The Hunting Tree

by Ike Hamill

  “I guess,” said Bill. “Flip a coin?”

  “Sounds risky,” said Mike. “Let’s leave it off, but keep it handy.”

  “Yeah, alright,” said Bill. “I don’t really know how the detector will react anyway. There’s a chance it could damage it,” he admitted.

  Mike smiled. “Good to know,” he said. He pushed open a door to one of the guest rooms and returned with two desk chairs. They set them against the wall and brought their supplies to within close reach. “I’ll keep an eye this way, and you that way,” he said. “And we’ll both watch the middle.”

  “Perfect." Bill settled down in his chair and picked up a six pack of soda he had brought up from the kitchen. “Coke?”

  “Sure,” said Mike. “More caffeine—that’s what I need.”

  They sipped their drinks for a few minutes as Mike loaded shells into the shotgun. Bill paralleled his effort by filling his guns with paintballs.

  “Have you ever shot anything?” Bill asked Mike.

  “I used to hunt when I was a teenager,” said Mike. “My grandfather taught me. Never shot anything bigger than a pheasant, but yeah.”

  Bill picked up the detector device, adjusted the dials, and swept it back and forth until he had a good lock on the signal. “Hard to tell exactly, but I think it’s still a few miles away. The terrain affects the signal, but that should be worst case.”

  “So what’s the most frightening thing that’s ever happened to you?” Mike turned the tables on Bill.

  “Probably this,” said Bill, chuckling nervously.

  “Well you said you used to play the game on college road trips, what was your answer back then?” asked Mike.

  “For a while I used to tell a story about how I thought I’d knocked this one girl up, but it turned out that she was missing her period because she was a long-distance runner,” said Bill.

  “Was it really that frightening?”

  “It might have been, but I was making it up,” said Bill. “I was a virgin until my senior year of college. My second senior year. I made up that stuff about thinking my girlfriend was pregnant as a cover.”

  “So you were really just frightened of being found out as a fraud?” asked Mike.

  “Yeah,” Bill said. His expression changed quickly as he frowned at the detector, adjusted a knob, and frowned deeper.

  “What’s up?” asked Mike.

  “The signal has been growing stronger very consistently as the thing approaches, but it just went down a tiny bit,” Bill answered.

  “Problem with it?” asked Mike.

  “Could be,” said Bill. “Or maybe the creature had to backtrack a little. We’re not exactly out in the country here. And you said it would want to hide.”

  “Yeah,” said Mike. “It’s getting more careful as it goes. Bad news for us in a way—means it’s learning.”

  Eventually, Bill set the detector back in his lap, convinced that the creature still had significant distance to cover.

  “I hate to bring it up,” said Bill, glancing at Mike for a second and then returning his gaze to the landing at the bottom of the stairs, “but I want to tell you about a more recent scare.”

  “Oh yeah?” asked Mike. He had set up extra shells on the floor next to his chair, but now was removing more from the box and stuffing them in his pockets, in case he was on the move when he had to reload.

  “Until tonight, the most frightened I’ve been was at my house, that night with the fire,” said Bill.

  “Yeah,” said Mike, “that was horrible.”

  “I didn’t mean for Gary to get hurt,” said Bill.

  “What does that mean?” asked Mike. He stopped jamming shells into his left pocket and rested the gun over his arm, pointed safely at the floor.

  “I wanted to move out of that house, but I knew I couldn’t sell it half-finished. I figured the only way I could get away was if the place burned down,” said Bill.

  “That’s not possible,” said Mike, shaking his head and denying what Bill was saying.

  “Somehow the fire started while you guys were still in there,” said Bill. “I was going to trigger it when everyone was back out in the vehicles, but something went wrong. When I saw that smoke, I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Nope,” said Mike. “No, I’m telling you that’s not possible. I saw that fire, it was supernatural. It moved with a purpose.”

  “I hid the device in the kitchen, under the sink, and waited for you guys to leave, but the next time I saw Gary, he was falling out the front window already on fire,” Bill continued, not even hearing Mike’s protests.

