Dillon's Story

The night was cold, and Dillon was getting tired of trekking through the dense woods. His labored breath was visible intermittently and moonbeams shone down between the heavy fir trees. A lone wolf cried out its lonely heart to the waxing moon.

Dillon paused briefly, glancing about in the November night. The wolf could be a problem if he met it face to face. Walking through the woods at night was a dangerous prospect, one that Dillon fervently wished he could avoid.

At least there was no snow yet, that was in Dillon's favor. That, and traveling at night made pursuit harder. The ground froze at night, so footprints were all but invisible. His scent worried him though, if they used hounds, he was pretty sure they could find him.

Dillon was not terribly nervous, as he had been careful to cross streams whenever possible, and leave some false trails. It had been extra time, but he was positive it was the right plan. Dillon was pretty confident he had read dogs couldn't track through water somewhere.

As Dillon trudged through the undergrowth, the right sleeve of his orange jumpsuit caught on a low hanging branch. The harsh noise of the suit tearing stung his ears, the dead quiet of the woods seemed to abruptly end. A few birds fluttered through the trees, feathers rustling the night air. A small animal shuffled somewhere to his left, and ran away.

The hunted prey, Dillon crouched and strained his cold, aching ears. Hoping desperately that nothing was hunting nearby. Animals or people, either one could be disastrous. Several tense minutes passed, as Dillon forced himself to stay still. Patience was important, a lesson well heeded.

Dillon glanced about in what was close to a frenzy. Then he noticed a light. Nothing bright, just a pale flicker through the conifer foliage. Almost a twinkle, definitely not a search party.

Unless it was a search party camp site.

Cautious, ever so slowly, Dillon approached the light. Every nerve in his body screaming for him to run. Still, Dillon made his way closer. He knew that it was probably some hunter's camp, maybe a camper. He chuckled low in his stomach, maybe it was even boy scouts.

As the light grew, Dillon slowed his approach. He began a stealthy crawl, making sure to keep trees between himself and the light.

Closer.

Closer.

He could see a tent.

Closer.

Closer.

There was a dying campfire.

Closer.

At the very edge of the clearing, Dillon could now see the camp was set up for a hunter. A deer was strung in a tree, and the tent was that hideous hunter's orange color. A log sat next to the fire, obviously for sitting and warming one’s hands. The camp seemed deserted. No one was visible, the hunter must be in his tent.

Dillon crept toward the tent, a slight breeze masking his footsteps. He peered, ever so careful, into the mesh window of the tent. To Dillon's surprise It was empty. It meant the hunter must be night hunting. There was, however, a backpack in the tent.

Dillon looked down at his shredded, filthy orange jumpsuit. He needed better clothes. And some food and water would help tremendously. He glanced around once more, and hurried to the tent flap. Unzipping it, he kept looking over his shoulder, expecting a hunter to come charging out of the woods at any moment.

None appeared. The tent was unoccupied. The trees remained silent. The fire crackled randomly, sending up the occasional spark. Snatching up the backpack and a pair of boots, Dillon headed back for the forest line. Then he noticed a glint from a shotgun, leaning against the tree with the deer in it.

Opportunity knocked, and Dillon was happy to answer. He dashed across the clearing, snatching the shotgun on his way into the woods. He kept in motion for a good hour, until he was certain that he had put enough distance between himself and the camp to not be disturbed. Dawn was coming soon, and Dillon needed a place to sleep for a while.

Traveling at night had advantages, and Dillon planned on continuing the method. For one, helicopter searches were far easier to avoid at night, as a spot light could only see so much of the terrain. Plus most search parties would be sleeping while he was on the move.

Dillon found a low hanging fir tree, with a nice clearing underneath it. He settled in, and as light began trickling in, he began going through his new inventory.

One shotgun, twelve gauge, with fourteen shells. One pair of slightly baggy jeans, which would be comfortable for long distance traveling. One flannel shirt, one undershirt, two pairs of underwear. One hunting knife. Boots that miraculously fit him.

A bag of beef jerky and a canteen that was full of water. Food and water. Perfect. Dillon had a small dinner and curled up to sleep.

At about noon, a squirrel jumped onto Dillon's chest in a race up the tree with a potential mate. The chattering went up the tree as Dillon wiped the sleep from his eyes. He took in his surroundings as the haze cleared from his head. Probably six or seven hours of sleep. That was manageable.

A gunshot jerked Dillon into abrupt awareness, it wasn't nearby, but it was a sign of someone closer than Dillon preferred. There was no way to tell which direction it came from. Dillon strained his ears listening, but there was nothing else to be heard.

The rest of the daylight was spent preparing for the night ahead. Dillon loaded up the shotgun, which held six shells, and made a serviceable walking stick with the use of his hunting knife. Dinner was more jerky and some water, not the greatest fare, but enough to energize him in the quickly darkening air.

Just as he was preparing to go, a sound froze him in his tracks. It was an indescribable shriek, as if a wolf had been torn apart and its bleeding lungs gave out a final cry of rage. But more than that. It had the underlying tone of an animal still quite alive. This was no death throe, this was a hunting cry. A victory that had the sound of death.

