Hunting Season (27 page)

Henry tried to push the girl off him but she fought fiercely. Then she bit his neck and tore at his throat. Now Henry screamed. He thrust his right thumb in her eye, pushing the gelatinous ball up into the socket until it popped and hot fluid coated his hand.

The daughter sat up, squirming and pawing at her head. Henry threw her the rest of the way off him. He jumped to his feet and grabbed the sword, ready to kill Pa.

But Pa had disappeared.

The girl screamed and Henry heard her feet racing toward his back. Henry pivoted and swung the sword. Pa had kept the blade keen. It sliced her head off with ease. Her body fell toward Henry and twitched on the ground while blood formed a lake around her.

The cold became a blizzard inside Henry. He dropped to one knee and cradled his arms to his chest and shivered.

Boy, dead, Henry thought. Sis, dead. Pa, gone. Where’s Hog?

Henry counted to three and pushed the internal and external pain as far out of his mind as he could. Had to find the other two.

The torches still flickered but Henry couldn’t see Hog. He walked toward the altar. Toward his dead wife.

As he did, the sense of loss, the knowledge he’d failed to save his wife, hit him. Henry’s knees weakened. The adrenaline pulsing through his body abandoned him. Then the cold raced through his limbs, hitting every joint.

Henry dropped to his knees before the altar and wept from the loss and pain.

“Ahhh!”

Henry’s eyes shot up and saw Hog standing on top of the altar, the bone knife held above his head. Hog jumped, bringing the knife toward Henry’s face on the way down. Henry leaned back and raised the sword. Hog’s momentum impaled him on the tip, driving the point up through his jaw into his head.

Blood ran down the blade and coated Henry’s hand. He stared at the child hanging on the top of the sword. Looked at the dead kid and wondered how such a thing could ever exist.

The sword wouldn’t come out. Henry braced his foot on Hog’s body and yanked it free.

The torchlight flickered in random shifts of yellow and orange. Henry surveyed the scene around him. Everyone dead except Pa and Pa didn’t seem to be in camp anymore. The most gruesome deaths anyone could ever imagine and Henry had dealt three of them.

His weary, starving body collapsed next to the altar of death. Blood formed a crust covering the majority of his body. Pieces of the daughter’s eyeball hung from his thumbnail.

Warm blood slid down his thigh. The wound had torn open again.

Henry smirked. He figured he’d just sit there and die, let his body empty of blood or the cold within eat him from the inside out.

Then he thought of Pa, still alive, and cursed himself for giving up.

But Pa knew these woods better than Henry could ever pray to. He knew the guy would live and probably start a new clan a few trees over. He just hoped the cold apparition destroying his insides would kill him before Pa could.

Henry heard feet shuffling in the pine needles behind him. His body found energy he thought already expended. He rocked onto his feet and pivoted, sword at his side.

Pa moved low and fast. Henry couldn’t see the knife in the dim light.

“Killed my kin you sonuvabitch.”

Henry saw Pa’s arm move in a quick throwing motion. His stomach sank, assuming he’d slung the knife at him. He couldn’t see whatever Pa had thrown at him. Then he picked it up, a fist-sized rock, spiraling toward his head. Henry turned his head to the side right before impact.

It hit him hard, just aft of his temple. Henry dropped to his knees and grabbed the side of his head. Warm blood greeted his hand. Consciousness didn’t flee him, though, and he regained his bearings.

Pa closed rapidly.

Henry launched himself forward as Pa rose up to bring the knife down into his back. His shoulder hit Pa in the stomach. Henry drove forward, tackling Pa as good as any linebacker.

On the ground, Pa fought back, stabbing Henry in the hip. Henry belted a scream but still held Pa down. He knew if he tried to stand, Pa would go for his chest or guts with the knife.

Pa stabbed him again, this time in the side below his ribs. The sword was useless to Henry. He let go of it, grabbed Pa by the balls, and squeezed with every bit of strength he had left.

A shriek, not a scream, shot out of Pa’s mouth.

Henry used his left hand to pin down the knife. He slammed Pa’s hand into the ground while simultaneously increasing his grip on his balls. The knife fell free after the fourth slam.

