Richard Matheson: Hunted Past Reason

Bob stared at him blankly. “I don’t understand,” he murmured.

“It’s getting late,” Doug said. “It takes a while to set up camp. I can go on ahead and get it ready.”

“Well…” Bob looked alarmed. “Leave me alone?”

“Bob, all you have to do is follow the trail,” Doug said with a chuckle. “You can’t get lost. And when you get to the camp, the fire will be burning, the tent set up, the sleeping bags ready. I’ll take yours with me—and your stove, give you less weight to carry. I’ll even take some of your damn chicken à la king with me so it’ll be ready to eat by the time you arrive. Take you maybe two hours to get there. Maybe less.”

“But…”

“Have to do it this way, buddy,” Doug said. “We’re behind schedule.”

“What if I get lost?” He was aware of sounding like “Bobby” now, a panicking ten-year-old.

“Bobby, you can’t get lost,” Doug said. “Just follow the trail. Okay?” It was more a demand than a question.

“Okay.” His voice sounded timid to him. He swallowed dryly. “There’s no chance I could wander off the trail?”

“None,” Doug said, “and if it gets a little dark, use your flashlight. You reversed your batteries, didn’t you?”

“What?” Bob felt helpless and stupid. “What do you—?”

“Keeps them from running down if the flashlight accidentally gets turned on,” Doug told him.

“Oh.” Was he going to just agree to this, let Doug leave him behind in the woods—hell, the forest!—the very first afternoon they were out?

He tried to struggle up but the pack was too heavy on him and pulled him back; he thudded against the tree trunk.

“You’ll have less weight now,” Doug told him, strapping Bob’s stove and sleeping bag on his pack. “You’ll be fine—able to move a little faster.”

Bob felt as though his mouth was hanging open, his expression appalled as Doug turned away and started walking briskly along the trail. Don’t! a voice cried in his brain. What about the mountain lion?!

That seemed to break the spell of dread. The mountain lion, for Christ’s sake? he thought. What did he think, the mountain lion was going to trail him and have him for supper? Grow up , Hansen, he ordered himself. Grow up, get up, and move your ass. This isn’t goddamn Deliverance , you know.

Maybe if I start after him right away and move as fast as I can, I’ll be able to catch up to him, he thought abruptly. Good idea. Doug couldn’t be walking that fast.

He tried to stand quickly and fell back, landing clumsily. Yeah, that’s great, Hansen, he mocked himself. Real deft.

He tried again and fell back awkwardly once more. Jesus Christ, he said he took some weight off my pack! he thought. It feels as though he added rocks to it instead.

No. No. He calmed himself. On your knees first, then stand slowly. Got it? He drew in a quick breath, nodding. Got it, he answered.

Carefully, he turned himself and rose to his knees, then slowly, arms outstretched to keep himself in balance, rose to his feet. There, he thought. That wasn’t so difficult now, was it? He tried not to pay attention to the painful drag of the pack on his back, the aching in his legs. Go, he told himself. Move.

He started to walk along the trail as rapidly as he could. Stand erect, he reminded himself. Don’t slump. Don’t lift your feet too high. Walk with a steady stride.

His brain reacted with unexpected irritation. Goddamn it, how am I supposed to remember all that crap? What am I, John Muir? No. He tried to settle his mind. It’s already been established that you definitely aren’t John Muir. Just walk erect, don’t slump, steady stride. It’s not that fucking hard, you idiot. Thanks for the kind words, he thought and had to grin.

He concentrated on keeping a steady stride. Doug was right, that did work better. But then Doug was right about everything. Backpacking-wise anyway. Life? A little different.

Odd how the forest, which had seemed exquisite and inspiring before, was now beginning to take on the aspects of an ominous entity around him. The tall, thin pines looked like spears, their foliage thick and gray-green, large, scaly cones on the ground beneath them. The huge leaves of the maple trees now looked like random splashes of yellow amid the dark green canopy. Was the green really that dark or was the light starting to fade? That would be all he needed: to be alone in the forest in the dark. Wonderful, he thought. He tried to visualize the possibility with amusement but his involuntary shiver belied it. Great, he thought. Alone in the forest in the dark. And I don’t even have my sleeping bag now! he suddenly realized. I’d goddamn freeze to death! They’d find my skeleton twenty years from now, lying under—

Oh, shut up! he commanded himself. And straighten up for Christ’s sake, you’re slumping! “Oh,” he muttered gloomily. He fought away anxiety. Just—follow—the—goddamn—path; that was all he had to do. He wasn’t in the great North Woods. This was a national park in California and he was on a trail. A trail , Hansen, he reminded himself.

No, wait. Goddamn it, I am slumping again! There must be some way to control—

Yes! His face lit up as he moved to a fallen tree and found a branch on it with the right thickness. Taking out his hunting knife, he started to saw away at it so that it would be about five feet long. Oh, great, he thought, the knife was just about sharp enough to slice its way through butter.

He hacked and pulled at the branch until it broke off, then cut off the twigs (sure, those the damn knife can cut off, he thought) and did the best he could to level the end of the branch.

He began to walk again, using the branch as a staff. Not bad, he thought. It did help keep him more erect. Now just move at a steady pace and you’ll—

“Jesus Christ!” He stopped and jerked around as something rustled noisily in the brush to his left. Just before it vanished, he saw that it was a fleeing rabbit.

“Oh… God.” He swallowed dryly, then opened his bottle and took a drink of water. His heartbeat was still pounding. Is it going to be like this the whole time? he wondered. I thought it was something big, something dangerous. A rabbit, for chrissake. He groaned at his vulnerability. Just keep going, will you, Hansen? he suggested. Yes, by all means, he replied politely to himself.

He started walking again. It did seem easier to stay erect and keep a steady pace using the staff. For a few moments, he visualized himself as a proficient woodsman striding through his familiar wilderness. After all, he had only to follow the very obvious trail. Soon enough, he’d reach the campsite. Doug would be waiting there, a cozy fire burning. Dehydration or no dehydration, he would partake of one of his little bottles of vodka.

He seemed to be going uphill more now. At least the strain of walking seemed to be increasing and it was becoming more and more laborious to breathe. Well, he could manage that. If only it wasn’t getting so shadowy. The more shadowy it became, the more menacing the silence seemed.

Ordinarily, he loved silence. Where Marian and he lived in Agoura Hills, it was deathly silent, far from the freeway noises; and he enjoyed it immensely, they both did. Sitting on their deck at sunset, having drinks, they often commented on how quiet it was. There, quiet seemed peaceful and comforting. Here…

Well, it’s the unknown, he tried to reason with himself. Just… keep moving and stop worrying about it. It ain’t gonna kill you.

“I hope,” he muttered. He frowned at himself. “Shut up,” he said.

He had to stop and empty his bladder again, then take another drink of water. The bottle was getting pretty empty, he saw. What if he got lost and ran out of water?