In the Woods (14 page)

Really? No resistance? He'd just given in? ‘Thank you.' Harper leaned back, felt her shoulders unwind.

While the steaks grilled, Harper made a salad. They ate quietly, too tired to talk. While they cleaned up afterward, she moved stiffly with cramping muscles. Finally, the bear bag had been hung from a branch and their teeth brushed with bottled water. They crawled into their tent, rolled into their double sleeping bag. Harper melted into Hank's arms. They made love gently, floated into slumber. Harper's sleep was heavy and dreamless. And it ended prematurely, deep in the night.

At first, she thought the grating noise was Hank's snoring. She shoved him, but the sound didn't stop. Drifting up to consciousness, Harper heard Hank breathing softly, not snoring at all. She propped herself onto her elbow, listening to a repetitive, harsh scraping.

Coming from just outside their tent.

‘Hank.' She nudged him.

Hank didn't stir.

‘Hank,' she whispered. ‘Somebody's outside.'

No response. No surprise. When he was tired, Hank slept like the dead.

But what was that sound? Who was out there? Harper slid out of the sleeping bag, crawled to the zipper, peeked out the netting at the top of the tent. Saw darkness.

‘Hank,' she tried again, pushing his legs.

Hank rolled over, oblivious.

Harper reached for her flashlight, peered out through the mesh again. Heard more scraping. Slowly, silently, she unzipped the front of the tent, just enough to open a slit. The moonlight cast shadows, altering appearances. Changing familiar shapes into hulking night creatures. She gazed out, identified the lump of tarp covering their folded chairs and stove. It was undisturbed. She lowered the zipper to open the tent more and widen her view.

The grating sound stopped. She held still and waited, heard nothing. Opened the zipper enough to poke her head out of the tent. Looked around. Felt the chill of night.

Saw no movement, no intruder.

‘Hank,' she repeated. Early in their relationship, he'd responded to her every movement, waking up to see if she wanted anything, to make sure she was okay. Now, she couldn't rouse him with a fire alarm.

Never mind. Whatever was out there seemed to have wandered off. Harper sidled back to the warmth of the sleeping bag. She wasn't even halfway in, though, when she heard a deafening crash. What the hell? She froze, alert, listening. Replaying it in her mind: a crack, a whoosh and a thud.

Hank hadn't even stirred. Harper didn't even try to wake him up. She grabbed their rifle, unzipped the tent and dashed out into night. Hunkering low, she scanned the area, crept toward the source of the sound. Trees hovered darkly around her, their limbs outstretched, blocking the moonlight. Branches reached out, sharp and menacing, and the ground under her bare feet scraped harsh and uneven. She clutched Hank's Winchester and shivered, sensing danger. Crouching, inching forward, Harper prepared to face an intruder, maybe a band of militia members. Maybe a bear.

Wait. Speaking of a bear, where was the bear bag? She looked around, didn't see it. She turned, and – damn. The branch that had held their sack of rations too high for bears to reach was no longer attached to the tree. It lay flat on the ground, torn from the trunk.

Harper didn't move. She looked from the stump on the trunk to the fallen branch. It was sturdy, thick. How could it have broken off the tree? Healthy branches didn't just drop off tree trunks, not without hurricane-force winds or the help of a saw. And yet, there it was, lying in the dirt. What the hell had happened?

She replayed the sounds that had awakened her. The cracking must have been the final break from the tree. But before that – the scraping? Had it been a saw? Had someone sawed the branch? She looked closer at the stump. The break was jagged. So no saw. Then what? A memory floated to mind. She was maybe ten, climbing a tree to retrieve a kite. Crawling out on a limb that gave way under her weight.

Maybe that's what had happened here. Maybe what she'd heard had been the branch shaking, the leaves rattling, under the weight of some creature – probably a bear. Had it been going after their supplies? If so, it hadn't succeeded; their bear bag lay flattened under the branch. Harper contemplated tugging it out, rescuing the contents of their cooler – what was in there? Eggs? Salami? Cheese? Yogurt? She put a hand on the branch, testing its weight. It was solid, too heavy to lift, but if she put down the rifle, she'd probably be able to drag it and rescue their supplies.

