Richard Matheson - Hunted Past Reason

Oh, for God’s sake, stop it! he raged at the writer in his mind. He was being as insane as Doug now. Marian was playing along with Doug as he was, waiting for the right moment.

Which came suddenly. As Doug began to butter his toast, smiling contentedly, Marian carried the skillet across the room and, twisting it abruptly so the eggs and melted butter splattered on the floor, smashed the heavy cast-iron skillet on the side of Doug’s head.

With a startled cry, Doug toppled from his chair and sprawled on the floor. With a dazed look, he began to push up on one elbow. Standing so quickly that his chair fell back, Bob grabbed the skillet out of Marian’s hand, dropping it with a hiss of pain as the handle burned his palm.

Doug started pushing to his knees. “Bitch,” he muttered. “Bitch.”

Bob braced himself and grabbed up the cast-iron skillet again, ignoring the handle’s heat as he smashed it as hard as he could on Doug’s head. Doug went sprawling again, unconscious now.

“The car,” Bob gasped.

The two of them rushed to the kitchen door and Bob flung it open. Racing across the deck, they half ran, half jumped down the steps. Bob’s legs collapsed beneath him and he pitched forward on the ground, Marian crying out in alarm as he did. He shoved up quickly. “I’m all right,” he gasped as they continued running toward the Bronco.

They jerked open the doors and flung themselves inside.

“Oh, no!” she cried.

The ignition key was gone.

“What do we do?” she asked in dread.

For several moments, Bob sat motionless, his mind frozen. Then he tightened, catching his breath. “ Doug,” he said.

He shoved open the door and slid out quickly. Glancing aside, he saw Marian getting out. “ Stay here!” he ordered. “I’ll get the keys!”

He raced unevenly across the ground. A pinecone rolled beneath his right boot and he staggered, almost falling. “Bob!” she called out anxiously.

“I’m all right!” Bob waved her off and kept on running. Rushing up the steps two at a time, adrenaline pumping strength into his legs, he reached the deck and sprinted across it, lunging into the kitchen.

Doug was starting to stand, a dazed look on his face. Seeing Bob, he bared his teeth in a grimace of hatred. “Son of a bitch,” he mumbled, reaching for his golak.

Bob ran to the skillet, snatched it up, and crashed it down on Doug’s head. Doug groaned in pain, stumbling back and falling to the floor again.

Bob dropped to his knees beside him and started ransacking his pockets. He felt Doug’s fingers grabbing feebly at his shirt and flung them off. “Bastard,” Doug mumbled.

The keys were in his trouser pocket. Yanking them out, Bob started to his feet. Once more, half conscious, Doug clutched weakly at his shirt.

With a look of rabid satisfaction, Bob clenched his right fist and struck Doug’s jaw as hard as he could. “I’m not going to die, you are,” he said fiercely.

He staggered to his feet and ran across the kitchen.

“Bastard!” Doug cried faintly behind him.

Bob rushed out of the kitchen and across the deck. He descended the stairs as rapidly as he could, his legs now feeling weak again.

Marian was standing beside the Bronco, looking anxiously toward the house. Seeing him, her expression brightened to a look of hope. “Get in!” he called.

She got into the car and slammed the door.

Reaching the Bronco, Bob pulled open the door and got in hurriedly. He slid the ignition key into its slot and twisted it. The engine started instantly. We’re safe ! he thought.

“Where was it?” Marian asked.

“In his pocket. I should have known he’d take it.”

Sliding the transmission lever into reverse, Bob started backing up, looking across his shoulder.

“Is he unconscious?” Marian asked.

“Just about,” he said. “I wish I’d killed him.”

“No, you’re not that way,” she said.

Her words were like a balm to his mind. I’m not that way, he thought. My beliefs are still intact, God bless ’em.

He turned the steering wheel, backing along the curving dirt entrance. “How do you get out of here?” he asked.

“I had to drive in straight,” she said, “I didn’t see a place to turn around. You’ll have to back up all the way to the road.”

“Damn,” he muttered.

He backed the Bronco as quickly as he could around the corner of the cabin. Up above, he saw the road. They’d be there in a few moments.

Then away as fast as he could drive.

“I can’t believe it’s over,” he said.

“What will he do now?” she asked.

“Make a run for it, what else? Canada or Mexico. He’s finished as a—”

He broke off with a hollow cry at the explosive detonation to his right.

“Oh, God,” she said.

Suddenly the Bronco lurched. He tried to get control of it but it side slipped, crashing into a dirt bank, its engine stalling.

He looked toward the house in shock.

With a look of crazed elation on his face, Doug was limping toward the car.

A shotgun in his hands.

Bob’s eyelids fluttered up, he gazed up blurrily. Shooting pains racked through his head where Doug had struck him with the shotgun butt.

His eyes focused on Marian. She was standing over him, pressing a wet cloth to his forehead. For a moment, he thought it was over, that, somehow, she’d done something to stop Doug.

Then he realized that he was sitting on one of the kitchen chairs and, standing several yards behind Marian, Doug was watching them, the shotgun still in his hands.

“Does your head hurt terribly?” Marian whispered.

“I… don’t—” he muttered, unable to answer clearly.

“Bobby boy is back with us,” Doug said, chuckling.

“Oh, God, if I could kill him,” Marian’s whisper trembled.

“No more whispered messages,” Doug said. “Don’t like that.”

Bob shook his head, hissing at the pain, teeth bared. “What are you going to do?” he asked, even though he felt sure he already knew.

“Oh, I have a dandy plan,” Doug said; his smile was more animal like than human. “A dandy plan.”

“Whatever you do, you aren’t going to get away with it,” Bob said.

“Oh, you mean my next lifetime, Bobby? No problem. I can wait for that.”

“I mean this lifetime, you son of a bitch. You’ve already murdered one man—”

“Yeah, that was a shame,” Doug broke in casually. “Didn’t mean to kill the fucker, just meant to put an arrow in his arm or shoulder. Better take more shooting lessons.” He clucked. “Well, at least he died fast. And they’ll never find his body down there. It’ll probably get eaten.” His laugh was guttural. “Maybe by one of those mountain lions you were always worried about.”

“Doug, I know you’re going to kill me but leave Marian alone, please ,” Bob said.

“Oh, I’m not going to kill her,” Doug said. “Not yet anyway. I have to fuck her first.”

“What?” Marian’s voice was faint, incredulous.

“Goddamn you,” Bob said. “Let me fight you hand to hand. I know you’d rather kill me that way than—”

“Oh, I’m sick of you,” Doug said disgustedly. “I’m going to blow your fucking brains out right now.”

He moved toward Bob, the shotgun barrel extended.

“No!” Marian lunged for him and grabbed the shotgun barrel. “ Don’t!”

Doug backhanded her across the face, and with a cry of pain, she staggered to her left and fell on the floor. Doug came close to Bob and pressed the end of the shotgun barrel against his forehead. “Bye, bye, Bobby,” he said. Bob closed his eyes, heart pounding. Marian screamed. Bob’s mind pleaded, Please watch over her!