Deadfall

by Robert Liparulo

The driver, a black man, danced to the edge of the crater and peered in. “Whoa, Declan,” he said. “I guess you did crank it up.”

  Coming around from the passenger side, a fat kid, maybe twenty, turned on a large video camera and held it to his face. He pointed the lens at the crater, panning to take it all in.

  The hole the explosion had made was roughly ten feet in diameter and four feet deep at its center. A boy and a girl edged closer. They were both young, sixteen or seventeen. The boy’s face was pierced in all the currently hip places: earlobes, top of the ears, lip, eyebrow. He grinned and said, “It was there, and then it wasn’t! Holy cow!”

  “Holy caribou,” corrected the man sitting in the bed of the truck. He watched the celebration emotionlessly, a smirk on his face and nothing in his eyes. He could have been a bystander at the birthday party of a stranger.

  Another boy, perhaps in his early teens, walked slowly around the crater. He studied it objectively, as a pupil. He wasn’t reveling in the destruction.

  The driver knelt, holding his palms up to the smoke as if warming them. The guy with the camera slowly sidestepped in an arc around the crater, filming it from all sides.The girl skipped up to the bed of the truck and said something to the man, who nodded without looking at her. He was watching the youngest boy, who, Hutch realized with a start, was walking toward his arrow in the field.

  When he looked back, Hutch saw the man in the truck staring directly at the bush behind which he hid. His guts felt cold and amorphous, a churning mass.

  What had drawn his eye? The camouflage, from boots to hat, from his facial makeup to his gloved hands, should have rendered him practically invisible among the foliage. His eyes would gleam, but barely. The shadows of the trees fell over him, helping complete his disappearance. Had he moved? Had he twitched? Was the man looking only because the bush had shuddered? Did he think it was the wind? Or had he extended his gaze out from the arrow in suspicion? The arrow, with its bright orange fletching and aluminum shaft, obviously had not spent much time in the field.

  The man squinted. He examined something in his hands. He peered at the bush, then again at the object in his hand, as though marking the spot or seeing it by different means, the way a movie director watches a scene with his own eyes, then through a camera lens.

  Hutch’s arm was parting the bush. Could the man see his face through the gap? Hutch dared not lower his arm, back away, or move at all. The human brain is attracted to movement even more than color. That’s why a turn signal flashes, why friends wave their hands in greeting.

  The man in the truck scanned the woods to Hutch’s right. His attention came back to the bush. He eyed the woods to his left and once again returned.

  Hutch blinked.

  The man squinted. “Julian,” he called.

  The boy approaching the arrow looked back. “There’s something here!” he said.

  “Get back here.”

  Ignoring the order, the boy reached the arrow. He knelt to examine it. A finger flicked one of the three vanes. Gripping the shaft, he yanked it out of the earth. He whacked the broadhead on the ground, dislodging a clump of dirt. He ran a thumb along one of the razorsharp blades. He hissed—loud enough for Hutch to hear—and snatched his thumb away. He looked at it, then pressed it to his lips. Hutch had sliced himself plenty of times on broadheads. The boy stood, holding the tip close to his face, rotating it.

  The man in the truck eyed his crew. His age and demeanor signaled his authority over them. His eyes snapped back to the bush.

  There was no doubt: he’d seen something. Okay . . . so, was being seen the end of the world? True, these people had used a weapon much more powerful than Hutch’s bow to kill the caribou. Did that make them more dangerous than other hunters he would encounter in the field? Enough that he should fear them? Probably it did, Hutch decided. Dynamite, a land mine, a bazooka for all he knew, was not legal in this context.Then again, neither was Hutch’s hunting without a native guide. They were all breaking laws.What made these interlopers so fearsome?

  The answer, of course, was the sheer devastation at their disposal. Their attitudes as well. From the gleeful celebration of the driver to the stoic coolness of the man in the back of the truck. Something wasn’t right.

  Hutch had always been intuitive about people. He seemed to instantly recognize sincerity and kindness or guile and selfishness. And these were people he did not want to meet.

