335 lines
20 KiB
Plaintext
335 lines
20 KiB
Plaintext
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The Hunter, The Hunted
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Copyright 1987 by G. Daniel Flower, All Rights Reserved.
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Comments on this story
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may be directed to "Sparks" in the Email or General message section
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of the Gallifrey BBS system, and all such comments are invited.
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The Hunter, The Hunted
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by G. Daniel Flower
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He ran through the woods, branches slapping at his face. Sweat
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poured out of his body like a flooding river. His heart beat
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thundered in his ears. This can't be happening, he thought. But it
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was. His pursuer seemed happy to pace him, the distance between them
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remained constant. He jumped over a dead fall and lost his balance
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for a heart rending second. Then he righted himself and continued.
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The woods, which had seemed so friendly and familiar just
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thirty minutes before, were strange and sinister. The trees and
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undergrowth conspired against him, tripping him, teasing him,
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laughing at him.
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He wanted to rest, to give up and let what happened, happen.
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There was a stream up ahead, he could hear it. He headed in that
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direction. At least the water would cool him for a short while. He
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caromed off of a tree and lost his footing completely.
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How easy it would be to lay here and let it finish. Giving up
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was not part of his nature. He got to his feet and started moving
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again. He could see the stream through the trees now. Just a little
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further. His muscles moved like lead. The pain had disappeared long
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ago. He braced himself against a tree on the stream's bank and
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listened for his pursuer. Yes, still there. Moving steadily and in
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no hurry. Moving towards him.
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He took a quick drink of the cool water and then crashed
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through the stream. The water that splashed onto his body was
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refreshing. He wanted to lay down in it's rehabilitating coolness.
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But to do so was death.
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He climbed the opposite bank and continued his flight. A sound
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up ahead froze him in his tracks. More then one! In front and
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behind. Trapped, unable to continue. The will to live just a spark
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in his chest. Enough of a spark to go on, to live. He started
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running again, paralleling the stream.
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The going was too rough along the stream's bank. Too much
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undergrowth, trees too close together. Find the path of least
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resistance; find the path to freedom and life.
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A shot rings through the woods, reverberates from the
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mountains. The bullet removes bark and wood from a tree by his
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head. Close, so close, too close. Jump another dead fall. Not
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feeling, moving by instinct. Get away.
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Another shot, a burning fire in his leg. Mind blocks out the
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pain, have to survive. Blood pours. Must rest. Need help. Someone.
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Anyone. Help. Stumbles, almost falls. Keep going. Another shot,
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closer. Bark stings his eyes. Slowing down.
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Still can't see his pursuers. Won't even know what his killers
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look like. Can't find out why. Why me? I've never hurt anyone. Run.
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Escape. Can't outrun bullets, senses this truth, almost gives up.
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NO! Won't give up. Another shot rings out. He goes down. Pain in
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chest. This is it. Dieing now. The sweat on his body has turned to
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foam. His legs keep moving, for even in death, there is life. The
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legs slow down. Eyes close against the pain. Feels the warm, sticky
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blood on his chest. Not long, now. Almost over.
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The life runs out, legs twitch spasmodically one last time.
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The last, unheard thought courses through his brain: WHY?
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Willy Cranshaw wakes with a start. His bed sheets are crumpled
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into a ball. His mattress is soaked, as is his body. He reaches with
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shaking hands for a cigarette. Another nightmare. Third one this
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week.
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Gets out of bed and walks to the kitchen. Removes a beer from
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the refrigerator and sits at the table. Wipes his face with a
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towel. What does it mean, he wonders. Each dream has gotten worse.
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He had escaped in the first two dreams. He does remember being shot
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at in the second dream, but whoever was shooting had missed. He
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took a long pull from the beer.
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It has to mean something. Everything has a purpose, even if
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man doesn't always understand. All he knew for sure was that he had
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never had a dream like these before.
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Maybe I'm going crazy, he thought. Should bring this up with
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my analyst during our next session. He finishes the beer and goes
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back to bed. No use crying over spilled milk he thinks.
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"Another hunting accident, Sheriff?" Deputy Jim Marshall asks.
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"Looks that way." Sheriff Bob Russell said "That's the only
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thing I can figure. One shot to the head, no sign of anyone else.
