bortleman
01-18-2011, 11:52 PM
I pulled my heavy boot up from the sucking mud. It sloshed and shot violently upward. Such was the pace. The leaves waved from their limbs and golden late fall dusk poured across the mountain. Soon the sun would flee across the hill as the winter slid forward with the night and the cold. Crisp frosty air entered my lungs as I slung my rifle, again, and continued on the game trail. Moist fresh dropping delighted my nostrils. Pausing and looking cautiously around, I soon spotted a joyful pile of ****.
Squatting low I searched the immediate crystal white ground for more sign. If this was fresh, there will be tracks nearby. Poking through the mess, my hopes were confirmed. The dark stool pushed like putty between fingertips. Only a few hours tops.
A quick exhale, as squinted eyes peered towards the hilltop. The contours ran easy across the sky and between the oaks showed me a small slope leading shortly down to another hill. That saddle was the best avenue for all deer moving through here. They would be back for water come morning.
The sky dictated that evening was moments away. The well worn straps that held my woodland life together were pulled tighter, hoisting the pack high. Teeter tottering to get the adjustments just right I heavily stepped forward.
It was an easy eighty pounds in all, but each instrument held intentional value. Anything not needed wasn’t brought, and everything included divided life from death. The wrinkles of experience that laced my forehead had taught me well how to pack a ruck. There were blankets, space blankets, first aid kits, splints, matches, maps, clothes, ammunition, pans, food, water, pots, an extra set of boots, ponchos, waterproof tarps, more food, a small tent, and a compass.
I was a solid five miles from base camp, and I hadn’t planned on being here all night, but was prepared for it. I figured if I could make camp tonight near the main trail, and be careful to use as little means as possible, I had a decent chance at bagging some meat.
Shadows deepened. Forgiveness is not common practice for nature. Any carelessness and you would find yourself in the local Sherriff report. It happened all the time in these woods. Sudden pit falls and broken-leg snares sat coiled to usurp you. There were copious stories of lost youths hunted by terrors of the night that studded the usual campfire conversation. The most famous was of Peter Stubbe. It was the usual nonsense. An evil man who had made a pact with the devil. His soul was swallowed whole and now the demon wore his guise to prey on young children.
I carefully made my way. It was still a click or so to where I would camp. The compass needle spun around and caught itself before yo-yoing its way straight. My boot jingled metal chain.
Knife like ivory bone shot forcefully upward. I stopped. My heart stopped. High pitched silence rang through my ears. Slowly the heavy thumping in my chest returned. Velvet blood trickled down the husk of splintered remains to an earthy and tightly laced brown boot soaked in lifeless blood. Irregular newly sharpened teeth of a bear trap held the dead limb in a vice.
I scoured the ground for anything. There were no tracks. The soil was too cold for them. A grotesque pile of blood. This guy was dead. He had to be. I moved cautiously towards the fluid the world seemed alive with death. Carrion birds mocked me, jerking their heads side ways, eyeing a potential meal. They spat their call again trying to separate me from their claim.
A snail trail of crimson meandered its way through the trees. If this guy was alive he needed some serious help. He couldn’t be far ahead, gauging from the damage. Wiry tree branches belayed me and I feebly swatted at them still intently focused on the blood path.
The trail of blood narrowed and began to disappear. Fading light kept my vision from staying the course, and I was forced to double back to get on the sign again several times. By the time I lost it completely, I was worn out with sweat.
“Where the hell am I?” I spoke dauntingly to myself. My wet cap was pulled off in surrender and needle cold struck my head. Acceptingly, I took a slow glance around. Nothing. I sauntered over to a large stump and sat down.
I inhaled deeply. Fire. There was a fire nearby. On my feet, I closed my eyes feeling out the wind. Once the direction had been ascertained I was pressed forward at a trot. At least this guy is smart, he’s gonna need that fire with all the blood he’s lost.
Two haunting yellow eyes of a small rambled shack glared from the ashen trunks. The old creaky timber sagged like old skin folds, fattening wide, resting its horrific shape on the swampy ground. The fire smoke clawed up from a stubby chimney. I slowed my trot, arms dropping as the full structure towered into view. A gray and fractured wolf’s skull sat with maw gaping on the apex of the door frame.
The shack stared me down. Mostly, I wanted to leave, but my conscience got the best of me. Just to be sure. I un-easily made my way towards the door, stomach churning. The thin door planks were weakly woven together by three rusty twines of wire. Slits of the interior seeped out with the light. It shook clamorously as I knocked.
No answer.
A moment or two. I had sure knocked loud enough. I knocked again.
No answer.
