The Hunt

by T. J. Lebbon

  After his conversation with Rose he started running again, heading across the curving waist of a high mountain. The horizon he aimed for was always close, comprised of ragged rock formations or sometimes gentler slopes of small boulders and scree. He could not see what was around the next rocky spur or small ridge line, but he was confident that he would take it in his stride.

  He’d been running for around four hours. The longest foot race he’d ever run had been an ultra-marathon, almost forty miles across a picturesque but challenging course in the Lake District. It had taken in a circuit of Coniston Water with a bow-shaped route out into neighbouring hills and back again for added excitement. It had taken him almost ten hours, which had put him in the bottom half of the finishers’ list. But he’d only been racing himself and the elements, and simply finishing had been a massive achievement.

  Compared to that, his exertion so far today had been merely a warm-up.

  But so much was different. There were no water and nutrition stops. No way-marked course, no marshals to show the way, no St John’s Ambulance in attendance in case of injuries or exhaustion. And no family at the end to cheer him home.

  He felt like curling up into a ball and crying. He felt like raging, raving, finding someone to punch and kick. The unfairness of everything clamped around him, constricting his lungs and smothering him. Terri had always told him he was good at doomsdaying. He’d once been in a minor road accident with a hard-looking man who later turned out to be part of a local crime family, known for violence and intimidation. The man had refused to swap insurance details and Chris had very pointedly written down his vehicle licence number. The man had stared Chris out, then driven away.

  A friend of Terri’s had recognised the description, told them with whom Chris had had a run-in, and from there his mind had worked overtime. What if I report him and he comes here? What if he threatens us? What if he follows me home from work, or follows you and the kids one evening when you’re out for a walk? One phone call could lead to all that. They’ll firebomb the house. Run us off the road.

  Terri had told Chris that the worst did not always happen.

  Chris never did call the police, and he paid for the damage to his car himself.

  It had been unfair, out of his control, and he’d had many sleepless nights over such a minor event.

  The injustice of his situation now screamed at him with every blink, every footfall on rock or shale or mountain grass. And he was doomsdaying. What if …? What if …?

  It was all out of his control. The Trail had set this up. The hunters were here to kill him to satisfy some perverted primeval urge. Rose was using him to exact her own vengeance, perform her own killing spree.

  All he could do was run, filled with dread that any moment might be his family’s last.

  He’d finished the second bottle of water, the bladder was almost empty, and he was keeping his eyes open for a mountain stream to replenish his supplies. He’d also eaten the bagel, stale sandwiches, and a second energy bar. There were several more left, and a handful of gels, but he knew that he’d need some more proper food soon.

  But he should forget about food. He’d find none up here, not unless he came across some hill walkers or extreme sports enthusiasts running or climbing. If that did happen, he wasn’t sure what he’d do.

  Maybe it would be best for them if he avoided them.

  It was almost six in the evening. Sunset would be around nine, and up here in the mountains darkness fell very quickly. The sun dipped below a mountain or ridge and that was it – shadows fell, and any further movement and navigation, even with a head torch, became very dangerous. He’d heard of many people who’d died in the Welsh mountains simply from walking over a cliff, falling into a ravine, or taking the wrong turning at a navigation point. There were probably bodies still up here, merging back into the wild landscape to form part of its future, and becoming a part of its history.

  He would not be one of those. He only hoped the hunters did not have night vision equipment.

  The thought almost stopped him in his tracks. Of course they’d have such equipment. It would be part of the whole package, wouldn’t it? These weren’t the sorts of people who’d want a ‘one shot’ type hunt, man against man. They’d paid fuck knows how much so they could hunt and kill another human being, and using an automatic rifle packed with a decent scope, perhaps carrying tracking hardware of some sort, and possessing night vision binoculars, would make them feel even more talented. More ‘special forces’. They’d probably been having wet dreams about this for weeks or months, and now they were in the game they’d be eager for the kill.

  Blondie was keen. Driven enough to leave a badly injured man behind in dangerous surroundings, he already had Chris in his sights.

