The Hunt

by T. J. Lebbon

  She pulled out the satphone she’d taken from the dead helicopter pilot. The screen was dark, but one press of the central button and it illuminated again. It displayed a full-terrain image of the surrounding area, and at the top left corner throbbed a gentle blue glow. Rose frowned, looked closer, turned the phone so that the map display also shifted. She nodded. Of course. They wouldn’t trust the outcome of a hunt like this to overweight desk jockeys.

  Made things a lot easier for her.

  She checked the rifle. Only four rounds. She had two magazines for her pistol. She should have searched for more ammunition at the helicopter, but what she had would suffice. Shouldering the rifle, pocketing the handgun, she set off again across the mountain.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  night vision

  Chris frequently enjoyed running at night, either through their local woods, along the canal towpath, or in hills if he felt more daring. He loved it. During the winter months it meant he could fit his training in at convenient times that did not impact his family too much, but there was something more fundamental. It felt wild, dangerous, and tapped into his primal urge to run.

  He always used a head torch, its powerful beam stretching far enough ahead to pick out terrain. A second torch attached to his belt cast a complementing beam, meaning that shadows gave texture to the landscape and showed him potential trip hazards. Beyond the light, the darkness was deeper. He only went to places he knew well, so that he didn’t have the added complication of navigating as well as running. He liked the sense of isolation it gave him, the only sounds his heavy breathing and smooth footfalls. He enjoyed the feeling of speed as the illuminated ground passed by beneath him. He loved it when eyes were reflected back at him from fields, hedgerows and woodlands – cattle, cats, foxes, badgers, and other creatures that quickly vanished. There was nothing quite like running at night.

  Now, he hated it. He was cold and miserable, tired and afraid. Dusk had not quite fallen, but the heavy mist cut out much of the remaining light. He had a head torch that he didn’t dare use – they would see it from a distance and home in, rifles at the ready, imminent death nestled in dark barrels. He moved continuously uphill, afraid that if he attempted to move along the mountainside he would stumble over one of those sheer cliffs.

  Chris was starting to regret his decision to head up into the mists.

  And at the back of his mind lay the fear of what would happen if he lost the hunters, and the Trail—

  The phone in his pocket buzzed. For a second he panicked, slipping on wet rocks and going down hard. He’d assumed it was dead, waterlogged, the screen blank. He’d planned to wait until later, see if he could dry it out in any way. It seemed luck might have smiled. He looked around but saw no movement, then plucked the phone from his pocket and pressed the green button, saying nothing.

  ‘They know where you are,’ Rose said. ‘They have a tracking chip on you somewhere, and the hunters will have GPS-equipped satphones.’

  ‘What? Where is it?’ Chris asked.

  ‘Don’t know, and it doesn’t matter.’

  Chris felt around his body, shoes, pockets, trying to think where the Trail might have planted something like that, when they’d have had the chance, how it displayed a level of planning and preparation he had not considered until now, and how they must have hidden it to ensure—

  Rose had given him the rucksack.

  ‘You?’ he asked.

  ‘Huh? No, of course not me! But don’t worry where it is. This is good, don’t you see? You don’t have to worry about staying ahead to keep alive, yet not far enough ahead that they lose you. They can’t lose you. So surge ahead and get some rest. It’ll lure them on, and the faster things go, the less out of control everything is.’

  ‘And that’s good?’

  ‘For me, yes,’ Rose said.

  ‘What about for me?’ Chris asked. ‘What about for my family?’ But she had already rung off.

  He almost threw the phone into the darkness. He’d make himself alone, do his own thing, but if what she said was true, he could never be alone. They knew where he was, and even now those bastards might be huddled around a phone or a GPS unit, trying to work out which way they had to go to follow his signal.

  They might even be close.

  ‘Bitch!’ Chris hissed. She must have known about this before but kept it from him. Maybe she even knew where the tracking chip was. He could take time to look for it, pick through the weatherproof jacket’s seams and the rucksack’s many pockets and stitching, even though Rose denied she had placed it.

