
                      The Hunter, The Hunted

          Copyright 1987 by G. Daniel Flower, All Rights Reserved.
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     may be directed to "Sparks" in the Email or General message section
     of the Gallifrey BBS system, and all such comments are invited.





                            The Hunter, The Hunted
                              by G. Daniel Flower

          He ran through the woods, branches slapping at his face. Sweat
     poured out of his body like a flooding river. His heart beat
     thundered in his ears. This can't be happening, he thought. But it
     was. His pursuer seemed happy to pace him, the distance between them
     remained constant. He jumped over a dead fall and lost his balance
     for a heart rending second. Then he righted himself and continued.
          The woods, which had seemed so friendly and familiar just
     thirty minutes before, were strange and sinister. The trees and
     undergrowth conspired against him, tripping him, teasing him,
     laughing at him.
          He wanted to rest, to give up and let what happened, happen.
     There was a stream up ahead, he could hear it. He headed in that
     direction. At least the water would cool him for a short while. He
     caromed off of a tree and lost his footing completely.
          How easy it would be to lay here and let it finish. Giving up
     was not part of his nature. He got to his feet and started moving
     again. He could see the stream through the trees now. Just a little
     further. His muscles moved like lead. The pain had disappeared long
     ago. He braced himself against a tree on the stream's bank and
     listened for his pursuer. Yes, still there. Moving steadily and in
     no hurry. Moving towards him.
          He took a quick drink of the cool water and then crashed
     through the stream. The water that splashed onto his body was
     refreshing. He wanted to lay down in it's rehabilitating coolness.
     But to do so was death.
          He climbed the opposite bank and continued his flight. A sound
     up ahead froze him in his tracks. More then one! In front and
     behind. Trapped, unable to continue. The will to live just a spark
     in his chest. Enough of a spark to go on, to live. He started
     running again, paralleling the stream.
          The going was too rough along the stream's bank. Too much
     undergrowth, trees too close together. Find the path of least
     resistance; find the path to freedom and life.
          A shot rings through the woods, reverberates from the
     mountains. The bullet removes bark and wood from a tree by his
     head. Close, so close, too close. Jump another dead fall. Not
     feeling, moving by instinct. Get away.
          Another shot, a burning fire in his leg. Mind blocks out the
     pain, have to survive. Blood pours. Must rest. Need help. Someone.
     Anyone. Help. Stumbles, almost falls. Keep going. Another shot,
     closer. Bark stings his eyes. Slowing down.
          Still can't see his pursuers. Won't even know what his killers
     look like. Can't find out why. Why me? I've never hurt anyone. Run.
     Escape. Can't outrun bullets, senses this truth, almost gives up.
     NO! Won't give up. Another shot rings out. He goes down. Pain in
     chest. This is it. Dieing now. The sweat on his body has turned to
     foam. His legs keep moving, for even in death, there is life. The
     legs slow down. Eyes close against the pain. Feels the warm, sticky
     blood on his chest. Not long, now. Almost over.
          The life runs out, legs twitch spasmodically one last time.
     The last, unheard thought courses through his brain: WHY?

          Willy Cranshaw wakes with a start. His bed sheets are crumpled
     into a ball. His mattress is soaked, as is his body. He reaches with
     shaking hands for a cigarette. Another nightmare. Third one this
     week.
          Gets out of bed and walks to the kitchen. Removes a beer from
     the refrigerator and sits at the table. Wipes his face with a
     towel. What does it mean, he wonders. Each dream has gotten worse.
     He had escaped in the first two dreams. He does remember being shot
     at in the second dream, but whoever was shooting had missed. He
     took a long pull from the beer.
          It has to mean something. Everything has a purpose, even if
     man doesn't always understand. All he knew for sure was that he had
     never had a dream like these before.
          Maybe I'm going crazy, he thought. Should bring this up with
     my analyst during our next session. He finishes the beer and goes
     back to bed. No use crying over spilled milk he thinks.