  “Bill, listen to me, that’s not the way it happened,” argued Mike.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw the fire start, and it wasn’t like that. First of all, it started upstairs and it flowed across the rafters like water. One second there was nothing, and the next, the whole place was lit up like Vegas. Gary already had his hand bitten off, and the fire just dripped…”

  “Wait, what about his hand?” asked Bill.

  “You remember all that blood on me when I got out of there? That was Gary’s. That thing that was inhabiting your house bit his hand off and he sprayed blood everywhere. I don’t know how it started the fire, but that was no man-made thing.”

  “Like the carpenter’s hand,” said Bill, exhaling. “That’s so awful.”

  “I know,” said Mike. “It really was. I should have never put Gary in that situation. He was just doing it out of friendship with me, and I got him killed.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Mike,” said Bill. “You couldn’t have known.”

  “I should have known because you warned us.”

  “Shit, I didn’t know anything. I was just trying to get you guys to do an investigation and give me an alibi. Weird stuff happened there, for sure, but nobody could have foreseen that day,” said Bill.

  “We’ve both been carrying around a lot of guilt,” said Mike.

  Bill didn’t reply. He stared at the display on the device. “It’s coming,” he said.

  Mike sat up straight in his chair and raised his shotgun slightly. It was aimed down the booby-trapped staircase, and he flicked the safety off with his thumb. “How close?”

  “A few miles,” said Bill.

  “Oh,” said Mike. He reengaged the shotgun’s safety and set the gun down. “I’m going to check on our hosts." He pushed up and stepped over the supplies set around Bill’s chair on his way to the bathroom. Inside he found Sharon lying as they had left her, resting face up with her head next to the toilet, but Ken had rolled over to face the bathtub. “Ken?” asked Mike. “Ken?”

  The doctor moaned softly in response. Mike stepped over Sharon’s legs and started to kneel next to his friend, but then remembered the infection that had caused the man’s distress. He plucked the rubber gloves from the bathroom sink and pulled them on while he stepped over Ken and Sharon so he could stand in the tub.

  He leaned down close to Ken and gripped his friend’s shoulder. “Hey, Ken?” he asked again.

  “Whuh?” asked Ken.

  “How are you feeling, Ken? Your pulse seems a little slower, are you feeling any better?”

  “Bedder than whuh?” Ken asked. His face was pressed against the cold tile. Ken’s eyes remained unmoving and half-closed.

  “We’re going to get you to the hospital very soon,” said Mike, hoping it was true. “What’s the code to arm the security system?”

  “Ol’ zip coe,” slurred Ken. His left eye, the one closest to Mike, opened slightly wider and rolled up to look at Mike.

  “Our old zip?” he asked.

  “Yuh,” said Ken. His eyelid drooped again, and Mike rose to pass on the information.

  In the hallway, Bill had cracked another soda and sipped it while keeping a close eye on the detector.

  “I think I’ve got the code for the alarm,” he told Bill.

  “Doesn’t do us a lot of good now,” said Bill. “I don’t
want to risk screwing up the stairs to go set it.”

  “There’s another keypad in the bedroom,” said Mike.

  “Fancy,” Bill said. He rose and set down his soda. He placed the detector on his chair and picked up one of the paintball guns. Mike followed him to the master bedroom, where Bill turned on the light and quickly found the panel. “What is it?”

  “Try zero, two, two, eight, three,” said Mike. Bill prepared the system with a few quick button-presses to enter the correct mode, and then typed in the code.

  “It’s green,” said Bill. “Does this mean our bathroom friends are waking up?”

  “Not exactly, but almost,” said Mike. “Let’s get back to the command center, it’s making me nervous being away from our post.”

  “Roger that,” said Bill.

  Mike sat down first, after stepping carefully through the various supplies arranged around Bill’s chair. He took up the shotgun and pointed it down the stairs towards the front door. Next to him, Bill sat down and exchanged his paintball gun for the soda and the detector.

  “How we looking?” asked Mike.

