It slid through the moonless forest, a phantom with dark, silver-speckled fur, blending with shadows and dimmed birch. Its thirteen-foot height and two thousand pounds of muscle made no sound. The giant had tracked for three days, following a scent trail that aggravatingly came and went with the mood of mountain winds. Now the beast picked up a new scent—human.
Wilbur cursed his wife.
She nagged him all afternoon, slamming doors, banging dishes into the dishwasher. The mortgage payment was due in ten days, and he had not yet found a job. The unemployment checks didn’t go far.
Get off his damn back was what she needed to do. Did he not get up at eleven thirty this morning and search the job ads over coffee? What the hell more did she want? Besides, he already had a bead on a job. Walkers’ Hunting & Fishing was hiring a new guide for the upcoming season. Wilbur’s best friend had an inside track, so the job was practically guaranteed. All Wilbur needed was to hang on for another month until the season started and those fancy-pansy tourists came, pretending they were big-game hunters.
In the meantime, he could trap. Sure, he could get part-time work at the local hardware store, but who wanted that? There was more money in one day of trapping than in a whole week being barked at by some retail boss. And he’d already set the snares. Wolves, foxes, lynx, maybe a small black bear. Enough to cover the mortgage payment and several nights at the local tavern.
But first he had to shut his wife up a spell by fixing the hinge on the front door and unclogging the sink in the laundry room. Then there was the leaking faucet at her sister’s house. He could hear them talking about him on the phone. He wasn’t deaf. Why couldn’t her husband take care of his own damn business before he left on his tour of army duty? Lucky bastard. Got to leave just when his own wife’s nagging was getting started.
Wilbur fixed the door and sink and headed out to his sister-in-law’s house. He fixed the damn faucet but had to go to the local hardware store for a pack of washers. A “Help Wanted” sign hung in the front door. Hell, his wife had probably hung it there herself, just to torment him.
Finally, in fading daylight, he reached the foot of the mountains. He stood on an open hillside surrounded by dark forest. In the distance, snow-capped mountains stared back at him, their faces darkened by the fading light. Up ahead, beyond the forest edge, lay the path to his snares.
Wilbur made his way up the sloping hill. He paused to pull up his sagging jeans that hung like the ass of an old elephant. He tucked in his red-checkered shirt and snugged down the tired fishing hat before reaching into his pocket for a flask of rum. He stood there for a moment trying to catch his breath. Wilbur was out of shape, no question. He’d been telling himself that for years but just couldn’t find the time to do anything about it. He tilted his head back and poured the remaining hearty mouthfuls of rum down his throat. It spilled down his unshaven, fat cheek. “Jowls” were what his wife called them. His eyes, nose, and mouth looked like raisins sunk in bread dough. Wilbur belched loudly and tossed the flask to the side, where it smashed against a rock.
He maybe could’ve waited until tomorrow. What difference would it make if the animal suffered? It was going to die anyway. Predators, though, were the reason he couldn’t wait—wild things that would devour his catch. He wasn’t about to let that happen. Nothing infuriated Wilbur more than wasted effort—his effort especially.
Finally, he reached the forest edge at the top of the clearing. Panting, he withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped sweat from the back of his neck and under his chin. He hated sweating, his double chin squishing and sticking to his neck. Showering made him sweat more—an exercise in futility, a wasted effort. Wilbur cradled the rifle in his arms and stepped into the forest.
Not long into it, and he already had to press his heavy weight against the unwilling brush. This wasn’t a city-slicker walking trail, no sir. This was country unseen by men. Here the forest tried to keep you out, insisted you mind your business. Up here, Wilbur knew legends brushed against trees, watching and guarding their secrets.
He grew up on those legends. Sitting around campfires with his father and uncles, listening to tales of trappers gone missing, mining teams vanishing. Even today, hunters and tourists disappeared, never seen again. From time to time, game wardens would find the body of a grizzly. The head, brain stem, and spine pulled back and away like you’d debone a fish. Biologists were baffled.
Wilbur felt no shame in admitting this place made him uneasy, spooked him. But he had a mortgage to pay, and the trapping was good. His chest heaved as he lugged his heavy body. The brush, thicker now, wrapped around him. The branches laced together like fingers acting in unison to hold back intruders. Maybe to warn them away. Wilbur pushed on.
