by James Maxey
Bucky Cheraw was one of those hunters and he was glad when deer season came around again. By now, the nut jobs had moved on to a fresh alien sighting in West Virginia. The woods around Bladenboro were quiet once more. The only people out here were other hunters smart enough to wear orange vests, not those yahoos from the city who'd been stupid enough to run around the woods in tan and brown, almost begging to get shot.
It was a cool September morning just before dawn when Bucky parked his truck at the end of the logging road and began traipsing into the pines armed with a hunting bow. Bow season started a few weeks before the regular season, and he liked getting a shot at the really big bucks before the less ambitious hunters started stomping through the forest and spooking all the deer.
Bucky's deer stand was only about a mile from where he'd parked. He'd built it himself, treehouse style in a big maple, not wasting a dime on those fancy aluminum stands some hunters used. He considered himself a traditionalist, inheritor of a hunting heritage that dated back a thousand years among the Lumbee Indians with whom his ancestors had intermarried. Of course, his ancestors might not have recognized his airplane-grade aluminum arrow shafts with the titanium hunting heads, nor the laser scope he used to target his shots. Bucky was the first to argue that being traditionalist didn't mean you had to be a primitive.
A hundred yards from his hunting stand, Bucky caught whiff of rotting meat. He looked up into the dark branches above him and spotted black shapes like gargoyles silhouetted against the brightening sky. Buzzards. Pausing so that he no longer heard the sound of his feet crunching through the leaves, he could hear buzzards flapping around on the ground in the distance. He headed their way out of idle curiosity.
He found the large gray birds picking apart a brown lump on the ground. They hopped and fluttered across the dry pine needles as he approached, backing off but not abandoning their prize completely. Bucky pressed his mouth and nose into the sleeve of his coat in an attempt to cut down the stench.
The thing had obviously been a deer, probably a buck, though by now the buzzards had picked apart the genitals so thoroughly he couldn't be sure. Complicating identification further, the front half of the deer was simply gone.
Where was a crew from the History Channel when you needed one?
He left the area slightly spooked, but only slightly. It made more sense to believe in poachers than to believe in aliens. A man had probably killed the deer ahead of season. He kept the head for a trophy and had probably started butchering the animal, cutting off its front half with a chainsaw. This wasn't the technique Bucky would have used to butcher a deer, but hey, they were poachers. If they'd been bright, they would have carried out the hindquarters first, since that's where the good meat was. Instead, they'd probably carted out the front quarters, then spotted a game warden and gotten spooked. Case closed. Mystery solved.
The only monsters skulking around these woods were lawless men.
Fortunately, his hunting blind was upwind of the stink. He studied the old pin oak that held the blind, wondering if he should trim a few of the low hanging branches to improve his view of the target area. The tree was situated where the woods thinned out at the border of a field. Running along the edge of this field was an irrigation ditch. Deer would congregate to chew the greenery around the ditch and get a drink. It was a rare day he didn't spot at least a dozen deer. The true skill lay in simply having the patience to wait for the right trophy buck to come along.
Bucky reached the wooden ladder that led up into his blind. He stopped and stared up.
Someone was snoring.
Someone was asleep in the blind.
The blind was just barely big enough for a grown man to lie down in if he stretched from one corner to the other of the five by five square platform. The blind was about fifteen feet off the ground, with the back wall away from the field completely open and a couple of long narrow windows on the other walls for him to line up his shots. He stepped back, standing on his tiptoes to see who was inside, but couldn't get the right angle to see beyond the edge of the floor.
Maybe it wasn't a man. Did raccoons snore? Did skunks? What else could go up a tree like that?
If it was a skunk, he didn't want to startle it. On the other hand, he didn't want to waste a lot of time. The sun was up proper now and the golden hour for hunting was underway.
But what if it was a man? Could it be someone he knew? Some local teen maybe, who'd found the tree house a convenient hiding place for getting drunk? Or maybe some other hunter who'd wandered this way to find him, got here early, gone up and fallen asleep waiting?
