Hunted Past Reason

by Richard Matheson

  "Bobby, this isn't the first time I've been out here, you know. Take my word for it, it doesn't get any narrower farther down or farther up. Besides, the campsite we'll use is that way." He pointed across the stream.

  Bob nodded reluctantly. Just stop calling me Bobby, will you? he thought. Marian was right. It did definitely sound as though Doug was talking to a ten-year-old. Maybe that's how he sees me, he thought. With another sigh, heavier this time, he started to unbuckle his backpack straps.

  Doug had his pack off now. Moving to the bank of the stream, holding on to its straps, he turned himself halfway around, paused, then took a deep breath and flung the backpack across the stream. It landed several yards from the opposite bank.

  He turned to Bob. "I told you how I lost a pack once in a stream like this. I don't intend to take a chance on it happening again."

  "Uh-huh." Bob nodded. His pack was off now. He looked at Doug questioningly.

  "Well, go ahead, throw it," Doug told him.

  Bob winced. "What if I don't make it?" he asked. "I'd lose everything."

  "It's not that wide, Bobby," Doug said edgily.

  "I know, but—"

  "Just sling the damn thing," Doug told him.

  Bob hesitated. If his throw was short, he'd be obligated to Doug for everything. The prospect was more than a little daunting.

  "Oh, for Christ's sake," Doug snapped. Pulling the pack out of Bob's grip, he moved to the bank of the stream, cocked his arm, and threw the pack. It landed about a foot from the opposite bank. Great, Bob thought. You didn't try as hard with my pack, did you?

  "Doug," he said.

  "Yessir." Doug's tone was irritated.

  "Why are you expecting me to act like a professional backpacker?"

  Doug scowled. "Didn't think that tossing a backpack across a stream is something only a professional backpacker could do."

  "Okay, okay." Bob nodded. "Now what, do we jump across the stream in one leap? Oh, no, you said we wade."

  Doug was already sitting on the ground, unlacing his boots. He glanced up at Bob. "Do likewise, Bobby," he said. He bared his teeth, pulling at the laces of his boots. "Unless you'd prefer getting your boots soaking wet. They take a hell of a long time to dry, let me tell you."

  "All right," Bob said. He felt like sighing again but repressed it. I could be home, sitting in my chair, enjoying a vodka and tonic with a slice of lemon, he thought. He sat down and started to unlace his boots. Instead, I'm here, doing research for a goddamn novel. Why didn't I go all the way and write a novel about a Welsh coal miner and work in a mine for a couple of weeks?

  "Tie the laces together," Doug told him, "and put your socks inside the boots, roll up your pants. I warn you, the water's going to be cold."

  Thanks for telling me, Bob thought. The colder the better. I love wading in fast-moving ice water. The next book I write will be about an Olympic swimmer who trains in Antarctica. He couldn't restrain another sigh.

  "All right, let's go," Doug said, standing. "Stay behind me and feel your way ahead as you cross. There could be rocks on the bottom that move under you."

  "Right," Bob said. Anything you say, Dougie boy, his mind added.

  Doug walked over to a fallen tree and broke off two thick branches. "To brace yourself against the current," he said, handing one of the branches to Bob. "Cross facing upstream so you have a triangle of support."

  "Okay," Bob said, not sure he understood what Doug had just said.

  Doug moved to the edge of the stream, swung his boots around a few times by their laces, then threw them across the stream. They landed beyond his pack.

  "You want me to throw yours?" he asked.

  No, goddamn it, I can throw my own boots, thank you, Bob thought resentfully. "I'll do it," he said.

  Immediately, he visualized both boots landing in the fast-moving water and being carried off by the swift current. Or, just as bad, the laces coming untied and the boots landing separately, maybe one in the water, one on the other side of the stream. Then he'd have to hop his way through the forest, he thought, visualizing himself doing that for the next two or three days.

  He held out the boots by their tied laces. "I changed my mind," he said.

  He knew Doug's smile was one of disparagement but let it go. Better a little disparagement than one or both of his boots flying down the stream like lost canoes.

  Doug took the boots from him and, twirling them twice by their tied laces, flung them across the stream. They bounced off the ground several feet beyond Doug's boots. The winner and still champion! Bob thought.

