The Tracker

by John Hunt

  BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.

  Taylor squealed and pushed past a man with a walker, throwing a winded, “Sorry!” over his shoulder and when he did that, he saw him, it, the thing of nightmares back in the crowd, getting closer, the dark hat bobbing amongst strangers. Taylor could tell by the tightening of eyes and the rubbing of elbows as though a sudden chill took over they knew something dangerous was nearby. They couldn’t see the Tracker. They only felt his presence. If they did see him, they would doubt their sanity. Even now, running through a crowded mall, Taylor doubted his own because how could this be?

  Taylor burst out of the mall doors at the rear of the plaza and ran to his right. Running down a small, one way street lined with stores, Taylor looked for an escape. No cabs nearby only people. People crowding the sidewalks maybe discussing where they should eat or get a drink. People submerged in normalcy unaware of what chased Taylor. There were no monsters in their world.

  BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.

  Still close. Only Taylor didn’t see him. He had created some space between them since leaving the mall. Nothing behind him. Behind him were only people staring at him like he were crazy and maybe he was but he wasn’t going to stand still and wait for the Tracker to test the theory out. Hell no. Taylor, sweating and heaving, faced forward and there he was, standing not fifteen feet away, the white of his teeth welcoming Taylor. He skidded to a stop and sensing a door to his right, he darted to the vestibule and yanked it open.

  A restaurant. He had run into a restaurant. The air heavy with garlic and gentle music. A woman had a spool of spaghetti on her fork and had lifted it to her mouth when Taylor barged in. She halted, taken in his appearance, confusion turning to fear and Taylor ran past her, the red EXIT sign hanging above the hallway entrance a beacon to his panicked flight. He bumped into chairs and tables. People stood and backed away from him. Taylor didn’t care. He only wanted to get away. He pushed through a door and stopped inside a kitchen with a long stainless steel counter lined with order stubs on the top rail. The noise of banging pots and running water competed with orders being shouted.

  A man wearing a hair-net examining the order stubs turned his head at Taylor’s entrance. He furrowed his brow and peered behind Taylor, expecting someone else.

  “Sir. You can’t be back here.”

  “Is there a back door?”

  “What?”

  “Is there a back door out of here?”

  “You can’t go out that way.”

  “Please!”

  A woman in a white collared shirt, black skirt and blonde hair pulled back into a bun came in behind Taylor and bumped into him.

  “Oh, excuse me.” She frowned and said, “You can’t be back here.”

  The man said, “I already told him that.”

  “You have to let me out the back! Please!”

  The man picked up a white towel and wiped his hands in it. He said, “Why? The cops after you or something?”

  Hearing the word ‘cops’ the lady backed away from Taylor.

  BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.

  “Do you have a fucking back door or what? Please!”

  “Hey, now. Settle down, big fella,” said the man. He looked at the woman and motioned with his head for her to leave.

  Taylor walked further into the kitchen. He hoped to find another red EXIT sign to lead the way and the man backed away from him with his hands raised. Jesus! They were afraid of him! A teenager stood at a sink with a plate in his hand and a towel in the other. Another young dark haired teen wearing jeans so tight her belly spilled over the waist, clutched a knife in her fist.

  BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.

  The door swung open behind him. The Tracker stepped through.

  No, no, no. It couldn’t end like this.

  “I just want to get out of here.”

  The man said, “You still can bud. Just go back the way you came. No one will bother you.”

  “Let me out the back!”

  The Tracker watched from the corner.

  “I can’t. It’s blocked up with today’s deliveries. Just turn around and get out of here.”

  “No, no, no, can’t you…” Taylor paused, about to say ‘can’t you see him?’

  They couldn’t see him. Of course they couldn’t because Taylor didn’t tell them about him or indicate by gesture the Tracker was there. Taylor almost blurted it out. The Tracker stood in the corner and watched the show, waiting for Taylor to do something. Taylor had nowhere to go, stuck in the kitchen, it had time to toy with him, to see if he’d break the rules again. The pressure built inside. He wiped a hand across his forehead and sweat squeegeed into his eyes. It stung and he shut his eyes. He slid the backpack off and let it fall to the floor. It had grown heavy and it made him hot wearing it, so hot he was burning up inside. Tears and sweat coated his face. He rubbed his hands on his face and through his hair. The man staring at him as though he grown a butt hole in the middle of his forehead said to someone, to all of them maybe, “Get out of here. Call the police,” and Taylor laughed and sobbed at the same time.

  They were seeing a man come apart in their kitchen. A man undone by fear and exhaustion. Taylor knew he appeared crazy and he could do nothing to pull himself together. He had no control over anything, least of all himself. The Tracker grinned. Drool oozed from his mouth and he rubbed his long-fingered hands together, anticipating the giant Taylor-meal in front of him. Taylor had seen what he could do. He effortlessly twisted a man’s head around. He crushed a woman’s skull with his foot. What would he do to Taylor? Would he flay him with his teeth? Would he pull out his eyes and pop them in his mouth like grapes? Would he keep Taylor alive for as long as he could, drawing out the pain and despair until he went insane and begged for death?