Somewhere in the darkness, a thick twig snapped. Wilbur crouched and tightened his grip on the rifle. Whatever that was, he knew from the sharp snap it was big and heavy. Too big to be a mountain lion. Possibly an elk or a moose. He prayed it wasn’t a bear. He thought about turning around. If his snare had caught something … well, let that thing have it. Not worth getting torn to pieces for.
But Wilbur knew animals were afraid of humans. Even grizzly bears, given enough notice and a way out, would stay clear of a human. Bears were only a problem if they were trapped or you got too close to their cubs. Besides, he was the one with the rifle. He was the predator. Wilbur wiped his sleeve across the glistening sweat on his forehead.
A few more steps, and the chill mountain air cooled his soaking back. He felt the dark press in on him, like it was a living thing and wanted to get up close and study him, like it couldn’t believe he had come here. His better sense told him to leave. Come back tomorrow in daylight. He couldn’t see a damn thing anyhow. What if he fell, injured himself? Not be able to work. Explain that to the wife! Okay then. It made sense. Turn around and come back in the morning.
He’d half-turned when the hair on his neck rose up, prickly-like. He was being watched. He was sure of it. Now he was the prey. This place. These forbidden woods. That’s why the trapping was good—everyone was afraid to come here. Wilbur’s back muscles tightened, readied in anticipation of … something. He crouched a little more, gripped the rifle tighter, and held his breath, listening closely.
A piercing scream as branches opened violently above his shoulder, like a dark curtain torn open. A large owl burst forth and flew into the night.
Wilbur fell to his knees, his voice trapped somewhere in his throat. He dropped the rifle and clutched the grass like a kitten kneading its mother. The pain in his chest was severe, one of those “Come to God” moments when he begged the Lord for one more chance, promised to never drink again, and similar pleas and promises. After a few minutes his panting slowed, and the burning in his chest subsided. He retrieved the rifle and unsteadily got to his feet. Had he soiled himself? It would have to wait. It was the owl that had spooked him, nothing more. He was almost at his destination anyway. He couldn’t turn around now. He could not go back to the wife empty-handed.
Wilbur continued on and made his way past a bend in the forest. In the dim moonlight he saw the snare wire. It was wrapped around the base of a large tree. From there it snaked its way through the grass where it lay in wait on the ground, camouflaged under grass and earth. Something stirred and rustled there. The snare had done its job.
“Damn it!” Wilbur said.
He shook his head, disgusted. The whole day had been wasted! The hurried, obedient completion of his “domesticated chores,” the steep climb up the hill, the wrestling with thick branches and for what? For what!?
The snare had pulled tight around the neck of a small white rabbit. The wire cut into its skin, marking a thin red necklace. The rabbit’s black eyes stared wide and bewildered. Blood trickled from flaring nostrils. The snare had pulled the animal’s chin down onto the ground. Each time it struggled, the snare closed tighter, cutting deeper.
“You’ve wasted my snare, you idiot. I can’t catch two animals in one snare, asshole! I oughta just leave you there and let you suffer. Useless rabbit. Not big enough for a rabbit stew.” “I’m bloody well not bringing you home to the wife. Cripes, can you imagine that? I’d never hear the end of it.”
Wilbur reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He rolled it around his lips as he fished for his Zippo lighter.
“That steel wire must hurt something awful, hey, little fella? Tell me … do rabbits scream? I’m sure they do. How come you’re not screaming? If you could holler a bit, maybe your family will come, and I’ll get that rabbit stew after all.”
The rabbit’s black eyes began to fade. Wilbur flipped open the lighter and jerked his thumb over the wheel.
“Seeing it’s just you, then, and you’re not worth the bother, might as well put an end to you now.”
He lit the cigarette, took a deep satisfying drag, and blew the smoke up into the air. He tucked the lighter into his waistband.
He lifted the rifle to his shoulder and pointed.
The rabbit stared back blankly.
Wilbur placed his finger on the trigger.
Suddenly, the rabbit became alert. Its eyes widened, brightened, came to life. The animal stared into the woods, at the brush over Wilbur’s head.
Wilbur aimed the gun. The rabbit’s nostrils flared, opening and closing like valves in a small engine. Its body tensed as it continued to be transfixed by the branches behind Wilbur’s head.
