Untitled Hunting Story
It got dark early this time of year. The twilight sun was hovering just over the trees, but Cody knew it would be gone in less than an hour.
From his tree stand, Cody could make out a few little pockets of snow leftover from the last storm, but mostly it was just a blend of grey and brown around him.
He shifted to relieve the cramping in his legs.
In the distance, Cody heard the sound of crunching leaves. Reflex brought his rifle to the ready in an instant and he scanned the woods through the sight. The sound got louder as he pressed the butt of the rifle deeper into his shoulder and centered his aim. The source of the noise came into view.
It was a man. Cody let out a deep breath and eased the rifle down.
Cody watched the man stumble through the woods toward him. He wore a grey tweed overcoat, and seemed to be going out of his way to make as much noise as possible on his way to Cody’s perch.
“Evening,” the man said looking up at Cody. This close, Cody put the man’s age at around sixty –a little more than three times his own—and though he was shorter than Cody’s six feet, Cody could see the man was built solid, with broad shoulders and a thick neck.
“Evening,” Cody replied, and turned his attention back to the woods.
“Hunting?” the man asked.
“Yup,” Cody replied not taking his eyes off the woods.
The man followed Cody’s gaze into the woods. “You know,” the man began, “I could have sworn deer season ended a month ago.”
“I ain’t huntin’ deer,” Cody said, ignoring the man.
“Then just what are you hunting?”
“What do you care?”
“It’s my job to care son; I’m with the state game commission.”
That got Cody’s attention. He turned to the man. “Game commission?” he asked.
The man nodded.
“Don’t matter none,” Cody said, turning back to the woods, “like I said, I ain’t hunting deer. Something’s been killing livestock up at the Scarborough farm and they hired me to take care of it. Since this is Old Man Scarborough’s land I don’t see any problem.”
The man thought about this for a moment. “Mind if I join you?” he asked.
“What?”
“Well, as you probably figured, I’m here for the same reason. Somebody at Scarborough must have called our office.”
“Naw, that’s okay-“
“Look son, that wasn’t really a request. You can keep whatever reward Old Man Scarborough’s put up, but I need to make sure the situation is resolved.”
“Well… you got a gun?” Cody asked.
The man pulled back one side of his overcoat and patted a sawed-off double barrel shotgun hanging from a shoulder sling.
Cody laughed. “Shit, you’ll never get close enough to kill anything with that,” Cody said.
“You’d be surprised,” the man said as he began climbing up to the platform.
“The name’s Murphy,” the man said when he got to the top.
“Cody.”
The men shook hands then settled into silence as they both sat, scanning the woods through the dwindling light.
“It’ll be dark soon,” Cody said turning to Murphy.
“Full moon tonight,” Murphy replied, still scanning the woods. Cody watched Murphy’s eyes. There was a distance in them that reminded Cody of his buddies that had come back from the war.
Sunlight gave way to moonlight as the two men sat and waited. Minutes turned to hours with only the sound of the occasional owl to break the silence. Cody was ready to call it a night when they heard a breaking branch.
Cody gripped his rifle, turned his head toward the source of the noise, and tried to part the darkness with his eyes.
The woods were silent.
“Do you see it?” Cody whispered to Murphy.
Murphy didn’t reply.
Another breaking branch, this one louder and closer.
“It’s close!” Cody whispered.
Suddenly, a low growl filled the woods, followed by the violent sounds of cracking branches and crunching leaves. Something was coming.
Cody readied his rifle and focused the sights in the direction of the noise. The sounds got louder.
“Here it comes!” Cody whispered.
Cody’s pulse throbbed in his ears as he readied himself for the kill shot. In the distance, he could make out a pair of yellow eyes in the moonlight. He squeezed the trigger and the shot rang out in the night.
To Cody’s surprise, it didn’t go down. The yellow eyes kept advancing, growing larger as they drew near. Cody took aim and fired again. The thing let out an angry snort and kept coming, close enough now for Cody to hear its heavy breathing as it tore through the underbrush. Cody fired a third time, but to no avail. Cody lowered his rifle, “I know I hit it,” he murmured as the first pinpricks of panic began to tickle his stomach. The yellow eyes were huge now. Jesus, Cody wondered, how big is this thing?
“Get down,” Murphy said.
“What?” Cody asked.
“DOWN!”
Cody felt Murphy push him over, and turned to see Murphy on one knee, shotgun at the ready as a large black shape flew over the platform’s railing. Cody heard the bark of Murphy’s shotgun, followed by a high-pitched yelp as the black shape tumbled back over the railing. Murphy holstered the shotgun, turned, and began climbing down.
Cody struggled upright, grabbed his rifle and followed Murphy down. As he was climbing, Cody heard a single shot echo through the woods. He reached the bottom and turned to see Murphy standing a few feet from him, a pistol in his hand pointing at something on the ground. Cody moved closer, his legs threatening to betray him.
In the dim moonlight, Cody struggled to make out what lay at Murphy’s feet. Clearly, it was a male, about seven feet long with a shiny coat of black hair. Its limbs were long and sinewy, and its head featured an extended jaw and slanted forehead that made Cody think it was canine. Little bloody holes surrounded a gaping wound in the torso.
“What-” Cody began.
“Go home Cody,” Murphy said, still looking at the body.
“But-”
“Go home Cody. Go home and collect the reward. It’s over,” Murphy said, still looking at the body.
Cody stood there for a few moments looking from Murphy to the body on the ground. Eventually he focused on Murphy.
“You don’t work for the Game Commission,” Cody said.
Murphy turned and looked at Cody. “Go home,” he said.
Cody felt the weight of Murphy’s gaze and took one final look at the body on the ground. It didn’t seem so hairy anymore. In fact, Cody thought, it looked almost human. Suddenly Cody was acutely aware of the cold sweat covering his body and the icy wind blowing through the dark woods. Cody, feeling the familiar tickle of panic in his stomach, turned and started for home.
The next morning Cody made his way back to the stand. The body was gone. Cody searched for any trace of the events of the night before, but couldn’t find so much as a shotgun pellet.
Without a corpse for proof, Old Man Scarborough had initially refused to pay the reward, but when no more attacks occurred, he gave in.
Cody never went hunting again.
§
One night in early 2006, I was driving home from some David Lynch films, trying to come up with a new story idea for that night’s writing. I’d been working on a story involving a taxi driver that kept getting bigger and bigger until I had no idea how to end it and I wanted something smaller and more focused to work on.
As I was driving I noticed all the dark, leafless forests surrounding the highway and got the idea to write a story about a group of beer-guzzling hunters who come up against something that’s a little harder to kill than a deer. I wanted to explore the different motivations people have both for, and against, hunting. I got as far as getting Cody up in the stand before Murphy showed up, then it all went to pulp.
Murphy’s story is another one of those that grew and grew until I couldn’t find an end to it, but the character remained a favorite of mine. Inspired in large part by Spencer Tracy in “Bad Day at Black Rock,” Murphy is just damn fun to write. Once he showed up here, I couldn’t resist turning the story over to him, and the entire thing poured out in a matter of hours.
I still might get around to writing that original hunting story. I think it’s got a lot of promise, and it’s certainly got more depth, but will it be as much fun to write as Murphy blowing a werewolf out of the sky with a sawed-off shotgun? Sadly, I think not.