  Without taking his eyes off the bush, the man in the truck called out to his comrades. “Bad! Kyrill! Pru! Get in the truck! Julian, now!”

  The girl, standing near the bed, peered around, puzzled. She spoke to the man.

  He shook his head and gestured for her to get into the cab.

  The driver stood and looked back at the man. “Declan!” he called.

  Declan, Hutch thought.

  “Declan!” the driver repeated, trying to get his attention.When he did, he held his palms up and apart as if to say, What’s up?

  “Just get in,” Declan said. His fingers were at play on the device in his hand.

  One by one, each of the young people returned to the Hummer like children called in from recess. The boy named Julian had been farthest away and walked slowest, as if hesitant to embark on whatever new adventure the man had in mind. He carried Hutch’s arrow in his hand.

  Hutch suspected this marshalling of troops to the vehicle meant bad news for him. The driver’s door slammed shut, as did a door on the other side. Finally Julian reached the rear driver’s side door. He looked back at the crater, then at the arrow, as if making some kind of connection between the two. He climbed in and pulled the door closed.

  The twisted smirk on Declan’s face changed to a grin, and Hutch knew the time for stealth was over.

  He jumped back from the bush, letting the branch spring into place, leaves shaking. He spun, rising as he did, and ran all out into the woods, following the path the spinning antlers had taken. Within seconds, he leaped over those very antlers, a fallen tree, and a tangled mass of branches. His forehead made sharp contact with a branch, knocking him off his feet. He landed hard, crushing the wind from his lungs. Hitching uselessly for breath, he got to his feet and stumbled deeper into the gloom, trusting his lungs to kick back into gear at any moment.

  From behind him came a whoosh of air, the crack of thunder, and a deafening explosion.

  A shock wave of heated air and bits of twigs and dirt and rock smashed into his back. He flew forward, furiously pedaling his legs to keep from crashing down again. He glanced back to see a crater where he had hidden behind the bush. Sunlight was catching smoke wafting from the hole. But he had been in shadow. He looked up to see that the branches and leaves that had been above him were gone; others swung from thin threads of bark. Foliage floated down. The destruction in the trees appeared more or less circular, directly above the crater, as though something had exploded straight up or slammed straight down. Stunned by this vision, Hutch tripped over his own feet, striking his elbow on a rock, his knee on a branch. Pain flared from those areas, but he pushed it back, rolled, and was up again.

  16

  He expected to hear the roar of the Hummer’s engine as it pursued him. He didn’t believe even a four-wheel-drive as hearty as it was could plow into the forest, but it could certainly follow the tree line until a gap allowed it to shoot closer. The woods were splotchy, sharing the terrain with open meadows and boulder fields, the way brown and white shared the hides of overo pintos.To his left, another whoosh-crack explosion. Not even close. A thick pillar of sunlight beamed down, as though a door in the leafy canopy had opened.

  The explosion’s far-miss encouraged him to pause. Bent at the waist, he put his palms on his thighs and sucked in air. He could not see the Hummer, so how could they see him? Were they simply shooting in the dark, if shooting was what they were doing? Were they lobbing grenades, using a mortar, some kind of rocket launcher? He wasn’t going to stick around to find out.Taking one more deep breath, he con
tinued running, though not at the all-out pace he had been. He still clutched his bow in his left hand. He checked it to ensure he had not lost any more arrows. The quiver was full, less one, giving him seven. He wondered if he would need them or even have a chance to use them.

  Sunlight ahead. Another meadow.The Hummer could have circled around this patch of forest to wait for him in the meadow. He stopped again. He had been heading back toward camp. That was stupid. He couldn’t lead these people there. Not to Phil, Terry, and David. He ran deeper into the forest. The tree trunks were not thick, not like Virginia’s oaks or the redwoods of the Pacific Northwest. They stood close to one another, their branches intertwining into a heavy canopy. Hidden in the gloom, roots, gnarled blowdowns, and loose, mosscovered rocks became enemies, trying to twist his ankle and throw him down. He touched the trees as he passed, steadying himself. Before long he came to another meadow. At its edge he scanned left and right. Then he held his breath to listen. Nothing.