Or a convict. While he hadn't heard any news, what if someone had escaped from the prison over in Lumberton? What better place to hide than here in these woods? If it was a prisoner, he'd be desperate. Dangerous. Should he call the sheriff?
On the other hand, he'd be a laughing stock if he called the sheriff and it turned out to be a noisy raccoon.
Bucky wondered what his proud Lumbee ancestors would have done. So, he hid behind a tree and let out a loud "Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!"
The snoring stopped.
The boards of the blind creaked as something heavy began to stir.
Then, a man's voice: "Christ almighty."
Bucky placed an arrow against his bowstring. If the man had a gun, he'd have to let loose a shot in the space of a heartbeat. He stepped from behind the tree.
A gray haired man was sitting in the blind, his bare feet dangling over the edge. The legs of his pants were little more than tatters. He was wearing a green flannel shirt matted with dark blood. His face was nightmarish; it looked as if someone had attacked the man with an axe and split his face in two, and the two halves hadn't been lined up properly before they were stitched back together. A line of thick scabs ran down the middle of the man's face, oozing puss. The man's bleary eyes were unfocused; he hadn't spotted Bucky, though Bucky was standing in plain sight wearing a bright orange jacket.
"Who are you?" Bucky called out, drawing the arrow back to a firing position, but not yet aiming it toward the man.
The stranger scratched his thin gray hair as he looked in Bucky's direction. One eye seemed to sit a half-inch lower than the other, but finally both eyes spotted him. "Well now, I don't rightly know."
"What do you mean you don't know?"
"I've had kind of a rough time of late," said the man. "Got my head split open. Lot of memories spilled out."
"If you were in a fight, the sheriff probably has a report of it," said Bucky. "Come down and I'll call him. He can help you out."
"Naw," said the stranger, shaking his head. "Don't need the law involved."
"You a fugitive?" asked Bucky.
"What kind of question is that?" asked the man. "If I was, why would I tell you? And if I ain't, why would you believe me if I say I ain't? It's like me asking if you're still beating your wife."
"I'm not married," said Bucky.
"Well I ain't either," said the stranger. "You and me, we could be buddies. Pal around. You know a place 'round here we could go drink beer and watch women take their clothes off?"
"I think you've had enough beer," said Bucky. He slowly released the tension on his arrow. The stranger didn't look like he was armed, and was too groggy to climb down from the tree. Convict or not, this land belonged to Bucky's second cousin and the stranger was trespassing. He pulled his cell phone from his vest pocket.
"Aw, don't call the cops," said the stranger. "Can't you be cool?"
"I'm practically cold," said Bucky. "I'm doing you a favor. You need medical attention."
"What? 'Cause of my face? Shoot. It would heal if I'd stop picking at it."
Bucky dialed the phone.
The stranger rose, perched precariously on the edge of the platform. "I asked you nicely not to call the law."
"You just sit down before you fall and hurt yourself," said Bucky as the phone began to ring on the other end.
The man stepped forward, seeming to forge
t where he was and crashed into the ground fifteen feet below with a loud THUMP.
"Shit!" said Bucky.
"Excuse me?" said Sally Henderson on the other end of the phone. He'd known Sally since high school. She was one of the dispatchers for the Sheriff's Department.
"Sally, it's Bucky Cheraw!"
"Bucky! How are you this fine morning!"
"It's weird one, Sally. I'm out at Billy's farm where I do my hunting. When I got here, I found some homeless guy asleep in my stand. He might be a fugitive; he didn't want me to call you."
"Where's he at now?"
"Not fifty feet in front of me and he might be dead. He fell out of my blind right before I called and he didn't look none to healthy to start with."
"I'll get an ambulance out there immediately. I'll send out Deputy Tucker as well."
"Thank you, Sally."
"No problem. Want me to stay on the line until they get there?"
"Ah, I guess not," said Bucky. He didn't want to sound like he needed somebody to hold his hand though this. "You got other calls to take."