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Brush isn't too thick, though. Whoever shot him must have had a
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good look at him, unless he was hit by a stray bullet. We'll do the
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usual check on him, but I have a feeling it will be as inconclusive
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as all the others."
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"Okay, I'll start checking around, see if I can find anything.
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Do you want to tell his wife?" Jim said.
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"No, not really, but I guess I have to. You go ahead with the
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background check while I do that."
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They both jumped when they heard someone coming through the
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woods. Sheriff Russell relaxed when he saw who it was. "You sure
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didn't waste any time, Mike. How's life?" he said.
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"Can't complain, Bob. Sally got hold of me before I went back
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to town. Figured I should swing by while I was out here anyway. Got
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another 'accident' on your hands?" Mike Howard, ace reporter from
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the Addison County Free Press, said.
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"Yeah, it sure looks that way. The deceased is Ned Williams,
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age 42, from Cornwall. Estimated time of death was around eight this
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morning. He was discovered by John Fields, from Middlebury at two
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this afternoon. Apparently died from a rifle shot to the head. The
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next of kin hasn't been notified yet, so hold off on printing his
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name until I clear it, okay?"
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"Sure, no problem. Is this one the same as the others?"
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"It appears that way. We'll do the normal checks, but I
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wouldn't hold my breath for any new developements. That's off the
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record, too, by the way."
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"Any signs of anyone else?"
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"No, not yet. Deputy Ames is looking right now."
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"This is the fifth death since the season opened, Sheriff.
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Certainly you can come up with something?"
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"So far there are no indications that any of those deaths are
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related, and until I find evidence to the contrary I have to log
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them as hunting accidents. We're still waiting on the ballistics
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reports from the State Police. Until we get those in we're at a
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stand still."
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"What would you advise other hunters to do in the mean time?"
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"Make sure of what they are shooting at, and make sure that
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they are visible to other hunters."
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"Anything else?"
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"No, not right now. If anything comes up you'll be the first
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to know. I have to go now. You can hang around here with Deputy
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Marshall until the coroner shows up."
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"Okay, thanks for the info."
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Sheriff Russell hiked the half mile back to the truck lost in
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thought. The first of the ballistics reports should be arriving
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today from Burlington. He knew deep in his heart what they would
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say, "Remington 30-06, 270 grain, fired from the same weapon."
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He got in his truck and picked up his microphone. "Dispatch
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this is the Sheriff, over."
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"This is dispatch, go ahead Sheriff."
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"I need the address for Ned Williams. He lived in Cornwall
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somewhere."
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"Okay, will do. Oh, Sheriff, three of those ballistics reports
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came in today."
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"I'm on my way."
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The sound of a shot rang through the woods. A brief flare of
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pain arced across his back. He smelled fear in the air. His own.
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Run. He dodged trees and branches. Have to get away. Can't let them
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get me. Sweat stung the wound on his back, stung his eyes.
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Breath coming in short gasps, heart pounding in his ears. Help
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me, someone help me. WHY? Another shot. Dodge to the left. Swerve
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to avoid a tree. A clearing ahead. Pick up speed. No trees to worry
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about, no branches. Almost through the clearing. Have to make it.
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The next shot punches through his chest, rips open the lung. He
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falls. Got to run. Gets up. Stumbles, recovers. Body laced with
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pain, so much pain. Another shot, he doesn't hear it. Bullet
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severs the spinal cord at the neck. Collapses, lays twitching on the
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ground. HELP ME!
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"Damn, I knew it!" Sheriff Russell says.
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"What's that, Sheriff?" asks Deputy Ames.
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"According to ballistics the bullets in the first three cases
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came from the same gun. The logical conclusion is that all of the
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killings are related. Our jobs just got harder."
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"Unless we want to acknowledge the fact that someone is
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hunting hunters, what's the connection? All of these men have
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different back grounds and everything Sheriff."
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"I know, I know. Damn. Get me Mike Howard on the phone."
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He fiddled with a pen as Deputy Ames dialed. The burning in
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his stomach increased. He popped a couple of antacid tablets as
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Deputy Ames handed him the phone. "Hello, Mike, I've got a statement
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to make. Are you ready?"
