung out across the lake, so loudly that he felt an uneasy tremor, wondering if Doug had heard and now knew exactly where he was.

No help for it. He had to get on that boat.

“Hey! I need your help! Please! I’m in danger! Come back! I need to cross the lake!”

The boat kept moving steadily through the water. Did he actually see it—his distance vision was far from perfect—or had a man in the back of the launch gestured across his shoulder with his right thumb. He couldn’t be sure.

“Please!” he screamed with all the power he could summon. “I need your help! Please come back! Please! ”

The boat did not turn but kept gliding across the lake, leaving behind a narrow wake, its prow cutting knifelike through the dark blue water.

“Oh, God.” Bob’s voice broke in a sob; he felt tears flowing from his eyes, running quickly down his cheeks. If this is my karma, I hate it, I hate it! he thought.

“I’m finished,” he muttered. “There’s just no way.”

It took ten minutes of surrendering agony to regain himself. He hadn’t cried like this since he was a young boy. Or since you watched the last scene of The Miracle Worker , his mind, irritating once more, reminded him. Oh, shut up, he thought. But there was no strength to his retaliation. It was weak and unconvincing.

All right, he thought, I can’t just sit here, waiting for my murderer to reach me. There was still Marian. He had to reach her and protect her.

“Okay,” he told himself determinedly. “Go down and get your water and move on—fast. That son of a bitch is probably bounding through the woods like Bambi.”

The image made him smile despite the sense of near futility he felt.

Carefully, he worked his way down the remainder of the slope, using his boot heels to dig into the ground and prevent another slide. He tried to feel what new bruises and scrapes he’d added to the list he’d already had. Fuck it, he thought. What’s the difference? If I can move, I’ll keep on going—and I can move.