Richard Matheson - Hunted Past Reason

So he believed in life after death. So what? It didn’t make his plight any easier to endure. Surviving death, however certain it might be, didn’t alter by a single detail the knowledge that a madman was chasing him, planning, after the killing, to move in on Marian. Under these circumstances, his belief system was of limited or no use at all to him. He didn’t have the time to sit on a log and ponder on the infinite.

Karma? Sure, maybe this entire terrifying experience was part of his karma. Again, so what? Believing that Doug would eventually pay the price for what he was doing didn’t help a bit. Big deal, he thought in disgust. The only thing that mattered was staying alive; and the details of living were up to him.

Maybe he’d spent so much time thinking about the meaning of life that he’d almost overlooked the fact that he was alive.

It was a bizarre notion but, in a real sense, maybe Doug was doing him a favor. He knew very well that this was the last thing in the world Doug intended. It was true though.

By threatening him with death, it was just possible that Doug had reacquainted him with life.

He emerged from the forest and saw an open, boulder-strewn slope in front of him at the bottom of which—about fifty yards distant—was a cliff overlooking distant forest and mountains.

He felt a stab of dread. Had he miscalculated the compass reading? Hastily, fingers trembling, he removed the compass from his jacket pocket and took a reading. An even more severe stab of dread now. The route Doug had instructed him to follow pointed directly toward the cliff. He couldn’t possibly climb down that. Had it been a ruse on Doug’s part after all? A ghoulish trick to lead him to this hopeless end?

“No, wait,” he muttered. “Wait.” Doug had told Marian that she’d enjoy the cabin’s deck, which overlooked forest and mountains. This had to be the view he was describing to her. He must have drifted to the left or right, probably the left, he decided. Looking into the distance, he saw what appeared to be a turn to the cliff top. At this right turn, the forest continued. He’d keep moving into it. Eventually, the cliff would turn toward the north and the compass reading would lead him on correctly. He had to believe that anyway.

He went back into the forest and kept on walking as rapidly as he could. If the cliff was here, maybe the lodge Doug had mentioned was just ahead.

He was sitting in a blackberry patch, eating some of them, when a black bear pushed its way into the patch.

“Oh, my God,” he muttered.

Without thinking, he immediately rolled himself into as tight a fetal position as he could, thinking about having his flesh clawed open.

Ignoring him completely, the bear turned and ambled out of the blackberry patch.

Bob unrolled himself and sat up. “It wasn’t a grizzly bear, it was—”

His words broke as he began to laugh softly and uncontrollably. It didn’t even pay attention to him for chrissake! It must have thought: Who in the hell is that idiot rolling himself into a ball? Bob laughed until tears were running down his cheeks.

Then he went on eating blackberries and washing them down with water.

A few minutes later, his bowels moved so quickly, he barely had time to pull down his pants and assume a squatting position.

He’d been moving steadily for the last hour, walking as fast as he could, deliberately ignoring the aches and pains he felt. Taking three aspirins had helped. He didn’t dare take any more and risk possibly falling asleep.

At least, he seemed to be still ahead of Doug. To say the least, it was encouraging. Maybe he’d reach the cabin today after all. If his luck held out.

He was traversing a slope with a ten-to fifteen-degree decline toward the cliff edge. He leaned away from the edge as he walked, feeling edgy at being so close to that tremendous drop.

Suddenly, catching him completely by surprise, a burst of wind hit him, throwing him down to the rocky ground, tearing the cudgel from his grip. My God, where did that come from? he thought.

He started to stand, then found himself slipping on the layer of pine needles on the slope. He struggled up to his knees and tried to stand again. The pine needles slipped out beneath him again and he fell on his chest and stomach.

To his horror, every move to stand he made caused him to fall again and begin sliding backward toward the cliff edge. “Oh, no,” he muttered. Was this the way it was going to end, falling thousands of feet to a horrible, crushing death?

He tried to crawl away from the cliff edge and found himself slipping backward again, the pine needles shifting constantly beneath him.

“No,” he said, terrified. He tried again, more desperately this time, to crawl up the slope. The movement only caused him to slip even more.

Spread eagle, the thought came abruptly. He stretched his legs and arms to the side, lying motionless, feeling his heartbeat pounding at the slope.

Now what? he wondered. He thought hard, then, very slowly, using his right hand, he brushed away the pine needles in front of him.

His gaze scanned the rocky face. With the pine needles gone, he could see that the surface of the slope was uneven, cracks here and there.

Very carefully, again as slowly as possible, he reached up and curled the fingers of his right hand into the tiny crevice. His fingers dug in tightly, and grunting from the effort, he pulled himself up to the crack, using only the strength of his right arm to get him there, the pain in his right wrist, arm, and shoulder making him groan.

Reaching forward, he brushed away more pine needles. This time there was a crevice nearer his left arm and reaching forward he dug the fingers of his left hand into the crack and pulled himself forward, this time forgetting and trying to use his feet, causing himself to begin sliding back again. He grasped at the crack as hard as he could and, with straining effort, pulled himself forward again.

In this way, with agonizing slowness, he managed to reach the top of the slope and regained his footing.

The explosive shot rang out ahead of him and suddenly the tree beside him was gouged by a bullet, detonating splintered fragments of bark by his face, some of them shooting into his cheeks, making him cry out in pain. He fell to the ground in shock, his thoughts a tangle of confused feelings, the main one being—totally stunned— Where did Doug get a rifle?

When there were no further shots, he pushed up on his elbows and half crawled, half pulled himself across the rough ground until he reached a clump of bushes. Pushing his way through them, he got a glimpse of the slope.

A man was standing by a boulder, wearing a plaid jacket and hat, a rifle poised in his hand as though in readiness to finish off his prey.

“Goddamn it, what’s the matter with you?!” Bob yelled. Even as he did, he wondered why he was yelling at a man who could save his life.

The man’s eyes squinted as he looked toward the bushes. “Where are you?” he asked; his tone more irritated than repentant.

“Here,” Bob said, “don’t shoot at me again for Christ’s sake.”

“Well, I thought you were an animal,” the man said grumpily.

Bob struggled to his feet and limped toward the man. “Do I look like a fucking animal?” he demanded, still unable to understand how he could speak so furiously to a man who might well be his salvation. “This is not a hunting area, you know! It’s a national forest!”

“Well, no one told me that,” the man answered resentfully.

As Bob neared him, the man grimaced in revulsion. “Jesus Christ, what happened to you?” he asked. Bob winced, realizing how terrible he must look.