Hunted Past Reason (5 page)

"Don't worry, it's biodegradable," Doug's voice reached him.

He finished and walked back to the path, drinking water. "Warm," he said, frowning.

"I forgot to tell you," Doug said. "Carry the bottle inside your pack wrapped in a piece of clothing. It'll keep your water cooler."

"Oh." Bob nodded.

"I've noticed, you're not walking erectly enough," Doug told him. "Don't slump. And don't lean forward. All of that's bad for your back. And keep a steady stride. Not too fast, but steady."

Yes, Professor, Bob thought. He almost said it aloud, then changed his mind. Doug was telling him these things to benefit him, not harass him. Just listen, nod, and
fermez la bouche
, he instructed himself.

"Try not to lift your feet any higher than you have to," Doug went on. "Swing your arms; good for circulation. And keep a steady, rhythmic pace. You'll get less tired that way. Slow and steady wins the race."

What race? Bob thought. Are we in a race? He put the thought from his mind. Just listen, ordered his brain.

"I hope you've done a lot of walking to toughen up your legs," Doug told him.

"Quite a bit," Bob lied.

"Well, let's be on our way," Doug said. "Got to keep moving or your muscles will cramp."

Muscles? Bob thought.

The stream was wide and fast-moving, a fallen tree across it covered with deep crosshatches. "Makes it easier to cross," Doug said. "Incidentally, since you're so curious about trees, those cinnamon-colored bark ones are incense cedars."

Bob nodded. Thank you, Professor, he thought.

Doug bent over and broke a twig off the tree. "Watch," he told Bob, tossing the twig into the stream. It was almost immediately swept out of sight. "That can tell you how fast the water's moving," Doug said. "So if the stream looks deep to you, don't try to cross it, the current might knock you down. Keep going farther downstream and look for a spot where you can cross diagonally."

He shook his head with a grim smile, remembering. "That's how I lost my backpack that time I mentioned before," he said, "I loosened my straps and unhooked my hip belt, of course, you're supposed to do that. But I miscalculated the velocity of the stream; it was probably a small river actually. And
boom
! I was in headlong and my pack was gone, washed over a damn waterfall. I was lucky I held on to my bow case." He grinned. "That's when I shot the rabbit for food. Okay, let's cross."

Bob tried to be as careful as he could but the weight of his pack pulled him off balance and he started to fall. Doug, close behind, grabbed him and pushed him across the tree trunk. He was startled by the ease with which Doug moved him. "Easy does it, Roberto," Doug said, laughing a little.

As they continued along the trail, not only did Bob's back ache and his legs feel heavy, he started getting breathless as well.

"You should be getting your second wind by tomorrow," Doug told him.

And now you'll tell me what that is, Bob thought.

"It's a surge of energy that follows the period of time it takes you to get used to hard exercise," Doug said. "You'll feel more comfortable, be able to move faster."

"I'm looking forward to it," Bob said wearily.

Doug laughed. "You
are
in piss-poor condition, aren't you?" he said.

Bob didn't feel like arguing. "Yes, I am," he agreed. "Can we move a little slower?" he asked, "I'm losing my first breath."

"We're getting up a little higher, that's why," Doug explained casually.

Bob kept laboring for breath. That's it? he thought. We're
up
a little higher? I'm still having trouble breathing.

"Doug, I gotta stop again," he said.

"What, already? The water's running through you like a sieve."

"No, it's not that, I just need to rest a little while."

"Oh." Doug's tone was remote. He's already sorry he invited me on this hike, Bob thought.

Doug looked at his watch as they sat down. "Getting late," he said.

"I know, I'm sorry," Bob answered guiltily. He leaned his back against a tree trunk, groaning uncontrollably.

"You really think you're going to make this, Bob?" Doug sounded honestly curious, marginally concerned.

"I will, I will, I just—" Bob swallowed and closed his eyes. "How fast do you usually go?" he asked, feeling that he ought to, at least, maintain some level of conversation, especially if it gave Doug a chance to brag a little.

"At least a dozen miles a day," Doug told him. Bob wondered if he knew why he'd asked the question. "Beginners usually . . . a mile a day, no more," he added, sounding bored.

"Always measured in miles?" Bob asked. He really didn't care to know but still felt compelled to let Doug be impressive.