Henry grabbed the knife and pushed the tip just inside Pa’s ear. “How do I get out of the woods?”

“Fuck you.”

Henry pushed the knife in a little deeper. He could feel the blade slice skin. Pa screamed and kicked.

“Tell me!”

“I said—”

The blade went in deeper. Pa thrashed but his fight wasn’t nearly as strong as it had been.

“How do I get out of here?”

Pa whimpered as the blade went in a full inch. “Southwest.”

Henry grabbed Pa by the neck and sat him up. “How?”

Pa lifted his shaking right hand and pointed past the leanto’s. “Southwest. Half-day’s journey. You’ll hit the trail. Follow the markers from there.”

Henry looked where Pa pointed. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

Pa chuckled but winced as he did. “Only one way to find out I guess. Now finish this.”

“Get on your knees.”

Pa did as ordered. Henry took hold of the sword and rose. He placed the edge against the back of Pa’s neck.

“Who were you people?” Henry said.

“Servants of Rerutrot.”

“Who the fuck is Rerutrot?”

“One day all will know Rerutrot and his servants will be rewarded.”

Henry didn’t understand but lost his patience to learn. He raised the sword and brought it down in one satisfying swoop. Pa’s head fell away cleanly, rolling on the ground a few feet away.

Thoughts of Claire, still alive, flashing her smile and blue eyes flooded Henry’s soul. Rage filled him. Then he hacked at the body until the energy he had left him.

The cold inside again forced his hands into arthritic balls. Then the hard wind returned, swirling around the camp. Henry, hunched over on the ground, looked to the statue expecting to see the swirling light he had earlier. Instead, he saw only the smooth faceless statue with Claire’s head set before it.

Then he felt the change in temperature. No longer was it cold. Somehow the chill had transformed into dry heat. The rapid change in temperature caused sweat to break out in dots across Henry’s forehead.

“Serve me,” a raspy voice said behind him.

Henry spun around. In front of him and outside the light of the torches, two red eyes appeared in the darkness.

“Serve me,” it repeated.

The cold inside Henry dug at his skin, as if something clawed in hope of freeing itself.

Henry’s eyes flickered, the pain winning. His consciousness started to flee. He choked and coughed and avoided casting another glance at the red eyes.

“Serve me or die.”

Henry thought about dying and started laughing. “Good. Let me die.”

The pain stopped and everything went black.

Chapter Fourteen:

The Dark Road

Henry’s eyes fluttered. He thought death had finally taken him for a moment but then realized he had passed out near the altar.

As he sat up, pain from his side, hip, neck, and thigh catapulted simultaneously to his brain. Every inch he moved brought more hurt. His insides ached and felt like mush.

He looked around him, expecting to see the thing the red eyes belonged to but only saw gore and flies. Then he glanced at the statue of Rerutrot. The same as when he’d first seen it.

All in your head, Henry told himself. But he knew he was bullshitting himself. He’d seen the eyes. He’d felt its icy presence deep within. And he knew it was something he’d have to keep buried in a dark place of his memory, knowing if he dwelled on it his sanity would probably disintegrate.

It took a good ten minutes for him to fight through the pain and get to his feet. Morning had come and the sun’s light illuminated the brutal scene around him. He stood in the middle of a massacre, one created by his own brushstrokes.

No remorse, though. Looking at the dead bodies of the clan filled Henry with a sick sense of achievement.

Then his eyes rested on Claire and the satisfaction of his accomplishment disappeared.

After several minutes of tears and lamentation, Henry’s stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten in days. He limped to the lean-to’s and foraged. He soon found stocks of deer jerky and took several quick bites.

Sweet merciful God, Henry thought as he swallowed his first mouthful. It tasted better than anything he’d ever eaten.

He took a few more bites then stopped. His stomach seemed full and he didn’t want to make himself sick.

In the next lean-to, Henry found water in an old oaken barrel. He cupped both hands together and started gulping.

*  *  *  *  *

“Morning, Sheriff,” Driscole said.

Nate nodded as he pushed himself out of his car. The morning air was crisp and the skies dark with thunderheads. “Fred here yet?”

