by Brian Hodge
His eyes swept the forest, back and forth, as he mentally challenged whatever it was to show itself; but when he looked around and saw nothing threatening, he felt suddenly very foolish. Nothing but quiet, peaceful woods surrounded him. Clumps of leaves were just that—clumps of leaves. Branches weren't hands or claws at all. They were just branches.
But he stayed crouching swinging the knife back and forth in front of him, the blade slicing the air as he turned first one way, then another. No unusual motion stirred in the forest, but he still didn't believe he'd been tricked by his imagination. What he had seen... that slouched, shambling figure... had been real. Sure, maybe then he got a little too worked up about it, but it had been there, right outside the tent.
Maybe it had been just an animal, either checking out this new, man-smelling intrusion in its domain, or on its way from the stream after getting a drink. Maybe that's all it was. But as Kip straightened up to his full height, he couldn't let go of the gnawing thought that whatever it was was still out there, and if it had wanted to be seen, he would have seen it.
A sudden twisting in his stomach reminded him that he still hadn't eaten. It was well past noon, going on two o'clock. Mindful to keep the knife close at hand at all times, he took one of the peanut butter sandwiches he had packed, grabbed his metal cup, and walked down to the stream for some water.
He chose one of the larger boulders at the water's edge for a seat, unwrapped the sandwich, scooped up a cupful of water, and sat cross-legged while he ate contentedly. He chewed the sticky peanut butter thoroughly before washing it down with generous gulps of clear, cold water. Still, nothing he did or thought about removed the edge of tension that had colored the day. Even with a clear blue vault of sky overhead, he felt as though a dark cloud had moved in front of the sun and was obscuring it.
He was just finishing the last few bites of the sandwich when, from across the stream, he heard the sounds of someone walking noisily up the path toward the Indian Caves.
4
By noon that day, Watson was as close as he could get to being stone drunk without passing out. He had started drinking the night before, as soon as he'd gotten home from jail. Other than a few breaks of shallow sleep sometime toward dawn, he had been drinking all day. Three "dead soldiers" lay on the floor by his feet.
He was sitting in his living room, slouched in an easy chair. The only light cutting the gloom was a few dusty, golden shafts of sunlight that shot through the holes and rips in the drawn window shades. The T.V. was on, but the volume was turned way down. Discolored, ghostlike figures slid silently across the screen, but even when Watson's eyes fixed on them, his mind didn't register any meaning to their silent motions.
Robot-like, his right hand gripped the clear bottle, and amber liquid splashed against his lips and tongue as he mechanically raised the bottle, gulped, and then lowered his arm. The gulping sound intruded so much on the silence of the house it seemed unnatural.
As he sat there drinking—"washing his tonsils," as his father used to call it—his mind tossed back and forth over what had happened yesterday at the town jail, and what he thought. No. What he knew was going to happen within the next few days.
"Untcigahunk," he whispered softly, his voice grating and sounding as pleasant as a file rasping against metal.
His other hand dropped to the floor beside the chair and, after fumbling about for a moment like a blind spider, finally touched and clasped the polished wooded stock of his twelve gauge. The cops had confiscated his .22 after his night-hunting incident. But he wasn't lulled by the thought that having a shotgun close by would be any real security. Not at all. When it came to the untcigahunk, there wasn't any security. If they came for you, fifteen shotguns wouldn't be enough.
Watson grumbled deep in his chest, raised a wad of mucus to his mouth, rolled it around on his tongue for a moment, and then spit it viciously into the wastebasket beside his chair. He smacked his lips, then raised his free hand to wipe away any traces from his mouth. Then he tilted his head back again and let another blast of whiskey rush down his throat like liquid flame.
No matter how much he drank, though, no matter how far he went down that dizzying track, he couldn't stop thinking that single word—
Untcigahunk!
It echoed like he was shouting it inside a deep cavern.
Untcigahunk!
Other than a few trips to the bathroom or to the kitchen for replacement bottles, Watson had been sitting in his chair the entire time since his release from jail. It wasn't like he was expecting anything to happen. Not yet, anyway. But in his alcohol-misted brain, he considered some of the things he could do just to be safe.
His first thought, and he still felt it was the safest, most reasonable idea, was simply to stay home. If he treated the situation like most sensible folks treated the idea of a walk in the woods during hunting season—in other words, you just didn't do it—everything would probably be okay.
Certainly, along with staying out of the woods, he also would not go outside after dark no matter what. Even—May the Great Spirit protect us!—if he ran out of whiskey, he didn't plan on leaving his house unless the sun was shining. His grandfather had told him that the untcigahunk couldn't stand direct sunlight. It wouldn't kill them, but it certainly bothered them and slowed them down. Because they lived most of their lives underground, they preferred to lurk the shadows during the day if they came out at all. But the night... the night was theirs.
Beyond this simple thought, Watson's mind was confused. Whenever he knew the untcigahunk were about, he considered nailing boards across all the windows in the house. He didn't care what the people said about him in town. Damn then, anyway.
Again, though, it wasn't like it really mattered. If they wanted to get him, boards, even iron bars would hold them back only for so long. They would have time; they'd come at night and have plenty of time to get him if they came for him.
