Scream Catcher

by Vincent Zandri

  “The Player is vulnerable,” Black Dragon whispers to himself. “Now is the time for conflicting emotions to rage like a mad river inside its brain: hate, love, fear, anger, desire, desperation.”

  The beast looks up at the black sky, feels the rain pat the smooth skin on his face. Swallowing a deep, wet breath, he begins sprinting through the damp brush in the direction of the dirt access road and the white van parked alongside the soft shoulder.

  “Time for you to score some precious Hit Points.”

  Inside the van he will find his pepper-ball launcher. In his mind, he can already hear the screams.

  65

  Tongue Mountain

  Friday, 1:21 A.M.

  Closing the picture phone Jude stores it back inside his jeans pocket. With Maglite in hand, he aims it at the stand of trees directly ahead of him. Shifting clockwise he begins to pivot on the balls of his booted feet like a dancer pirouetting in slow motion. He keeps this rotation up until he’s able to recognize one of the narrow foot trails that, according to the topo map, cut through the woods and lead eventually to either Rosie or Jack.

  Jude is trying to think clearly, without panic. Doing his best not to lose it. Swallowing a dry, bitter breath, he speaks to himself in a calm, collected manner: You need to strike a bearing, Parish. Figure out exactly where you are in relation to your son and wife. So that you don’t start walking around in circles.

  He opens the plastic Swiss Army compass, lays it out flat on top of the map. He goes to shine the light onto the map’s surface in order to coordinate the device’s true north with that of the topo map. But that’s when something begins to go wrong. The Maglite begins to fade. The once powerful bright white beam starts diminishing to a kind of yellow half light.

  Pulse picks up.

  He opens his mouth, allows some of the rain to fall onto his tongue. He inhales slowly, deliberately.

  He can only wonder what he’ll do without light.

  Exactly what can he accomplish in the pitch dark?

  The Maglite provides more than just a means for him to see his way through the woods or to strike a proper bearing on the topo map. It’s also his security blanket; a way to fend off total blind exposure; a way to fight off the demon.

  A shield between me and the dark monster.

  He shakes the Maglite as if the action will recharge the failing batteries.

  But the effort proves useless.

  One moment he stands rationally, almost calmly, in the deep woods while attempting to establish a compass reading. And the next he finds himself at the mercy of the darkness and the rain—at the mercy of a man who confuses video games for real life.

  Both brain and common sense are telling him to use whatever available power he has left in the Maglite to enter onto the trailhead, begin the rescue game—bearing be damned.

  The dim yellow light poised on the wet earth before him, Jude makes his way across the clearing in what he assumes is the direction of his wife’s position.

  He’s standing at the edge of the chosen trail when the Maglite goes dead.

  66

  Tongue Mountain

  Friday, 1:23 A.M.

  Schizophrenic weather.

  Late summer rain is once again pouring down in sheets while a heavy rain cloud surrounds the mountain like a vapor ring around a clenched fist. Jude releases the now useless compass, allows it to hang from his neck by its attached heavy-coiled string. As for the topo map, it’s become useless without a light to read it by. Which is why he shoves it up underneath his T-shirt, tucks the bottom third of the wet plastic into the waist of his jeans.

  Directly ahead of him in the not too distant straight ahead come the intermittent explosions of lightning. Without them the darkness of the deep woods would be absolute and impenetrable. With the cloud cover, there are no stars shining bright in the Adirondack sky. No moon—nothing to navigate the thick terrain by. There exists only a low-lying cloud cover that veils the mountaintop. Caught in the heavy cover, he cannot discern in which direction the mountain might be situated—whether its peak is located behind or ahead of his position.

  Then a quick bolt of lightning takes him by surprise.

  The flash of electric light seems different from all the rest in one important respect. The bolt has caught his attention just as he begins the sightless journey onto the narrow trailhead. As he’s about to place boot heel to the soft mud-covered floor, the lightning strikes the ground somewhere off in the distant valley. Because of its flat, dark appearance, Jude becomes convinced that he’s looking directly at Lake George, perhaps even the blacked-out village rooftops situated directly to its west.

  If that’s the case, then Lennox has kidnapped us, hauled us up onto Tongue Mountain … If it’s the truth, he would have cut the chains that secure the gates at the base of the mountain. Because no one in their right mind climbs Tongue in August. Not when the rattlesnake migration is at its seasonal peak.

  Jude is a writer now. He recalls what Hemingway said about overcoming fear. It requires the ability to suspend your imagination. But Jude can’t help but let his imagination run away with itself. Standing still, he begins to feel as if a dozen snakes are crawling over his boot tops, climbing up his pant legs, wrapping themselves around his waist and neck, poising themselves to strike their fangs into wet skin. The sensation makes him want to scream. But he knows it’s just his brain fucking with him.

  Get a hold of yourself, Parish. If there are snakes, they will be sure to stay out of your way because after all, they are more afraid of you than you are of them …

  He inhales a deep breath, exhales it, tries to get his head together, tries to think logically—without the demon clouding his judgment. The distant lightning strikes provide just enough light to tell him that the path he’s about to tread will most likely lead to Rosie first. He knows this because the lake and the village are located due east from his position on the mountain. Whether he likes it or not, that’s his heading.

