F. Wilson - The Last Rakosh

The gun was lousy with his fingerprints, but after a couple of rainstorms in this acid soil, that wouldn’t be a problem. No one was going to find it out here anyway.

He walked on, and the extra traveling time gave him room to think. I blew it.

Defeat weighed on him, and he knew that wasn’t right. The notion of Scar-lip roaming free was a bone in his throat that he could neither cough up nor swallow. He felt some sort of obligation to let it be known that something big and dangerous was prowling the Pine Barrens. But how? He couldn’t personally go public with the story, and who’d believe him anyway?

He was still trying to come up with a solution when he heard faint voices off to his right. He angled toward them.

The brush opened up and he found himself facing a worn two-lane blacktop. A couple of SUVs were parked on the sandy shoulder where four men, thirty to forty in age, were busily loading shotguns and slipping into day-glo orange vests. Their gear was expensive, top of the line, their weapons Remingtons and Berettas. Gentlemen sportsmen, out for the kill.

Jack asked which way to the Parkway and they pointed off to the left.

A guy with a dainty goatee gave him a disdainful up-and-down.

“What’d you run into? A bear?”

“Worse.”

“You could get killed walking through the woods like that, you know,” another said, a skinny guy with glasses. “Someone might pop you if you aren’t wearing colors.”

“I’ll be sticking to the road from here on.” Curiosity got the better of Jack. “What’re you hunting with all that firepower?”

“Deer,” the goatee replied. “The State Wildlife Department’s ordered a special off-season harvest.”

“Harvest, ay? Sounds like you’re talking wheat instead of deer.”

“Might as well be, considering the way the herd’s been growing. There’s just too damn many deer out there for their own good.”

A balding guy grinned. “And we’re doing our civic and ecological duty by thinning the herd.”

Jack hesitated, then figured he ought to give these guys a heads-up. “Maybe you want to think twice about going in there today.”

“Shit,” said the balding one, his grin vanishing. “You’re not one of those animal rights creeps are you?”

The air suddenly bristled with hostility.

“I’m not any kind of creep, pal,” Jack said through his teeth. Barely into the morning and already his fuse was down to a nubbin; he took faint satisfaction in seeing the jerk step back up and tighten his grip on his shotgun. “I’m just telling you there’s something real mean wandering around in there.”

“Like what?” said the goatee, smirking. “The Jersey Devil?”

“No. But it’s not some defenseless herbivore that’s going to lay down and die when you empty a couple of shells at it. As of today, guys, you’re no longer at the top of the food chain in the pines.”

“We can handle it,” said the skinny one.

“Really?” Jack said. “When did you ever hunt something that posed the slightest threat to you? I’m just warning you, there’s something in there that fights back and I doubt any of your type can handle that.”

Skinny looked uneasy now. He glanced at the others. “What if he’s right?”

“Oh, shit!” said baldy. “You going pussy on us, Charlie? Gonna let some tree-hugger chase you off with spook stories?”

“Well, no, but-”

The fourth hunter hefted a shiny new Remington over-under.

“The Jersey Devil! I want it! Wouldn’t that be some kind of head to hang over the fireplace?”

They all laughed, and Charlie joined in, back in the fold again as they slapped each other high fives.

Jack shrugged and walked away. He’d tried.

Hunting season. Had to smile. Scar-lip’s presence in the Pine Barrens gave the term a whole new twist. He wondered how these mighty hunters would react when they learned that the season was open on them.

And he wondered if there’d been any truth to those old tales of the Jersey Devil. Most likely hadn’t been a real Jersey Devil before, but there sure as hell was now.