The thoughts that plagued him most were: Would they want him? Had he, somehow, made his presence known to them? Would they find him?
This made him consider things that had happened around town since the last time they had come. And it was when he thought about this that the back of his throat felt especially parched. He needed a solid belt of whiskey to steady his shaking hands because he knew that white man—Bill Howard, the lawyer—had started building his house on Kaulback Road again.
That was the worst thing that had happened recently.
Watson wasn't sure how he knew it was so bad, but he knew. Oh, sweet Jesus, he knew. Because he knew all about what had happened out at the house site five years ago when Howard's wife had been killed.
He had heard all the theories and suspicions (a few people had actually pointed the guilty finger at him), and through it all, he had known not because he had been there or had seen anything. But he knew the untcigahunk had to have been involved. Much later, he had gone out to the construction site to see for himself, and he had seen everything he needed to see. If it happened again, if Howard did the same thing he had done five years ago and stirred up the untcigahunk like a hive of hornets, then...
Watson shivered and, tilting back his head, took another gulp of whiskey. The tension coiling inside him was like a poisonous snake, getting ready to strike. And he knew as surely as he knew they were returning that there was going to be more trouble... more blood... more death.
The figures on the television screen game show mouthed silent words of delight as they leaped around excitedly when they saw the pile of gifts they could win. Watson, nearly hypnotized, stared blankly at them. The pale, flickering figures made him think that's what he and all people must look like to the night-vision eyes of the untcigahunk. They were all small, silent ghosts flitting about which could tear apart and dissolve so quickly and easily.
His hand curled around the stock of his shotgun. He lowered the nearly empty bottle to the floor and, holding the gun with both hands, pressed it to his shoulder and sighted along the barrel at
the pale figures on the T.V. screen. They dodged in and out of his vision. He thumbed the safety off and, just like his grandfather had taught him, he took a slow, steady breath, held it for a few seconds, and then slowly squeezed the trigger.
There was a sudden explosion of glass as the buckshot shattered the television screen. A puff of blue smoke formed a near perfect mushroom cloud and rose until it broke like a crashing wave against the ceiling. Then it spread out slowly, hanging in the air like a wreath above the demolished television. Sparks snapped and sizzled like hot fat on a frying pan, and broken glass tinkled to the floor like spilled diamonds.
For several seconds, Watson didn't realize what he had done. The kick of the shotgun butt against his shoulder socket, the sound of the shot, even the crackling of burned-out wires barely brushed the surface of his awareness. What he was seeing on the inner screen of his mind was a darker horror. In his alcohol-fumed imagination, the twisted wreckage of the T.V. seemed to form a face—a small, brown face that was vaguely human but possessed an inhuman cruelty.
His hands clenched the shotgun so tightly they trembled. He had lowered the shotgun to his lap after the first shot, but now, as he stared into the darkened corner of the room, he saw first one, then several distorted faces. Uttering a low cry, he pumped the gun. The spent shell jumped out and fell with a clink to the floor, and a new shell slid into the chamber. Quickly Watson cracked off another shot, reloaded, and shot a third time.
The plastic cabinet of the T.V. instantly became a shattered mess. Broken glass and severed wires jumped with each hit as Watson fired again and again until he was out of ammunition. When a tongue of flame started to lick up from behind what had been his television set, the faces dissolved, and Watson finally snapped out of it enough to realize the danger. He dropped the shotgun and leaped to his feet. Snatching the tattered afghan from the back of the couch, he beat furiously at the fire. Melting plastic and wires snagged the afghan and flew into the air as he flailed. It was only by luck that the flames didn't catch on anything else like the curtains or the sofa. The smoldering guts of the television were strewn across most of the living room.
Once he realized what was happening, Watson ran into the kitchen, filled a cooking pan with water, and then tossed it over the still burning mess. Milky steam billowed up to the ceiling, and the smell of burning plastic gagged him. It was only after dousing it four or five times that he was certain the danger of the fire spreading was over. As a last measure, though, he approached the T.V. and, using his foot, snapped the cord from the socket. Backing away slowly like if he was being cautious around a wounded animal, he raised the shades, threw open the windows to let the smoke out. Exhausted, he slumped back down in his chair.
Bars of sunlight cut through the remnants of yellow smoke that looked sickly and old. Before long, the suction of the breeze wafted the worst of the smoke and smell outside, but the cloying smell of burned electrical equipment stuck in the back of his throat like phlegm. And there it would stay, Watson thought, unless he did something about it. He reached down beside the chair until his fingers found the cool, slim neck of the bottle. He unscrewed the cap and, looking up at the ceiling, tossed his head back and let the whiskey surge down his throat.
5
Kip dropped to the ground and clambered around to the back of the rock as he watched and waited to see who was approaching. One hand was splayed against the gritty stone while the other clutched his metal cup. He crouched down low and started edging around the rock to keep out of sight. The sounds the person was making crashing through the underbrush got so loud Kip thought it sounded like the person was caught in the underbrush and was trying to fight his way free.