"Probably," said Sally. "First day of bow season. Always at least one call of somebody getting hurt. You take care."
"Take care now," said Bucky, hanging up.
The second he put the phone back into his pocket, the stranger stirred. A fifteen-foot fall onto concrete might kill a man, but on soft ground Bucky wasn't surprised the man was all right. He drew his bow and took aim as the man sat up.
"Don't move a muscle," said Bucky. "The law and an ambulance are on their way."
The man shook his head and sighed. "Mister, I don't remember killing anybody for almost three months now. You're about to make me ruin a perfectly good streak."
"The only thing I'm going to do is put an arrow through your neck if you try to stand up."
The man stood up.
Bucky's laser sight had a perfect red dot an inch to the left of the man's Adam's apple. He let go of the arrow, certain it would hit the carotid artery. On a deer, this would be the ultimate kill shot, dropping a buck where it stood.
The arrow found its mark, coming to rest with the tip of the arrow jutting out a good foot from the back of the man's neck. Dark blood trickled down his throat in a ketchup-slow ooze. The stranger sighed, but didn't fall down. He reached behind his neck and drew the arrow all the way through, then tossed it to the ground.
"I bet about now, the beer and nekkid dancers look like the smarter choice," the man said, his voice little more than a faint gurgle.
Bucky drew another arrow. The man walked toward him. The arrow came to a stop deep in the man's left breast. The man stumbled, but kept on his feet, still moving forward.
"Christ almighty," he said. "I wish you knew how bad that stings."
Bucky dropped his bow and spun on his heels. He leaned forward to run but not before the stranger grabbed him by the collar. He spun around in the man's grasp, reaching for the hunting knife in his belt. He snapped the sheath open, but in his panic nearly dropped the knife. With a shaking hand he thrust upward, driving the blade into the man's gut.
The man grinned at him. His breath was rancid as he asked, "How's that stabbing working out for ya?"
Bucky reared back to punch the man in the face. His fist flew toward the man's ragged, rotting teeth. An instant before his hand hit, the man opened his mouth. It seemed no bigger than an ordinary mouth, but somehow Bucky's fist seemed to shrink as it slipped between the teeth, vanishing all the way down to the bicep. He paused, feeling as is his fist should now be a good foot and a half out the back of the stranger's head.
He wiggled his fingers. He didn't feel guts or tongue. He didn't feel anything but empty air.
The stranger had a twinkle in his eye as he said, "Nuh uh guh tuh tuh scruh!"
Then he bit down, and Bucky's arm disappeared just above the elbow. Bucky stumbled backward, blood gushing from his severed arteries. He slipped and fell on the leafy forest floor. He clamped his good hand over his stump, squeezing to slow the bleeding.
The stranger chuckled as he plucked the arrow from his chest. "I said, 'Now's a good time to scream!'"
Bucky didn't scream. He whimpered. "What the hell are you?"
"I wish to God I knew," said the man. The stranger leaned down and grabbed Bucky's left boot. "I could use some new shoes."
Bucky kicked the man's hands away with his free leg.
The stranger sighed. "Look, you shot me in the neck and chest, and knifed me in the guts. All I did was bite you one time. Hell, you got a good shot of living if you don't fight me. Fifty-fifty, maybe. That ambulance is going to show up and whisk you off to whatever hospital is near here. Is there a hospital near here?"
"Lumberton," Bucky said through clenched teeth.
"Sure, that's right," said the man, scratching his head. "Damn, I wish I could think straight. We're in North Carolina?"
"Yeah," said Bucky, feeling dizzy.
"Almost there, then." The stranger looked around. "You got a truck or something nearby?"
"That way," Bucky pointed with a nod of his head. "About a mile."
"I'm guessing the keys are in your pants?"
Bucky nodded.
"Hold still. I'm taking your pants. Play nice and I'll give you your arm back."
"What are you . . . ?"
