Being Hunted

by C A Gleason

  Another way to keep Heike busy—in the future—was for Jonah to take her hunting with him. It had been only a suggestion thus far, but he was sure Doreen was close to deciding whether to allow her to go with him or not. Not that Jonah minded hunting by himself. He liked to stay busy too.

  Other than being there for his woman, he practically had a full-time job with everything else he was responsible for, what with exercising, listening to the radio, memorizing his map, gathering, hunting, and clearing—which consisted of destroying cocoons and killing Molters or Infectors or both.

  The only task he didn’t consider his was preparing meals. Doreen was the cook, and for that he was very, very grateful. There was nothing better than coming home after a long day, out of the chilly wet, bathing and getting warm and then getting some warm food in his belly. That set up the next best thing, which was going to bed and getting a full night’s sleep.

  Hunger interrupted sleep, but a consistently full stomach sure helped when his mind wasn’t keeping him awake. In his past, sleeping all night long had proven decidedly difficult, so it was a testament to his health that he got plenty of rest and even occasionally slept in to around eight a.m., and the quality time was something Doreen seemed to appreciate.

  Their daily routine was closer to that of early man than modern ones. It was what humans were really supposed to be doing anyway, hunting and gathering, and hunting was a skill that needed to be passed down. Fishing, too, but hunting was preferred. Fishing required immobility for far too long for comfort. It must have been a funny sight to see Jonah with a fishing pole in one hand and a shotgun in the other.

  If Jonah were killed and something happened to Doreen, how would Heike survive? It was a question he was forced to ask himself. Sure, Heike was a smart little thing, and she could figure a lot of things out on her own, Jonah had no doubt about that, and starvation was a powerful motivator for anyone, but she was still just a young girl. Not even a teenager yet. Kids made mistakes, and if she were on her own, she could find herself in grave danger and very quickly.

  Better she knew what she was doing before that could happen and was taught by someone who knew what they were doing. Jonah hoped Doreen would allow him to take her hunting soon. For Heike and for himself. He enjoyed side projects, and he wanted to teach her. He enjoyed passing on his knowledge to those who deserved to be taught or those smart enough to understand the value of the lessons, and he cared for Heike as if she were his own daughter. That made her his ideal pupil.

  On this particular ridge—there were three he frequented, to clear by triangulation—he could see almost 360 degrees. It was just a question of how methodical he could be. He’d missed them before because the punctures of his shots were nearly impossible to see even when they did hit their marks. The bullets were absorbed by all the muck inside them. The enemy was almost always well hidden by surrounding branches heavily weighted with snow.

  He hadn’t come across a thermal scope, one that would show a heat signature, but they existed, so he hoped to find one someday. That kind of scope would be a game changer and help him locate the cocoons a lot faster. When newly formed, the egg shapes were easier to see because they were brighter in color. When they were close to bursting open and birthing the monstrosity from within, the skin of the cocoons were much darker.

  Although he didn’t do it very often, if he shined a flashlight beneath a cocoon at night, sometimes he saw the Behemoth within shifting around inside as if it were trying to get comfortable, and there were Infectors swimming alongside it within all the goop. He had to be extremely careful and not get too close because—depending on the Behemoth’s maturity—its infectious stinger-equipped tail could turn him into a Molter, just like an Infector could. It eventually lost that ability as it aged and was only a weapon, but their tails were always dangerous. Jonah did his best to end them before they could be born in the first place.

  Empty cocoons often looked like the shadowy wood of the trees they hung from. Could they form on something other than trees? Be born in a city? He’d had a bad dream once about buildings infested with bulging sacs on every floor, and they even hung off edges of roofs, cranes, and the top of skyscrapers. Questions about them plagued his mind, which was probably why he dreamed about them so much. He wished he hadn’t. With how many formed near the cabin, he could only imagine the sheer number forming elsewhere in the world but also in undiscovered places.

  Not many knew what Jonah did, how Behemoths were born from the atmosphere, but air quality was different throughout the world. It was hard to imagine a smoggy city as the ideal environment for them. If cities were a safe place, somehow, then they might move to one. There were no communications across great distances, not anymore, at least none that he had access to, so the only way to find out was to speak with those who knew firsthand, and that was a little difficult to do when secluded from what remained of society. Exploring the possibility of moving, into a city or anywhere else, was definitely on the horizon but would have to wait.

  When Jonah had first begun clearing, he would look through the quick-release scope on the rifle, but his sight picture was limited, and he would have to locate the sacs again before taking a shot. Now before he picked up the rifle, he scanned using binoculars. He chose a point, a landmark he would remember, generally the same area to his left and then started painting the background, raising and lowering the magnified view while slowly moving it to the right.

  After about a minute of examining trees, he spotted one. When he lowered the binoculars he couldn’t see it with the naked eye. He was unsure if it was too far off to see clearly anyway or maybe he was beginning to get long in the tooth. It didn’t really matter. He didn’t have access to glasses. Maybe he should try on any pairs he came across from now on. Collect them, then test which one improved his vision the most, and then if they helped him see targets from far away, he’d wear them.

  “Damn eyesight.”

