Richard Matheson - Hunted Past Reason

But how was he to cross the river? There seemed only one way and that a perilous one—to step—or jump—from one boulder to another. But where? He moved along the bank of the river—its current sounded thunderous to him—looking for a grouping of boulders that might serve his need.

About fifty yards down he came across a spot where the river seemed somewhat narrower and a possible crossing existed in a pattern of boulders. He stared at them uneasily. They were certainly big enough to step on but all of them looked wet from the rush of water splashing over them. Keep looking, he thought. He couldn’t though. There wasn’t time for a leisurely search of the river, looking for possible crossing spots. How far could he assume that Doug was behind him? Had he climbed the same rock face? Or had he taken another route? An easier route.

A faster route.

Shuddering, Bob realized that he had to make up his mind immediately. He’d try stepping—once jumping—from boulder to boulder. What else could he do?

He stood motionless by the bank of the torrentlike river and tried to brace himself for the attempt at crossing. He couldn’t fall in; that was out of the question. Out of the question? he thought with a bitter smile. It wasn’t out of the question at all. It was a matter of life or death. If he fell into the river, he’d be drowned or smashed to pieces against a boulder.

He sighed exhaustedly, almost allowing himself the option of simply sitting down and waiting for Doug to overtake him, kill him. God knew it would be easier than what he was planning to do on the slippery boulders. An arrow in his chest—more likely in his back—and it would all be over. This part of the torment anyway. He knew that he’d survive his death. What came afterward, he’d have to face, have to accept.

But then, again—always again—there was Marian. He simply couldn’t leave her to be victimized by Doug. He had no doubt whatever that Doug would do exactly as he said—cajole and sympathize, pull out every performing stop until he’d finally managed to convince Marian that he had died accidentally, that Doug felt desolate about it, that he’d start to move in on her, psychologically at first, then physically.

Bob felt his body tensing at the image—No, goddamn it, he thought. “No, goddamn it!” he said furiously. It wasn’t going to happen that way. He was going to live. Dying was too easy. He wasn’t going to take that route. That route was surrender.

He untied the sleeping bag and removed it. It would throw him off balance on his back. He hung it loosely around his neck—when he got far enough across the river he’d toss the bag to the opposite bank. He had to keep his boots on; he knew that. Barefooted, he’d slip on the boulder tops almost immediately.

He emptied his water bottle. That took some weight off him. Maybe he could throw the bottle to the opposite bank as well when he’d gotten close enough to it.

What else? Any other weight he could eliminate? No, there was nothing. It was time to go.

The first boulder was about five feet from the bank. Too far to jump. He’d have to get his boots and socks wet, no help for that. The current along the bank was slower than it was in the center of the river—a massive boulder farther back divided the current and decreased its rushing impetus.

Taking a deep breath (Okay, if I really do have a guardian angel, this is the time for you to help me out, the thought flitted across his mind), he stepped into the water and moved quickly to the first boulder, clambered onto it with both knees. The water was, as expected, icy cold and the boulder slippery wet. He wavered to the right and left, until he’d managed to get balanced.

Okay, first step, he thought. It was amazing to him what a sense of satisfaction he felt. Like the feeling he’d gotten after successfully climbing that rock face. I’ll beat you yet, you son of a bitch, his mind addressed Doug.

Now the current of the river was at full speed. With infinite slowness, he braced himself on one foot, then the other and stood, holding both arms extended to help him maintain his balance. Next step, he told himself.

He drew in several deep breaths and stepped across the small gap onto the next boulder. Here we go, he thought.

He gasped in sudden shock as his right boot sole slipped on the wet boulder top. “No!” he cried, falling to his knees on the boulder and rocking back and forth, arms extended again, rising and lowering quickly like the wings of a bird in a frantic attempt to gain his balance.

When he felt secure, he drew in deep, shivering breaths and stared at the plunging movement of the river in front of him. I’m not going to make it, he thought. The next boulder was more than two feet away, the one beyond that even farther away.

A wave of despair made him groan. For moments, he had an urge to throw himself in the water and let the river take him where it chose, whether to safety or, more probably, to battered death. He had to struggle against the urge. Live! he ordered himself. You have to live! This time the order almost didn’t take, he felt so helpless, so completely desolate.

Only after several minutes of crouching on the boulder had passed did he reacquire enough resolution to go on. Inching himself around, he took several chest-filling breaths, then raised himself slowly and after several moments’ hesitation, stepped back to the boulder he’d left. This time, he didn’t slip. He considered jumping to the bank, then dropped the idea. Why bother? he thought. My shoes and socks are already wet anyway.

Stepping down into the cold water, he regained the bank, thinking one word, over and over.

Retreat.

He had to walk along the riverbank for almost twenty minutes before he came across the fallen tree. It lay like a bridge across the now slightly narrower river, its pulled-up roots on one side, its foliage on the other. The foliage was still fully grown; the tree must have fallen recently. Good luck for me, he thought. Maybe I have a guardian angel after all.

The problem was that light was fading quickly now. Up above the forest growth, it was probably still daylight. But under the heavy growth of fir and spruce, shadows were darkening. He had to cross the river fast. His compass heading was still the same.

Fortunately, the huge roots on the bank and the limbed and branched foliage on the opposite bank held the trunk of the tree well above the surging current. It looked as though he could ease along the trunk, a leg on each side, his boots a few inches above the swift movement of the water.

He checked his watch. It was getting close to eight o’clock. Thank God for daylight saving, he thought again. But it was going to be dark soon. He’d have to stop, try to light a fire Doug couldn’t spot, try to get some sleep and be off again at the first moment of dawn.

Climbing over the damp, gnarled roots of the tree, he crawled out onto the trunk, then straddled it. He’d guessed—barely accurate—that the darting surface of the river was several inches below the bottoms of his boots.

Methodically, he began to inch his way along the rough texture of the trunk, wincing at the pain each movement caused, particularly on the rawness of his palms. Why did he pull off the tape before? He could have left it on until he reached the cabin.

Reached the cabin… he thought. Was it really going to happen?

“Well, if it isn’t, what the hell are you going to all this trouble for?” he snarled at himself. Get with it, Hansen. You’re crossing the river successfully. You’re still ahead of Doug. You may ache and throb and smart and God knows what but you’re still alive. That’s what counts, isn’t it?

He saw now that he was close enough to the opposite bank of the river to throw his sleeping bag there, his water bottle. Stopping, he carefully removed the sleeping bag from around his neck and began to fasten the straps around it as tightly as he could so that it wouldn’t open up when he threw it.