Stalker

by Dave Dykema

  “What’s going on?” Stone asked upon catching up.

  “They started to get out of range, so Cambridge stayed behind. He’s been piggybacking Goodall’s progress to me. He hasn’t checked in for a few minutes.”

  Stone frowned. “I could pick up some of that as I got closer. Raise Cambridge again.”

  Rogers gripped his walkie-talkie and nervously spoke into it. The Reverend was obviously steaming mad. The silence that came from his device did nothing to curtail his fear. His anxiety rose and his voice cracked as he made another attempt at contact. With nothing but the hiss and crackle of dead air, he was afraid to meet Stone’s eyes.

  “Give me that!” Stone snapped, reaching for the walkie-talkie. Rogers felt it best not to remind Reverend Stone that he had his own walkie-talkie. “Those assholes have wandered out of range.”

  Rogers didn’t think so—he felt they knew what they were doing—but again he thought it was in his best interest to remain silent. To his relief, Stone didn’t have any better luck than he did raising them.

  “Those two are pissing me off!” Stone spat as he handed the walkie-talkie back to Rogers. He started walking along the trail, starting to get hidden by more falling snow. “At least Kim can obey orders. Let’s go catch up with them.”

  *8*

  Kim looked from the clock on the wall to the watch on her wrist and back again. Stone had only been gone for twenty minutes, but it felt like an eternity. Despite what Reverend Stone said, she thought she could be much more useful outside. His logic of her running a “home base” made sense to her, but without a walkie-talkie for communication to the field, she didn’t really see the point. However, since this was what Reverend Stone wanted, this was what he was going to get.

  So far the phone hadn’t rung, and no unexpected guests appeared at the door. That would soon change.

  *9*

  Cambridge lost Jeff Goodall’s signal. Acting on his own, he went a few steps down the trail to see if he could re-establish contact. Once that was set, he was going to backtrack and re-establish the link with Rogers. But as he continued down the trail he got farther away from Rogers, and wasn’t having any luck raising Goodall either. He was the hapless middleman. Before he knew it, he had gone nearly a half-mile.

  He knew it was silly to keep trekking on. Goodall probably just had a dead battery. The range on the walkie-talkies wasn’t very far, and he knew the longer he stayed silent with Reverend Stone, the deeper the grave he dug for himself. He knew that. Yet it didn’t stop him.

  He wanted to solve this mystery, but he also wanted a chance at redemption ever since his cowardice while trailing Dan and Melissa two nights ago. Perhaps more so, he was afraid—afraid of Reverend Stone’s wrath and the ease with which Stone killed him with impunity in his daydream. He again thought of the razor-sharp talons, the outstretched wings, the snapping beak…

  With further resolve, he walked on.

  Above him, high up in a tree, Melissa breathed a sigh of relief.

  *10*

  Dan’s blood was pumping. In his head he heard the score from Stalker—the violins and cellos full of menace—sounding as pristine as the soundtrack CD he bought from Wal-Mart days after seeing the film. He strode along to the beat of the music, its atonal strings encouraging him on. He walked like a machine, transformed into a unit of destruction. He would do whatever it took to free him and Melissa from their current nightmare.

  He ran ahead, leaving a trail in the snow. At a rocky area where the snow was patchy he left the trail and circled back. He employed the same kind of strategies the Stalker did in the finale of the film at the farmhouse, sucking his targets in with false clues and red herrings, until it was too late. As the Stalker descended upon them, killing them brutally—so too would Dan when the time came.

  *11*

  Bill Cambridge followed the tracks, thinking about the course of his life. He was in the harsh Michigan winter, a long way from his law practice, giving his all for Reverend Jim Stone. How had they met? Why did he follow him so? He found he could barely remember; it was so long ago. With a wistful smirk, he concluded it was a good thing he didn’t have to give a deposition concerning the origin of his relationship with his leader. But Stone’s way was better than the bitter existence he endured before meeting him.

