Richard Matheson - Hunted Past Reason

Well, forget the anger, he ordered himself. Find a place where you can stop for the night, get a small fire going, eat some food, start to dry your clothes as best you can.

He realized, for the first time, that his hat was gone. Oh, big surprise, he mocked himself. It probably went the first second you fell into the river.

He ran across a patch of berries and checked the survival booklet. They were blackberries, edible. He stopped long enough to eat some and put a few handfuls of them in his jacket pocket. Stalking the Wild Blackberry, his mind felt compelled to observe. Oh, shut up, he responded irritably.

He came across a ring of boulders near a steep rise. Perfect, he thought. He climbed inside. Was it just his imagination or was it warmer there? Possible, he thought. The boulders might have been in sunlight all or most of the day and, now, were radiating some of the absorbed heat. Whatever the case—he’d even accept imagination if it came to that—it did feel slightly warmer inside the boulder ring. Maybe it was because there was no movement of air. Whatever, he thought. It felt good.

As quickly as he could, he clambered out of the ring, leaving his water bottle and sleeping bag there and, hastily, gathered some dry grass and twigs for kindling, a few small branches. Did he dare look for a log? He shook his head. He could only afford to burn a fire—and a small one at that—for a short while; long enough to help him dry his clothes a little bit. He had no hope of drying everything completely; they were too wet—especially his boots.

Returning to the ring of boulders with his fire makings, he scraped and dug a hole with his knife and lay the dry grass in its bottom. Happily, the match container had remained dry and he ignited the dry grass, laying the twigs across it one by one until all of them were burning. The smoke stung his eyes a little but he ignored it, the warmth of the flames felt so good to him.

As fast as he could move, he removed his jacket shirt and undershirt and wrung them out over a boulder, squeezing as much water out of them as he possibly could. The open sleeping bag wrapped around him, he began to dry first the undershirt, then the shirt. He had removed all the food packets from his shirt and jacket pockets. Most of it was intact except for the bread, which had been turned into a soggy mess by the river. He tossed it over his shoulder, thinking how nice it would be if some stern-visaged environmentalist would suddenly materialize to scold him for tossing away the bread so carelessly.

“I’m sorry about that,” he heard himself addressing the nonexistent environmentalist. “By the way, could you help me to escape a maniac who’s chasing me?”

While he did what he could to dry his wrung-out undershirt and shirt, he ate an energy bar, some turkey jerky, the rest of the cheese, and some blackberries, washing it all down with cold water. He hoped he wasn’t eating too much. How much more was he going to need? Was he going to reach the cabin tomorrow?

He fantasized briefly about roast chicken. The way Marian made it, with apricot sauce. How he’d love to have some of it right now. Was it possible that he could catch a trout tomorrow? That would taste wonderful. He remembered how delicious it had been when Doug fried one up.

Somehow, that seemed ages ago, the thought occurred. It was almost impossible for him to recollect. The two of them sitting together, well fed, brandy-laced coffee to drink, conversing amiably—well, almost amiably.

And now Doug was chasing him like some hunter tracking an animal.

He couldn’t help shaking his head. How could he have known Doug all these years, yet never had a hint, an inkling, of what lurked beneath that bluff, seemingly affable demeanor?

The answer, of course, was obvious now. He’d never really known Doug at all. Doug was an actor after all, and in life, he played as convincing a role as he had, many times, in television, films, or on little theater stages.

Add to that the fact that their relationship had been completely superficial, based almost entirely on casual socializing with Doug and Nicole.

Now he could consider it all with more depth.

Doug was overly proud. He denied—to himself and certainly to others—whatever moral imperfections he had. He had developed an arrogance—disguised as pretension-laced humor—that made him reject—even personally attack—any evidence of those imperfections. What did Peck call it?

In a few moments, he remembered, nodding. “Malignant narcissism.” Everybody out of step but you.

Every submission to the dark temptations engendered by his moral imperfections undoubtedly made Doug weaker by the year, constantly opening the path to further—darker—temptations. Now he had submitted to these temptations without recognizing them as submissions. He had lost his freedom of choice. Good was lost as an option. Only evil remained.

Was it the cold or the thought that made Bob shudder so convulsively? He didn’t know. But was that the actual answer? That Doug was uncontrollably evil now?

Did evil run in families? Was it passed along from generation to generation by some terrible genetic regression? Had it been Doug’s father? His mother? Was he actually not to blame for all this, in essence a victim of a dark transmission of genes he knew nothing about?

Was Doug suffering for any of this? He didn’t seem to be. Or maybe it was all willpower, a determination not to allow himself to suffer. To maintain an unyielding conviction that he was in total control, “on top of things.”

Yet, somewhere, deep inside—how deep only God knew—there might well be some kind of fear, a dread that his constant pretense would break down and be lost. That he would then be forced to come face-to-face with the actuality of his nature.

No. Bob shook his head. He couldn’t believe it. Doug had surrendered any possibility of self-awareness. His conscience had been, to all intents and purposes, obliterated. Only his will was left.

The fire didn’t burn very long. And Bob felt too exhausted to climb out of the ring and find more branches. He had managed to almost dry his undershirt, underpants, and socks, half dry his shirt and trousers. His jacket would have to stay wet. In the warmth of the day tomorrow—God help me if it rains, he thought—the jacket might not be too uncomfortable. If it was warm enough he could even drape it over his shoulders and hope the sun would dry it.

As for his boots—hopeless.

He was getting sleepy now; it was almost ten o’clock. But he thought it advisable—maybe it was little more than a ghoulish impulse—to take an inventory of his physical afflictions.

1. His right wrist still aching from when Doug had dragged him out of the water.

2. His right palm bruised and infected, his left palm abraded, both of them scabbing.

3. His back and stomach still hurting from where Doug had punched him.

4. His right side still aching from his fall on Sunday.

5. His right arm and shoulder still hurting from grabbing onto that branch when he slid down that slope.

6. His back hurting where Doug had jabbed him with his golak.

7. His forehead aching where Doug had knocked it against that tree trunk.

8. His rectum aching badly from the rape.

9. A blister on his right toe and two more on the heels of his feet, the raw centers of them ringed with blue.

10. His right cheek stinging, undoubtedly infected. The rest of his face feeling sunburned.

11. Overall, every muscle in his body aching and totally exhausted.

God but he felt like an idiot for having developed his metaphysical muscles so well and let his physical muscles go to hell.

He was thinking that when, the fire out, his body huddled in his zipped-up sleeping bag, he felt the bottom drop out of his consciousness and fell into a dark, troubled sleep.