The air moved behind her, and Harper held still, aware that she wasn't alone. The perpetrator might be watching, maybe still intending to steal the food. Slowly, she looked into the darkness. Saw no one. Maybe it wasn't the bear watching her. Maybe it was just night creatures – foxes and owls. She looked back at the branch, their crushed bag. Damn, why couldn't Hank get up and help her? She should go shake him awake.

Or she could leave the damned stuff alone and go back into the cozy tent and sleep. They were leaving in the morning anyhow, wouldn't need the food. And the cooler was probably smashed, the eggs broken. It would be a mess to deal with.

Fine. Harper backed away from the branch. She looked up at the trunk again. Had it been a bear? Would a bear be smart enough to figure out how to snap a tree branch? Well, it must be. Because what else could have been heavy enough, powerful enough to do it? The back of her neck tickled. She turned, looked behind her.

At first, she didn't see it standing among the trees, watching her. But then it moved slightly, shifting its weight.

The thing had to be over seven feet tall. It stood erect on two legs, like a man. Its body resembled a bear or an ape, covered, head to toe, with fur. And, with a high-pitched, piercing trill, it started walking in Harper's direction.

Harper watched in disbelief. What was this animal? Not an ape, not a bear. Not a human.

That woman from the campground – Sylvie – popped into her head, scolding, ‘I warned you. It's the Bog Man.'

The Bog Man? Ridiculous. There was no such thing. Even so, Harper had no idea what else it could be. And it was coming closer.

She had to stop gawking and do something. She squared her shoulders, inhaled deeply, and commanded, ‘Stop.'

It didn't stop. It moved steadily out of the shadows, coming closer.

Finally, her training kicked in. Even as she doubted what she was seeing, she reacted reflexively, automatically, as she would with an insurgent. She reached for the Winchester, positioned herself, and aimed, prepared to shoot if she had to. Except – wait – what was she doing? This creature hadn't attacked her. And if it was the Bog Man, which it couldn't be, but if it were, then it was a rare, unknown life form, like those elusive Yeti, Big Foot, Sasquatch things – it needed to be protected and studied, not shot.

The creature halted, looked up at the moon, and let out a long, ghostlike wail. Its fur gleamed, fangs glistened in the moonlight.

‘Hank!' Harper called, knowing that he wouldn't wake up.

The creature faced her, raised its arms to its chest, gorilla-like, and roared. Harper forgot to breathe. Her limbs felt limp and slow, the rifle flimsy. The creature approached, eyeing her, panting. Oh God. It wasn't real, couldn't be. Had to be a huge, deformed bear. That's right, just a bear. In fact, maybe none of this was happening – maybe it was a dream, brought on by stress and exhaustion.

On the other hand, if it was only a dream, shooting it couldn't do any harm. Maybe she should flip the bolt on the Winchester and shoot.

The creature stepped closer, and she smelled animal fur, unwashed and stale. Its head wasn't like a bear's. But also not like a human's. It watched her, hesitating, releasing so shrill a cry that Harper's ears rang. Then it came running.

Harper took off into the woods.

It was right behind her. She could smell it, feel its heat. Harper's jaw tightened. She dashed behind a wide tree trunk, whirled around and, in a single motion, lifted the rifle, flipped the bolt, and aimed at the spot where the creature had to be, ready to fire.

And waited.

No creature appeared. But it had to be there, couldn't have just vanished. She listened for movement, heard none. Was it hiding, waiting for her? Cautious, clutching the rifle, she stepped back toward the tent, searching for the thing, sensing its presence. Maybe it had run away. Maybe she'd scared it off.

Maybe she could get back in the tent, crawl into the sleeping bag with Hank.

She was only yards from the tent when a twig cracked to her left. Harper pivoted toward the sound and aimed the rifle, unprepared for the dark form that bolted at her from the opposite direction, knocking her to the ground. Harper fired just before the Winchester flew out of her arms. The shot didn't seem to startle the creature. It loomed over her, staring down.

Harper rolled into a crouch. And stopped, eye-level with the creature's fur-covered knees. It stared down at her, not moving, not attacking. What was it waiting for? Was it planning what to do? Was this her last chance to escape? Harper didn't wait to find out, took off scampering toward the tent.

‘Hank!' Her voice was raw, came from her belly. ‘Hank!'

‘Harper?'

