Hunters

by Chet Williamson

  To keep from thinking about what he was doing, he worked at his bonds, turning and twisting his wrists as he climbed. He was afraid that Chuck would notice, but the man did not reprimand him, so he continued whenever he could.

  He quickly found, however, that most of his effort went into remaining erect. Ned had not realized how much he depended on his hands and arms for balance. He felt like a board with legs, swaying one way and then another as he made the dizzying ascent. Behind him, Chuck's patter never stopped.

  "Ooo, Neddie, I'm getting a nosebleed...I'm a-skeered of heights, how 'bout you?...Don't look down, buddy, you don't wanta fall...then your lady friend'd bite a bullet, wouldn't she?" Mercifully the wind was so loud that half of Chuck's words were swept away by it.

  A third of the way up, Ned became aware of a different texture beneath his feet. The snow no longer crunched. Instead it was like stepping on smooth, slick metal, and he knew that the rest of the climb would be on ice. Chuck noticed it too. "Gettin' a little slick, huh, Neddie?"

  Ned didn't answer. It took all his concentration to keep from being swept over. He hugged the leeward side of the rail, keeping his body firmly against it so that the wind could not blow him across the steps. When he crossed a landing and started up a flight in the opposite direction, he went as quickly as he could until the comforting rail was at his side again.

  Still, for all his care, the wind staggered him several times, making him come to a half crouch before starting again. Once, when he stumbled near the top, he found himself looking down. The white earth, the dark blots that were four people below, one of whom was Megan, seemed viewed through a shower of black sparks, the snow falling away from him, toward the lights on the ground.

  The sensation was more than dizzying. He felt as though he were already falling, but falling up, away from the earth, and the wind lifted him until he was standing again, and he looked away from the abyss, up toward the black box of the cab, now only two flights away, and wondered if, when he dropped and the rope caught him, if that was how death would feel, like falling up onto the air.

  Chuck effectively broke his reverie. "Boy oh boy, that one almost got ya, didn't it? Hang in there, Neddie, only a couple more flights—and then you'll really fly!"

  The wind seemed to welcome them to its domain, for its speed increased as Ned wearily climbed the last few steps to the cab. The trap door was closed, and he stopped, shutting his eyes so that he did not have to look down, the back of his head and neck against the rough, flat surface of wood above him. "You'll have to open it," Ned said, and felt Chuck's hand grasp him beneath his arm, as though to keep him from slipping away into the darkness.

  Then Ned heard the boom of the trap door as it fell open and struck the floor of the cab. Ned raised his head, opened his eyes, and saw that Chuck had pushed open the door with his gun hand, and was beside Ned on the steps. He gestured upward. "After you, old buddy." Ned climbed the last few steps into the cab. Chuck followed, leaving the trap door open.

  "Wow," Chuck said. "Bet there's one helluva view up here—when it's not night and in the middle of a snowstorm." He laughed, then stopped as the tower gave a shiver. "Holy shit. You feel that? I didn't feel that on the way up. Too much goin' on all around I guess." The tower swayed again, and Chuck made a small show of keeping his balance. "These things ever blow over?"

  "No," Ned said. "They sway, but they don't go over."

  Chuck winked broadly. "This one will, though," he said. He took a flashlight out of his pocket and shone it around the cab. The beam stopped when it fell on the coil of rope that Hal Rutledge had said was used to haul up supplies.

  "Now there's a rope!" Chuck said admiringly. "Lot longer than this miserable little thing." He shrugged the rope off his shoulders and it fell to the cab floor with a bang that startled Ned. "I think maybe we'll use this big boy—give you a real long drop, Neddie."

  Ned's back was to the man now, and he strained at his bonds, though he didn't know why. He had every intention of letting Chuck hang him, since that was the cost of Megan's life. Self-preservation, he guessed. And there was something he didn't like about dying with his hands tied. Maybe when he went over, he could free his hands. At least he could give himself that final gift.

  "How do these windows open?" Chuck asked. "Ah, never mind, I got it." He had discovered that they dropped inward, and opened two of them, keeping an eye on Ned all the time. He took one end of the long rope and tied it around Ned's neck. It was 3/4 inches thick and rough textured, and sawed across Ned's throat like a file.

