Chapter 9

Roger Hansen stepped out of his truck and adjusted his work pants. They had ridden up a bit, and the back seam was playing havoc on his ass-crack. Roger wondered if his butt was getting bigger or his pants had shrunk in the wash. Slamming the door closed, he walked a dozen feet up the trail to the campsite of Jerry Danielson. Jerry had radioed in that he had some whacked-out kid with him who had a head injury at his campsite. Jerry’s somewhat dismissive description of the disheveled young man’s injury didn’t sound too urgent. Still, Roger ensured Jerry and Steve’s campsite was his first stop this morning.

There was no tent, which wasn’t unusual for Danielson, as he didn’t like staying overnight in the forest. Scattered around were a few beer cans, which was strange. Jerry and Steve were good about picking up after themselves, unlike those college kids who left their trash behind like the park was a hotel and not a nature reserve. Roger spotted a styrofoam cooler knocked over and beside it a bucket. The melted ice had left a dark stain around the cooler, but that was all.

The bucket was where Jerry and Steve would later store the deer’s blood to make black sausages. But there was no blood. Not on the ground by the cooler or bucket or inside the bucket, either. Danielson had said over the radio that he had bagged a small buck.

Danielson’s truck was parked nearby. The window of the driver’s side door was cracked. Roger frowned and moved closer to the truck to get a better look.

Then, a foul odor came to him, and Roger stopped in his tracks. He knew the smell of a freshly dead body from when he was a cop. It had been years, but you don’t forget the smell of spilled entrails and blood. The rank stink of decay.

Slowly sidling around the back of the truck, Roger clamped his lips shut to block a shout of horror. Laying on the ground behind the truck, in such disarray of red meat, guts, and bone fragments, were the tattered remains of a small white-tailed deer. Flies and maggots swarmed in the refuse, feasting on the rotting carcass.

Roger looked back and cursed himself for leaving his rifle in the truck. He considered going back for it, but the idea of turning his back on whatever might be behind him in the campsite was doing the bacon and eggs in his stomach no favors. Had a bear gotten the two hunters? Did the kid they found have a bad acid trip and kill them in a fit of insane rage?

Roger Hansen had been a Pine Valley National Forest Service Park Ranger for nine years. Hansen had retired from the Lake City Police Department because his doctor told him his heart couldn’t take the long hours and stress of the job anymore, much to his wife June’s relief. He had taken the job at the Forestry Department when the park had opened and wondered why he ever wanted to be a cop in the first place. The peace of the forest, the long trails where a man could really think surrounded by God’s creation, had indeed done wonders for his health. June certainly appreciated the stamina he had built up over long hikes and nature tours in the forest.

Roger’s thoughts turned to his wife as he slowly backed away from the trail. He had been in two car accidents as a cop and been shot at four times. He would be damned if some dirty stinking man-eating bear would do him in before he could collect his benefits check. Turning his head in every direction, he made his way back to the truck. His heart pounded in an all too familiar way.

He heard a crack and jumped, his head snapping in the direction of the sound. The sound of leaves and branches crunching underfoot grew louder. Roger stumbled over a small rock and fell on his backside hard. He groaned as pain shot up his back. Roger scrambled to his feet, and it was then that he saw them.

The three figures stood there, long, sinewy arms hanging loose by their sides. Their hands, broad and knobby, almost touched their knees and ended in thick black nails. Red eyes stared blankly from deep sockets, and their mouths drooled red-tinted slime. Strong white teeth peeked from behind slack black lips. Their dark skin had camouflaged them in the shadows of the trees, and Roger kicked himself for not being more aware of his surroundings.