Dillon waited, tentative with uncertainty. No other sound arrived. All was quiet in the icy cold woods. So, with an involuntary shiver, Dillon headed out.

Going was easy, and Dillon felt as if he was making good time. Although he still had no idea where he was, he figured if he kept heading West, he would find some civilization. Civilization that he could blend into, and disappear.

The hours passed uneventfully, and Dillon's spirits were high. He was trotting along, resisting the urge to whistle, when he heard an unusual wet crunch under his feet. He looked down and gasped. A dog, perhaps a wolf, had been mauled and discarded.

The animal's head was missing, and Dillon had stepped into the eviscerated rib cage. Body parts were strewn about haphazardly, and the smell was awful. Bile rose in Dillon's throat, and with effort he suppressed the urge to vomit.

He needed to watch his step, he was becoming complacent. He hastened away from the poor animal, wanting nothing more than to avoid the stench, a bit further on he found a stream, and washed his boot off. As the leftover blood swirled down the current, Dillon's mood began to improve again.

Putting the disturbing scene from his mind he continued his trek, while he had been preoccupied, clouds had started rolling in, obscuring his view of the stars and his only means of navigation.

With a sigh, Dillon continued his lonely trek, bad luck plaguing the back of his mind. An ever present stress unneeded and unwelcome. The silent night continued on, oblivious to Dillon's struggles.

A while later, the smell of death intruded on Dillon again. He stopped and looked around, afraid to discover he had gone in a circle. But he hadn't. The smell was coming from a small bit of undergrowth instead of in the middle of a clearing.

Curiosity peaked, Dillon went to investigate. The corpse was large, bloody, and mangled beyond recognition. Once again suppressing nausea, Dillon looked at this latest bit of carnage. He decided it had to be a deer, the only other thing that size in this woods was... and here he stopped, noticing for the first time that there was mangled cloth on the underside of the body.

A feeling of dread surged into Dillon's chest, and he started looking for other signs. They were there. He realized the chunk of previously unidentifiable meat to his right was a hand. There was clothing loosely attached to the torso. Dillon's mind refused to accept the truth. This was a man. Or woman. Sex was irrelevant.

Dillon began looking around, fear motivating his stunned mind. Before he had even registered the fear, he noticed he was running. Without direction or any semblance of control.

He stopped, his mind reeling and his lungs struggling. How far he had traveled, there was no way to tell. A tranquility engulfed him, his mind's obvious attempt to forget what it had seen. Hands on his knees he gasped violently for air. Then, in the distance, Dillon heard the strange scream again.

Dillon was freaked out, and decided on the spot that he was going to start traveling in daylight from then on. He estimated there was easily another five hours of darkness. His thoughts were a jumble, but after a few minutes he had calmed down enough to think straight.

He knew instinctively that he had to keep moving. He pulled the shotgun out of the backpack's straps, and swigged some water from the canteen. Dillon's nerves were still rattled, and he knew that trying to eat was a bad idea.

Looking up, the clouds were breaking, and he got his bearings back. West, keep heading West. That is where safety was. Had to be. Gripping his shotgun in white knuckled hands, Dillon started out again.

Once again, the other worldly scream sounded, and Dillon feared whatever it was making the sound had been following him, he continued on, not wanting to give it a chance to catch up. As he walked, clouds began covering the stars again, and Dillon cursed under his breath.

Pops in the distance, guns perhaps. Silence fell again. It only warranted a brief stop, it was a definitive way off, and Dillon was completely unable to tell direction.

Snow began to fall, silencing the woods even further. A light covering was beginning to form when again, the smell of death met Dillon's nose. Some far removed part of his brain groaned, maybe it was him that was following the killer.

Faster than he would have preferred, Dillon found himself looking at the messiest sight yet. There were more differences than simply the amounts of meat and blood this time, though. The snow was turning large patches of land into a red slush, contrasting with the clean white of the surrounding area.

Perhaps four or five bodies of human size were lying about, and at least six of dog size. A glint of metal caught Dillon's eye, what was once merely terrifying, became a beacon of certain doom. The metal was a gun. A six shooter. Police issue.

Dillon discovered more guns, badges, collars and leashes, belt buckles. All covered in blood, and all the bullets fired from every gun. A few flashlights, either broken or with dead batteries. Then he discovered what he most feared, a picture of himself, in a torn away dark blue jacket pocket.

This was without a doubt a search party. Looking for Dillon. Coming from the West. Well, at least he now knew the West was clear of search parties. He found a flashlight still working among the coagulating blood, and wiped it off on some pine needles.

He heard a crunching sound in the woods and spun a flashlight and shotgun around to face it. Silence. Nothing. His imagination was going wild. He hoped.

Slow and careful, he turned away from his scan. He had to keep moving. The clouds once again were blocking the stars, and the light snow had covered his tracks. Dillon set out in the closest guess to West as he could manage.

The snow increased as Dillon continued, at least an inch or so on the ground made his tracks easily viewable, stopping him from going off course. At least that was what he hoped. Two more times he had heard the scream, and once it was accompanied by a howl of canine pain.