"Just hold still," the man said, squatting down, untying Bucky's boot. Bucky felt too lightheaded to resist. At this point, all he wanted was for the man to go away. He said nothing as the stranger stripped him of his boots and socks and pants. Time slowed to a crawl as he listened, desperately hoping for the wail of sirens.
Dark spots danced before his eyes as the stranger finished getting dressed.
Perhaps his eyes played tricks on him, but as the man tightened his stolen belt, he looked down at Bucky with a look approaching pity. He reached his hand into his mouth, his arm vanishing up to the elbow. A second later, he pulled out Bucky's arm. He dropped it into the dirt next to Bucky.
"Next time," the man said, "don't shoot first and ask questions later."
"I asked lots of questions first," Bucky mumbled.
The man rubbed his stubbled chin. "You know, I reckon you did. Never mind, then."
He turned and walked through the woods, his boots crunching loudly. Bucky inched his way toward a tree and managed to sit up. No matter how tightly he squeezed his arm, there was blood seeping out with each heartbeat. He looked toward the field. Help would probably come from that direction, coming up the field road instead of coming in from the back along the logging road. He rolled forward, he face landing next to his severed arm. He reached out and grabbed the sleeve of his camo jacket in his teeth. With superhuman will, he managed to rise and take a dozen stumbling steps toward the field, where he tumbled into the ditch. He rolled to a stop, face up, staring at the morning sky. There was a loud ringing in his ears, but no sirens.
Along the tree line, against the pale blue heavens, vultures gathered.
Nothing rots here. I'm not sure time passes at the same rate. I look out at the ring, like a miniature Saturn without a planet at the center, made of junk and carrion, and wonder if we're in motion. There are no stars against which to measure our movement. The sky is pale white in all directions except the core, which is too bright to look at.
I've found three different clocks. All were electric. It's a shame I never got my hands on an hourglass. But then, what could I prove? Perhaps the passing of an hour here measures eons elsewhere.
I had plenty of chances to swallow the one man who might have been able to think this through. But I probably would have spit him back out. Monday always seemed kind of bitter.
Chapter Three
* * *
A Leg to Stand On
SUNDAY PULLED her rented Toyota Camry into the parking lot of the post office in Georgetown, South Carolina. It was November 11, and this was the next to last town on the contact list. Long before they'd been blamed for destroying Jerusalem, Rex Monday had explaine
d that there might come a time when they would have to lie low. He'd told Sunday not to think of hiding and waiting as a form of retreat. In asymmetrical warfare, not attacking was a legitimate strategy. While you conserved your strength, the enemy spent more and more resources to less and less effect. The resources required to scan ten million suitcases for bombs cost exactly the same if there were no bombs as if there were a thousand. In fact, no bombs can be an even greater weapon than a thousand bombs. If one bomb a month were discovered at an airport, the level of vigilance would remain high. No one would question the value of the resources spent. But if no bombs turn up year after year, complacency would set in. The public would view security as a burden imposed upon them rather than a right they are entitled to. Political rifts would form over the wisdom of spending money to protect citizens from a seemingly imaginary foe.
Sunday was early. They weren't supposed to meet at the post office box until 11:11am. Pit Geek still had ten minutes to arrive, assuming he was still alive. He hadn't made it to the checkpoint last year in Vegas.
Georgetown was about as different from Vegas as you could get. It was a small town that prided itself on a lot of old buildings. Sunday wasn't impressed by three-hundred-year-old brick houses, graveyards filled with worn tombstones, or streets lined with towering oaks draped with Spanish moss. Even Vegas, where everything was new, had fallen for the weak-minded nostalgia of trying to make things look old. It was further proof that human evolution had reached a dead end. Once the species became so weak-minded it focused all its energy on the past, it had nothing left to carry it into the future.
Sunday was in this pathetic little town only because Monday had arranged their check-ins in places with significant tourist populations. Georgetown was a small port on the South Carolina coast at about the midpoint between Myrtle Beach and Charleston. A steady stream of visitors stopped downtown to browse through antique stores and partake of the local eateries on the waterfront. Though she was a stranger in town, no one would give her a second glance.