I rubbed my face wearily. Well at least I tried. A low figure caught my eye as I turned from the house. Refocusing, the slender figure of sticks jutted out from a pile. There was no order about their build. They sat in an unusual pile, an odd way to stack firewood.
Light from the window glinted off a gnarled white bone. It was nothing like I had seen earlier, but it still startled me. These were mostly animal bones. Stripped bare from scavengers. I moved my head invasively around the assortment and recognized several familiar animals. Bears, squirrels, deer and a human femur.
My heart down shifted. It was sure to come out of my chest.
“Why heylo der son” Came a voice behind me.
I wheeled around, my face feeling wet and pale. An older man dangling a lantern cradled a rifle as he swung his way toward me. I opened my croaked throat and froze. The lantern swung nearer. I cleared my throat and managed to meekly utter “Good evening.”
“Whell” he said “It shore es a long tim sin aye seen any soul up dis way” Now he was standing close and I could see the knotted knuckles the strongly gripped his light’s handle. His body looked aged, but sturdy. Wearing a stained old white long sleeve shirt with suspenders that held his loose jeans around his waist, he leaned forward.
“Yew huntin’?” he said grinning, showing his shingle stained teeth.
“Oh, uh, yeah” I forcefully replied.
“Whell, come on een” as he clasped a tight hand on my shoulder and urged me to follow to the cabin.
“I don’t really want to intrude…” I stammered hurriedly. He broke into laughter that fell into a deep smokers cough.
“Yeh dun hafta worry son” as he pushed me along.
The warm air of the cabin surrounded me, it seemed like the only decoration besides a hand made table, two chairs and a bookshelf. I kept to myself. The room stretched larger than my initial assumptions. Thick empty air kept the conversation to a minimum.
“Eem gonna haf sum suppa put on soon. Yew jus relax.” His shadow slid across the wall, making its way into a dark room. I could hear him fiddle thumping around uttering curses here and there. The bookcase fell into weary gaze and I stepped inquisitively towards it. Blank book spines lined the uneven shelves. Only one work I found had title and author. It read: The Infernal by Stubbe.
“Wut dew ya wan te eat?” echoed the old man.
“Um, I’m not sure” I said loudly back. “What have you got?” I still hadn’t planned on staying, and was determined to attempt to excuse myself at the earliest convenience. Parchment ambiance bounded from the room where the old man stood. Creeping in on his turned back. Painfully bent over he work feverishly on a cutting board. I could smell blood.
The old man cut away at a hunk of meat slicing it thin.
“Eev git sum fin veal if yer intristed.” Turning his head eerily about, the greasy strands of hair swaying in front of his face. Despite his age, his face appeared abnormally healthy and unwrinkled. An oak cutting board stained black was only accompanied by two large barrels in the room.
“Yew know how dey make veal?” As the cutting resumed. “Whell, aye’ll til yeh. Ferst yeh git a young lil cow rit? New yeh dun wan te cow te git ist muskle all tuff. Yeh git te keep em nice en sof. Sew, te way yeh dew dat is te keep em shacked up where dey caint move round on yeh dat much. Keeps te muskle frim develpin. A nice durk place es bess.” I took a small step back.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you…”
“Yeh feed em milk en not tew much grain” his knife blade circled the air above him before returning to his work. Heart thumping, my eyes darted across the room. All the wood in came with knots and rolls to it. The warped floor boards lifted and sunk under my shifting weight. I couldn’t stand to look at the old man as he worked.
An orange metal band spotted with the original color of the steel kept these two barrels together. One was leaking.
“Have you seen anyone else around here recently?”
No answer.
The oozing liquid was thick and black spreading across the dirty old boards like the yoke of a freshly cracked egg. I slowly crept closer. The smell of death emanated from squatting containers.
“Aye wan yew te try dis son” He appeared surprisingly close to my face. “Eet won keel yeh.” He held up a raw piece of meat. It was thin and bloody.
“Maybe you should cook that first”
“Naaaaaw, eest bess whin eest fresh”
I slowly took the flayed veal and gingerly put it in my mouth. I slowly chewed. It was tender, but tasted like swamp water. I could still see the disturbing fluid ebb closer to me still out of the edges of my vision. The twinkling gaze of the old man leered closer.
“Dats gud ain tit?”
Something jostled in the corner of my eye. I stole a quick glance at the barrels, and caught its movement again. I prayed the old man hadn’t seen me.
“Yes, er yeah, it is” He turned away and set his knife down. I quickly wheeled towards the filthy containers. I was sure of it, it was blood.
“Dun wurry, ders gonna be plentee mire”
The barrel jumped again. The noise of it was so loud he had to have heard it. The horror pressed heavy on my chest, I could hear my slow creaking steps away from it echo in the distance. The barrel jumped again louder than before. My eyes widened and a muffled voice coughed from the container.
