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Stop dick loving around and post some stories dawgs. The Midwest. The midwest is a region that conjures nothing to the imagination if you haven't lived in it. To those who have, it's true most is forgettable; a yard stick of strip malls and recycled culture from the coasts, the woods stand out. The dark living feel of the ground after a spring rain or the wet summer air clinging to every pore are impossible to forget. This story, however, was told to me about the winter. One January morning a hunter, or rather poacher if you want to get technical turned down a old gravel road. A sheet of snow covered the ice, potted with the red iron clay of the road bed. When I asked why a person would be out in those conditions it was explained to me that the worse the day the less likely you are to run into forest rangers on state land or shotgun packing property owners. The half ton truck skidded along, all four wheels struggled to grip, turn, and spin against the ice. It was slow going, but the hunter managed to park on a small embankment, it was nothing more than a bare patch about a carlength long and a few yards wide. The poacher opened his door and felt his feet sink with a dull crunch into a foot of fresh fallen snow. His mind was fixated, a mounted head can bring hundreds of dollars, more if it's a high point buck. He liked what he saw when his eyes covered the area, blackberry bushes clung around the north side of the road and black cherry trees mixed. He knew this could be a potential gold mine and reckoned even if he didn't get a head today he'd be sure to find some well worn paths in the snow that would yield fruit later. A cold wind reaped from the north, harvesting any warmth exposed. Steeled, the poacher drew the strings of his heavy coat's hood tight and produced a 30.06 from the truck's cab. Up close the camo of the jacket seemed nothing more than a joke, a garish clash of dark green and black against the backdrop of ivory powder. As he moved away from the truck the illusion took shape and it started to become indistinguishable from the dark outcrops of the bare trees, limbs stretched skyward like the hands of skeletons. The last thing seen from the truck was a faint glimmer as the sun reflected from the scope of his rifle. The hunter made a long circuit before working his way back toward the truck. At some point the north wind must have gotten to intense for confront or maybe he just figured luck wasn't with him that day. Regardless the dark figure came marching out of the woods. Puffs of steam flashing out of him like a locomotive. Each step toward the vehicle exaggerated as he had to raise his knees nearly chest high to trudge through the snow. The sun had moved considerably, not quite dusk, but getting darker, the sky began to change; frozen blue into a faded yellow. The poacher's legs dragged, body visibly exhausted as he approached, rifle held in the right hand by the butt, the barrel propped against his shoulder as a solider would. I was told he had just awoken from the back of the cab. That on normal circumstances he would go with his father to help field dress the head. That day he was ordered just to stay in the cab, that his short little legs would just slow him down. He guessed he'd been asleep for four or five hours, and was glad just to see his dad coming back. Even protected from the wind it had to be in the negatives inside the truck. He remembered not being able to feel his thighs despite the heavy pants he was wearing. He was just excited to get the engine purring and some heat flowing. All of that was chased from his mind with the smallest of glances. His mind wandered for a moment, he was curious how far his dad must have walked and his eyes darted to the foot prints as they led from the truck, they wove a line north with an acute angle at each black cherry or black berry bush. It was the small observations he made first, the scouting of the food trees, distance at it faded into the horizon, but after a brief instant his mind froze. The foot prints of his father's boots were spaced roughly every couple feet, his size 11 imprinting the snow with the proof of his passage, but behind each boot print a large indentation resided. He told me they had to be two feet if they were an inch following the exact route of the poacher's. He remembered screaming, struggling with the seat to get into the front of the cab. As he fought to climb over the seat he felt his head jerk back, the hood of his jacket had become caught on the gun rack that adorned the rear window. It didn't take more than a couple seconds to free his clothing, but he said it moved in slow motion. In the distance, he saw his father stop, if from seeing the terror in his son's face contorted in the truck, a noise from behind, or maybe just sheer exhaustion he could not say. A hand pierced the hunter's belly from behind as easily if it reached through an open window. The snow around his feet started to drink the red pouring from his body. The world sat silent for half an instant then the body fell to its knees. He didn't have time to feel shock, as the body's head fell toward the snow a face peered out from behind. A red face bordered by course white hair, teeth like a thousand needles, a nose like a bull's nose was revealed as the life blood of the poacher dripped to the ground. It's eyes, dark red and filled with hatred, fixated at the truck, and its legs made gigantic strides towards it. Its body a blinding swirl of thrashing limbs and droplets of red from the belly of the hunter surged forward. He remembered the eyes most vividly, like drops of lava red fire caked with dark black cracks. He pulled with all of his strength and the rack sprung from the rear window with a crash. He fumbled with keyes still left in the ignition. The engine roared to life and they eyes moved closer still, hundreds of teeth chomping at the air, a monstrous black tongue darting in and out from between the rows of razors. He struggled putting it in gear, he remembered managing to get it on low gear and flooring it. He felt his heart sink as the wheels spun against the ice, the thing became clearer as it approached. He could see a coat of matted hair blanketing its body, rusty stains clinging in patches, its left arm painted red. Hands with long, thin fingers capped in dagger like claws. He finally locked eyes with the beast, in moments it would come shattering through the window, and he say the thing's eyes open wide and mouth curl into a toothy grin. Then the truck lurched and yanked itself free. Speeding away, sliding nearly off the road at every curve. He told me he finally crashed out highway O, a patrol car spotted him late that night. After hearing his story they conducted a search. No body was found and he spent the next few years in a therapy until he made up a story about how his father had just left him alone in the truck and never came back. It's easier for people to think he just abandoned his family, but he told me he still knew the truth. He told me if I ever wanted to know the truth to find a road flanked with black berry and wade into a deep snow.
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Feb 11, 2014 13:11
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| # ¿ May 18, 2024 14:20 |
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