"Not always," Doug said; he sounded a little more interested now. "It can be hours a day too. Most packers give out after four or five hours. I've hiked ten to twelve with no problem."

"Ten to twelve?" Bob opened his eyes and stared at Doug with genuine awe.

"Once I went sixteen, once nineteen," Doug told him.

"That's amazing, Doug." He wasn't trying to cater to Doug now, he was truly impressed.

Doug seemed to lighten up at that. "I know it's hard for you," he said, "but I'm really trying to take it easy on you, give your muscles a chance to loosen up, get your pulse rate up to snuff."

"I appreciate that, Doug," Bob told him.

"You might try relacing your boots," Doug suggested. "See if they're on too tight; you don't want to pinch your feet."

"Okay, I will. Thanks."

He started at the strange noise overhead, deep, throbbing, uneven. "What in the hell is
that
?" he asked.

"Blue grouse again," Doug told him, "up on the mountain."

Bob felt himself going to sleep.

There were at least seven coyotes circling them, maybe eight. There were no trees to climb. The ground was open and bare.

"What do we do now?" he asked fearfully, turning to Doug.

Doug wasn't there.

"Oh, Jesus, only
he'd
know what to do," he muttered.

He stared at the growling, slavering coyotes as they moved in slowly.

He jolted and opened his eyes. Doug had just shaken him by the shoulder. Bob stared at him groggily.

"You fell asleep," Doug told him.

"Oh, jeez, I'm sorry, Doug," Bob said, a pained expression on his face.

"Look," Doug said, "what I'm going to do is go on by myself, set up camp for us."

Bob stared at him blankly. "I don't understand," he murmured.

"It's getting late," Doug said. "It takes a while to set up camp. I can go on ahead and get it ready."

"Well . . ." Bob looked alarmed. "Leave me alone?"

"Bob, all you have to do is follow the trail," Doug said with a chuckle. "You can't get lost. And when you get to the camp, the fire will be burning, the tent set up, the sleeping bags ready. I'll take yours with me— and your stove, give you less weight to carry. I'll even take some of your damn chicken à la king with me so it'll be ready to eat by the time you arrive. Take you maybe two hours to get there. Maybe less."

"But . . ."

"Have to do it this way, buddy," Doug said. "We're behind schedule."

"What if I get lost?" He was aware of sounding like "Bobby" now, a panicking ten-year-old.

"Bobby, you
can't
get lost," Doug said. "Just follow the trail. Okay?" It was more a demand than a question.

"Okay." His voice sounded timid to him. He swallowed dryly. "There's no chance I could wander off the trail?"

"None," Doug said, "and if it gets a little dark, use your flashlight. You reversed your batteries, didn't you?"

"What?" Bob felt helpless and stupid. "What do you—?"

"Keeps them from running down if the flashlight accidentally gets turned on," Doug told him.

"Oh." Was he going to just
agree
to this, let Doug leave him behind in the woods— hell, the forest!— the very first afternoon they were out?

He tried to struggle up but the pack was too heavy on him and pulled him back; he thudded against the tree trunk.

"You'll have less weight now," Doug told him, strapping Bob's stove and sleeping bag on his pack. "You'll be fine— able to move a little faster."

Bob felt as though his mouth was hanging open, his expression appalled as Doug turned away and started walking briskly along the trail. Don't! a voice cried in his brain. What about the mountain lion?!

That seemed to break the spell of dread. The mountain lion, for Christ's sake? he thought. What did he think, the mountain lion was going to trail him and have him for supper?
Grow up
, Hansen, he ordered himself. Grow up, get up, and move your ass. This isn't goddamn
Deliverance
, you know.

Maybe if I start after him right away and move as fast as I can, I'll be able to catch up to him, he thought abruptly. Good idea. Doug couldn't be walking
that
fast.

He tried to stand quickly and fell back, landing clumsily. Yeah, that's great, Hansen, he mocked himself. Real deft.

He tried again and fell back awkwardly once more. Jesus Christ, he said he took some weight
off
my pack! he thought. It feels as though he added rocks to it instead.

No. No. He calmed himself. On your knees first, then stand slowly. Got it? He drew in a quick breath, nodding. Got it, he answered.