  His first step into the stream made him cry out involuntarily. "Jesus!"

  "I told you it was cold," Doug said. If the temperature of the water bothered him, he wasn't showing it. Or would rather die than show it, Bob decided. Macho Man! his mind sang out.

  "Lean a little against the current," Doug told him. "And use your branch."

  Bob tilted himself a little to the left, feeling the strong push of the current against his legs, bracing his branch on the bottom to help remain balanced. He hadn't folded his pants up far enough, he realized, the rolled-up bottoms were getting soaked even though he'd raised them above his knees.

  Doug waded slowly but steadily across the stream using his branch to fight the current. Bob followed, feeling as though, at any moment, the force of the water might knock him over. Then what? he wondered. Would he be carried off like a piece of wood? Or just be sprawled on the stream bottom, getting soaked from head to toe?

  "Watch out, there's a rock on the bottom that's loose," Doug said across his shoulder; his voice was drowned out by the loud noise of the torrent.

  "What?" Bob asked loudly.

  "I said—!" Doug started.

  Too late. Bob stepped on the rock, it rolled beneath his foot and suddenly, his balance gone, the branch was out of his grip and he was falling to the right.

  He gasped in shock as his body hit the rushing stream. It began to move him as he floundered in the current. He tried to cry out and a burst of icy water filled his mouth. Gagging and spitting, he rolled over once, trying desperately to push up with his hands, but every time he tried to rise, the force of the stream knocked him over again. Oh, God, am I going to drown? the panicked thought struck him. He struggled to get up again and managed to raise onto one knee on the stony bottom. Then he started to fall again. This is it! he thought, terrified.

  Doug's hand suddenly grabbed the collar of his jacket and began hauling him to his feet. "Try to stand!" Doug shouted.

  Bob's legs thrashed clumsily, both feet trying to reach the bottom of the stream. He slipped again and fell into the current. Doug's grip on his jacket collar was abruptly gone, and he tumbled over in the cold, rushing water. I am going to drown! he thought with incredulous terror.

  But Doug now had him by the jacket collar again, then grabbed his right wrist with a grip so hard it made Bob cry out in pain. He felt Doug dragging him across the bottom of the stream, then onto the bank on the other side of the stream, continuing to drag him onto dry ground. "My wrist!" he cried, grimacing with pain.

  But Doug held on to it until he was completely out of the water and onto dry ground. Then he let go of Bob's wrist and sat down hard on the ground beside Bob. "Jesus Christ," he muttered. Bob could see that Doug was almost as soaking wet as he was.

  "Well, now we're even, pal," Doug said, breathing hard.

  He does remember, Bob thought. He knew I saved him before and this was his appreciation.

  "Thank you, Doug," he said. "I don't know whether I could have gotten out of the stream by myself."

  "You couldn't have," Doug answered. "You were tumbling along like a piece of wood."

  "I know I was," Bob said.

  They sat side by side, panting, regaining their breath.

  Then Bob said, "Well, at least our shoes stayed dry."

  The way Doug looked at him, he half expected a punch in the nose.

  Instead, Doug chuckled, looking downwa
rd himself. "Yeah, at least they stayed dry," he said.

  After a short while, Doug got to his feet, wincing. "Well, you're in luck," he said. "We'll have to set our camp up right away. We're too damn wet to go on."

  "My fault," Bob apologized. "I'm sorry."

  "Sorry, hell, you're delighted," Doug answered.

  Bob looked at him in silence for a few moments, then laughed weakly. "You're right, I am delighted," he said. "Let's go cook my turkey tetrazzini."

  Doug made a scoffing sound. "Yeah, let's do that," he said.

  5:19 PM

  There was an open piece of ground about sixty feet from the stream where Doug had said they'd camp for the night. It had made Bob wonder if Doug had intended to camp there all along and only told him that they were setting up a campsite now because they were too wet to go on. He decided to let the suspicion go. After all, Doug may well have saved his life.

  Doug told him that he'd planned to have him start the fire, but under the circumstances— both of them wet and the air growing cold— he'd start it himself.