“Durkniss son”
I spun myself around quickly
“Eet keeps te meat fresh!”
The hollow clang of the shovel sent tidal waves of darkness through my head.
Squatting low I searched the immediate crystal white ground for more sign. If this was fresh, there will be tracks nearby. Poking through the mess, my hopes were confirmed. The dark stool pushed like putty between fingertips. Only a few hours tops.
A quick exhale, as squinted eyes peered towards the hilltop. The contours ran easy across the sky and between the oaks showed me a small slope leading shortly down to another hill. That saddle was the best avenue for all deer moving through here. They would be back for water come morning.
The sky dictated that evening was moments away. The well worn straps that held my woodland life together were pulled tighter, hoisting the pack high. Teeter tottering to get the adjustments just right I heavily stepped forward.
It was an easy eighty pounds in all, but each instrument held intentional value. Anything not needed wasn’t brought, and everything included divided life from death. The wrinkles of experience that laced my forehead had taught me well how to pack a ruck. There were blankets, space blankets, first aid kits, splints, matches, maps, clothes, ammunition, pans, food, water, pots, an extra set of boots, ponchos, waterproof tarps, more food, a small tent, and a compass.
I was a solid five miles from base camp, and I hadn’t planned on being here all night, but was prepared for it. I figured if I could make camp tonight near the main trail, and be careful to use as little means as possible, I had a decent chance at bagging some meat.
Shadows deepened. Forgiveness is not common practice for nature. Any carelessness and you would find yourself in the local Sherriff report. It happened all the time in these woods. Sudden pit falls and broken-leg snares sat coiled to usurp you. There were copious stories of lost youths hunted by terrors of the night that studded the usual campfire conversation. The most famous was of Peter Stubbe. It was the usual nonsense. An evil man who had made a pact with the devil. His soul was swallowed whole and now the demon wore his guise to prey on young children.
I carefully made my way. It was still a click or so to where I would camp. The compass needle spun around and caught itself before yo-yoing its way straight. My boot jingled metal chain.
Knife like ivory bone shot forcefully upward. I stopped. My heart stopped. High pitched silence rang through my ears. Slowly the heavy thumping in my chest returned. Velvet blood trickled down the husk of splintered remains to an earthy and tightly laced brown boot soaked in lifeless blood. Irregular newly sharpened teeth of a bear trap held the dead limb in a vice.
I scoured the ground for anything. There were no tracks. The soil was too cold for them. A grotesque pile of blood. This guy was dead. He had to be. I moved cautiously towards the fluid the world seemed alive with death. Carrion birds mocked me, jerking their heads side ways, eyeing a potential meal. They spat their call again trying to separate me from their claim.
A snail trail of crimson meandered its way through the trees. If this guy was alive he needed some serious help. He couldn’t be far ahead, gauging from the damage. Wiry tree branches belayed me and I feebly swatted at them still intently focused on the blood path.
The trail of blood narrowed and began to disappear. Fading light kept my vision from staying the course, and I was forced to double back to get on the sign again several times. By the time I lost it completely, I was worn out with sweat.
“Where the hell am I?” I spoke dauntingly to myself. My wet cap was pulled off in surrender and needle cold struck my head. Acceptingly, I took a slow glance around. Nothing. I sauntered over to a large stump and sat down.
I inhaled deeply. Fire. There was a fire nearby. On my feet, I closed my eyes feeling out the wind. Once the direction had been ascertained I was pressed forward at a trot. At least this guy is smart, he’s gonna need that fire with all the blood he’s lost.
Two haunting yellow eyes of a small rambled shack glared from the ashen trunks. The old creaky timber sagged like old skin folds, fattening wide, resting its horrific shape on the swampy ground. The fire smoke clawed up from a stubby chimney. I slowed my trot, arms dropping as the full structure towered into view. A gray and fractured wolf’s skull sat with maw gaping on the apex of the door frame.
The shack stared me down. Mostly, I wanted to leave, but my conscience got the best of me. Just to be sure. I un-easily made my way towards the door, stomach churning. The thin door planks were weakly woven together by three rusty twines of wire. Slits of the interior seeped out with the light. It shook clamorously as I knocked.
No answer.
A moment or two. I had sure knocked loud enough. I knocked again.
No answer.
I rubbed my face wearily. Well at least I tried. A low figure caught my eye as I turned from the house. Refocusing, the slender figure of sticks jutted out from a pile. There was no order about their build. They sat in an unusual pile, an odd way to stack firewood.