The lighter fell from his waistband. He bent over to pick it up —
An explosion and shattering of branches. Leaves and bark erupted from where his head had been as a large-muscled, fur-covered forearm arced violently from the thick brush. A roar, louder than a lion, more powerful, deeper, filled the world above Wilbur, who had enough sense to stay down.
Wilbur turned onto his back. Clutching the rifle, he looked up. A giant beast towered over him. A myth. Folklore. A make-believe legend. No. No, that wasn’t it at all. This thing was bigger, taller, and more terrifying. It was not a myth, folklore, or made-up legend. Its loud, controlled breathing insisted on it.
Wilbur’s bowels failed him. No doubt about it. He scurried back on his ass like a frightened crab.
“Get away! Get! Shoo!” Wilbur shouted as he pointed the rifle upward.
What else could he do? Aren’t you supposed to shout at a wild animal—to frighten it away? Wilbur thought of pulling the trigger, but the massive size of the beast informed him that would be a mistake. He pushed himself back farther.
In the dim light, Wilbur’s eyes frantically traced the outline of the fur-covered monster. Its thick arms hung at its sides. Nine-inch steel-like claws extended from paws—or were they fur-covered ape hands? Wilbur tilted his head back to take in the full height of the creature. The arms flowed up into watermelon-size biceps, striated in half by long prominent triceps. Together they grew out of boulder shoulders, so wide they reminded Wilbur of a bridge any moderate-size animal could walk across.
Supported on the bridge-like shoulders, a thick neck. Atop the neck, the most frightening feature of all, the head. A gorilla-like skull and face … except wider and higher.
The beast stepped toward Wilbur, bent down, and brought its face close to his.
And it roared.
Its powerful lungs expelled air that blew Wilbur’s hat away. The sound vibrated through his bones. The monster’s wide jaw opened and extended forward like the open mouth of an attacking great white shark. Long, thick, tiger-like incisors protruded under the hood of thick lips. Saliva dripped down upon Wilbur’s lap. Its eyes flared, blazing blood-red.
It was going to bite his head clean off, Wilbur was sure of it. He turned onto his stomach, preparing to get to his feet, to run. But the giant gripped Wilbur’s right ankle and pulled. For a moment, Wilbur felt nothing. His mind went to the memory of an episode of Shark Week, how a victim initially felt nothing but a pull on the leg. No pain really—in fact, they were often convinced they’d just struck their knee on a submerged rock.
Then Wilbur’s spine sent signals to his brain: Hey, dummy! This monster just pulled your ball joint out of your hip socket. So, you can start screaming anytime you like!
And scream he did, like never before in his life. The pain whipped back and forth between his consciousness and unconsciousness like fast-moving wiper blades … but never quite letting him slip over the edge to blissful darkness.
Wilbur screamed and crawled. Crawled and screamed, like a frog limping away after its leg had been pulled off by a mean kid. He was sure the massive blood loss would kill him. Still screaming, he looked over his shoulder to see the beast chewing on his leg, as if it had just torn off a chicken drumstick.
But … no blood. No beast.
Wilbur’s pain-filled mind had conjured up the image of the dismemberment, trying to answer for the terrible pain. His leg was still attached. No giant monster chewing on his severed, bloodied limb. Wilbur’s joint was dislocated, yes. Painful, yes, but not lethal. It was as if the beast knew exactly how much pain to inflict, and no more.
Wilbur quickened his pace. His elbows—bony, unpadded crutches—struck the ground with the rapidity of a high-speed sewing machine needle. Adrenaline took over, and he was unaware of any pain. His screaming had stopped. His mind focused only on escape.
He finally dragged himself out of the brush and onto the sloping hillside. He didn’t stop. Pushing onward, he let the gravity of the slope carry him with greater speed. The only thing Wilbur wanted in this world was to get home. To his wife. To a safe, boring job at the local hardware store. He would never, ever venture into the woods again.
A shadow fell over the rabbit. Deep, controlled breathing filled the night. A fur-covered hand reached down and wrapped around the rabbit’s chest. The snare wire extending back to the tree took up its slack and was pulled taut. In a violent tug, the wire was severed.
The forest resumed its ominous silence.