          "Another hunting accident, Sheriff?" Deputy Jim Marshall asks.
          "Looks that way." Sheriff Bob Russell said "That's the only
     thing I can figure. One shot to the head, no sign of anyone else.
     Brush isn't too thick, though. Whoever shot him must have had a
     good look at him, unless he was hit by a stray bullet. We'll do the
     usual check on him, but I have a feeling it will be as inconclusive
     as all the others."
          "Okay, I'll start checking around, see if I can find anything.
     Do you want to tell his wife?" Jim said.
          "No, not really, but I guess I have to. You go ahead with the
     background check while I do that."
          They both jumped when they heard someone coming through the
     woods. Sheriff Russell relaxed when he saw who it was. "You sure
     didn't waste any time, Mike. How's life?"  he said.
          "Can't complain, Bob. Sally got hold of me before I went back
     to town. Figured I should swing by while I was out here anyway. Got
     another 'accident' on your hands?" Mike Howard, ace reporter from
     the Addison County Free Press, said.
          "Yeah, it sure looks that way. The deceased is Ned Williams,
     age 42, from Cornwall. Estimated time of death was around eight this
     morning. He was discovered by John Fields, from Middlebury at two
     this afternoon. Apparently died from a rifle shot to the head. The
     next of kin hasn't been notified yet, so hold off on printing his
     name until I clear it, okay?" 
          "Sure, no problem. Is this one the same as the others?"
          "It appears that way. We'll do the normal checks, but I
     wouldn't hold my breath for any new developements. That's off the
     record, too, by the way." 
          "Any signs of anyone else?"
          "No, not yet. Deputy Ames is looking right now."
          "This is the fifth death since the season opened, Sheriff.
     Certainly you can come up with something?"
          "So far there are no indications that any of those deaths are
     related, and until I find evidence to the contrary I have to log
     them as hunting accidents. We're still waiting on the ballistics
     reports from the State Police. Until we get those in we're at a
     stand still."
          "What would you advise other hunters to do in the mean time?"
          "Make sure of what they are shooting at, and make sure that
     they are visible to other hunters."
          "Anything else?"
          "No, not right now. If anything comes up you'll be the first
     to know. I have to go now. You can hang around here with Deputy
     Marshall until the coroner shows up."
           "Okay, thanks for the info."
          Sheriff Russell hiked the half mile back to the truck lost in
     thought. The first of the ballistics reports should be arriving
     today from Burlington. He knew deep in his heart what they would
     say, "Remington 30-06, 270 grain, fired from the same weapon."
          He got in his truck and picked up his microphone. "Dispatch
     this is the Sheriff, over."
          "This is dispatch, go ahead Sheriff."
          "I need the address for Ned Williams. He lived in Cornwall
     somewhere."
          "Okay, will do. Oh, Sheriff, three of those ballistics reports
     came in today."
          "I'm on my way."

          The sound of a shot rang through the woods. A brief flare of
     pain arced across his back. He smelled fear in the air. His own.
     Run. He dodged trees and branches. Have to get away. Can't let them
     get me. Sweat stung the wound on his back, stung his eyes.
          Breath coming in short gasps, heart pounding in his ears. Help
     me, someone help me. WHY? Another shot. Dodge to the left. Swerve
     to avoid a tree. A clearing ahead. Pick up speed. No trees to worry
     about, no branches. Almost through the clearing. Have to make it.
          The next shot punches through his chest, rips open the lung. He
     falls. Got to run. Gets up. Stumbles, recovers. Body laced with
     pain, so much pain. Another shot, he doesn't hear it. Bullet
     severs the spinal cord at the neck. Collapses, lays twitching on the
     ground. HELP ME! 

          "Damn, I knew it!" Sheriff Russell says.
          "What's that, Sheriff?" asks Deputy Ames.
          "According to ballistics the bullets in the first three cases
     came from the same gun. The logical conclusion is that all of the
     killings are related. Our jobs just got harder."
          "Unless we want to acknowledge the fact that someone is
     hunting hunters, what's the connection? All of these men have
     different back grounds and everything Sheriff."
          "I know, I know. Damn. Get me Mike Howard on the phone."
          He fiddled with a pen as Deputy Ames dialed. The burning in
     his stomach increased. He popped a couple of antacid tablets as
     Deputy Ames handed him the phone. "Hello, Mike, I've got a statement
     to make. Are you ready?" 
          "Go ahead, Bob."
          "It now appears that the five hunting deaths that have occurred
     during the last week are related. The only connection that is
     evident at this point in time is that all of the men were hunters. I
     would strongly encourage all hunters to buddy up from now until this
     case is solved. Anyone noticing anything unusual is asked to contact
     the Sheriff's office immediately."
          "Whew, thanks Bob. I'll get this out as soon as I can." he said
     as he hung up. 
          "Get the radio stations on the horn, Ames, and tell them the
     same thing. Ask them to get it on the air as soon as possible."
          "Right, Sheriff."