Thank God. Hank was awake, had come outside.

‘Where were you? Did you hear that shot?'

She glanced at him, kept running. Why was he asking questions? Couldn't he see the Bog Man chasing her? ‘Hank,' she yelled again, hoping he'd come after her. Her bare feet winced at every pebble and stick, slipped on damp leaves.

‘Harper? Wait.'

Wait? Was he crazy? She kept going, recalling the creature's massive frame. She didn't dare slow down even as low branches scraped her arms and face. Harper ran, weaving between trees, tearing through vines. What if she hadn't fled? Would that beast have torn her apart? How had she been so careless, dropping her weapon? Damn – something thorny pierced her foot. She kept running, her left leg throbbing, slowing her down. Winded, she paused behind a clump of dogwood, listening. Hearing its feet crushing leaves and twigs, its body thrashing through branches and undergrowth.

‘Harper? Hold up – where are you?' Hank was following her.

Oh God – had the creature seen him? She didn't dare answer Hank; the creature would hear. And it was close, hunting her. Speckles of moonlight danced on the ground. Twigs grabbed at her skin, and the night breeze brushed her neck, teasing, urging her deeper into the woods. Where was it?

A white light flashed from behind. ‘Harper. Stop.' Hank sounded breathless.

Harper didn't answer. Couldn't risk it. She needed to keep moving, to confuse the creature, so she ran deeper into the darkness, away from the sounds of cracking sticks and rustling leaves.

‘Harper? For God's sake, what are you doing?' Hank's voice shot through the woods. He sounded annoyed, and the beams of his flashlight hit branches over her head. Damn, he'd draw the creature to him with all that commotion. Harper had to warn him. She turned back toward Hank, aware of movement to her left. For a moment, she had the sense that she was flying. Maybe she felt a brief thud of impact. But before she could feel any pain, the world went black.

The sector chief waited while Hiram called the meeting to order. Thirty-four people had shown up, including Mavis and most of her ladies' group. It wasn't as many as he'd hoped for, but given the short notice, it was a decent turn out. He stood beside the gong and the big-screen television in the compound's lounge, addressing his neighbors, some on folding chairs, others on the donated sofas, and all talking at once.

‘Thanks for coming out tonight,' he began.

People kept talking, so he hit the gong. The room shook, and everybody shut up.

When the reverberation stopped, Hiram began again. ‘We don't have time to chit-chat. As you know, our sector's got some serious trouble, and we have to figure out how to deal with it.'

‘I say we shoot all the outsiders,' someone called.

‘Somebody's already doing that,' someone else answered.

‘God bless 'em,' a third voice chimed in.

Hiram hit the gong again. ‘Order!' he shouted, but the group was unsettled and yammering.

‘Everybody shut up,' someone yelled.

The chief stepped up, scowling, and the chatter quieted. ‘This occasion is damned serious. Some of you don't seem to get that. Stop clowning around. Hiram's trying to help us out here. Show some cooperation and respect.'

‘Yeah, Hiram!' someone called.

‘You rock, Hiram.' A few people clapped.

‘Anyhow, I might as well take over for now, Hiram.' He squeezed Hiram's shoulder, and Hiram took a seat. ‘I'll get right to it. Remember, we're not here to report anyone or turn them in to the law. As always, what we say here stays here within these walls. Anyone got a problem with that, say so now.'

A slight murmur rose and fell. Nobody had a problem.

‘Fine. So, first order of business: who here killed Philip Russo?'

‘Who killed who?' a man on the sofa asked. Someone leaned over, explaining.

‘Josh told me he found Russo's body. He'd already been shot dead,' Hiram said.

‘That's right.' Josh was sitting on the floor, leaning against a sofa. ‘I didn't kill him. And I don't know who did.'

The chief asked what happened.

‘He was just lying there, on the edge of the clearing. I figured some asshole hunter shot him – you know how they think everything that moves is game. So I dragged him to the main trail, tied him to a tree, and put a sign on his chest as a warning to outsiders. Poor fuck was dead. Why not let him serve a purpose?'

People started responding, all talking at once.

Hiram hit the gong.

While the reverberation quieted, the chief took a breath. ‘Josh, what in God's name were you thinking?'

Josh opened his mouth to answer, but the chief didn't let him speak.