  Taylor shuddered and shook, sobs wracking his large frame. He didn’t want to die like that. And he knew what he had to do to buy himself some time. It wasn’t a hard choice. It wasn’t much of a choice at all, really. Don’t do it and be eaten or do it and maybe survive until midnight and this game would be over and the Tracker would return to wherever evil like him spawned from. If the Tracker kept his word. Who trusts the word of monsters? It didn’t matter if he trusted him or not. If he gave in, he’d be dead in the next minute and he’d never know if he could have been trusted. He wondered what it would look like? To be ripped apart in front of these people who couldn’t see the Tracker? Crazy thoughts. Just do it. Do the coward thing and survive and worry about the guilt later.

  When Taylor glanced at the Tracker he was nodding, like he knew what Taylor planned and was urging him to do it. The man in the hair-net and the blonde woman were all that remained. The other two had left without Taylor noticing. Probably out through the secret back door they wouldn’t let him use, the one blocked with secret deliveries or something. The man held a knife and the woman’s eyes moved from Taylor to the man and back to Taylor with a hand hovering over her heart. Police were probably on their way. They’d be too late…again. The Tracker stepped further into the room towards Taylor. In order to get to the door and out of the restaurant Taylor would have to pass him. No way out.

  The long fingers of the Tracker danced like spider legs against his thighs. His black, swirling eyes were focused on Taylor. His jaw opened and his tongue slithered out, cutting itself on the teeth before touching the lips.

  The Tracker said, “Time for dinner Taylor. I can’t wait to find out what you taste like. Or you can do what you want to do, what a coward would do, to buy yourself more time. You know you want to. I’m amazed it is taking you this long to decide.”

  Taylor whimpered and gave in. It was his only chance and if others had to die, so be it. He had to.

  Taylor turned to the man and s
aid, “Help me! Please help me!”

  The man frowned and said, “What?”

  Taylor said to the woman while pointing at the Tracker, “He’s right there! Can’t you see him? He’s going to kill me!”

  Her eyebrows tightened in a line as she backed into a corner. Her lips quivered and she opened her mouth to say something but then the Tracker had her by the throat and he said to Taylor, “I knew I could count on you, boy!”

  The woman’s scream turned into gurgling with the Tracker’s hand around her neck. The man ran to help her with his knife raised and the Tracker back-handed him across the face. His feet shot out and he fell to the floor onto his back with an ‘oomph’ expelling from his surprised mouth. The back of his head hit the tile with a clunk and he closed his eyes and opened them and struggled to his feet only he couldn’t get them under him. He swayed on his hands and knees drunkenly.

  The woman’s screaming shut off. The Tracker tightened his grip on her throat. Her face bloated red, her eyes protruded and her hands struck at the wrist holding her. Did she see him in these final moments? Did the terror of his aspect materialize in front of her when he put his hands on her? He knew that she did see him. Because Taylor broke the rules and that’s all it took to share the reality of the Tracker.

  Taylor backed away from the Tracker as he carried her across the kitchen. Taylor’s back touched the wall and still he pushed with his legs as though he could go through the wall. Confused as to why he wasn’t moving backwards, Taylor stood mesmerized. Along one wall stood a large stone oven. The kind used to bake pizza so the owners could promote their Italian pies had been oven-baked in the old-world style. The woman’s legs kicked at the air. When the Tracker opened one of the huge doors and she realized what he meant to do, her feet and arms flailed even more although Taylor had no idea how she hadn’t passed out at this point with her face as red as it was. With one hand on her throat, the Tracker trapped her ankles in his other hand and turned her so she was horizontal in the air. He pushed her into the oven and tried to close the door. It wouldn’t close all the way so he pushed and shoved the door on her. Screams, smoke and sizzling noises escaped the open gap. A small woman, the opening still seemed too narrow and it didn’t have the height to accommodate her. Over her screams, the Tracker pushed her in deeper, cramming his fist into her stomach and putting the heel of his hand on her head. Once in to his satisfaction, he slammed the door against her body until it held shut. Pork chops, Taylor thought, burning human smells like pork chops. Taylor puked on his feet.

  The screaming and accompanying thumps from the oven slowed. Taylor knew he should be running out of here, getting the fuck away from this insanity only the horror held him still as though the tile had grown over his feet. The man, no longer swaying, screamed, “Fucker!” and launched at the Tracker, eyes bulging and veins cording his neck.

  The man had dropped the knife when he hit the floor after being struck the first time and he went at the Tracker using his fists. A big man, strong through the shoulders and chest, he would be someone Taylor would be afraid of like one of the jocks who had pestered him in high school. That didn’t matter in this small kitchen. It didn’t matter how cool you had been or who you had been dating in high school. None of that counted when fighting this thing. A thought struck Taylor at the same time as the man threw a fist. The Tracker must be visible right now or else how could the man see where to attack? A stunned Taylor watched the man swing at the Tracker’s head, kick at his shins and wind milling his arms to overpower the spectre as the woman’s screams died in the oven. It didn’t work. He would have no more success against the Tracker than he would a brick wall. Only brick walls don’t hit back.