  He’d seen them jumping and tumbling from the helicopter, and most of the five had looked like overweight, inexperienced buffoons. But that didn’t mean the Trail hadn’t equipped them with the best kit money could buy.

  Come dusk, he would either have to find somewhere to spend the few hours of total darkness, or risk moving by moon- and starlight. The sky was relatively clear right now, but that didn’t mean that clouds might not come in later. This high up, the air could turn hazy without warning. More than once he’d been caught out on a mountain run when cloud descended, relying on good navigation to get him where he wanted to go.

  And that was another problem. He still hadn’t figured out exactly where he was. He was doing his best to spot obvious landmarks for when he had time to sit and analyse the map, but for now heading south was his only priority.

  The mountainside levelled into a relatively flat, easy area to cross, and he took the opportunity to assess his condition. His feet felt comfortable in his trail shoes. There were no hot-spots that might indicate the beginnings of a blister. His calves, shins and thighs felt strong, no niggling pains. His knees were stiff and warm, but he was used to that. Sometimes when he complained of stiff knees, Terri would gleefully diagnose old age. He could feel the impacts of his footfalls up through his hips, and he was used to that, too. Nothing new. His arms hung loose, he kept his back straight and shoulders back, leading with his chest. He was maintaining his running style, which was important both to preserve energy and be most efficient, and to prevent injury. Fit as he was, a turned ankle would be an ironic end to this race. He’d never appeared as a Did Not Finish on a race results list, and he wasn’t about to start now.

  He tried to ignore the fact that he’d already run twelve miles that morning, and his body was also succeeding in disregarding those miles. It concerned him that stopping for a few hours during darkness might mean that he’d stiffen up. Maybe he’d walk. Maybe something else would happen. He could attempt to plan, but there was no saying where he’d be in ten minutes’ time, let alone three hours.

  The close horizon could be hiding anything.

  Above him, the mountain was slowly obscured by hazy cloud, and he could feel rain spots pattering against his scalp. Below, the valley was still swimming in sunshine, cloud shadows drifting like huge sea creatures. There were still no roads or buildings. He was happy with the route he was taking, and just ahead the hillside rose into a spine of jagged rock.

  It was an ideal point to climb and take a look back, and when he did he saw movement. Two shapes, far back across the landscape. Too far away for him to identify, they were following roughly the route he’d taken.

  Chris crouched down, then grew still. They need to know they’re coming the right way, he thought. Need to know they haven’t lost me. As long as the hunt is on, Terri and the girls are safe.

  He climbed across the rocks until he was in sunlight once more, then rooted around in his rucksack for something to use. The penknife should do. He opened several blades and implements, then held it up and moved it back and forth, trying to gauge the right angle to catch sunlight and send a flickering reflection their way. It needed them to be looking ahead, searching for him, and if they were already growi
ng tired they might only be staring at their feet.

  ‘Come on, Blondie,’ he muttered. He was the one man who would not give up. Chris waved the penknife again, twisting and turning his wrist and hand until—–

  A gunshot, so distant that it was barely a cough across the landscape.

  He ducked down, realising that the bullet would already have struck or passed him by. He had no idea of ranges, but figured that a hunting rifle wouldn’t be able to shoot accurately over such a distance. A sniper’s rifle, perhaps. Specialist stuff used by the military. There was no saying what they might be armed with. He was in the dark.

  Now that he’d been seen, he couldn’t risk a lucky shot hitting him.

  He started climbing again, and there was no more gunfire. Glancing back a couple of times he could see the two following him, and he caught hints of more movement further back along the slope. Seeing him had caused an excited reaction from one of them, but now they were preserving their ammunition as they tried to catch up.

  He couldn’t afford to let them draw any closer. Once over this rugged spine of rock he’d assess the landscape beyond, then pick his route further south. Whatever mountain range he was in extended to the far horizon in that direction. Chris welcomed that.

