Richard Matheson - Hunted Past Reason

Doug was never going to get his hands on Marian.

He realized now, however, that he had to lighten the load on his back. He’d never make it with this heavy pack dragging him down. He’d have to leave behind anything of severe weight.

First of all, the water bottle. Unscrewing its cap, he took a long drink, then emptied out almost all the remaining contents of the bottle. Was this a bad mistake? he worried. What if he didn’t run across more water? Dying of thirst was not a risk he wanted to take.

He scowled at himself. First things first, he told himself. You have to make it up this wall or be caught by Doug. Nothing else mattered. Worry about water later. If you make it; the mocking voice again. Shut up ! he told it angrily.

All right, what next? he thought. What did he absolutely have to take with him? The sleeping bag, of course. He couldn’t possibly reach the cabin today; hopefully tomorrow. So he’d be sleeping out tonight; he needed the sleeping bag’s warmth. He could probably do without the pad but he had to have the sleeping bag.

What else? he thought. Light stuff. Water packets. Dried fruit. Candy. Nuts, raisins. Energy bars. Jerky. Some bread. One mini-bottle of vodka. And, of course, your turkey tetrazzini, he mocked himself consciously. Yeah, he responded. Get back to reality now. Granola. Powdered milk. He’d pour out half of them. And coffee? Definitely; even if he had to drink it cold in the metal cup. He’d put the packages in his shirt pockets, under his shirt if there wasn’t enough room in his pockets. It might all weigh down the front part of his body, but that would be the part against the wall. As little as possible on his back so he wouldn’t be overweighted there. The sleeping bag, nothing more. He’d put the water bottle in his jacket pocket.

What else? He thought hard. The compass naturally. Sunglasses. Matches. The first-aid kit. Binoculars. Eyeglasses. The flashlight; he’d put that in his jacket pocket too. And his knife, of course.

That would have to do him.

He had his pack off now. Removing the sleeping bag, he started to roll it tight. Don’t roll it, Doug’s reminder struck him; ruins the fibers. Yeah, sure, he thought. I wouldn’t want to ruin the fibers.

With his knife, he cut off the waist, shoulder, and sternum straps from the pack, tied them around the sleeping bag and fastened it to his upper back, a strap under each arm. Then put all the food bags and packets in his shirt and under it.

The discards he stuffed into his backpack, which he pushed behind some bushes. Why bother? he asked himself. Doug would undoubtedly find it. He shivered. Was he starting to imbue Doug with superhuman skill at tracking? He wasn’t that good, was he? He had to have a few defects. Count on it anyway, he told himself. Maybe Doug wouldn’t find the hidden pack or maybe he’d be astonished at the idea of his pathetic prey ascending this wall. Maybe.

He’d try to believe it anyway.

In the shirt pocket where he’d put it, he found the little booklet Marian had given him: Survival in the Wilderness . Of any value to him? he wondered. “Oh, what the hell,” he muttered, sliding it back into his pocket. He drew in a deep breath. He was ready to go.

As ready as I’ll ever be, the thought chilled him.

The wall really wasn’t as vertical as it first appeared but it was steep enough, Bob saw as he started climbing, carefully searching for, then using foot-and handholds in the rock. He tried to find handholds no higher than his head; somehow, it seemed to him that handholds higher than that would be more difficult to navigate. He climbed slowly and, as best he could manage, methodically. The weight of the tightly rolled sleeping bag on his back felt minimal. He’d made a good choice lightening his load that way.

It soon became clear to him that he only felt safe moving one hand or one foot at a time. He made certain that he kept his body in balance before releasing a hand or foot. The careful, snaillike progression of his upward movements pleased him somehow. Now he was intelligently fighting for his life. That was good.

He tried not to let himself become disturbed by the fact that he was getting thirsty. He could scarcely stop for a drink. Hold on ’til you reach the top, he told himself, forcing himself to believe that he was confident he’d reach the crest of the wall. Every time a twinge of doubt threatened to undo this certainty, he willfully blanked it out.

After a while, he stopped to rest although it hardly seemed like rest, clinging to a rock face like some ungainly insect. Still…

Against his preplan, he looked down, shutting his eyes immediately and hissing, teeth clenched. Jesus Christ, he thought. He had to be at least thirty feet above the floor of the canyon. He felt his heartbeat quicken, his breath labor, his stomach writhe. Easy, he ordered himself. Don’t—look—down. You’re going to make it. And if Doug comes this way—which he undoubtedly will, he’ll have to climb this wall as well. With his full pack, tent, sleeping bag, grate, bow and arrow, et al.

The vision managed to amuse him. Then again, would Doug do the same thing he did, scrap everything but absolute necessities? No. He couldn’t see Doug getting rid of all that expensive equipment, which would make this climb ten times as difficult. Maybe he wouldn’t even attempt it, go back down the canyon, looking for an alternate route, lose time.

Better still, maybe he would attempt the climb, slip, fall, and crack his damn head open on the rocks below. That image pleased him even more. Let it be that way, he thought.

The handhold above him looked unsound. How was he going to test it?

After a minute or two of thought, he decided to hit the handhold with the heel of his right hand. Reaching up, he carefully did so, gasping as, momentarily, he felt as though he was going to fall backward. He pressed against the stone wall as hard as he could. Easy, easy, he told himself, swallowing dryly. Thirsty, he thought. He scowled. Just climb, he ordered. Forget about water.

After several moments, he reached up again and hit the handhold more cautiously with the heel of his right hand. The rock sounded hollow to him. No good, he thought, seeing himself for several seconds, as some canny mountaineer. Yes, yes, he heard himself lecturing his novice class. If the handhold sounds hollow when you hit it with the heel of your hand, it is inferior, you must find another handhold to replace it. Selah.

He grimaced, realizing suddenly how sore the palm of his right hand felt. He looked at it, wincing at the sight of the bruised skin, some of it oozing blood. He should have worn something over his hands. What, gloves, you idiot? he castigated the notion. Well, something, his mind defended. He’d think about it. If he ever got the chance to do anything, of course. Maybe clean off his palms—both of them were dirty and abraded he now saw—with some Bactine, put a little salve on them.

Which would make them slippery, you moron, scorned his mind. He sighed heavily; for a few long moments suffered a surge of negative despair washing over him.

The sun came out from behind white clouds as he continued climbing. He hadn’t been aware of it but the climb, until now, had been a relatively cool if difficult one. Now he felt the heat gathering under his jacket and was glad he still had the hat on. He probably should have brought the sunscreen along as well. But, you didn’t, so just forget it! he thought angrily. He felt sweat beginning to trickle across his temples and down the back of his neck. Just climb, he told himself. Ignore everything but the climb. Concentrate, Hansen.

A bush above him. He reached up and took hold of it, pulling downward.