  "I don't know how to make a hangman's noose," Chuck said, "so I'll just give her a good tight square knot. That won't slip, and you won't go anywhere." He put on an expression of mock thoughtfulness. "'Course, you just might. Far as this'll drop you, it'll probably yank your head off. That'll be quite a photo op for the folks down there, won't it? I'm sure that Megan will get a real kick out of it, seeing you fall all that way in two pieces." Chuck tightened the knot and Ned coughed. "Oops, sorry. Yeah, I wonder what Megan's thinking right now..."

  What Megan was thinking at that moment was how much she loved Ned Craig and how much she hated these monsters who were going to kill him, and probably her as well. They had no reason to let her live.

  She wished that she could have kept Ned from giving himself up to them. She would rather have died next to him in the cabin than have to witness his death and then be executed herself. That way they might have been able to take at least one of these monsters with them.

  She had even hoped that Pinchot would come to the rescue, that dogs could divine evil intentions, and would growl and attack the villains. But big dumb Pinchot had immediately accepted this gang as just more new friends. Now he stood in the snow, tail wagging, head shaking, letting that vicious young woman hold him and treating her the same nonjudgmental way he would have treated Mother Teresa, while Jean, the other woman, held Megan at gunpoint.

  "What's taking so goddamned long?" Jean said, looking up at the nearly invisible cab with all the expectancy of a New Year's reveler waiting for the ball to drop.

  "He probably doesn't know how to tie a knot," the man called Michael said dryly.

  "Oh, up your ass," said the girl who held Pinchot. "Tie a knot in your dick, he gets down here...if it's long enough."

  The girl, who was kneeling next to Pinchot, had turned toward the man to spout her vitriol, and when she did she lost her balance and fell away from the dog into the snow. "Shit!" she cried. "My fuckin' ankle...aw Christ..."

  Pinchot, no longer restrained, shook himself once, then bounded around the party before heading toward the tower. "Stop him!" Jean yelled, but it was too late. She raised her pistol, and Megan steeled herself for the sound of the gunshot, but Michael pushed the muzzle down.

  "Hold it," he said. "I thought we're supposed to like animals. Besides, what's the dog going to do if he goes up there—lick Chuck into submission?"

  Jean glowered at him, then lowered her gun and looked back up at the tower. "Chuck!" she yelled. "The dog's coming up!"

  "He'll never hear you over the wind," Michael said. "Not up there."

  Jean didn't yell again. She kept watching the tower, waiting. Megan thought she could see Pinchot's black bulk rapidly ascending the stairs, but couldn't be sure. She hoped the dog wouldn't fall, and almost laughed at her concern. In another few minutes both she and Ned would probably be dead, and here she was worrying that the dog might slip.

  Chuck Marriner tied the rope to the framework between the two open windows, and gave the knot a final tug. Then he shook the snow out of his face. It was pouring in through the opening, and the wind bit at them both. Chuck had to raise his voice to be heard above its wild whoop.

  "There. That oughta hold it. The rope, anyway, not so sure about you, pal. So. You ready?"

  "Yeah." Ned barely heard his own voice.

  "Okay then, get over here..." Chuck maneuvered Ned to the open, drop-down window, which was now parallel to the floor. "Now the w
ay I see it is you sit up on this window—pretty strong, oughta hold you—slide over to the edge here, and then I just give you a shove. How's that sound to you? That way you don't have to jump off yourself or anything."

  Ned nodded. He turned so that his back was to the window, and then gently sat down on the pane, trying to stay near the frame for fear that the glass would break under his weight.

  "That's right," Chuck said. "Careful now. It's one thing to get hung, but it's another to bust ass-first through a plate of glass like a big, wide toilet seat. Kind of humiliating, huh?" He swung Ned around so that his feet faced the open space.

  The wind tore into Ned's face, driving snowflakes into his eyes, nose, and mouth. The sheer sensation of the tearing cold, the wet chill in his mouth, the prickling of his flesh, all made him want to live more than ever, and he wished desperately that there were some way not to fall, not to die. As if to add to the irony, the ropes that bound him were nearly undone, and he thought that all it would take would be one strong twist of his wrists to free himself.