  But slipping over the head of the knife-edge ridge, picking his way carefully down the other side, he feared that he’d made a fatal mistake.

  He should have checked over this side first before attracting their attention.

  The lake was perhaps three hundred metres across. Half of it was still bathed by sunlight, reflecting the sky like a highly polished mirror. The other half was an inky, unbroken black. It was wide. To his right, sheer cliffs edged the body of water. To his left, a stark, steep ridge curved around from the promontory he stood upon, encasing the lake and shielding it from the gentle drop into the valley beyond. He could see at least two small streams tinkling into the lake from higher up the mountainside, and there would be points of egress for the water, too. Attractive streams cascading down the hillside, providing waterfalls where the adventurous could shower and gaze in wonder at mini-rainbows.

  ‘Shit!’ He should have looked! If he climbed back over the rocks to head down towards the valley, he’d be instantly in view, especially now that he’d so usefully given away his position. Heading directly up the mountain to skirt the lake involved technical climbing that he wasn’t experienced in or prepared for. Left from where he stood now was a precarious, exposed scramble. He might make it around the rugged wall skirting the lake, and over into the valley, before they arrived where he stood now. But he had his doubts.

  Doubts he could not afford.

  The lake’s surface was alive with countless tiny splashes where heavy raindrops landed. It actually looked quite welcoming, but he knew that it would be cold, deep, dangerous. In all the triathlons he’d entered, the swimming had always been his weak link, especially open water.

  Some people feared heights, and that was also a monkey on Chris’s back. But he was even more scared of depths.

  ‘Oh, shitting hell,’ he muttered as he scrambled down the slope towards the lake’s edge. He tried to gauge the distance again to the other side. He’d guessed three hundred metres, though it was quite difficult to judge as there was nothing to measure against. A rock he was looking at over there could be the size of a man or a car. He threw a stone as far as he could, watched the ripples, observed how long they took to spread across the lake. Maybe a little less than three hundred metres. Fully clothed, carrying the rucksack, he reckoned he could swim the distance in eight or nine minutes. If he set off as soon as possible, that would be plenty long enough to reach the other side before his pursuers climbed the ridge behind him.

  He shrugged off the rucksack and tipped it up. He’d spotted the sealable plastic bag earlier, and now he silently thanked Rose for her foresight. He threw everything into the bag – phone, GPS watch, map and compass, clothing and nutrition – sealed it, tied it to make doubly sure, and shoved it back inside the rucksack.

  The lake was a good landmark. When he was across on the other side and away, having put time between him and his hunters, if not distance, he would make time to look at the map.

  He shrugged the rucksack on again, made sure the straps were tight, and stood at the lake’s edge. Its bed sloped steeply down from where he stood – he could see the bottom, and the water was startlingly clear – and from experience, he knew there was only one way to get into a cold lake.

  He jumped.

  His feet hit bottom, slipped on the slick rocks, and he went under immediately, cold stealing his breath. He kicked and his feet found only water. He closed his eyes and kicked for the surface, or where he thought the surface to be. The cold was deep in his chest, stilling his heart, probing fingers from his core to his extremities. A pulsing pain started behind his forehead, forcing against his eyes. As he opened his mouth to groan he took in a mouthful of freezing water.

  He broke the surface gasping, spitting water and kicking his feet to stay afloat. Come on Chris! He’d done this before many times, on early season triathlons when the water was still cold, and on previous adventures in the mountains. He liked nothing more than finding a secluded pool or lake in the hills and taking a plunge, usually clothed, sometimes not. He’d only been caught out once, emerging from a lake naked, cold and exhilarated. An old couple had been walking their dog and they’d paused to stare. Then they’d waved and laughed, the dog barking at his pale nude self as they’d gone on their way.

  Treading water, he let the initial hyperventilation subside, acclimatising as best he could. His clothing weighed him down and the rucksack felt five times heavier. In a race he’d be wearing a wetsuit; it buoyed him up and helped his weak swimming, and over the last couple of years he’d learned to ease his fears of what lay beneath.