  When he looked through the binoculars again, it took him a few seconds, but then he saw the unmistakable, bulbous shape and bright-orange color that stood out among the creamy trees as if it were lit up from within. He carefully lowered the binoculars, let them dangle by the strap around his neck, and grabbed a tentpole, one of many he’d brought along for the specific purpose of identifying their locations. He had cut the poles in half and wrapped both ends with duct tape. He aimed one at the intended target and then placed it in the snow.

  Jonah used to use one of his many compasses, but it was often difficult to get an exact reading on them. The needle bobbed around too much. It was annoying. His tentpole method worked better for him because he aimed them directly at the enemy. The only movement was from within the cocoons as they grew, up until he ended them with a shot from his rifle. He continued scanning.

  After about a half hour—he didn’t really pay attention to how long it took, though maybe he should for future reference—he located two more. The color of them, the bright orange, proved he was accomplishing his duty well because they’d only formed recently. He’d killed the others. When they were mature and close to being born, Jonah thought the yellowish sacs looked the color of rotten fruit.

  Glancing down at the tentpoles and where they aimed, he spotted the cocoons through the binoculars once more. Then he grabbed the rifle that he’d carefully leaned against a stump after attaching the scope. The stubby tree hadn’t been cut down; it had fallen naturally. That was comforting to him for some reason.

  Knowing his ladies were probably awake by now and that the sound of the gunshots wouldn’t bother them—the opposite, it was proof of his productivity and of him being alive—he lowered himself into the snow, thankful for the waterproof cold-weather clothing he wore. The jacket and pants weren’t military gear; they were civilian but army green in color and just as reliable. The black stocking cap he wore kept his head warm, and the tan cold-weather shooting gloves made it so he didn’t have to worry about frostbite.

  As he brought the scope of the
bolt-action rifle to his right eye, he closed his left and pulled the stock securely against his shoulder and settled his left elbow into the icy powder. He spotted the first one through the magnification and eased his trigger finger across the trigger guard. Then he gently looped it inside around the trigger itself, aimed below where all the shadowy tendrils were, the glistening noodles of organic matter that held it securely to the tree branch, and fired. The rifle kicked against his shoulder, and the echo of the shot broadcasted over the snowy peaks in the distance.

  Stabilizing himself after the recoil from the rifle, he saw through the scope that the cocoon hadn’t fallen to the ground, but the gooey fluid within that kept the Behemoth safe and warm and nourished was leaking out like a water balloon that had sprung a leak.

  Readjusting by opening his left eye to spot the next pole, he shifted his body, recocked the bolt, aware of where the empty casing ejected so he’d remember to collect them all before he left, aimed, found his target, and fired again. The second gunshot echoed as much as the first.

  Jonah was an accurate marksman but not a great one. Even so he never wanted to waste ammo on target practice. An actual mission was his target practice. He had never located a silencer that fit the rifle he preferred for taking out cocoons, but he hadn’t seen another person since they’d arrived, so he was somewhat comfortable going loud every once in a while. Especially when it was required, like when he unexpectedly needed to aim and pull a trigger.

  It wasn’t as if he had to clear every day, either, because it took a while, weeks, for Behemoth cocoons to grow. Even if someone did hear the shots, whether they had sinister intentions or noble ones or something in the middle, they would have difficulty pinpointing his exact location. He hoped that if any strangers showed up, they would be good people, but if they had ill intent, he would be ready for them too.

  He scooted sideways to aim at the last one for the day. He recocked, forcing the empty casing to land near the other one, aimed, breathed in, then out, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked, and the cocoon popped in the distance. He actually saw fluid squirt out through the scope.

  “Gross.”

  The other shots had been cleaner, probably hitting them directly, maybe right in the head as he intended, but the last shot had obviously hit lower, in the body somewhere. Body shots also killed them, he knew, but he was never exactly sure where the bullets hit. It was difficult to see them within the cocoon while forming through all the tissue unless he was right under them at night and shining one of his high-powered flashlights. He did that only if he absolutely had to because venturing to cocoons beyond the ridges wasted too much daylight. Hiking to the ridges already took up a good part of the day, so shooting them from a distance was the most effective method to destroy them.

  With the tentpoles in place, he would return in a few days—even if there was fresh snowfall, he could dig to find the poles—aim with his binoculars, spot where they’d been, and see if his shots had found their marks, searching for something similar to a deflated balloon. It was pretty obvious if he were successful or not because healthy cocoons looked like they were about to pop.

  If he killed the Behemoth growing inside early enough, then the Infectors that swam within the sac wouldn’t survive either. It just depended on how far along in the growth cycle it was. If cocoons shriveled up, then his shots were kills, and if they fell to the ground, either he missed, or they were born. That was why it was imperative his clearing was thorough. Failure might result in a Behemoth outside their door.

  Even if he destroyed them, once he returned to a ridge to check his shots, he still went through the same process with the binoculars to see if he spotted any more of them, ones he may have missed. Sometimes he spotted a new one forming, and it infuriated him that he hadn’t seen it when he was out last. He was hard on himself because he needed to be, and there was a reason cocoons mostly grew in dense trees; they were the perfect place for Behemoths to remain hidden as they matured and were born safely. Jonah had learned that while observing the first cocoon he’d seen upon arriving at the cabin, when he’d set up explosives below it, and that excursion was one of the only secrets he’d ever kept from Doreen.