          He senses their presence in the woods. They are close. He has
     to fight the impulse to take flight. Stay here, they won't find me.
     Don't move. Someone help me. He catches sight of the man through the
     undergrowth were he hides. He is carrying a stick in his hands.
     Searching. Looking for me. Walking right towards me. Muscles tense,
     ready to run.
          His fear is intense. Why? Why do they do this? He watches,
     nerves and instincts screaming. RUN. But he doesn't, not yet. There
     is another one, he senses. Where? Must know where. A twig snaps off
     to the left. There. Another. Carrying a stick too. The first man
     raises his hand in greeting.
          The deer watches as the second man raises his stick to his
     shoulder. Fire, smoke and noise come from the end of the stick. The
     deer bolts. Must escape. The first man's head explodes. He lies
     quivering on the forest floor.
          The second man watches the deer bound through the woods. Go my
     friend, you are safe now.

          Sheriff Russell looks at the body. Number six, he thinks,
     where will it end. He looks at the hunter's friend. He is in shock,
     unable to grasp what has happened here today. He is no help. Heard
     a shot and thought his friend had bagged a deer. Found his friend
     quivering on the ground instead. At least this time they had a
     witness, if you could call him that.
          They had confiscated the hunters gun. It was a 30-06. A
     popular gun in these parts. The Sheriff doubted if anything would
     come of it. At least this time there would be less of the woods to
     search.
          The murderer must have left the scene going away from the
     hunters friend. The two deputies were busy searching that area now.
     The odds were that they would find something that would point to the
     killer, eventually. Sheriff Russell hated playing the odds. More
     hunters would die before they could do anything to stop this maniac.
          "Hey, Sheriff." Deputy Ames yelled "I think we found
     something."
          Sheriff Russell ran over to where Ames was searching. "What
     have you got?" he said
          "Boot print."
          They studied it together. The Sheriff noticed two things about
     the print. One, it was a popular brand sold by L. L. Bean; two, it
     had a chunk missing from the left side of the sole. "Way to go,
     Ames." he said "Just earned yourself an extra day off. Get the
     plaster kit from the truck."
          Well, my friend. We're closing in. Sooner or later you're going
     to make a mistake and then you'll be ours.

          Willy Cranshaw whistled as he drove home from work. The dreams
     were still there, but he didn't worry about them anymore. They had
     become his friends, and as friends he welcomed them every night.
          He was glad that tomorrow was his day off. Time to do some
     relaxing. He thought he worked too hard, but someone had to pay the
     bills.
          Maybe he'd do a little hunting tomorrow.

          The hunters moved cautiously through the woods. Only a week
     left in the season and none of them had bagged a deer yet. With
     work and everything else they might be able to get two more full
     days of hunting in. The three of them were separated by seventy-five
     yards. They'd seen a lot of deer sign, but so far today no deer.
          John Hanson was ready to shoot his first deer. Although he was
     twenty-three years old this was only his second season. His parents
     had never allowed him to hunt when he was a teenager, so he was
     trying to make up for lost time.
          He'd gotten a couple shots off earlier in the season, but his
     aim wasn't that good. That he should get some target practice in
     before the season started never occurred to him.
          He scanned the woods in front of him, choosing his steps
     carefully. He saw a flash of international orange in the bushes
     off to his left, about eighty yards ahead. A lot of hunters out, he
     thought. He looked to his left and saw Charlie Sole. He couldn't
     see Harry (Charlie's brother) though.
          He looked towards the other hunter. He saw him aiming in
     Charlie's direction. John tried to see what the other hunter was
     aiming at. The report from the rifle startled him. He had scanned
     the woods and the only thing he saw was Charlie. He saw Charlie jump
     and then fall forward. John looked back to the unknown hunter and
     saw that he was moving away from them. 
          John didn't think about what he did next. He braced himself
     against a tree and took aim at the other hunter's head. He braced
     himself against the kick of the rifle and pulled the trigger.