  But free himself for what? His freedom meant Megan's death.

  He closed his eyes as Chuck shoved him further outward. Ned felt the hard shape of the gun against his back. Now his feet were outside, and the wind whipped up his pant legs.

  "Say hi to Megan when you get down there, buddy," Chuck said, shoving him further still. "And tell her loverboy's comin' down to butcher and bleed her..." He pushed harder, and Ned felt his knees bend, his feet drop into the darkness, as hot blood surged into his face at the man's words. "...you dumbshit sucker..."

  Ned tried to free his hands, but the rope was still too tight, and he knew he had no more time, that any second his weight would shift, and he would fall, fall through the snow until the rope let him fall no further.

  Then, just as Chuck prepared for one final push, something came surging into the tower from the mouth of the trap door, something huge and black and hairy that leapt at Chuck, throwing him off balance so that he stumbled away from the open window, giving Ned the moment he needed to wrench at the ropes one final time and feel them part, letting him bring hands up to grasp the top of the window frame and pull his body back, back into the cab to confront the liar who would have killed both him and Megan without a second thought.

  Pinchot's boisterous charge had shoved Chuck against the windows, and as he grabbed the alidade table and struggled to right himself, the big dog again leapt excitedly at his new friend, staggering him once more. Somehow Chuck had managed to hold on to his Ingram, and as Ned came at him, he raised it.

  It was not that he was too slow, but that Ned was too fast. Rage drove him across the alidade, and his hand ripped the brass finder from its single screw. He plowed into Chuck, knocking the big man back against the closed panes so that his head hit and shattered one. Ned raised the alidade and brought it down as hard as he could, but Chuck was already falling, and it struck only a glancing blow, still enough to send him senseless to the floor, the gun falling out of his hands and rattling on the wood.

  It nearly slid out through the opening in the trap, but Ned grasped it before it tipped over. Then he lay on the floor for a moment, his wrists throbbing, his neck aching, while the nonplussed Pinchot changed his allegiance instantly, joyously licking Ned's face.

  Ned sat up, unknotted the rope from around his neck, and rubbed his skin where the coarse surface had torn it. Then he checked to make sure that Chuck was unconscious, and stood up with the gun in his right hand.

  All he had was the Ingram, the dog, and a rope that would reach twice the distance to the snow covered ground. Somehow, that had to be enough. He looked down through the trap door, and the vista swam before his eyes. The lights and the snow made it dizzying and hypnotic. He drew back, closed the trap door, and went to the opened window.

  Steeling himself, he looked down again, and saw the lights of the snowmobile shining up, and the forms of the people nearly lost in the swirling snow. They had moved away from the base of the tower, and were near the edge of the trees. He could not tell who Megan was, and even if he could have, they were standing so close together that he would have been afraid to fire a gun of which he knew nothing.

  He examined the weapon quickly. The safety was basic, a manually operated lever above the trigger, and Ned was surprised to find that it was still on. Apparently Chuck had had a lot of confidence that Ned wouldn't try anything. Ned assumed that it was set to full auto, since he saw no single fire device, and he shuddered to think how it would tear a man up at close range.

  The front sight looked simple enough. Just put the target between the two iron wings and fire. He wondered how much of recoil it had, and was afraid that he would find out before the night was over.

  The first thing he had to do was to get down from the tower. He was helpless up here, and what was worse, in no position to help Megan. If he tried to go down the steps, they would see him, and shoot him long before he ever got close enough to tell Megan from the others. He had to get down, but he had to get down in the dark.

  And fast.

  There was only one way. And he thought that maybe, just maybe, he could do it. But it had to be dark, so that he couldn't see. If he saw, he was afraid that he would fall.

  He looked out the window again. He could see no details below except for the two lights, shining up at him like the eyes of some huge snow-beast. They were the only things in the world that he could see precisely. The only things that he could target.

  Jean looked upward, blinking her eyes against the wind. "Is that goddamned window open?"