  After he’d discovered it, the cocoon had burst open about two weeks later. With how fast they grew, he guessed it’d started forming a week or so before that. According to his approximation, most Behemoths cocooned for three weeks, maybe a month, before birth, so he had that long to destroy them. Even if it was a month, he gave himself only up to three weeks to be safe. The last sound he wanted to hear was the sickening belch of them splitting open.

  Overlapping outings were extremely effective and decreased the probability of failure. He considered it a good day when he didn’t leave any tentpoles. He’d never allowed a Behemoth to get close to the cabin and intended to keep it that way.

  CHAPTER 4

  The ground suddenly shook beneath him so much that Jonah thought it was an avalanche for sure. Images of the snow blanketing the mountainsides, pouring toward him before he could escape, and of being covered up beneath tons of its slushy weight popped into his head. Avalanches were one of his biggest fears because they were out of his control. After a few seconds—which felt like minutes—the trembling passed.

  Even if there were an avalanche nearby, there probably wouldn’t be any danger from it at the cabin. Any unstable snow would cascade downhill, and the location of the cabin was elevated. It was one of its best features. Anyone or anything that wanted to reach it practically had to climb. Being on high ground was another advantage, a primitive defense, and ideal for the time they were living in. Unless somebody knew exactly where the cabin was located, it was difficult to find. Dense forest surrounded it, and trees and foliage provided natural camouflage.

  The elevation allowed views on all sides after short to long hikes in any direction. Being high up in the mountains provided opportunity to spot incoming threats and prepare. Other than the occasional pack of Molters hunting in the distance, most were singles. Nothing Jonah’s weapons couldn’t take care of, and the more he cleared, the less of them showed over time.

  After Jonah realized what had actually happened, the brisk clip of his heart rate slowed, and even though he was already going home, he decided to stay. If ground was unstable, he needed to know exactly where to avoid it in the future. He couldn’t see what had happened under the snow. Whatever he’d heard had crumbled behind him and shortly after he’d stepped over it, so he backtracked, stepping safely to the right of the slope he had only recently hiked up.

  The tremor or whatever it had been—likely caused by the weight of the wet, heavy snow—had lasted only a few seconds, but the ground had opened to reveal a cave. From the look of it, the entrance appeared to have been purposefully covered with tree branches, and then snowfall had inadvertently layered atop that. Man-made. That was probably why it hadn’t held. It meant the cave had likely been a place someone lived in or considered a hiding spot. Jonah’s weight had obviously been the catalyst, but he was glad he hadn’t been directly on top when the blockage gave way.

  Though it had been held in place by snow and ice, both had melted enough to break apart. Had he stepped on it directly, he probably would have fallen through, and the aftermath could have included all kinds of grisly possibilities involving landing on top of pointy things. The cave was too close to the cabin not to explore, and there was no stopping his curiosity. He removed the quick-release scope on his bolt-action rifle, which was useless at that range, especially aimed into darkness, and shoved it into his cargo pocket. Then he aimed and waited. If something were going to attack him, it would probably happen shortly.

  A few minutes passed without incident. He tapped his jacket and felt for the butt of his 9mm pistol in its holster under his arm inside his jacket, just to make sure it hadn’t fallen out somewhere—a habit he’d gotten into, even though he’d never lost it. He rolled his backpack off his shoulder. Then he reached inside and pulled out a flashli
ght, transferred the scope from his cargo pocket to inside the backpack before pulling it back on and tightening the straps. The flashlight was the regular kind, one filled with large batteries. He clicked it on, pointing the flashlight under the rifle barrel to maintain his aim, and stepped inside.

  There was only blackness as he stood there, but he knew that was because his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dark yet. He took a few steps forward and waited, doing his best to see what mysteries might dwell within without venturing in too far and feeling very aware of what might be lurking. There was a reason no one lived in there anymore. He felt a mixture of excitement and dread. Knowing what he knew, he was likely to discover something of use or something he feared.

  “If you see ’em, kill ’em.”

  Getting a sudden feeling that was similar to being doused with ice water, Jonah stepped back out of the darkness and placed his rifle stock down in the snow next to the yawning mouth of the cave. If he got trapped or killed, another rifle would be handy for Doreen. Wouldn’t want to waste a good rifle. If there were another cave-in, the place was close enough for her to find it, and she would be able to deduce what had happened. She knew his rifle. Knew his many rifles.

  Not that he believed he was in any real danger, not at the moment, but Jonah dealt in contingencies. Every soldier learned that if something can go wrong it will go wrong. Best to be prepared for things to go south but thankful when they didn’t.

  After Oberstein, every cavernous place gave him worry because he knew what might consider it a good place for a lair or nest. Emerging to kill and feed made them vulnerable, so the creatures—including Infectors—were driven to find dark, dank places to hide because it meant they could rest safely when they weren’t out hunting.