Carefully, he turned himself and rose to his knees, then slowly, arms outstretched to keep himself in balance, rose to his feet. There, he thought. That wasn't so difficult now, was it? He tried not to pay attention to the painful drag of the pack on his back, the aching in his legs. Go, he told himself. Move.

He started to walk along the trail as rapidly as he could. Stand erect, he reminded himself. Don't slump. Don't lift your feet too high. Walk with a steady stride.

His brain reacted with unexpected irritation. Goddamn it, how am I supposed to remember all that crap? What am I, John Muir? No. He tried to settle his mind. It's already been established that you definitely aren't John Muir. Just walk erect, don't slump, steady stride. It's not that fucking hard, you idiot. Thanks for the kind words, he thought and had to grin.

He concentrated on keeping a steady stride. Doug was right, that did work better. But then Doug was right about everything. Backpacking-wise anyway. Life? A little different.

Odd how the forest, which had seemed exquisite and inspiring before, was now beginning to take on the aspects of an ominous entity around him. The tall, thin pines looked like spears, their foliage thick and gray-green, large, scaly cones on the ground beneath them. The huge leaves of the maple trees now looked like random splashes of yellow amid the dark green canopy. Was the green really that dark or was the light starting to fade? That would be all he needed: to be alone in the forest in the dark. Wonderful, he thought. He tried to visualize the possibility with amusement but his involuntary shiver belied it. Great, he thought. Alone in the forest in the dark. And I don't even have my sleeping bag now! he suddenly realized. I'd goddamn freeze to death! They'd find my skeleton twenty years from now, lying under—

Oh, shut up! he commanded himself. And straighten up for Christ's sake, you're slumping! "Oh," he muttered gloomily. He fought away anxiety. Just— follow— the— goddamn— path; that was all he had to do. He wasn't in the great North Woods. This was a national park in California and he was on a trail. A
trail
, Hansen, he reminded himself.

No, wait. Goddamn it, I am slumping again! There must be some way to control—

Yes! His face lit up as he moved to a fallen tree and found a branch on it with the right thickness. Taking out his hunting knife, he started to saw away at it so that it would be about five feet long. Oh, great, he thought, the knife was just about sharp enough to slice its way through butter.

He hacked and pulled at the branch until it broke off, then cut off the twigs (sure, those the damn knife can cut off, he thought) and did the best he could to level the end of the branch.

He began to walk again, using the branch as a staff. Not bad, he thought. It did help keep him more erect. Now just move at a steady pace and you'll—

"Jesus Christ!" He stopped and jerked around as something rustled noisily in the brush to his left. Just before it vanished, he saw that it was a fleeing rabbit.

"Oh . . . God." He swallowed dryly, then opened his bottle and took a drink of water. His heartbeat was still pounding. Is it going to be like this the whole time? he wondered. I thought it was something big, something dangerous. A rabbit, for chrissake. He groaned at his vulnerability. Just keep going, will you, Hansen? he suggested. Yes, by all means, he replied politely to himself.

He started walking again. It did seem easier to stay erect and keep a steady pace using the staff. For a few moments, he visualized himself as a proficient woodsman striding through his familiar wilderness. After all, he had only to follow the very obvious trail. Soon enough, he'd reach the campsite. Doug would be waiting there, a cozy fire burning. Dehydration or no dehydration, he
would
partake of one of his little bottles of vodka.

He seemed to be going uphill more now. At least the strain of walking seemed to be increasing and it was becoming more and more laborious to breathe. Well, he could manage that. If only it wasn't getting so shadowy. The more shadowy it became, the more menacing the silence seemed.

Ordinarily, he loved silence. Where Marian and he lived in Agoura Hills, it was deathly silent, far from the freeway noises; and he enjoyed it immensely, they both did. Sitting on their deck at sunset, having drinks, they often commented on how quiet it was. There, quiet seemed peaceful and comforting. Here . . .

Well, it's the unknown, he tried to reason with himself. Just . . . keep moving and stop worrying about it. It ain't gonna kill you.

"I hope," he muttered. He frowned at himself. "Shut up," he said.

He had to stop and empty his bladder again, then take another drink of water. The bottle was getting pretty empty, he saw. What if he got lost and ran out of water?