A fitful breeze rustled Kip's hair. He tensed when a gust of wind blew and the empty sandwich baggie he'd left on the rock lift up into the air. It flipped over a few times before it settled on the flowing water and, like a slip of ice, was swept downstream. Luckily it had disappeared in the swirling water before it gave him away to whoever was coming, but Kip tensed when he saw his older brother break through the brush into the clearing by the Indian Caves.
Thankfully, he was alone, but even out here in the woods where there was no one to see him, Marty walked with an arrogant swagger that bugged the crap out of Kip. Kip wondered if his brother was planning to meet up with anyone else out here. A sickening, sinking feeling filled his stomach when he thought that several of Marty's asshole friends might be planning to party out here today.
"Shit," he hissed as he edged around the stone to watch. If Marty's friends showed up and they stayed out here all day, Kip knew he was screwed. There was no way he could finish getting his campsite ready. They'd see and hear him for sure. And what if some of them crossed the stream and found his tent? Marty would recognize it, and then he'd be really screwed.
Marty paused for only a moment outside the cave entrance. He had a smug smile plastered across his face as he glanced all around at the woods. Apparently satisfied that he was alone, he ducked into the dark slit of the opening.
Kip had no idea what to do next. He couldn't very well stay here, hiding behind a boulder all day. But if he took a chance and tried to move, maybe to get up into the brush where he'd pitched the tent, Marty might see him. Then, all of his plans would be ruined.
Kip decided the best thing to do might be to draw attention away from his campsite. If he got caught, that was one thing, but he had to make sure neither Marty nor anyone else found his tent. It was hidden well enough as long as he could draw his brother away from it.
Cautiously, Kip straightened up. His legs were tingling with pins and needles, and he was thankful to be moving to get the circulation flowing. He listened intensely, but all he could hear were the sounds of the woods around him. Try as he might, he couldn't hear anything coming from the cave.
"Thanks for screwing up my day, asshole," he whispered as he crept around the rock, all the while keeping his gaze fixed on the cave opening. He was curious what Marty was doing in the cave, and he decided to do a bit of spying on his own.
With a couple of nimble jumps, he made his way across the stream and then, ducking low, ran up the slope above the cave entrance. The hill was steepest on the side of the cave entrance and was covered by a thin stand of maple saplings. Twigs and dried leaves snapped and cracked underfoot, but Kip was counting on the muffling effects inside the cave to mask his movements.
There was thick brush all around the entrance to the cave, but from years of playing out here, Kip knew the best place to hide while spying on anyone who was inside the cave. Several boulders to one side of the path provided good cover, and from there he knew he could get a pretty good look into the cave. By going up over the crest of the hill, he could approach those rocks with the least chance of being detected even if Marty knew he was there and was watching for him.
Kip moved cautiously on the hill above the cave entrance, confident Marty didn't know he was up there. But as he was starting down the other side, he slipped on the smooth stone. As his feet flew out from under him, his body twisted around. His knee hit the ground hard enough to send a jolt of pain up his leg. Feet first and belly down, he started sliding down the slope, pushing a leafy spray ahead of him.
His shirt rolled up to his armpits, and hidden rocks and roots scraped his stomach and chest. He whimpered softly as he fell, knowing that mere yards away the slope dropped off a cliff of about eight feet. The only thought in his mind was that, when he catapulted out over the edge in an explosion of rocks and leaves, the fall probably wouldn't be enough to kill him, but it was going to hurt like hell.
But just when he had given up all hope and was preparing himself for the pitch over the edge and the hard landing in front of the cave, his hand snagged onto a maple sapling. His fingers reflexively tightened even though it felt like his hand was going to rip off.
Quickly, he scrambled to his feet, brushing the dirt and leaves from his pants. His T-shirt was stuck up high on his sweat-slick back, and the many l
acerations on his stomach were already stinging like cat scratches.
Once Kip had his feet planted solidly on the ground, he leaned forward, hanging onto one of the thin trees. He took a few seconds to inspect his wounds. Thin pink lines beaded with blood had raked in cross-thatch designs over his winter-whitened skin. The sweat that trickled down across them sent pain zinging along his nerves. He could see the cuts weren't all that serious. They certainly weren't as serious as the injuries Marty would give him if he found him out here spying on him. Standing completely still, he tried to slow his breathing as he held his shirt away from his chest with both hands.
He tensed, waiting for Marty to react and come screaming out of the cave and accuse him of following him here. There was no way he couldn't have heard the commotion. Rocks and leaves had showered down in front of the cave entrance, but as he waited and listened, the only sound he heard was the wind, fluttering the leaves overhead. No burst of yelling exploded from the cave. No anger-twisted face appeared over the edge of the hill. No threatening, looming hulk scrambled up the hill toward him.
Nothing.
No Marty.
Kip couldn't believe it.
How would he ever have convinced Marty he was doing anything but spying on him and the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that's what he'd say to him if Marty caught him. After months of planning, he wasn't going to let something as foolish as a little fall ruin everything.
While Kip leaned against the sapling, hurting but grateful he hadn't been discovered, a sudden scream—nearly inhuman—issued from the cave. It was oddly magnified by the stone walls, and it filled the peaceful forest like the ringing of a gunshot.