  More woods lay a hundred, a hundred and twenty yards across the clearing. He darted into the sunlight, swiveling his head back and forth as though he were crossing a freeway.

  A whoosh-crack, directly before him. The ground exploded. Dirt and gravel pelted his face, and he tumbled backward. Even as silt fell down upon him, he rose and ran around the new crater, continuing toward the woods. Birds rose from the treetops, speckling the sky. His ears rang from the explosion’s thunderclap. Even so, he heard the deep rumble of an engine. He glanced over his shoulder.The Hummer rounded the far end of the forest, from which he had departed.

  He realized there had been no line of sight when the explosion had nearly killed him, and he wondered about the targeting mechanism on this fearsome weapon. He could see the man, Declan, jostling in his perch that raised him head and shoulders above the roof of the truck. Sensing the need to do it, Hutch suddenly broke to his right just as the ground erupted.

  Whoosh-crack.

  He broke left again and sprinted for the trees.The Hummer drew closer. Where the trees began, he leaped over a bush, caught his foot, tumbled, was up again, moving deeper. He zigged right, zagged left, moving farther away from the clearing. He heard the Hummer behind him. It stopped at the tree line. Loud thumps made him think Declan was pounding on the roof of the cab. The click of latches.Voices.

  “Go, go, go!” Declan’s voice.

  Sharp calls. Confused queries. Then branches broke and leaves rustled as his pursuers entered the woods on foot after him.

  Hutch crouched behind a tree, listening. The men called to one another, communicating which areas they had cleared. More than a few times, they reminded one another not to shoot unless they were certain the target was not one of them.This told Hutch several things: First, they were armed, obviously with weapons other than the cannon-rocketbomb thing. Not good. And second, they were inexperienced. Not bad.

  His advantages were that he was comfortable in the woods, knew how to move quietly, was covered in camouflage, and possessed a weapon of his own. He’d rather not have to use it. Evasion was a better strategy.

  By their calls and clumsy passage through the forest, he believed that three people had followed him on foot. That left three in the vehicle. Leaning around the tree and rising on his haunches to peer over a bush, he saw the driver and wondered who had taken his place. Was this man more of a hunter, more of a killer than the others? Is that why he now had in his hands not a steering wheel, but some kind of space-age firearm?

  To this man’s left came the teenaged boy, the one he thought was about seventeen. He, too, carried a weapon, but not so confidently. Someone to the driver’s right called out. Hutch could not see him. At least now he knew of the man’s presence. If Hutch stayed where he was, they would be on top of him in less than five minutes.

  Staying low, he shifted and moved away. Scuttling from tree to bush, bush to tree, he put ground between them. Rising behind a tree, his legs stiff and cramped from crouching and duck-walking, he rubbed his thighs.

  He could hear his pursuers but could not pinpoint their locations or judge their distance. The woods played with sounds, muffling and echoing, making noises seem to emanate from places they had not.

  He peered around the tree. The driver was fifty yards away, pointing his gun directly at him. The muzzle flashed and bullets whizzed past, striking trees behind him.Then bark ripped in splintered threads from the tree he leaned against as the shooter adjusted his aim. The tangy odor of fresh-cut wood touched his nostrils.A second gun fired, this one different, a single sharp crack! A huge divot of earth jumped into the air ten feet away.

  The driver had a machine gun. The other, some kind of hunting rifle. Big-bore by the sound of it, .45- or .50-caliber. The kind of rifle police snipers used. He hoped this kid was much less proficient with it than a SWAT team member.

  On a personality assessment twisted enough to field the question, Hutch would have listed exposing himself to volleys of machine-gun fire as the least enjoyable way to spend an afternoon, even if snake handling and skydiving without a parachute were also contenders. But now, as the gunmen drew nearer, he realized that hiding behind the tree was worse. At least by running he stood a chance. He pushed off and darted away. He expected any second to feel, even if only briefly, a slug penetrating his skull or piercing his spine. One round came so close to his ear, he heard it whining through the air like a mosquito, here and gone. In front of him, bark exploded, branches split, leaves sprang into the air.