  But maybe it was better if he left it undisturbed. If the hunters could track him then so could the Trail, and if they realised that he’d found and discarded the chip, that might encourage them to end the hunt.

  Chris almost lost whatever fragile control he possessed. Unfairness weighed down, exhaustion pressed in, and it would have been easy to find a rock to lie behind while exposure came to claim him. He’d often wondered what it would be like to die in the hills from the cold, and had read extensively about mountain expeditions that resulted in such tragedies. Everest was littered with bodies, and he’d had dreams about being one of them, a human statue sitting forever in the icy wilderness.

  But he could not do that. His mantra was to never give in, and that outlook had got him through many tough moments in casual runs and races. During his toughest races he’d had to talk himself through dark patches. ‘Never, ever, ever give up,’ he’d said, again and again. There was always an easier time beyond those dark moments.

  And the same would happen now. He would find an easier time. Escape these bastards, rescue his family, return to a normal life.

  He cast aside the doubts and the whispering voice trying to suggest that there could never be normal again. It was his voice, but it spoke from years ago, before he’d pushed himself hard to find what he was capable of, both mentally and physically. He’d finished his first extreme Ironman race in a little over fourteen hours, just two years after losing forty pounds and running his first 5k race. Anything is possible was the Ironman slogan, and Chris believed that.

  He had to hold on to that now.

  He stood and started forward again, up into the mountains, away from the cliffs, deeper into the mists and the falling darkness. Movement would see away some of the cold that threatened to set his muscles shivering uncontrollably. He ate another energy gel and drank the last of his water, knowing he’d be able to lick moisture from rocks. There would be streams, too.

  Even if the hunters did have night vision equipment, he was willing to bet that they’d be verging on exhaustion by now, and uncertain about moving by night. Chris paused and made a decision. Like a prehistoric man, the thought of light and warmth comforted him. At least he could give himself one out of two.

  Head torch fixed and shining ahead of him, he broke from a walk into a steady, cautious run. His spirits were lifted.

  An hour later, when true darkness had fallen and a strong breeze blew across the mountain’s plateau summit, he saw the cabin.

  It was a small stone hut with no windows and a rusted metal door. There were a few of these scattered throughout Snowdonia and the ranges stretching into mid-Wales, refuges for tired climbers or walkers that were sometimes stocked with tinned food and bottled water. It was expected that they’d be left as they were found, and that any mess was cleared out. Using them was a matter of trust.

  Chris watched for a few minutes. As time ticked by and the wind grew more powerful, the horizontal rain cut into him like spears of ice, and the cold worked its way deep into his bones, the thought of the respite he’d find inside finally made him move.

  He’d seen no signs of light or occupation. There was no way the hunters could have come this far ahead of him. In fact, he believed that they’d more likely be miles behind now, working through the unfamiliar landscape and probably, hopefully, hurting. He was hurting too, but it was a familiar pain. Lactic acid, cold, hunger, he’d experienced
them all before, but worse. The animal, primeval part of him relished the discomfort, but it was time to give himself a rest.

  He paused outside the hut for a moment, ear pressed to the cold metal door. There were no sounds from inside. He grabbed the rough handle and leaned on it, pushing the door open when the latch disengaged. It scraped over the stony ground, and he opened it just enough to squeeze through.

  He slipped the rucksack from his shoulders, and as he was leaning back against the door to close it, he heard movement.

  His thoughts raced. Of course, stupid of me, idiot, the Trail will be up here to monitor the hunt, even though Rose changed the location they’ll have quickly moved and planned ahead, and now I’ve walked right into them and they’ll break my leg or hobble me to make it easier for—

  As a small light appeared close to the floor, Chris flung his rucksack at it. He grabbed the handle behind him and pulled, but the door was stuck.

