Scott sat still for a moment and thought about what they had done, how they had gotten into their present situation, and nodded. Much as he wanted to, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was too busy worrying about Allison.
The three of them were shoved into the back of a police van, with benches built into the sides of the interior. Before they could do much by way of protesting, they were on their way, moving first down smooth asphalt and then after a series of turns that had them feeling rather seasick, they could feel the bounce and jostle that marked their change over from paved road to dirt trail.
None of them wanted to talk about it, so they sat in silence for most of the trip.
It was George who broke the silence. “I’m sorry about Donna.”
Mark nodded and then looked at the steel plates of the floorboards.
Cullie started crying. George thought about trying to comfort him, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. As much as he loved the men with him like they were brothers, he wouldn’t have been in the current situation if they’d listened to him.
He closed his eyes and remembered the damned night that he’d tried so hard to forget.
They’d all been wearing their street clothes, having traded out of their hunting gear when they left the campsite. It’d been a good time, even if only two of them had caught anything. Besides, Scott promised to send him a leg from the deer, and that was more than enough venison to keep him happy for a while.
He was thinking about the meat and how he’d roast it, what he’d use to marinate it, when they hit the wolf. She’d come out of nowhere, and he could remember the way the wheels lifted and dropped, lifted and dropped on the right hand side of the car even now.
He didn’t want to remember the rest. He didn’t want to think about the creature shuddering in the middle of the road in a thick smear of blood, or the way it snapped and whined as it lay dying. George wasn’t really much of a hunter. In all the years they’d been doing their annual trips, he’d never bagged a deer. He just couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger at the right moment.
And had Cullie gotten pissed when he tried to call the authorities? Oh, hell yes! Cullie’d thrown an absolute fit, because he was the one driving and the smell of beer was still strong enough to be an issue.
With his eyes closed against the flood of memories, George shook his head and grimaced, angry with himself now. Yes, he had told them to stop, had tried to speak reasonably, but in the long run, the asshole who’d taken Cheryl and beaten him down was absolutely right. He’d let Cullie and Mark do their thing, even knowing that it was wrong, because he always let them win the arguments. It was easier than trying to keep his cool.
And deep inside, down where he tried to hide the worst memories, he could remember the sounds that came from behind him as he chain-smoked a dozen cigarettes. If forced to admit the truth, yes, he heard the sounds of a woman screaming. No animal he’d ever encountered could have imitated that sound, and sure as shit, none of them could have begged for mercy.
So yes, he knew inside that he was at least partly to blame for the situation. He’d been afraid of cutting loose, of letting his temper get the best of him. He’d spent years in therapy for his anger management issues and it was hard to break that sort of training.
Still, he wouldn’t have given Cullie comfort in a million years.
The van finally came to a halt, and all of them leaned forward to counter the sudden change in speed. For a few moments longer, there was silence, but before any of them could grow bored with it, the doors were opened. Four men stood outside and waited for them to climb out.
Eventually, they did, but none of them were in much of a hurry.
The largest of the men, the one who was the obvious leader, stepped toward them and handed them each a hunting knife. The sheaths were well worn and tended to, obviously not new.
“It’s a last minute thing, gentlemen. Take them, use them.”
Cullie had managed to stop crying, but his nose still felt damp and his eyes were hot with irritation.
He looked at the big man and swallowed hard as he took the blade.
“Why don’t you let them go? Just take me. I’m the one that started it.” He said the words before he could lose his courage.
The man looked at him and shook his head. “You might have started it, but you didn’t finish it alone.”
The words hurt, but Cullie shook his head. “Then let George go. He didn’t do any of the cuttings. He tried to talk us out of it.”
“I’ve already made my decision, Landers. George had his part to play in all of this.”
Cullie nodded. The answers were exactly what he’d expected, but he at least had to try.
It was Mark that asked the next question. “What are the rules of this little game?”
“As I said before, there’s a spot ten miles down through the woods. If you reach that spot before we can kill you, you’re free. If we get to you first, you’re dead.” He made a point of looking at each of them, but Cullie felt the eyes on him for the longest span.
“John has a map. It’s accurate.” He nodded and the freak they’d watched change earlier handed the map to George. “There are five possible trails you can take, gentlemen, each has its own risks and advantages.” He shrugged. “You can decide amongst yourselves how you want to handle all of this.” The man looked at his thick left wrist and tapped his watch. “You have one hour, starting… now.”
Without another word, the strangers all climbed back into the van and drove away.
Cullie watched the taillights as they faded.
“Get over here, Cullie. We need to get to work.” George didn’t even look at him as he spoke. He just unfolded the map and started looking it over. When Cullie got a look at it, he groaned: it was a topographer’s map, clearly showing the elevation for the surrounding area. There was a small red arrow marked on one of the roads, and another red mark, shaped like a cross, almost a foot away.
They each looked at the map and studied it as carefully as they could, painfully aware of the time that was passing.
While the other two were looking at distances and topography, Cullie made up his mind. “Okay. I’m going this way. You guys do your own thing.”
Mark looked at him sharply. George shook his head and got an I-knew-it look on his face.
“What the hell are you talking about, Cullie?” Mark stared hard at him.
“I mean it’s better if we split up. At least one of us might make it that way. Good luck.”
Before either of them could try to talk him out of it, he started moving. Cullie had been hunting with his father since he was a child, and he knew how to move through the woods. Part of his reason for separating from them was exactly the reason he claimed. The other part was simply that he knew he could move faster without them.
Neither of them tried to stop him as he left. Part of him wished they would have.
The rain started about five minutes after Cullie left. By then George and Mark were both on their way. Much as they hated to agree with Cullie, it seemed best to break up. Mark said it best. “Either they’re going to kill us or they aren’t. Not really a lot we can do to defend ourselves with or without each other as back up. If we split up, maybe they will too.”
He wished George the best of luck and then ran, sliding down into the lower woods on the side of the road and heading for the most direct path through the forest. He knew there were risks. The path showed the least obstacles and the most direct route, but he had to hope that meant he could get more of the ten miles covered faster. He was athletic enough that he thought he could make the full distance if he concentrated and kept a steady pace.