  He’d found that looking helped. Some lakes were so cloudy that he could not even see his own feet, while others – old quarries, or manmade lakes – often had visibility reaching down twenty feet or more. Either way, knowing what was beneath him seemed to calm his fears.

  He couldn’t do that now. He had no goggles, and no time. He had to start swimming.

  Aiming for the other side of the lake, he kicked hard and pulled a few powerful strokes to get himself moving. He breathed bilaterally – breathe left, stroke, stroke, breathe right – spitting out any remaining breath and water before gasping in another lungful of air. His swimming had advanced hugely in the past couple of years. Two years before he could not swim four lengths of a pool without having to stop, exhausted, muscles burning and chest heaving. Now he could comfortably swim four thousand metres, and while he was not particularly fast, he was consistent. But he still sometimes had brief, inexplicable moments of blind panic. When he spoke to Terri about them she told him he was being silly, but he insisted that they were a healthy reaction to being in the water. Humans weren’t meant to swim, and occasionally his animal self reminded him of that.

  But not now. Swimming fully clothed and carrying a heavy backpack was already way beyond his comfort zone, and he could not afford a moment’s doubt. His life, and his family’s, relied upon him crossing this lake.

  He quickly found his usual comfortable rhythm. It was strange swimming without goggles, but he opened his eyes whenever he turned his head to breathe, and the blurred sunlight kept him in touch with the world. He didn’t usually kick hard when swimming – saving his legs for the bike and run phases of a triathlon – and he did the same now, using a light kick merely to keep his legs and feet up close to the surface. He relied on his arm stroke to propel him across the lake. It was a pleasant feeling, and one that he had only recently grown used to. On long swims, feeling himself glide, hanging on to the water and pulling himself forward, he often went into a contemplative state almost akin to hypnosis. Biking and running were his other loves, and with both of them it was necessary to pay attention to what was going on around him. Look at the trail or road before him, watch o
ut for traffic or other bikes or runners, check his bike, concentrate on his running form. Swimming, he seemed to retreat into himself.

  Perhaps it was an unconscious attempt to keep the fear at bay.

  His hands cut through the water, smooth and controlled. He reached for the opposite shore, grabbed the water and pulled, drawing himself forward, rolling as his opposite hand cut in, reached, grabbed. The roll was more jarring than usual, and he had to control it to make sure he didn’t tip over too far. The rucksack was waterlogged and heavy, slipping from left to right on his back as he swam. The straps cut into his shoulders.

  What if it pulled him down? What if he couldn’t unlock the straps and the weight grabbed him, drawing him deep into colder, darker waters?

  He gasped and sucked in water on his next breath. Coughed it back out beneath the surface, breathed to the other side, then tried to find his rhythm again, exhaling smoothly through his mouth.

  Something touched his leg. He kicked hard to draw away and it happened again, a gentle, slick stroke from his knee down towards his foot.

  He should have taken his shoes off and put them in his rucksack. What if he lost one?

  He kicked again, tensing his toes to clasp on to his shoes.

  Whatever had touched him was gone; a spread of long weeds left behind, an eel or fish swimming away.

  What if there was a pike in here? They’d been known to bite off fingers. It could be circling him, trying to assess this stranger in its environment and wondering whether any part of him would make a tasty morsel.

  Calm the hell down! Chris thought, and he made a conscious effort to slow his flailing stroke, concentrating on his style and rhythm once again. He sighted after a breath and judged that he was at least halfway across, closing on the opposite shore just where he’d intended. At least he was swimming straight.

  The rucksack slipped further to the left, dragging him beneath the water as he tried breathing to the right. He took in a mouthful of water, gagged, coughed it out, splashed as he tried to surface. The fear was instant and yet illogical – he was so close to the surface that his next breath would come in mere seconds. But he kicked and splashed, and opened his mouth underwater to shout out in instinctive fear. Took in more water. There was something slick in there this time, a shred of weed or perhaps a small fish, and he opened his mouth wider as he vomited it back out.