  “Hmmmm,” said Bill. He then uttered the last two intelligible words that would ever leave his mouth—“That’s weird…”

  Bill’s knees lifted for a split second, and his chair rocked back. The surprise set Mike’s legs in motion; he sprang away from Bill’s panicked scream and the tearing, splintering sound coming from the floor. Mike spilled off his chair to his right, away from Bill. His chair was knocked backward, giving him a view of the tragedy befalling his partner.

  An enormous hand, stretching from Bill’s heel to the back of his knee, had blossomed from the carpet and latched on to Bill’s leg. As Mike watched, the hand jerked down back through the hole, pulling Bill’s leg with it. Amongst the screams, Mike heard Bill’s pants ripping against the jagged plywood of the edge of the hole.

  Blood arced from hole. Bill’s scream jumped a register as his hands beat at the floor. Holding the shotgun up and away from his body, Mike tried to get his feet under him. The scream echoing in the hallway changed to a gurgling moan when Bill jerked down another four inches. Already up to his hip in the floor, the next pull produced a deep, horrifying snap.

  Mike had just reached his feet. He swept the gun across the floor, between himself and Bill, and wondered if shooting would yield any result. Beyond conscious thought, Bill flopped back and forth, looking at the ceiling as the color drained from his face.

  “Fuck it,” said Mike. He pointed the gun at the floor and pulled the trigger. His finger stopped short; he had to look at the gun before remembering to disengage the safety. He pointed and pulled. The gun fired and dirtied the floor with a cluster of black-lined holes. He pumped and shot again, bringing more definition to the rough circle in the carpet.

  Bill jerked again and then fell over backwards, his torn pants and skin trailed off towards the hole in the floor, sparing Mike from seeing the ragged stump.

  Mike swept the gun again, trying to decide where to shoot when he suddenly realized the folly of standing on the carpet. He jumped atop his overturned chair, balancing on the side of the seat and one of the legs. The floor shook. It shook a second time and nearly toppled Mike from his perch.

  He looked up and down the hall at the closed doors and tried to decide which direction to run.

  “Ghaaa,” said Bill. Mike had raised his weapon and almost shot at the sound. The hand appeared again from the hole and reached towards Bill’s dying body. Mike aimed carefully and released a shallow breath before pulling the trigger. Two of the long, weathered fingers evaporated with the spray of shot. The hand disappeared back through the hole.

  Mike held his breath and tried to listen past the ringing in his ears to hear the movements of the monster. His own pounding heart filled his ears and he almost missed the sound of breaking glass from the first floor. Earlier, Bill had closed the door to the kitchen and balanced a glass on the knob. Mike knew that the creature would be in the hallway, heading for the staircase. He lifted his foot from the seat-edge of the overturned chair and tried to silently move to the floor. Halfway down, his change in balance upset the chair and he wobbled before starting to fall.

  His foot hit the floor hard, ruining his stealth. Downstairs the whoosh of air rushing down the hall was the only indication of the creature’s approach. Mike took his eyes from the stairs as he glanced down at the supplies. A streak rounded the bannister; the creature moved so fast that Mike could just barely see it. He only got a lock on the thing when it’s second foot hit the staircase.

  Bill’s trap worked perfectly—even skipping two steps, the monster’s feet soon landed on one grounded and one hot stair. It sprung backwards and disappeared through the doorway to the living room. Mike looked at his gun, as if his failure to fire had been its fault. Resting his finger hard on the trigger, Mike crept to the edge of the stairs, stepping carefully past Bill’s bloody corpse, and looked down the stairs. The only sign of the monster’s attempt to climb the stairs was a splotch of blood on the wall.

  As Mike watched, the sheet of aluminum foil on the bottom step twitched. He guessed what would happen next, and it came true almost instantly. The monster ripped at the cords supplying power to the trap and the sheets tugged through the railings. A buzzing, snapping sound erupted as the trap shorted out.

  Desperation flooded Mike’s thoughts. The stair trap had worked, but only once, and the creature would be back very soon. He remembered the energy-absorbing device that Bill had placed carefully behind his now empty chair. The earlier caveats about it’s potential downsides faded in Mike’s new state of panic. He stepped backwards, away from the stairs, and nearly tripped over Bill’s remaining leg. Keeping the shotgun trained on the stairs, Mike knelt and plugged in the device as the creature pulled the last of the foil from the stairs.