  "I thought it was a minute ago," Michael said, "but the snow..."

  He didn't need to say more. It was obvious. They could barely make out the cab, let alone such a fine detail as whether or not a window was open.

  "Screw this," said Jean. "He's taking too long. I'm going up. If she moves, shoot her."

  "You'll miss the show," said Sam. "You don't wanta see the big drop?"

  Jean had scarcely taken three steps through the deep snow when a shot sounded. It seemed so out of place in the howling storm that at first she didn't realize what it was. But then a second shot cracked, and the light on the tower was halved.

  She looked at the nearest snowmobile and saw that its headlight was no longer shining.

  "Son of a bitch!" she shouted, and looked back up, just in time to see a quick flash of muzzle fire, like a single yellow candle amid ten thousand white ones. She had scarcely brought up her pistol when a fourth shot punched out the other snowmobile's headlight.

  A quick burst of gunfire from behind her told her that Sam was blasting away at the cab with her AK, wherever the cab now was, lost high overhead in the darkness. Jean whirled and saw that Michael was shining a flashlight on their prisoner, and holding her arm with his other hand so that she couldn't try to flee in the chaos.

  Jean walked over to Megan as though the snow was no hindrance, brought up her .38, and fired once, the muzzle less than a foot away from Megan's chest.

  The force of the shot threw the woman backwards. Her arms flew up, her head jerked, and she landed flat on her back in a cloud of down feathers, and sank slowly into the yielding surface of white. Michael shone the light on her, and Jean looked at the ripped hole over Megan's heart and the snow that was quickly filling up the hollows of her closed eyes. Then she turned away, back to the tower.

  "Let's get him," she said through clenched teeth.

  "He ain't shot since I fired up there," Sam said. "Maybe I got him!"

  "And maybe not," Jean said, plowing through the snow toward the tower. "We're going to make sure he's dead, and find out what the hell happened to Chuck."

  Michael fell in behind her, and Sam followed more slowly, limping on her injured ankle. Even with their flashlights, it took over a minute for the tower to come within their sight.

  "He might shoot down at the lights," Michael said as they neared the base and the first set of steps.

  Jean paused. Her flashlight had
caught a glint of something in the snow, and she shone her light in its direction. When she saw what it was, she gave a hollow laugh. "And then again he might not," she said, holding the beam on the Ingram, whose long magazine and stubby barrel were protruding from the snow.

  "Let's go kill that bastard."

  Ned Craig had dropped the Ingram when one of Sam's bullets hit it. The impact had ripped it from his hands, and it was so dark that he had not seen it fall, though he knew that it was irretrievably lost.

  A few more bullets whined past the open window, and he heard another strike a steel girder and scream off into the black, and still another thud into the wooden floor of the cab. Then it was silent for ten seconds that seemed like an hour, and there was one more shot. Even high above, he could tell that it was from a different caliber gun, and that it had not been aimed upward at the tower.

  A single shot. A killing shot. The kind of shot used for an execution. And then he knew what his attempt had cost him. He knew that they had killed Megan.

  He had to survive now. He had to survive to make them pay.

  Ned took a quick glance out the window and saw the tiny lights far below, nearing the base of the tower. They were coming for him. But they wouldn't find him.

  Before he had fired his shots to take out the headlights, he had opened the windows on the two sides of the cab facing away from the watchers below, and looped the long rope around the steel frame between the two windows. Now he dropped the two ends out into the storm, letting them fall, but held on to the top five feet of each side. Then he tried to remember the precise configuration of the technique that Megan had once shown him, tried to remember the body rappel, a climber's last resort in descending a face.

  He straddled the ropes, then brought them over his left hip, across his chest, and over his head to his right shoulder. Then he let them fall down his back so that he could grasp them in his left hand. Finally he knelt and stripped off Chuck's gloves, putting them on his own bare hands. The rough rope was not intended for climbing, and the friction against his bare hand would tear through his skin in seconds. He wondered if the gloves would last much longer. He zipped his jacket and put the collar up over his neck, knowing that the rope would try and saw through wherever it touched his body.