  Jude is a blind man forced to move by touch, by sensory perception, one foot before the other, the rain coming down stronger now against face and head, running down a scrunched brow in streaks.

  From out of nowhere a thin branch slaps him in the face.

  A direct hit that causes exhausted eyes to tear. The only way for him to know for certain that he’s following the path is to stay free and clear of the brush and the trees. Do it by touch, arms and hands extended straight out in front of him while he treks.

  Another lightning bolt reveals a landscape of thick, dripping growth. Pine trees, mulberry bushes intermixed with birches and oaks. Still another bolt reveals something scattering before him—something alive, quick and fleeting.

  Instinct causes him to drop to his knees while gripping the Maglite, holding it out before him—his only available weapon. The thunder explodes. For a split second, the concussion takes his breath away, shakes the ground at his feet. But once again, the lightning has given Jude sight. It’s allowed him to spot the beast, if only for an instant.

  But that single instant is all it takes to know that Lennox is now blocking his forward progress on the trail. The Black Dragon, black-painted head no longer covered in long white dreads. Covering his eyes is a green-tinted night vision scope. The beast stands four-square in the center of the narrow trail, heavy rainwater washing over his rippled, muscle-bound body.

  The dark monster …

  Blindness returns to Jude.

  But not for long.

  More lightning illuminates the sky. Another brief view of the path comes and goes with all the speed of a heartbeat.

  This time the path is clear.

  Like the lightning, Lennox has vanished in the twinkling of an instant.

  Now you see the beast. Now you don’t.

  67

  Tongue Mountain

  Friday, 1:30 A.M.

  Walking without tripping or falling has become a near impossibility.

  With every step Jude takes along the tr
ail in the darkness comes a branch slapped to the face, a tree trunk to the thigh, a boulder to the shin. He catches a thorn from a mulberry branch that hangs over the trail. It tears into his jeans, penetrates the skin on his lower right calf. He knows he’s cut. Not because he can feel the sting. But because he can feel the blood trickling down the calf muscle, warm and wet, the thick consistency not at all like the cold rain.

  It’s a struggle to get anywhere in the total dark.

  Five minutes of walking (stumbling) and he manages to cover no more than thirty or forty feet. Whether or not he is maintaining a straight line is open to interpretation.

  Might as well be crawling.

  The only way to continue with the blind trek is to drop down onto hands and knees, feel his way along the gravel trail the same way an animal might do it: by touch, by smell, by sound.

  It’s exactly what he does.

  From down on all fours Jude crawls over the smooth rocks and mud-covered gravel towards the sound of water. Not rainwater falling from the sky, but stream water running heavy into the pool depicted on the topo map. The more he crawls the louder, more forceful it becomes.

  The pool is very close to Rosie’s position … Maybe I’m closer than I think.

  Just the thought of closing in on his wife’s position affords him a trace of hope. And a trace is better than nothing at all.

  Encouraged, Jude feels suddenly lighter.

  He begins to move with increased speed along the trail while the sound of rushing water becomes louder, more forceful. A sudden burst of energy and strength fill his veins. But when he feels the violent slap against the center of his lower spine, all strength in legs and arms gives way. He drops down chest-first onto the path like a sack of rags and bones, face buried in the mud as though having taken a bullet to the back. In his panicked mind, Jude knows that it’s quite possible he’s been shot.

  * * *

  The ground zero of pain is located in the lower spine, where it ripples throughout his entire body. That much he is sure of. The pain shoots up and down the backbone with surprising efficiency. He might roll over, maybe bleed to death. But then he knows a little something about pain besides the way it makes him feel. He knows for instance that pain can be a good thing.

  Pain means I’m alive … It means I’m not paralyzed.

  He attempts to move his feet, then his legs. Until he pulls himself up from off the ground. He leans up straight, feels the welt swelling against his lower spine. From that blind position he has no way of knowing if a bullet has lodged there or not.

  Nothing larger than a .22 cal.—Lennox’s preferred weapon of choice… Anything larger, I’m cut in two …

  Then through the tree leaves comes the quick whoosh and another stinging slap. This one against the right arm. The sting is powerful enough to suck his breath away like cigarette smoke through rotating fan blades.

  Another powerful slap to the side of the head causes him to drop down hard onto his left side. His body roars with ache while multiple rounds come at him fast. Some missing altogether, some falling short, some slamming against the ground only inches from his face, water and mud splashing into eyes, ears, nose and mouth. Rapid-fire rounds that whoosh and burst through the trees, but not a hint of gunfire. Not a single muzzle flash.

  From down on the ground Jude reaches across his chest, touches the spot of impact along his right arm. A thick bruise or welt is already forming on the bicep. He brings fingertips back to his face, raises them up to lips and nose. The thick pasty substance that covers the finger pads is not water. He can only assume that the liquid is blood. But then the smell is not blood either; nor is the taste.

  The smell and taste are acidic, toxic.

  The fumes they give off make his eyes sting and tear.