Light from the window glinted off a gnarled white bone. It was nothing like I had seen earlier, but it still startled me. These were mostly animal bones. Stripped bare from scavengers. I moved my head invasively around the assortment and recognized several familiar animals. Bears, squirrels, deer and a human femur.
My heart down shifted. It was sure to come out of my chest.
“Why heylo der son” Came a voice behind me.
I wheeled around, my face feeling wet and pale. An older man dangling a lantern cradled a rifle as he swung his way toward me. I opened my croaked throat and froze. The lantern swung nearer. I cleared my throat and managed to meekly utter “Good evening.”
“Whell” he said “It shore es a long tim sin aye seen any soul up dis way” Now he was standing close and I could see the knotted knuckles the strongly gripped his light’s handle. His body looked aged, but sturdy. Wearing a stained old white long sleeve shirt with suspenders that held his loose jeans around his waist, he leaned forward.
“Yew huntin’?” he said grinning, showing his shingle stained teeth.
“Oh, uh, yeah” I forcefully replied.
“Whell, come on een” as he clasped a tight hand on my shoulder and urged me to follow to the cabin.
“I don’t really want to intrude…” I stammered hurriedly. He broke into laughter that fell into a deep smokers cough.
“Yeh dun hafta worry son” as he pushed me along.
The warm air of the cabin surrounded me, it seemed like the only decoration besides a hand made table, two chairs and a bookshelf. I kept to myself. The room stretched larger than my initial assumptions. Thick empty air kept the conversation to a minimum.
“Eem gonna haf sum suppa put on soon. Yew jus relax.” His shadow slid across the wall, making its way into a dark room. I could hear him fiddle thumping around uttering curses here and there. The bookcase fell into weary gaze and I stepped inquisitively towards it. Blank book spines lined the uneven shelves. Only one work I found had title and author. It read: The Infernal by Stubbe.
“Wut dew ya wan te eat?” echoed the old man.
“Um, I’m not sure” I said loudly back. “What have you got?” I still hadn’t planned on staying, and was determined to attempt to excuse myself at the earliest convenience. Parchment ambiance bounded from the room where the old man stood. Creeping in on his turned back. Painfully bent over he work feverishly on a cutting board. I could smell blood.
The old man cut away at a hunk of meat slicing it thin.
“Eev git sum fin veal if yer intristed.” Turning his head eerily about, the greasy strands of hair swaying in front of his face. Despite his age, his face appeared abnormally healthy and unwrinkled. An oak cutting board stained black was only accompanied by two large barrels in the room.
“Yew know how dey make veal?” As the cutting resumed. “Whell, aye’ll til yeh. Ferst yeh git a young lil cow rit? New yeh dun wan te cow te git ist muskle all tuff. Yeh git te keep em nice en sof. Sew, te way yeh dew dat is te keep em shacked up where dey caint move round on yeh dat much. Keeps te muskle frim develpin. A nice durk place es bess.” I took a small step back.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you…”
“Yeh feed em milk en not tew much grain” his knife blade circled the air above him before returning to his work. Heart thumping, my eyes darted across the room. All the wood in came with knots and rolls to it. The warped floor boards lifted and sunk under my shifting weight. I couldn’t stand to look at the old man as he worked.
An orange metal band spotted with the original color of the steel kept these two barrels together. One was leaking.
“Have you seen anyone else around here recently?”
No answer.
The oozing liquid was thick and black spreading across the dirty old boards like the yoke of a freshly cracked egg. I slowly crept closer. The smell of death emanated from squatting containers.
“Aye wan yew te try dis son” He appeared surprisingly close to my face. “Eet won keel yeh.” He held up a raw piece of meat. It was thin and bloody.
“Maybe you should cook that first”
“Naaaaaw, eest bess whin eest fresh”
I slowly took the flayed veal and gingerly put it in my mouth. I slowly chewed. It was tender, but tasted like swamp water. I could still see the disturbing fluid ebb closer to me still out of the edges of my vision. The twinkling gaze of the old man leered closer.
“Dats gud ain tit?”
Something jostled in the corner of my eye. I stole a quick glance at the barrels, and caught its movement again. I prayed the old man hadn’t seen me.
“Yes, er yeah, it is” He turned away and set his knife down. I quickly wheeled towards the filthy containers. I was sure of it, it was blood.
“Dun wurry, ders gonna be plentee mire”
The barrel jumped again. The noise of it was so loud he had to have heard it. The horror pressed heavy on my chest, I could hear my slow creaking steps away from it echo in the distance. The barrel jumped again louder than before. My eyes widened and a muffled voice coughed from the container.
“Durkniss son”
I spun myself around quickly
“Eet keeps te meat fresh!”
The hollow clang of the shovel sent tidal waves of darkness through my head.