  A shadow rose across the small hut, the weak light sending it dancing against the damp stone wall.

  ‘Hey,’ a voice said, and Chris shouted.

  ‘Get the fuck away from me! I’ll stab you, I have a knife, get back!’

  The shadow seemed to flicker as it flinched away, then the light low down against the wall rose as another shadow stood.

  ‘Take it easy, buddy,’ an American voice said. ‘No problem here, chill, we’re just resting up for a bit.’

  The door still would not open. Chris pressed back against it, not knowing what to do next. His knife was in the rucksack that he’d thrown at the standing man, and now he had little else on him that he could fight with. Only his fists and feet, and if they were Trail, they’d know how to fight.

  ‘You look cold,’ the first man said. He switched on a more powerful torch, aiming it at the ground so that it didn’t blind any of them. ‘Wet. Exhausted. We’re not here to hurt you, we’re just taking a break while the storm plays out. We can make you some sweet tea, if you like?’

  ‘Sweet tea,’ Chris said, and nothing had ever sounded so good. ‘You got food?’

  ‘Sure,’ the American said. He sounded strange, uncertain. ‘You, er … up here on your own?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Chris said. ‘Mountain runner.’

  ‘I’m Wes,’ the American said. ‘This is my brother-in-law, Scott.’

  ‘Chris,’ Chris said. Can I trust them? Can I really? They looked like experienced, well-equipped walkers, with all the right gear and the rugged, weather-worn faces of people used to being exposed to the elements. Could the Trail really have brought all this gear together on such short notice? He doubted it. He needed to doubt it, because he wanted nothing more than an hour’s rest, some hot sweet tea, and food.

  ‘Forgive me for saying,’ Scott said, ‘but you don’t look equipped for a mountain run in these conditions.’

  ‘No,’ Chris said. He relaxed slightly and moved away from the cold metal door. He was shivering. ‘I planned to be down by now, took longer than I thought. Dropped my fleece and the wind took it. Mobile doesn’t work.’ All lies, but he had to cover himself.

  ‘Well, I’ve got reception on mine. You can use it to contact someone, if you like,’ Wes said. ‘Here. Do what you need while we make a brew.’ It was strange hearing the American use a term like ‘make a brew’, and Chris couldn’t help smiling. The men returned his smile, and when he saw the concerned, slightly troubled glance they shared, it cemented it in his mind. They weren’t Trail. They were just ordinary guys on a mountain hike, and he’d been lucky to find them.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, taking the phone Wes held out. ‘And … I’m sorry about that. I was having a rough time out there. Found the hut, thought it’d be empty. And when I saw you guys it shocked me. Sorry. Really.’

  ‘No worries,’ Scott said. ‘Take it easy.’ But he and Wes sat close together at the other end of the hut as they set up their Primus stove, and Chris couldn’t really blame them.

  He scrolled the phone’s menu and accessed the internet. Even as he waited for the BBC News page to load he was doubting everything that had happened. It’s all a bad dream, none of this is real, nothing like this can actually be happening to me because—

  He stared at a picture of himself. It threw him for a while, because usually he saw this picture on the wall in his hallway. He was standing beside Terri on a beach holiday they’d taken in Turkey the year before, smiling broadly, and he could remember that day with a clarity that sometimes startled him. Swimming, a pizza in the poolside restaurant, drinks in the evening. It had been one of those Good Days that always seem to stick in the memory, even though as they’re happening there is sometimes little to set them apart.

  They’d blocked Terri from view, and now his smiling face stared from beneath a headline that read ‘Man on Run From Murder House’. Chris glanced up at the two men sharing the hut with him. Scott was lighting the stove, Wes was filling a small saucepan with water, neither of them paying him much attention.

  He scanned the news report. At least three dead … police have identified no motive … suspect that he is holding his wife and two children captive … ‘such a quiet, nice man, you wouldn’t expect …’

  Was that Jean? They’d gone to his elderly neighbour, who gave his kids chocolate over the garden fence and always gave Chris a bottle of wine when he cut her lawns for her, and now she thought he was a mass-murderer?