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"Go ahead, Bob."
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"It now appears that the five hunting deaths that have occurred
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during the last week are related. The only connection that is
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evident at this point in time is that all of the men were hunters. I
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would strongly encourage all hunters to buddy up from now until this
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case is solved. Anyone noticing anything unusual is asked to contact
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the Sheriff's office immediately."
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"Whew, thanks Bob. I'll get this out as soon as I can." he said
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as he hung up.
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"Get the radio stations on the horn, Ames, and tell them the
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same thing. Ask them to get it on the air as soon as possible."
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"Right, Sheriff."
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He senses their presence in the woods. They are close. He has
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to fight the impulse to take flight. Stay here, they won't find me.
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Don't move. Someone help me. He catches sight of the man through the
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undergrowth were he hides. He is carrying a stick in his hands.
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Searching. Looking for me. Walking right towards me. Muscles tense,
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ready to run.
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His fear is intense. Why? Why do they do this? He watches,
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nerves and instincts screaming. RUN. But he doesn't, not yet. There
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is another one, he senses. Where? Must know where. A twig snaps off
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to the left. There. Another. Carrying a stick too. The first man
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raises his hand in greeting.
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The deer watches as the second man raises his stick to his
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shoulder. Fire, smoke and noise come from the end of the stick. The
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deer bolts. Must escape. The first man's head explodes. He lies
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quivering on the forest floor.
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The second man watches the deer bound through the woods. Go my
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friend, you are safe now.
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Sheriff Russell looks at the body. Number six, he thinks,
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where will it end. He looks at the hunter's friend. He is in shock,
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unable to grasp what has happened here today. He is no help. Heard
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a shot and thought his friend had bagged a deer. Found his friend
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quivering on the ground instead. At least this time they had a
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witness, if you could call him that.
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They had confiscated the hunters gun. It was a 30-06. A
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popular gun in these parts. The Sheriff doubted if anything would
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come of it. At least this time there would be less of the woods to
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search.
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The murderer must have left the scene going away from the
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hunters friend. The two deputies were busy searching that area now.
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The odds were that they would find something that would point to the
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killer, eventually. Sheriff Russell hated playing the odds. More
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hunters would die before they could do anything to stop this maniac.
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"Hey, Sheriff." Deputy Ames yelled "I think we found
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something."
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Sheriff Russell ran over to where Ames was searching. "What
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have you got?" he said
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"Boot print."
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They studied it together. The Sheriff noticed two things about
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the print. One, it was a popular brand sold by L. L. Bean; two, it
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had a chunk missing from the left side of the sole. "Way to go,
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Ames." he said "Just earned yourself an extra day off. Get the
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plaster kit from the truck."
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Well, my friend. We're closing in. Sooner or later you're going
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to make a mistake and then you'll be ours.
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Willy Cranshaw whistled as he drove home from work. The dreams
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were still there, but he didn't worry about them anymore. They had
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become his friends, and as friends he welcomed them every night.
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He was glad that tomorrow was his day off. Time to do some
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relaxing. He thought he worked too hard, but someone had to pay the
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bills.
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Maybe he'd do a little hunting tomorrow.
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The hunters moved cautiously through the woods. Only a week
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left in the season and none of them had bagged a deer yet. With
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work and everything else they might be able to get two more full
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days of hunting in. The three of them were separated by seventy-five
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yards. They'd seen a lot of deer sign, but so far today no deer.
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John Hanson was ready to shoot his first deer. Although he was
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twenty-three years old this was only his second season. His parents
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had never allowed him to hunt when he was a teenager, so he was
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trying to make up for lost time.
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He'd gotten a couple shots off earlier in the season, but his
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aim wasn't that good. That he should get some target practice in
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before the season started never occurred to him.
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He scanned the woods in front of him, choosing his steps
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carefully. He saw a flash of international orange in the bushes
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off to his left, about eighty yards ahead. A lot of hunters out, he
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thought. He looked to his left and saw Charlie Sole. He couldn't
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see Harry (Charlie's brother) though.
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He looked towards the other hunter. He saw him aiming in
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Charlie's direction. John tried to see what the other hunter was
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aiming at. The report from the rifle startled him. He had scanned
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the woods and the only thing he saw was Charlie. He saw Charlie jump
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and then fall forward. John looked back to the unknown hunter and
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saw that he was moving away from them.