Driscole shook his head. “Called and said he was on his way. Said the dogs were moving slow this morning.”

A loud thunderclap shook the air.

“And the dogs are going to be spooked in this kind of weather.” Nate looked up and the first few rain drops spattered against his forehead.

“What?”

“Dogs don’t like thunder, Driscole.” Nate looked at the others who had shown up for the third day in a row. Only a few had foul weather gear. Nate also had to consider the possibility of flash floods if the rain got too heavy. Starting the search up again looked less likely with every drop of rain.

Another thunderclap and the skies opened up. The rain fell so hard it reduced visibility to a few feet in just seconds. It hit with such velocity that a drop felt like a needle stabbing at any uncovered skin. Nate swore and kicked the ground.

“Get everyone into their cars,” Nate yelled over the sound of the deluge.

“What?” Dricole cupped a hand to his ear.

Nate took a step and leaned in toward Driscole’s head. “Get everyone into their cars. We have to wait for the rain to let up.”

Driscole nodded and trudged off toward the others. Nate swore again and opened the door and climbed back inside his car.

*  *  *  *  *

Henry slung an old Army cavalry bag he’d found over his shoulder. He’d stuffed deer jerky and a bottle of water inside it, along with Claire’s head wrapped in her shirt. He’d buried her body in the camp but believed she also deserved a proper burial outside this place of evil. Once he made it out of the woods, Henry would place her to rest in the family plot in Cainswell, as Claire would have wanted.

Ed also received a burial. Henry couldn’t leave the man to rot next to the others. Not after he’d sacrificed himself for Henry.

How am I going to explain this? Henry thought as he looked over the bodies and severed heads. He didn’t know. He knew he’d have to tell the story as it happened and hope the authorities believed he didn’t kill his own wife. They would require proof. This camp and these now rotting bodies were his proof.

But would they let Henry lead them back here to show them? Henry started to think dying would have made his life easier.

In his hand, Henry carried the sword. He’d tried to find Ed’s rifle but failed. Apparently, Pa had disliked firearms.

Probably liked doing all his killing up close, Henry thought and shivered.

He looked over the bodies one last time before he walked southwest, past the skulls, and into the woods. A mile into the walk, the rain started.

*  *  *  *  *

“So how long are you going to give it?” Fred said.

Nate stared through the windshield at the solid wall of water falling outside. An hour had passed and the rain hadn’t let up one bit. Fred had jumped in the passenger seat once he’d shown up.

“You got somewhere you need to be?”

“The helicopter already cancelled. The dogs are freaking out in the trailer. The rain is washing any scent or track we might have found away. What’s the point in keeping us around?”

Fred was right but for some reason, and he didn’t really know why, Nate wanted to end the search on his terms and not Fred’s. He had no illusions. The search was over. But to him, this type of work was ugly and difficult and Nate didn’t think he should make it easy for everyone just because it had started raining.

“Could let up soon,” Nate said and turned up the volume on the talk radio station.

Fred sighed and looked out the window.

*  *  *  *  *

Henry stomped through the mud, shielding his eyes from the rain. Cold, wet, and exhausted, he pushed himself to keep moving. He had to find the trail. Pa said it was only a half day’s journey southwest. Since he’d started out in the morning he figured he should find the trail around dusk.

The exertion took its toll, though. Already mentally, emotionally, and physically wiped out, the trek sapped what little Henry had left. Only his will to get out of the woods drove him on.

His will, however, fought a continuing battle with his insides. The deer jerky had caused havoc with his stomach. What he’d managed to force down he’d thrown up. And now his stomach did more summersaults.

Henry took two more steps before he stopped and bent forward and vomited bile and blood into the mud. After a few more heaves, he wiped his mouth and tilted his head back and let the rain water fill his mouth. Then he spat and looked around, shielding his eyes again with his left hand while the right still held the sword.

Wet pines surrounded him and everything looked the same. Surprise. He was sure he’d maintained the right course but part of him wondered if he was lost yet again.

“What do you think?” he said to Claire, still tucked away in the cavalry bag.

Henry trudged forward a few paces, sinking into the mud more and more with each step. He turned the sword over in his hand and used it as a makeshift walking stick.