  Quickly, Doug had formed a fire ring of stones while he sent Bob to find dry evergreen needles, lichen, and twigs to start the fire with, bigger fallen wood to increase it. He'd erected a cone of twigs over the pine needles and lichen and a larger cone of logs above it. Lighting the kindling with a lifeboat match, he'd begun the core of the fire. As it burned away, the outside logs slumped inward, feeding the heart of the fire.

  Soon the fire was burning steadily and they took off their wet clothes, wrung them out as much as they could, and hung them from a line of thin rope that Doug suspended between two small trees. They put on dry long johns, sweaters, and their socks and boots and sat before the fire, warming themselves.

  "I think a sip of brandy wouldn't hurt right now," Doug said and got the small flask from his backpack. The brandy made Bob cough but felt comfortingly warm going down his throat and chest and into his stomach.

  "Okay, come on with me," Doug said unexpectedly.

  Bob looked at him, curious. "Where?" he asked.

  "To find something better than your goddamn turkey tetrazzini," Doug answered. He was on his feet now. "Come on."

  Bob hated to stand again but didn't want another unpleasant exchange with Doug. He pushed to his feet with a groan and started after Doug who was heading back toward the stream. Bob opened his mouth to ask Doug a question, then couldn't think of one and followed in silence.

  Doug led him to a quiet section of the stream and pointed. "Fish like to gather at the shallows in the evening, in a pool, in the shade of bushes, around submerged logs and rocks."

  Bob nodded, thinking: My God, the man knows everything. He wasn't going to say it though; he was still irritated by Doug's behavior.

  "All right, now watch. You may have to do it yourself someday."

  Not bloody likely, Bob thought. Still, he watched in interest as Doug rolled up his long john sleeves and stretched himself out, looking down into the still water of the pool.

  "And there's our supper," he said. "What I'm going to do now is reach down and very gently work my hand under its belly until I reach its gills."

  Bob watched, unable to believe that anyone could catch a fish that way. Doug seemed to be absolutely motionless. But then he said, "Now I'm going to grasp it firmly just behind the gills and . . . Voilà!" Suddenly he yanked his arm out of the water and Bob looked in amazement at the plump trout thrashing wildly on the ground.

  "I'll be damned," he said.

  "And now, the coup de grâce," Doug said, picking up a sharpended twig and impaling the trout on it.

  Bob watched as Doug took a frying pan from his pack and set his grate across two logs on the fire. Doug got a small plastic bottle from his pack, unscrewed the top, and poured a little bit of liquid into the frying pan.

  "What's that?" Bob asked.

  "Olive oil," Doug answered, returning the plastic bottle to his backpack. He removed a small plastic bag of what looked like flour and after laying the trout in the frying pan, sprinkled some of it on top of the trout.

  "You don't need to skin it?" Bob asked.

  "Waste of time. Just pick the flesh out of the skin."

  Bob nodded.

  "Anyway, the valuable fats and oils are right under the skin," Doug said.

  "You've done this before," Bob said.

  "Many times." Doug got a fork from his pack and turned the trout over, sprinkling flour on the other side of it.

  "Did you know you were going to catch a trout here?" Bob asked.

  "Well, I have before so I figured there was a good chance I'd catch one again."

  Bob inhaled deeply. "Mmm," he said. "It's already starting to smell good."

  "I'll let you provide the vegetables," Doug told him.

  "Will do." Bob moved to his pack and checked his food supply. "Carrot and celery sticks okay?" he asked.

  "That'll be fine," Doug said.

  Bob placed his backpack behind himself to lean against as he sat down again.

  "That sure does smell good," he said. "Nothing like it."

  "Except for fresh shrimp cooked on a beach," Doug said.

  "Never had that," Bob replied.

  "Never been to Mexico?" Doug asked.

  "No, never," Bob answered. "Marian and I have always been leery of catching Montezuma's revenge."

  "That's dumb," Doug told him. "I've been to Mexico a dozen times and never caught it once."

  "Really." Bob nodded.

  "Guess you and Marian go on fancier trips," Doug said.

  Oh, boy, here we go again, Bob thought. Goading time. "Not always," he said, trying to keep his tone even; he didn't want to start another hassle. "We like to stay in lodges in northern California and Oregon a lot."