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John didn't think about what he did next. He braced himself
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against a tree and took aim at the other hunter's head. He braced
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himself against the kick of the rifle and pulled the trigger.
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Sheriff Russell stared at John Hanson. "So you don't know if
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you hit him or not?" he said.
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"No, I don't. I thought I saw him jump, but I'm not sure. I'm
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not the greatest shot in the world, so I probably missed him."
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"Did you recognize him?"
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"Didn't see him that close. All I noticed was that he seemed
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to be lanky, average height. It looked like he was wearing an
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international orange vest and hat. That's all I saw before he
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disappeared into the woods."
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"Okay, I want you to meet me at the office in about an hour."
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The Sheriff walked towards Deputy Ames. He was getting tired of
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pulling hunter's bodies out of the woods. "Find anything yet, Ames?"
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he called.
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"Yeah, Sheriff. He was hit. Got some fresh blood here on some
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bushes, looks like he's hurt bad. Ought to get the dogs out here,
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see if we can track this guy down."
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"Right. Get the samples, I'll call for the dogs."
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Deputy Marshall showed up twenty minutes later with the dogs.
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By that time the coroner had removed the body. Another head shot.
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Guy knew how to shoot, that's for sure.
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The three men set off on the trail. For someone who was
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wounded this guy sure doesn't take it easy, thought the Sheriff.
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They twisted and turned through the woods. The dogs hadn't been
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necessary so far. The guy was losing a lot of blood. They finally
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found him a mile from the scene of the shooting.
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He was laying face down on the forest floor, his back covered
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with blood. The Sheriff carefully picked the rifle up. Remington
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30-06. They turned him over and searched for an ID.
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"Says here his name is William Cranshaw, from East Middlebury.
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Either of you guys know him?" the Sheriff asked.
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Both of the Deputies shook their heads. The Sheriff checked
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the guys boots. One of them had a deep gouge missing from the left
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side of the sole. "Well, looks like we got our man, fellas.
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Ballistics will be able to confirm it. I wonder why he did it?"
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The deer ran through the woods, ignoring the pain of the
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slapping branches. His heart thundered in his rib cage. Got to get
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away. He sensed the presence of his pursuer. Still there. Leave me
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alone. I've done nothing wrong.
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He jumped a dead fall and swerved to the right to avoid the
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tree. Sweat soaked his body. Spittle flew from his mouth. Need to
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rest. Can't rest. Must run. Survive.
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He senses the presence of the stream. Cool water. Need to
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drink. He pauses at the stream's bank, listening. Still there,
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closing in. Takes a quick drink of the cool water. Continue. He runs
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through the water, a little bit refreshed. Rest, must rest, can't
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rest. Why? Why is he chasing me? Get away.
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The shot reverberates through the woods. Fear increases. Help
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me, someone help me. Please! Keep going. Life.
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The second shot hits his right ear, tears it from his head.
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Pain, red hot, shearing, unrelenting. Can't stop, can't slow down.
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Run.
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The third shot enters between the fifth and sixth ribs, rips
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through the lung, enters the heart. The big heart stops beating in
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protest to this unholy intrusion into it's domain. He falls in a
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tangle of feet and lays twitching on the forest floor. Help me!
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Sam Dimick sits up with a start. His body is covered with a
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cold sweat. His bed is a mess of bunched up sheets and blankets.
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What a nightmare, he thinks. Whew. He gets up and stretches his
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aching muscles. Why is he so sore? Especially his ear and his chest.
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The last time he felt pain like this was when he broke his leg when
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he was twelve.
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He goes to the bathroom and wets a wash cloth with cold water.
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Oooh, that's nice, he thinks, as he rubs the wash cloth over his
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face. He takes the aspirin bottle from the medicine chest and takes
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four of them with two glasses of water. If this pain keeps up I'm
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gonna have to go see the Doc, he thinks. Probably just pulled a
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muscle during that nightmare.
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He straightens the bed up and lays down. Everything will look
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better tomorrow, he's sure.
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Copyright 1987 by G. Daniel Flower, All Rights Reserved. |