Richard Matheson - Hunted Past Reason

There was no sign of it.

“Oh, no,” he said. “Oh, no.” He felt tears rising in his eyes. It couldn’t be. It mustn’t be. The cabin wasn’t here? Doug had lied to him right from the start?

“No. No,” he muttered, refusing to believe. It couldn’t be true. He’d followed the compass setting. Hadn’t he found the lodge? Why should Doug have told him about the lodge, then lied about the cabin being up the hill behind it?

“Doesn’t make sense,” he mumbled. “No. It simply doesn’t make sense.”

He twisted his head around, a look of crazed, incredulous panic on his face. “It doesn’t make sense!” he cried, his voice hoarse and trembling.

Fingers almost vibrating they shook so badly, he took out the compass and checked it. He was a few degrees off but not enough so he would fail to see the cabin if it was anywhere in the vicinity.

It wasn’t.

Doug had lied to him. He had no idea whatever where the cabin was.

He was lost again.

His legs gave out beneath him and he sank down on the hard rock surface of the hilltop, slumping there, a sense of total hopelessness assailing him again. He’d thought the nightmare was over, that the cabin would be up here, Marian waiting for him.

“Oh, God,” he muttered, half sobbing the words. After everything he’d gone through, he was little better off than he’d been from the start. All right, Doug was dead, he didn’t have to dread being murdered.

But now he was lost, without an inkling of which way to go. He could still die. His food was virtually gone, all he had was water. That would sustain him for a while.

But which way was he to go?

He could go hopelessly wrong in whatever direction he took. Become so lost that no one would ever find him.

For several moments, he had a vision of his body lying dead in the woods, eyes staring, face mummylike, mouth ajar, an expression of terrified surrender printed on his features. He’d described such things in novels and in scripts. It had never crossed his mind that he was describing his own demise, preparing his own epitaph. here lies robert hansen / perished in the wilderness. A grotesque, staring corpse in the forest. Probably—the thought made him shudder and groan—eaten by bears or mountain lions. His writer’s mind, even in this moment of utter despair, could imagine the mountain lion he’d saved dining on his flesh and gnawing on his bones.

“Oh, shut up!” he raged. He pushed up dizzily, almost fell again, then staggered and regained his balance. You’re not dead yet, he berated himself. Keep moving. You’ll see something, find some way to escape all this. He’d thought himself helpless to defend himself against Doug, hadn’t he? Well, he’d won that battle, Doug was dead. He’d win this battle too. Goddamn it if he wouldn’t.

He started along the crest of the hill, knowing very well that he was whistling in the dark. Trying to ignore that feeling though, repress his sense of helplessness, keep going on. I will, he told himself. I will. I will. I will.

As he moved around a clump of boulders, he saw the three coyotes standing twenty feet ahead of him. They were staring at him, bodies tensed, lips drawn back from pointed teeth, deep growls rumbling in their throats and chests.

He stood frozen in his tracks, staring back at them. They’re going to attack, an insanely calm voice addressed his mind.

He didn’t know until it was over exactly what had happened. All he knew was that, abruptly, there was one thought in his head.

After everything I’ve been through, this ?

Something snapped inside him and suddenly he went berserk, rushing at the coyotes, a demented, animal like scream of fury pouring from his open mouth, his arms thrown up, his fingers curved like talons.

The three coyotes twitched back, growling. Then abruptly they jumped around and ran away from him.

Bob stopped, scarcely able to catch his breath. That’s right, you crazy bastards, run away from me before I kill you, he thought.

Then sanity returned and he was shivering from head to toe. My God, I went insane there, totally insane. But I wasn’t going to let it all end by being killed by a trio of damn coyotes. I just wasn’t.

His shoulders slumped, he exhaled hard.

Then, suddenly, he whirled, a look of startled amazement on his face. A distant voice, very faint.

Marian’s .

“Bob?!” she was shouting. “Bob?!”

He broke into a shambling run toward the sound of her voice. “Yes!” he called. But his tongue was too raspy, he had used up his voice screaming at the three coyotes. Nonetheless, he cried out again in answer to her. “Yes! I’m here!” He couldn’t believe she’d hear the hoarse croaking of his voice but kept on shouting anyway. “I’m here! I’m here!”

“Bob?!” Her voice was closer now, clearer. “Bob?!”

“I’m coming!” he cried.

She kept calling his name, the sound of her voice becoming more distinct each time she called his name. “Oh, God, I’m here,” he said, legs moving under him like pistons, totally without strength, driven on by joy and exultation. He had found her!

Now, through the trees, he caught sight of the Bronco, then, beside it, the cabin. On its deck, Marian was standing. “ Bob!” she cried out, catching sight of him now. “Oh, my God! Bob! ”

She was running down the deck steps now, rushing to meet him. Oh, thank God, thank God, he thought. He stumbled, almost fell, then caught his balance once more and ran on.

They came together so hard they almost collided. Suddenly she was in his arms, her arms clutching at him; she was crying helplessly as he was. “God, oh, God, Bob, I was so afraid ,” she said, her voice shaking, almost impossible to understand.

“Marian.” He held her as tightly as he could. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Their lips were crushing at each other’s, arms wrapped rigidly around each other.

“It’s all right, you’re safe now, safe,” she told him, sobbing.

“If you only knew what I’ve been through,” he said.

“I know, I know. Oh, God, I am so glad to see you, I was so afraid .”

“So was I,” he said.

“You look terrible ,” she said.

“You look wonderful,” he told her.

They kissed each other’s lips and cheeks and necks, clinging to each other tightly.

“Well, you made it, Bobby! What a big relief!”

Bob twitched violently, looking toward the cabin deck.

Doug stood there, smiling at him.

“You really had me worried, buddy,” he said cheerfully.

At first, he couldn’t speak he was so stunned. All he could do was murmur a faint, incredulous “Wha’?”

“What is it, Bob?” she asked.

His voice returned then and he muttered, “Hold me, hold me.” He embraced her tensely. “Put your arms around me. I don’t want him coming down here.”

“What is it?” she repeated, sounding even more concerned.

His mind was racing with a jumble of thoughts. He didn’t know which one to start with.

He heard himself ask, “How long has he been here?”

“About… thirty minutes. Why?”

“What did he tell you?”

“He’s really been disturbed that you were lost. He kept on searching for you—”

“Stop.” He cut her off, his voice almost falsetto with throttled fury.

“Bob, what is it?” she asked again.

“I thought he was dead, I thought I’d killed him,” he blurted, still not knowing how to tell her everything.

“What?” It was her turn now to look and sound incredulous.

“He must have—”

“Hey, lovebirds, come on up! We have a lot to talk about!” Doug called, breaking into Bob’s attempt to speak.