  "Uh-huh." It was clear that Doug didn't believe him. "Fancy lodges, I suppose," he said.

  "Not always." It was becoming more difficult to sound easygoing.

  "Where have you gone?" Doug asked.

  Do I tell him? Bob wondered. Is he really interested? Or does he just want more ammunition for his convictions about the disparity between our lifestyles?

  "Oh . . . a few places in Europe," he said, hoping to get over this conversation as quickly as possible.

  "We went to Paris once," Doug said. "I was doing a feature."

  "Oh, that's a fascinating city," Bob said, conscious of attempting to sound enthusiastic. "You must have had a wonderful time there."

  "Not really," Doug said. "I was shooting most of the time and Nicole was bitching most of the time because we weren't 'doing the town,' " he finished scornfully.

  "Oh, that's too bad," Bob said. Change the goddamn conversation quick, he told himself.

  "Smells like it's almost ready," he said.

  "Not quite." Doug's voice sounded glum.

  "Can I interest you in some vodka?" Bob asked.

  "No, I'll stick to my brandy," Doug said. He took a sip from his flask. Oh, Christ, don't drink too much, Bob thought worriedly. He had the definite feeling that Doug would not be an amiable drunk.

  Bob opened one of his mini-bottles of vodka and sipped on it, watching the trout sizzle in the frying pan. He wondered if the slight dizziness he felt was a leftover from the lightning— what had Doug called it?— "splash." He hoped not. It's sure been a super hike so far, he thought. I get lost, fall down, get a nice big blister on my toe, get hit by lightning, and almost drown. And it's only the second day. What was still in the offing? A mountain lion or bear attack? An avalanche? A blizzard?

  He had to smile to himself. I'm some great backpacker, I am, he thought.

  "What's funny?" Doug asked.

  He started in surprise. He hadn't realized that his smile was that apparent.

  "Oh, I was just thinking about all the things that have happened to me since we started out yesterday."

  "It's the way things go, Bobby," Doug said. "You wanted to backpack."

  I didn't plan on being struck by lightning, Bob thought. He didn'
t say any more. There was no point to it. It was obvious that Doug always wanted the last word.

  He rubbed his wrist, flexing his fingers, the effort making him wince.

  "Wrist hurt?" Doug asked.

  "A little bit," Bob answered. "You . . . kinda twisted it before."

  "Would you rather I'd let you go downstream?" Doug asked, his smile disdainful.

  "No, no, of course not. It just—" He broke off. No point in mentioning it any longer, he realized. Doug's reaction wasn't going to change.

  "I think that trout is going to be delicious," he said.

  The trout was delicious. Along with the vegetable sticks, washed down with cold fresh water it made what Bob's mother had always called a "scrumptious feast."

  He was leaning back against his pack now, feeling relaxed. He'd eaten a small chocolate bar and was now chewing on some dried apricots and sipping on a cup of coffee. "Hope my innards do their duty soon," he said.

  "They may not," Doug said. "Sometimes it takes days for the bowels to cooperate."

  Thanks for the encouragement, Bob thought.

  It was getting colder now and since their jackets were still drying, they had unzipped their sleeping bags and wrapped them around themselves. The tent was up and Doug had hung their food supplies from a high branch. Bob was a little drowsy but didn't feel like trying to sleep yet. Sitting with the sleeping bag around him, looking into the glowing coals of the fire, he was content to just lean back against his pack and enjoy his relaxation.

  "This part I really like," he said.

  Doug grunted. "Artie didn't like anything at all about backpacking," he said. "God knows I tried to make him like it often enough."

  I bet you did, Bob thought. Best not to reply aloud, he thought. Maybe Doug would let it go with his first remark.

  He didn't. "Took him backpacking, camping, fishing, hunting, you name it. He hated all of them."

  "Well, some kids like different things," Bob said automatically, instantly regretting that he'd made the comment because Doug replied, bitterly, "No. It was Nicole. She babied him. Turned him into a weakling. I wouldn't be surprised if he was a fag."

  Oh, God, please don't, Bob thought. This is such a nice moment. Don't ruin it.