  The realization sinks in: Lennox has decided to complicate the kill game by adding a pepper-ball obstacle. Just like his first two Lake George victims. Jude has never been shot with a pepper-ball before. He’s never even seen a pepper-ball or its launcher until his most recent visit to the L.G.P.D. village precinct. He’s known some people who through the years have taken real bullets and survived to tell their stories. Each one of them, without fail, attested to the fact that when a bullet enters your flesh it does not hurt. At least, not right away. Instead it disables you, sucks the breath from your lungs, knocks you unconscious or on occasion, makes you bleed out, sometimes to death. But it almost never causes immediate pain due to the onset of shock.

  Jude can’t say the same thing for the pepper-ball.

  Its sting is violent enough to steal his breath away; enough to mute his screams. The only saving grace is the rain. Rain turns most of the pepper dust into mush. It prevents him from going into a disabling fit of coughing, tearing, choking.

  Multiple rounds strike all around him, fast and furious.

  The rounds keep him pinned down in the wet mud. He knows he has to do something. He can either lie there and waste precious time, worry over the pain. Or he can make a move, get himself downhill and out of range.

  A scream pierces the darkness. A yelp coming from behind him along the high ground. The yelp cuts through flesh and bone.

  The scream catcher is having the time of his life.

  Jude makes a silent three count.

  Breathing deep, he pushes himself up onto his feet, bolts off through the brush.

  68

  Tongue Mountain

  Friday, 1:38 A.M.

  Jude runs.

  It doesn’t seem to matter where to.

  For him, the entire black mountain forest has become an unrelenting obstacle. Branches and twigs whip and flail at his face, little devils stinging arms and chest. He sprints full speed, off trail, in a directionless panic, desperate to get himself out of range of the pepper-balls.

  His escape should be a good thing. But it turns out to be a grave mistake when a head-on collision with a tree truck knocks him cold.

  * * *

  Unconscious darkness.

  Just how long it’s lasted, Jude has no idea. Lying on his side on the wet ground he has no real memory of the violent collision either. All he knows is that one moment he’s running like hell, the pepper-balls whizzing by his head. And the next, he’s opening his eyes onto the pain and the tighter than tight pressure that begins and ends in the center of his face. Like two separate sticks that have lodged themselves up inside his nasal passages, the tightness throbs and stings. It shoots up through the sinuses, into the eyeballs making eyes tear, making head ring.

  Raising his right hand, Jude extends his index finger, gently touches the crest of his nose. He feels the surface sting where the cartilage has fractured, the skin split down the middle. He can breathe, but only through his mouth.

  Blood combines with the rain, runs thick onto lips and tongue. It tastes of salt and water. There is this sick inside-out sensation in his belly. He hears another shriek coming from not far behind him. He hears the rustling of leaves and branches. It sounds like a bear crashing through the woods.

  That’s when he feels the snakes on his legs.

  Maybe he can’t see them, but he can feel their thick, linear bodies slithering over his lower legs, one after the other, as if he’s gone down the middle of the very path in which the rattlesnakes are migrating from Lake George up the Tongue mountainside. It’s one thing to feel the snakes, but it’s another to be blinded to their presence; to know that at any minute they might sink their fangs into his legs.

  He has to move.

  Inhaling a breath, he bounds himself up onto two feet.

  A pair of snakes fall to the ground. He can hear the sound of their rubbery bodies coiling against the leaves and the pine needles. He hears their rattling tails. With the powerless Maglite still gripped in his right hand, he shuffles through the thick woods. Not in any specific direction, but away from the snakes; away from the beast that crashes through the trees.

  Then without warning, Jude falls.

  69

  Tong
ue Mountain

  Friday, 1:43 A.M.

  Through the green-tinted vision of the DVND, Black Dragon observes the Player do a sudden, jerky come-to only three or four minutes after colliding head-on with the tree-trunk. With a kind of amused amazement he watches the long, green-tinted snakes that slither and crawl over the Player’s legs. He recalls a passage in the Player’s memoir that details its specific fears, phobias and demons, one of them being spiders, another closed spaces, and yet another snakes. What a perfect setting the Black Dragon chose for this all important kill game’s second level.

  A dark, eerie snake-filled stage.

  When the Player manages somehow to get its head together, it pulls itself up off the muddy floor only to resume a panic-run through the brush in the direction of the cliff.

  Black Dragon cradles the pepper-ball launcher inside his right arm. He bulls and bushwhacks his way through the heavy foliage, never taking his eyes off the Player even for a second. He feels certain that it is about to take a flying leap off the cliff edge, the carefully planned kill game now about to come to a disappointing, premature end without the Player’s recorded screams.

  But then he sees the Player make a kind of blind, quick left turn before dropping out of sight. Not off the cliff. But into the whirlpool situated at the far end of the stream.

  * * *

  Glens Falls Medical Center

  Friday, 1:43 A.M.

  Following the emergency surgery to suture his bullet wound, Mack is wheeled from recovery to a private room. The room offers a blacked-out view of the Glens Falls downtown and beyond it, the southernmost point of Lake George. As if the wounded Captain cares about the scenery at this point.

  Looking up from his hospital bed, he groggily views the mustached face of Lt. Lino.