  The Tracker laughed, the gritty otherworldly noise plucking at Taylor’s ears and the Tracker reached out and grabbed the man by the shoulder with his left hand. The man kept punching and kicking. Spittle and grunts flew from his mouth. With his right hand in a fist, the Tracker swung it down on top of the man’s head. The man staggered. His legs jellied and Taylor saw pink meat pop away from his mouth. Taylor followed it with his eyes. It landed near his feet and he flinched. The man had bitten through his tongue and it had popped out of his mouth. It lay on the floor amidst a splash of red.

  Blood spilled from the man’s mouth and his eyes rolled up into his head. The Tracker held him up and picked up a knife from the counter. The Tracker shook his head and dropped it. He reached further and plucked a meat cleaver from the counter. The man’s eyes came into focus. He saw the cleaver in the monster’s hands, put up a hand, said, “Gak!” as the cleaver tore through his wrist and plunked into his clavicle. The hand wasn’t completely severed and it hung on by gristle alone. The Tracker pulled the cleaver out of the bone. Blood sprayed from the wrist and the man turned it to look at it, amazed at what had been a perfectly good hand a second ago. He said, “Guh?” A spray of blood pulsed across the room and hit Taylor in the mouth.

  He panicked, thinking a piece of meat hit him and he swiped at the blood with both hands and sidled along the wall to the door. When he looked at the scene again the Tracker had swung the cleaver sideways. It thunked deep into the neck of the man. He pulled the cleaver free and dropped it and clanged when it hit the tiled floor. The man fell to his knees. A geyser of blood painted Taylor in the corner. The last thing he saw before he fled the small kitchen was the Tracker with both hands on the side of the man’s head, pulling and yanking. He heard a pop behind him. He wondered if the sound had been the man’s head separating from his body.

  Taylor ran from the restaurant. He heard sirens in the distance. The sun, a burnt orange orb, hovered over the horizon. He turned away from where he thought the sirens were coming from and hurried his exhausted muscles away. Always away. He cried. He wiped away the tears to see where to go and his eyes only filled up again. People parted away from him on the sidewalk. They would tell the police where he went. Not like a fat crying man covered in blood wouldn’t be hard to spot. He needed to get away from the crowd. He had to go somewhere no one would be. He struggled to breathe as his feet brought him to a gravel path behind a concert theatre. The path turned into dirt as it cut its way through a wooded area. Taylor ran inside the tree tunnel and kept running until his run became a shuffle, a slow walk and then a limp. He moved off the path towards a fallen evergreen with its roots splayed out like a many fingered hand. Taylor sat on the side of the tree that would shield him from the path. He needed to rest.

  Stopping allowed him a chance to think. He had left his backpack in the restaurant. His wallet was in there. If they didn’t know who he was yet, they would now. And he now had no money. The only plan left to him was to sit here until midnight and as long as the Tracker or the police didn’t find him, he should be okay. Cold, because he left his sweatshirt in the backpack too, but still okay. Alive at least. He flashed on the cleaver slamming into the neck of the man and thought, Alive, yeah, yippee for me! He had done that. He had killed them. That poor woman in the oven. All his fault. He knew what would happen if he asked for help and he did it anyways. He cried for some time and when the sun dropped, he shivered and cried some more wondering if there could possibly be a more pathetic person on earth. He didn’t move until close to midnight. No sign or feeling of the Tracker. He fumbled in the dark until he found the path. He walked to the police station and turned himself in for something he didn’t do.

  -18-

  More questions than answers…

  Owen, enrapt in the tale, noticed he leaned closer to Taylor. In his head spun images Taylor’s story created. Owen had seen the photos so that added to the realism of the tale. He leaned back into his chair gathering his thoughts. Normally, when he interviewed someone he would bookmark in his brain an interesting point to bring up later. Now most interview courses and gurus would tell you not to do this. The best way, they taught, was to listen. Really listen
and not stand by waiting for a break in the conversation for your turn to speak. Missed opportunities for questions were lost when the interviewer wasn’t paying attention or framing their next query without listening to the answers. And when the accused left the interview, you weren’t going to get a shot at asking them questions again. That time had gone. He needed time to process and speak with the other officers monitoring the interview to strategize how best to confront Taylor. Because no matter how much Taylor believed what he had said, it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Shadow men do not hunt people through the city. There were no shadow men. Now would be the time for a break.

  Near the end of his narrative, Taylor talked into his chest, intermittent tears plopping on his stomach. It made it difficult to hear him which could also be another reason why Owen had moved closer. Didn’t matter. The microphones picked up everything.

  Owen said, “What would you say to a break, Taylor? You’ve been talking for some time now. You need to use the washroom at all?”

  “Is that all you have to say? After all that?”

  “No. I don’t want to give you the impression we’re done here. Not by a long shot. Of course I have follow up questions. Many of them. Only I think it would be good for both of us to maybe stretch our legs, get some blood flowing.”