  He stopped to catch his breath, vainly attempting to use his out of range walkie-talkie again. Beads of sweat trickled down his brow, his heart thumped loudly in his chest, and he cursed himself for not being fit enough for this terrain. One more way to let Reverend Stone down… he thought sourly.

  With resolve he looked ahead down the path of prints, and gasped when he saw them vanish in fifty feet.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked himself.

  Must be a whiteout up ahead, that’s all, he answered, trying to sound reassuring. They’ll pick up again on the other side…

  *12*

  Dan saw Cambridge’s shoulders hunch as he stared ahead, confused. He realized the man would figure out what was going on fairly soon. It was time to act. The blood boiled in his brain. He recognized this man as the one who shot all the cops at his apartment. This man was violent, dangerous, and probably armed again. All he could hope for was that the man would be confused for a few more moments.

  Taking a step, Dan froze when he heard the snow crunch. The man only wheezed and panted, short of breath. He dared another step. Still no reaction.

  By now he knew he had to be within earshot, and wondered how much further he should push his luck inching forward before springing out, like a runner out of starting blocks, rushing the man. He tried to think like the Stalker, to become the Stalker. That’s what he did the night this whole nightmare began…

  (heel to toe, heel to toe…keep a light, rolling motion…)

  That method may have worked fine on concrete surfaces, but this was snow he was crossing. It dampened the sound somewhat, but he still felt like he was trying to secretly open foil candy in a church pew while the priest was deep in prayer. And it was taking so long!

  (Patience is a virtue)

  He had heard that in church once or twice. Probably when he was unwrapping the candy amidst the disapproving stares of the elderly. He had to concentrate on what he was trying to do.

  (What would the Stalker do?)

  He had to get back in the frame of mind where he was during the summer. The Stalker didn’t debate what he was doing. He didn’t judge the implications of his acts, or fear the outcome. He was cold, focused, grim in the execution of his trade. That’s what Dan needed to become again.

  And as he fought to control himself, he realized that the earth had moved beneath his feet. Next thing he knew, he was right at Cambridge’s back.

  *13*

  Bill Cambridge gave up trying to figure out the pattern of the footprints and if the weather could have wiped them clean. In frustration he turned, about to head back toward the cabin to report his failure. He knew pain and anguish awaited him. He didn’t know it would come so soon in the form of Dan’s gloved hand, balled into a fist, making contact with his face.

  Reverberations channeled up Dan’s arm, feeling like he dislodged his elbow somehow. On the receiving end, Cambridge’s world spun. His left eye socket took the brunt of the blow, but because Dan wore gloves, the padding softened the impact. Still, his vision blurred, and stinging tears flowed freely. He blinked them away, trying to focus on which attacker was the real one.

  Enraged, Dan took another swing, but met only defenseless air as Cambridge had the sense to duck down. Spinning like a top, Dan toppled off balance.

  Cambridge brought his knee up and caught Dan falling down, poking him in the soft area between the stomach and the ribcage. Dan exhaled his wind in a steamy cloud and instinctively cowered to protect his stomach from future assault. His whole insides felt hot.

  Smartly, he moved away from Cambridge, giving him some space to recuperate. Every time Cambridge approached him, Dan backed away. He did this until his
breathing returned.

  “See this?” Cambridge asked, pointing to a swollen and yellowish cheek, fading from black and blue. “You did this to me a while back. But it’s nothing compared to what I’m gonna do to you.”

  Dan noticed the man’s eyes. They were under a dark hood before, but he recognized them as belonging to the man who attacked him when he thought he was getting mugged. So this man had gone after him not once, but twice!

  “You trying to take me down again?” Dan taunted.

  “Whatever it takes.”

  They continued circling. Dan’s breathing started to return. The cold no longer bothered him. His insides still burned and anger flushed his cheeks.

  “So where’s your gun now, asshole?”

  “Reverend Stone has it.”