Without warning, Dillon came upon a house. It was so unexpected, he stood gaping at it for a minute.

It was abandoned, that much was obvious. The windows were all broken on the first and second floor alike. It was overgrown and dark. The paint was mostly falling off, but it had once been a cheerful yellow. Dillon decided it was probably the safest place to spend what remained of the night.

He approached the front door, and knocked. There was of course no answer, and Dillon managed a weak chuckle at the absurdity of the gesture. The door creaked loudly in the quiet of the woods. Dillon jumped with tensed reflexes.

Dillon stepped into the house and was momentarily taken aback by the disaster the interior was. The curtains were frayed and blowing in the slight breeze from outside. Dirt covered most of the floor, and the amount of carpeting visible was old and falling apart.

The furniture was ripped apart with little holes from small woodland animals making warm nests out of the material. Bricks laid in the fireplace, having fallen off the chimney over time. A musty odor assaulted Dillon's sinuses.

Closing and locking the door, Dillon headed up the stairs, careful not to fall through the aging wood. In the master bedroom, a four post bed stood, slumped inward on itself. Dillon figured the floor for a more comfortable sleeping area.

As he settled down to sleep, the harsh cry filtered through the broken window, far away but close enough to unsettle Dillon. Finally, sleep claimed him.

Dillon awoke slowly, stretching overworked legs. His eyes were slow to adjust to the gloom inside the dilapidated house. Gloom, that was a good sign. The sun must be rising. Dillon relaxed for a little bit, eating some jerky and having some of his drinking water. Then a surprise hit him. He hadn't checked the front pocket of the back pack.

Inside there was a half pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Dillon smiled and lit a cigarette up, puffing happily on the end. There was also, for his best surprise, a compass. Heading West was about to be much easier.

Finally content, Dillon hadn't bothered to look out the window yet, but he did now. He noticed that it was becoming darker instead of lighter. Awareness of his situation hit him slowly, he had slept too long. The gloom was from sunset.

That was troubling. Cursing yet again, Dillon looked out the window, and his heart stopped. There were animal tracks everywhere. Large animal tracks.

They were huge, bear sized easily. Except not bear. Dillon had no idea what they were. Claws were easily visible on the four toed prints, and with a chill, Dillon determined it walked on two legs. The implications were terrifying. As the last rays of sun dipped behind the horizon, the scream that had been harassing him for too long sounded again. Except this time, it was much closer.

With a gulp, Dillon headed downstairs, he needed to light a fire, light would keep him safe. Besides, he was cold. The clouds were still in the sky, and Dillon knew on some primitive level that snow was coming again.

He broke apart a kitchen chair, and hastily built a fire in the hearth. As he stepped back, a movement caught his eye through a broken window, and Dillon realized he had left the shotgun upstairs. He scrambled up the stairs, and heard a scratching sound on the door downstairs.

Dillon curled into a corner, shivering. Shotgun clutched in his hands, and the flashlight waving around the room.

There was a slight sound from the window, followed by an aggressive snort. Dillon nearly screamed. There was another sound, like a squirrel climbing a tree. Whatever was out there was climbing the side of the house.

He had to get away from the windows. The windows were no real protection. He ran. Down to the first floor, his fire seemed like a poor choice because he could no longer see out the windows. The windows were tormenting him.

There, to the side of the stairs, a door. The basement. Perfect. Dillon wrenched the door open, and headed down, closing the door hard behind him. He needed to block that door.

In the basement there was a dirt floor, and plenty of junk strewed about. Dillon blocked the door with a wood stove, a chair, a bookcase, and a wooden barrel.

Then found a hiding place amongst the rubble. There were more noises. Although from undetermined directions. Then, a crash. From what had to be the front door. Followed by heavy, clicking footsteps on the floorboards above.

Dillon was panting, and willed himself to remain calm. He needed to stay quiet, undetected. There was no telling what was up there. The cry came again, muffled only by the floorboards.

A scream was threatening to break free of Dillon's throat. There was scraping and sniffing at the basement door, and a squeak escaped Dillon's lips. Sudden silence. Dillon felt like his heart was beating loud enough for the... the creature to hear.

Heavy footsteps went back outside, and Dillon had a sinking feeling. He hadn't checked the bulkhead.

Quietly, Dillon worked his way toward the oversight, hoping fervently that it was closed. An open bulkhead would be an easy entrance for whatever it was out there.

There it was, just ahead, opened. Dillon could see the snow starting to fall outside. He was clenching the shotgun so hard his hands hurt.

Slowly.

Slowly.

There was a noise outside, a crunch. Dillon was shaking uncontrollably.

Another crunch, this one closer.

Dillon was at the stairs of the bulkhead.

A snort, right outside.

Dillon reached out with his left hand, straining for the open door. A low growl.

Dillon froze.

Another crunching sound, right in front of the door. Movement, sudden and startling, lunging toward him.

A blast from the shotgun, blinding Dillon and followed by a pained howl.

Noise running away, whimpering, he had got it.

Dillon sighed heavily, and then noticed he was bleeding.

Looking down, Dillon could see his intestines flowing onto the cold packed dirt, and fainted, enveloped in permanent blackness.