  … armed and extremely dangerous … members of public warned against approaching …

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Chris whispered, and Wes looked up from the kettle.

  ‘You okay?’

  Chris nodded, scanning the American’s face for any signs of recognition. If they’d known his face, surely they would have given some sort of sign by now? Tried to run, or attack him?

  ‘You contact anyone?’ Wes asked.

  ‘Yeah. Sent my wife an email.’ He thought for a moment. ‘You got GPS tracking in here?’

  ‘Look in “maps”.’

  Chris quickly shut down the BBC News page and scrolled the browser menu until he could delete the search history. Then he accessed the ‘maps’ app and waited while the phone placed itself. He took the map from his rucksack – tattered, soaked, but still readable – and when the phone pinned his location, he placed it on the map.

  Now he knew where he was. He saw the lake he’d swum across, and figured out which mountain he was currently almost sitting on top of. It didn’t help him that much – south had been his aim, and still was. But the information might be useful in the future.

  As of now, he was the main news headline. He’d be on TV too, that image of him from one of his happiest family times now slurred, tainted with blood. Family and friends would believe him to be a murderer. Terri’s parents, his brother and sister, their friends in Cardiff and beyond, all of them. Whatever spin the Trail had put on the story – whatever they’d told Angie and Nick, and his friend Jake – he had no way to back out of it now. To clear his name he’d have to evade them and rescue his family.

  Only then could he begin to rescue whatever might be left of his life. But he knew that once a story like this was out there, it would stick. His own story was fantastical, and even if he did by some miracle make it through with him and his family alive, most people would retain some doubt. His friends would never look at him the same again. His extended family would no longer trust him. And who would come to an architect whose face was forever associated with bloody murder?

  Chris snorted laughter. He was worried about work!

  ‘Tea’s almost done,’ Scott said.

  ‘Right,’ Chris said, nodding, laughing again. The situation was so ridiculous that he had to remind himself once more just how real it was. ‘Sorry. Thanks. Just … glad to have made it here.’

  ‘We’ve got a bit of spare kit,’ Wes said. ‘Waterproof jacket, dry socks. We’ll wait out the storm, then in the morning you can come down with us.’

  ‘No!’ Chris said, and a sense of urgency bit in. But he closed his eyes
and levelled his breathing, because there was nothing he could tell these men. He had to leave soon, but there was no reason for doing so that would stand up to scrutiny. As far as they were concerned he was almost delusional and close to death. There was no point in trying to state a case. He’d drink the tea, welcome their help, and then he’d be up and gone before they could stop him.

  He had a long way to go.

  Wes passed him a mug of hot tea, and Chris sighed and nodded his thanks. It burnt his lips but tasted wonderful, the sweet fluid coursing through his body and warming his chest and stomach. He actually felt the sugar hitting his muscles and bringing them alive again. I should dry my clothes, he thought. Spend some time resting. But he also knew that too long spent sitting down would allow his muscles to stiffen, his limbs to become heavy and weary. Keep moving forward, never give up.

  ‘So, that coat,’ he said.

  Wes frowned, then opened the big rucksack propped against the wall beside him. In a zippered pocket was a rolled-up jacket, thin but wind- and waterproof. He tossed it to Chris.

  ‘Thanks,’ Chris said. ‘Nice.’

  ‘Bought it in Boulder last year.’

  ‘I’ll return it,’ Chris said. ‘I’ll give you my email, drop me your address.’

  ‘Sure,’ Wes said. ‘We have food.’

  I need to eat. Chris looked back and forth between the two men. They were scared of him, but their concern was greater. He could see that they were worried for his safety, and just for a moment he considered telling them everything. Would they believe him? He doubted it. Perhaps such a crazy story would only make him sound more delusional.