Richard Matheson: Hunted Past Reason

“Well, let’s keep going,” Doug whispered, turning onto the path again.

Bob looked across his shoulder at the sleeping mountain lion as they moved away from it. Briefly, he imagined the cat waking up, spotting him, and with a frightening roar, leaping to its feet and off the rocky ledge, bounding toward him, muscles rippling, eyes intent on his.

Oh, shut up, he told himself. It wants to be left alone, no more. He looked ahead again. Doug had increased the length between them.

“Doug?” he called as softly as he could; no point in waking up the mountain lion unnecessarily.

Doug stopped and looked around.

“I’ve got to pee again.”

“All right,” Doug said. He stopped and waited while Bob stepped behind a tree.

“Drink more,” Doug told him. “You’ve been pissing out a lot of liquid.”

“All right,” Bob answered. “My bottle’s getting kind o’ low though.”

“There’ll be plenty of water in the lake,” Doug told him. “Drink.”

“Yessir.” Bob emptied his bladder on the trunk of the tree. “Hate to pee my way across the entire countryside,” he said.

“Don’t worry, it’s biodegradable,” Doug’s voice reached him.

He finished and walked back to the path, drinking water. “Warm,” he said, frowning.

“I forgot to tell you,” Doug said. “Carry the bottle inside your pack wrapped in a piece of clothing. It’ll keep your water cooler.”

“Oh.” Bob nodded.

“I’ve noticed, you’re not walking erectly enough,” Doug told him. “Don’t slump. And don’t lean forward. All of that’s bad for your back. And keep a steady stride. Not too fast, but steady.”

Yes, Professor, Bob thought. He almost said it aloud, then changed his mind. Doug was telling him these things to benefit him, not harass him. Just listen, nod, and fermez la bouche , he instructed himself.

“Try not to lift your feet any higher than you have to,” Doug went on. “Swing your arms; good for circulation. And keep a steady, rhythmic pace. You’ll get less tired that way. Slow and steady wins the race.”

What race? Bob thought. Are we in a race? He put the thought from his mind. Just listen, ordered his brain.

“I hope you’ve done a lot of walking to toughen up your legs,” Doug told him.

“Quite a bit,” Bob lied.

“Well, let’s be on our way,” Doug said. “Got to keep moving or your muscles will cramp.”

Muscles? Bob thought.

The stream was wide and fast-moving, a fallen tree across it covered with deep crosshatches. “Makes it easier to cross,” Doug said. “Incidentally, since you’re so curious about trees, those cinnamon-colored bark ones are incense cedars.”

Bob nodded. Thank you, Professor, he thought.

Doug bent over and broke a twig off the tree. “Watch,” he told Bob, tossing the twig into the stream. It was almost immediately swept out of sight. “That can tell you how fast the water’s moving,” Doug said. “So if the stream looks deep to you, don’t try to cross it, the current might knock you down. Keep going farther downstream and look for a spot where you can cross diagonally.”

He shook his head with a grim smile, remembering. “That’s how I lost my backpack that time I mentioned before,” he said, “I loosened my straps and unhooked my hip belt, of course, you’re supposed to do that. But I miscalculated the velocity of the stream; it was probably a small river actually. And boom ! I was in headlong and my pack was gone, washed over a damn waterfall. I was lucky I held on to my bow case.” He grinned. “That’s when I shot the rabbit for food. Okay, let’s cross.”

Bob tried to be as careful as he could but the weight of his pack pulled him off balance and he started to fall. Doug, close behind, grabbed him and pushed him across the tree trunk. He was startled by the ease with which Doug moved him. “Easy does it, Roberto,” Doug said, laughing a little.

As they continued along the trail, not only did Bob’s back ache and his legs feel heavy, he started getting breathless as well.

“You should be getting your second wind by tomorrow,” Doug told him.

And now you’ll tell me what that is, Bob thought.

“It’s a surge of energy that follows the period of time it takes you to get used to hard exercise,” Doug said. “You’ll feel more comfortable, be able to move faster.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Bob said wearily.

Doug laughed. “You are in piss-poor condition, aren’t you?” he said.

Bob didn’t feel like arguing. “Yes, I am,” he agreed. “Can we move a little slower?” he asked, “I’m losing my first breath.”

“We’re getting up a little higher, that’s why,” Doug explained casually.

Bob kept laboring for breath. That’s it? he thought. We’re up a little higher? I’m still having trouble breathing.

“Doug, I gotta stop again,” he said.

“What, already? The water’s running through you like a sieve.”

“No, it’s not that, I just need to rest a little while.”

“Oh.” Doug’s tone was remote. He’s already sorry he invited me on this hike, Bob thought.

Doug looked at his watch as they sat down. “Getting late,” he said.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Bob answered guiltily. He leaned his back against a tree trunk, groaning uncontrollably.

“You really think you’re going to make this, Bob?” Doug sounded honestly curious, marginally concerned.

“I will, I will, I just—” Bob swallowed and closed his eyes. “How fast do you usually go?” he asked, feeling that he ought to, at least, maintain some level of conversation, especially if it gave Doug a chance to brag a little.

“At least a dozen miles a day,” Doug told him. Bob wondered if he knew why he’d asked the question. “Beginners usually… a mile a day, no more,” he added, sounding bored.

“Always measured in miles?” Bob asked. He really didn’t care to know but still felt compelled to let Doug be impressive.

“Not always,” Doug said; he sounded a little more interested now. “It can be hours a day too. Most packers give out after four or five hours. I’ve hiked ten to twelve with no problem.”

“Ten to twelve?” Bob opened his eyes and stared at Doug with genuine awe.

“Once I went sixteen, once nineteen,” Doug told him.

“That’s amazing, Doug.” He wasn’t trying to cater to Doug now, he was truly impressed.

Doug seemed to lighten up at that. “I know it’s hard for you,” he said, “but I’m really trying to take it easy on you, give your muscles a chance to loosen up, get your pulse rate up to snuff.”

“I appreciate that, Doug,” Bob told him.

“You might try relacing your boots,” Doug suggested. “See if they’re on too tight; you don’t want to pinch your feet.”

“Okay, I will. Thanks.”

He started at the strange noise overhead, deep, throbbing, uneven. “What in the hell is that ?” he asked.

“Blue grouse again,” Doug told him, “up on the mountain.”

Bob felt himself going to sleep.

There were at least seven coyotes circling them, maybe eight. There were no trees to climb. The ground was open and bare.

“What do we do now?” he asked fearfully, turning to Doug.

Doug wasn’t there.

“Oh, Jesus, only he’d know what to do,” he muttered.

He stared at the growling, slavering coyotes as they moved in slowly.

He jolted and opened his eyes. Doug had just shaken him by the shoulder. Bob stared at him groggily.

“You fell asleep,” Doug told him.

“Oh, jeez, I’m sorry, Doug,” Bob said, a pained expression on his face.

“Look,” Doug said, “what I’m going to do is go on by myself, set up camp for us.”