  In retrospect Dan thought it wasn’t really a good idea to ask the man where his weapon might be—in case he forgot about it—but he was in character of a killer with an attitude, and the question seemed to fit. On the other hand, it was comforting to know that he wouldn’t have to be dealing with a firearm now.

  They sparred and jabbed a few times, but nothing really amounted to anything. They were both getting angry; apparently each had much to gain or lose from the outcome of this fight.

  Bill Cambridge threw a punch at Dan’s stomach. Dan surprised himself by catching it. The force of the thrust made him stumble back a step, but he didn’t let go of the hand and he didn’t fall over. In one quick motion he grabbed the gloved fingers and bent them back until they were perpendicular to Cambridge’s wrist—and beyond. The howling wind covered the pops of bones snapping.

  Cambridge screamed, piercing Dan’s eardrums. Months of hell and torment came to a head in that moment. Dan found he liked the sound he heard. It was like the anguished screams of the damned. He twisted Cambridge’s now dangling hand like a joystick, taking an almost sadistic pleasure out of watching the man fall to his knees before him, kneeling like a cowering worshiper. As if passing judgment, Dan brought up his own knee and smashed it into his attacker’s face. It connected with the same eye socket Dan targeted earlier. This time he felt a little liquid squish through his jeans. Whether it was blood or ocular fluid Dan didn’t know, or care. Cambridge fell before him, not understanding the final irony of his slumping pose as he slipped into deep unconsciousness.

  But Dan understood the power Stone craved all too well. In that inkling of a moment, he understood what it was like to be…a God.

  *14*

  Jerry finally found the right driveway. By this point he crawled on his hands and knees, struggling like an infant. Two pints of his blood streaked the snow behind him, and his heart beat weakly. He knew he had little blood to spare—when his thinking wasn’t delirious.

  But his head was clear as he turned down his driveway. Facing the end, he found a little bit of momentum to propel him, hanging his chin down against his chest and pawing forward.

  As he drew closer he lost some of his drive. He saw the extra cars that he hadn’t really noticed before—or didn’t trust his eyes were real. When he finally placed his hand against one of the fenders, he knew they were here, and not some nightmarish vision. He paused for a moment, listening, looking for a sign. Were they held captive, or dead? He tired to think of a plan, but his reasoning was clouded. Adding two plus two would have wiped him out at this point. Seeing very little choice, he decided to continue forward, into the cabin.

  Inside, Kim paced, wearing a trail in the throw rug on the floor. She had resolved with all her might that she was going to stay behind, do what the Reverend asked, but for the second time that afternoon she debated going out and joining in the hunt. She knew it would be suicide. She knew Reverend Stone would never forgive her. But it was something she was almost willing to sacrifice herself for—the greater good.

  Then she saw a sight that proved to her why Reverend Stone was the chosen prophet, and she only a follower: Jerry Stevens struggling up the walkway steps, holding onto his side.

  She smiled.

  *15*

  “These tracks make no sense to me,” Stone commented, walking through them and kicking up puffs of snow. “Was there a struggle? What?”

  Rogers knelt next to them, trying to get a reading. “I’ve done some deer hunting, so I’ve looked at tracks before.”

  “What? Now you’re some kind of Indian guide?”

  Rogers looked down, avoiding his gaze, ashamed. “I was only trying to help.”

  “And?”

  “You’re right. There seems to be less people walking. See how they look kind of single file again? There’s not even a sign of one of our men anymore.”

  “You don’t think they’re walking in the same footprints, do you? That would take forever, wouldn’t it?”

  Rogers nodded. “The going would be slow. They could pull it off for a short time, but not for long. But I think those cocksuckers are doing something. Cambridge and Goodall aren’t answering their radios. I think they’re out.”

  Stone’s eyes narrowed grimly and he nodded. He walked slowly around in a circle, his hands on his hips. He took long breaths, steam streaming out his nostrils like cigarette smoke.