  It hummed and pulsed, but gave no other indication that it was working. Mike smelled ozone wafting up from the device’s antenna. He stepped over to the side to get further away from Bill’s leg hole and so he could have a better view of the stairs.

  When the creature appeared again, it moved slowly. Mike watched it round the bannister this time and pause at the bottom of the stairs. Aside from its enormous size, it looked human as it grabbed the rail and mounted the first step.

  Mike raised the shotgun. He pointed it at the monster’s chest.

  It paused on the stairs and pulled its hand from the bannister, holding it up for Mike to see. The fingers eradicated by his earlier shot had been replaced by tiny, baby-like appendages. Mike considered the absurd digits, almost hypnotized as the creature eyed him. He only braced himself and reset his grip on the gun when the creature lowered its hand again and climbed another stair.

  With the shotgun trembling in his shaky hands, Mike waited before pulling the trigger. He couldn’t hold himself back anymore. With the creature mid-stride, on the third step, Mike’s finger twitched, giving enough of a tug to fire the weapon.

  The blast rocked Mike’s exhausted, tensed muscles. When he lowered the barrel back down to his enemy, Mike saw the damage from his shot. The creature still stood on the stairs, but instead of climbing, it simply looked down at its own chest.

  Bouncing off ribs and tearing through skin and muscle, the shot had carved a deep rut in the monster’s pectorals. Mike could see part of its beating heart and swelling lung. He held his ground and pumped the shotgun. When he raised it again, he took careful aim at the standing monster and shot for the center of crater that his last shot had made. Forgetting to exhale and squeeze the trigger, Mike’s shot pulled up and to the right slightly. The new wound overlapped the first, but barely. This time, the monster wavered backward with the impact.

  Mike didn’t waste any time, he pumped and pulled the trigger again. A dry click was the only result. He backed up a step and looked down at the weapon, realizing that he had shot five times, the gun’s capacity. The creature rose up and ascended one more step. Mike backed away and tucked t
he shotgun under his arm so he could dig a hand into his pocket. Without looking away from the creature’s slow progress, Mike fumbled to get his hand into his pants pocket for several seconds before he gave up. He reached up for his shirt pocket and pulled out two shells.

  His fingers felt numb as they tried to feed a shell into the magazine. The first shell shook out of his panicked hand and tumbled to the floor. Before it bounced on the carpet he had already started to align the next. Mike backed up another step and exhaled, managing to click it home. As Mike fumbled with the second shell, the monster’s torso cleared the top of the stairs. It wavered and swayed as the creature’s life flowed out from the wounds in its chest. Weighing his options, Mike continued to load the gun instead of shooting the two rounds he had managed to load.

  The creature fell facedown, landing on Bill’s body. Mike had backed nearly ten feet down the hall as he worked on pushing the third round into the shotgun’s magazine. He watched the creature rock and spasm. It’s paroxysms slowed, and Mike felt a glimmer of hope that his adversary was dying.

  Conditioned by books and movies his entire adult life, Mike never once assumed that the battle was complete. He finished loading the fourth and fifth shells as he stared at the creature. Fully loaded, he raised the gun and took aim at the top of the creature’s skull and marveled again at its size. From his position he could only see the head, shoulders, arms, and part of the back—the rest of the beast was draped around the corner, down the staircase.

  He settled on the head, hoping the the rounds would have some effect on the giant skull. Mike aimed at the jet black, matted hair and pulled the trigger. He pumped the shotgun but his finger fell away from the trigger. Mike was stupefied by what he saw: as the shot hit its skull, the creature pushed its head up, away from Bill’s body. Bill’s shirt now had a ragged, bloody hole, and gore streaked the monster’s face. Facedown on Bill’s corpse, the creature had been feeding on Bill’s flesh. While Mike had thought it was convulsing in death throes, it had fed and regained some strength. Evidence of the regeneration showed on the creature’s chest where flesh had re-grown to protect the monster’s organs once more.