          Sheriff Russell stared at John Hanson. "So you don't know if
     you hit him or not?" he said.
          "No, I don't. I thought I saw him jump, but I'm not sure. I'm
     not the greatest shot in the world, so I probably missed him."
          "Did you recognize him?"
          "Didn't see him that close. All I noticed was that he seemed
     to be lanky, average height. It looked like he was wearing an
     international orange vest and hat. That's all I saw before he
     disappeared into the woods."
          "Okay, I want you to meet me at the office in about an hour."
          The Sheriff walked towards Deputy Ames. He was getting tired of
     pulling hunter's bodies out of the woods. "Find anything yet, Ames?"
     he called. 
          "Yeah, Sheriff. He was hit. Got some fresh blood here on some
     bushes, looks like he's hurt bad. Ought to get the dogs out here,
     see if we can track this guy down."
          "Right. Get the samples, I'll call for the dogs."
          Deputy Marshall showed up twenty minutes later with the dogs.
     By that time the coroner had removed the body. Another head shot.
     Guy knew how to shoot, that's for sure.
          The three men set off on the trail. For someone who was
     wounded this guy sure doesn't take it easy, thought the Sheriff.
     They twisted and turned through the woods. The dogs hadn't been
     necessary so far. The guy was losing a lot of blood. They finally
     found him a mile from the scene of the shooting.
          He was laying face down on the forest floor, his back covered
     with blood. The Sheriff carefully picked the rifle up. Remington
     30-06. They turned him over and searched for an ID.
          "Says here his name is William Cranshaw, from East Middlebury.
     Either of you guys know him?" the Sheriff asked.
          Both of the Deputies shook their heads. The Sheriff checked
     the guys boots. One of them had a deep gouge missing from the left
     side of the sole. "Well, looks like we got our man, fellas.
     Ballistics will be able to confirm it. I wonder why he did it?"

          The deer ran through the woods, ignoring the pain of the
     slapping branches. His heart thundered in his rib cage. Got to get
     away. He sensed the presence of his pursuer. Still there. Leave me
     alone. I've done nothing wrong. 
          He jumped a dead fall and swerved to the right to avoid the
     tree. Sweat soaked his body. Spittle flew from his mouth. Need to
     rest. Can't rest. Must run. Survive.
          He senses the presence of the stream. Cool water. Need to
     drink. He pauses at the stream's bank, listening. Still there,
     closing in. Takes a quick drink of the cool water. Continue. He runs
     through the water, a little bit refreshed. Rest, must rest, can't
     rest. Why? Why is he chasing me? Get away.
          The shot reverberates through the woods. Fear increases. Help
     me, someone help me. Please! Keep going. Life.
          The second shot hits his right ear, tears it from his head.
     Pain, red hot, shearing, unrelenting. Can't stop, can't slow down.
     Run. 
     The third shot enters between the fifth and sixth ribs, rips
     through the lung, enters the heart. The big heart stops beating in
     protest to this unholy intrusion into it's domain. He falls in a
     tangle of feet and lays twitching on the forest floor. Help me!

          Sam Dimick sits up with a start. His body is covered with a
     cold sweat. His bed is a mess of bunched up sheets and blankets.
     What a nightmare, he thinks. Whew. He gets up and stretches his
     aching muscles. Why is he so sore? Especially his ear and his chest.
     The last time he felt pain like this was when he broke his leg when
     he was twelve. 
          He goes to the bathroom and wets a wash cloth with cold water.
     Oooh, that's nice, he thinks, as he rubs the wash cloth over his
     face. He takes the aspirin bottle from the medicine chest and takes
     four of them with two glasses of water. If this pain keeps up I'm
     gonna have to go see the Doc, he thinks. Probably just pulled a
     muscle during that nightmare.
          He straightens the bed up and lays down. Everything will look
     better tomorrow, he's sure.

     Copyright 1987 by G. Daniel Flower, All Rights Reserved.