  The stuttering, maraca sound of the machine gun and the crack of the rifle went on and on and on.

  An image of the driver came to mind: standing over Hutch, who was splayed dead in the grass, his booted foot resting on Hutch’s hunched shoulder. He pointed the machine gun to the sky. In Hutch’s mind, the hunter laughed and said, “Yup. It was the very last round in the magazine that bagged him.”

  One bullet, Hutch thought. Only one bullet to end it all.

  Ahead, shadow gave way to light as he approached another clearing. Maybe it was the gunfire or the crunching of his own feet through the forestscape or his pulse pounding in his ears, but he did not hear the Hummer’s engine at all. It simply appeared, a yellow blur in the clearing directly in front of him. It slid to a stop. The front passenger door opened. He did not wait to see who emerged. Instead, he veered right and ran parallel to the edge of the woods.

  The machine gun and hunting rifle finally stopped. Either they had emptied their magazines or the shooters had realized they were firing in the direction of the Hummer. This was his chance to get away, despite the nearness of the hunters and the vehicle. He suspected these inexperienced shooters would not angle toward his new trajectory. Instead, they would go to the Hummer for fresh orders, maybe more ammo. The time it took them to do that was all he needed to covertly change directions or find a place to hide.

  Hide, hide, hide.

  The word gave him an idea.

  17

  He angled closer to the edge of the woods and peered out into the clearing.The meadow ended a hundred yards farther along in the direction he was heading. The woods banked around in an L shape. That would allow him to continue north without having to risk traversing an open area. He guessed that the hunters, after hearing from Declan, would reenter the woods where they had last seen him.

  No problem. He had all the lead he needed.

  He looked back along the edge of the meadow.The Hummer was nowhere in sight. He moved deeper into the woods, into the shadows. The forest consisted mostly of spruce trees, tall, heavily needled evergreens. A few firs offered variety, along with the tree that would best suit his purpose: birch.While birches tended to grow together, usually in areas where fire had cleared out the evergreens, some old ones had remained after the spruces had reclaimed their ground. He saw one of these now and stopped at its trunk. He scanned the canopy above him: heavy with foliage, which was doubly effective for his plan because of both leaf coverage and the resulting dark shadows. The birch’s leaves were yellow-gre
en with tinges of orange. Soon they would fall away, but for now the tree was fully clothed.

  Hutch slung his bow over his shoulder. Gripping the back of the tree, he pushed his toes against the front and climbed. It was a skill kids acquired and adults lost, unless you were a hunter looking for a vantage point from which to shoot. He hoisted himself higher and higher until heavy branches stopped him. He swung a leg over a branch and pulled himself up onto it. He turned, pressing his back to the trunk. The branch itself was too uncomfortable for an extended wait and failed to provide a stable firing position.

  From a pouch on his utility belt, he withdrew a spare coil of bowstring. He listened for his pursuers. When no sounds reached him, he leaned out to a long, rope-sized branch coming out of an adjacent limb on his left. He bent it down and under his perch, then pulled it up on the other side. He used string to tie it to another limb on his right.The looping branch gave him a thin but solid place to rest his feet, taking some of the weight off his rump and stabilizing his entire body.

  Hutch had once hunted in the Rockies with a man named Max. This man was much more serious about the sport than he was at the time. Max, camo’d the way Hutch was now, had set out on an earlymorning hunt. After a leisurely breakfast, Hutch had gone to their appointed meeting place and found no Max. He had searched for an hour before hearing Max call his name. Still he could not spot his hunting partner.

  “In the tree . . . not that one.To your left . . . there. See me?”

  He had not. Max waved, and only then could Hutch make out the vague shape of a body sitting in a camouflaged tree stand. Hutch believed the setup he had just rigged was even more invisible than that tree stand had been.

  Stably seated, he once more got his bow in hand. He removed an arrow from its quiver and nocked it onto the string. As the shaft passed the hand that held the bow, he used a finger to hold it there. He knew from practice that from this position he could draw and release with fair accuracy in three seconds.