  “What if they’re not together anymore? Where would the other go?” he asked.

  Rogers thought. “Double back? Try to return to the cabin?”

  Stone shook his head. “No. If that were the case we would have seen the tracks bend off by now. Something else is going on.”

  Rogers looked around three hundred sixty degrees, scanning the steep landscape for any hint of a body hiding behind a tree or bush. The sun was starting to sink in the sky, and he had to squint when he looked west into it. But the setting sun threw long expansive shadows from behind every tree it hit, making the ground look black and white, like a piano keyboard. Someone could be hiding in nearly every one of them.

  He turned back to Reverend Stone and shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t see anyone, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. I don’t know what else to say…”

  But Stone had a smile on his face, which was the last expression Rogers expected to see. He threw Stone a quizzical look.

  Reverend Stone continued to smile, and drew one hand off his hip, extending a gloved finger, pointing upward. Rogers frowned for a moment, not comprehending. The Reverend prodded him, thrusting his finger upward again with more authority, saying nothing.

  Rogers followed his direction up and gazed into the trees above them. High in the snow-covered branches he saw Melissa cowering against a tree trunk.

  Stone said, “Bring her down to me.”

  *16*

  Jerry clawed his way up the stairs on his hands and knees. His side hurt so much, and no matter how hard he tried to push the pain away, it was almost as stubborn as he—relentless in its agony. But the pain was good. The pain stopped him from wanting to lie down and go to sleep. Even though a thousand spinning stars blanketed his vision, he welcomed them.

  He reached for the doorknob. It slipped away in his grasp. His fingers tried again, flailing for purchase. It was silly how something so mundane, so routine, had become so bothersome. This time a couple fingers connected, and managed to stay. Jerry pulled himself to a sitting position, murmured a quick “thank you” to the man upstairs, and stopped to recoup his breath.

  He stole a quick glance around the area. He saw the broken window and knew trouble lurked ahead. He prayed that his sudden entry into the cabin would cause a distraction, allowing his friends the chance to regain control of the situation.

  If not, they were probably dead already. His stumbling in would only accelerate his own death. Thinking about it, he preferred the quick end Stone would probably unleash upon him compared to watching his life leak out of him one thick drop at a time in the cold desolation.

  He turned the knob and tumbled into the living room, yelling as loud as his wounded lungs would let him to cause confusion.

  The silence inside was eerie. As he lay on the floor it appeared as though
people had been here—things had been moved, couch pillows tossed around—but now it was empty.

  Empty except for Kim, who hid behind the door, waiting for his grand entrance. He had been lying on the floor for only a second or two before she leapt.

  She was upon him.

  *17*

  Rogers made good time once he found a branch to start his climb. All he had to do was follow the impressions left in the snow on the branches from when Melissa went up the tree.

  Above him, Melissa scampered higher, sending small clouds of white cascading down on him that built in size after passing each branch and gathering a little more.

  “Don’t make this difficult, Melissa,” Rogers called up. “Just come on down.”

  “Who do you think you are? Bob Barker?” she asked incredulously. “You think I’m coming down to you? To Stone?”

  “Who else?” He smiled, but he hadn’t been doing it for as long as Reverend Stone. His deception showed through.

  “Fuck you!” she spat back.

  “Just get the bitch,” Stone called up, “and quit wasting time.”

  Rogers’s smile vanished and was replaced by a grim straight line. His eyes turned icy cold as he resumed his climb. Melissa didn't like the look of it at all—she would have preferred his used car salesman look.

  She looked up. Her options were limited. She could climb a little higher, but the branches sagged more and more under her weight. The circumference of them wasn’t much bigger than her wrists.

  She climbed higher anyway. Reaching out for purchase, she caught a nail, snapping it back like a cobra preparing to strike. The pain was enormous, and for a moment she instinctively reached out to soothe it with her other hand. This caused her to lose her balance.