The Last Rakosh

Jack’s instincts were howling for him to go-now. But he held back. He’d come here to finish this, and he’d failed. Utterly. The rakosh was back to full strength and roaming free in the trackless barrens.

But maybe it was finished-at least between Scar-lip and him. Maybe the last rakosh was somebody else’s problem now. Not that he could do anything about Scar-lip anyway. As much as he hated to leave a rakosh alive and free here in the wild, he didn’t see that he had much choice. He’d been beaten. Worse than beaten: he’d been hammered flat and kicked aside like an old tin can. He had no useful weapons left, and Scar-lip had made it clear that Jack was no match one on one.

Time to call it quits. At least for today. But he couldn’t let it go, not without one last shot.

“Listen,” he shouted, wondering if the creature could hear him, and how much it would understand. “I guess we’re even. We’ll leave it this way. For now. But if you ever threaten me or mine again, I’ll be back. And I won’t be carrying Snapple bottles.”

Jack began to edge toward the trail, but kept his face to the clearing, still unable to quite believe this, afraid if he turned his back the creature would rise out of the sand and strike.

As soon as Jack reached the trail, he turned and started moving as fast as his hip allowed. A last look over his shoulder before the pines and brush obscured the clearing showed what looked like a dark, massive figure standing alone on the sand, surveying its new domain. But when Jack stopped for a better look, it was gone.

8

He got himself lost on the way out. His defeat and release had left him bewildered and a little dazed, neither of which had helped his concentration. A low lid of overcast added to the problem. The trail forked here and there and he knew he wanted to keep heading east, but he couldn’t be sure where that was without the sun to fix on.

Even so, he didn’t want to be caught carrying when he reached the road. He pulled the P-98 from his pocket and opened the breech. He ejected the clip and, using his thumbnail, flicked the .22 long rifles free one by one, sending them flying in all directions. He tossed the empty clip into the brush. Then he kicked a hole in the sand, dropped the pistol into the depression, and smoothed sand back over it with his foot.

The gun was lousy with his fingerprints, but after a couple of rainstorms in this acid soil, that wouldn’t be a problem. No one was going to find it out here anyway.

He walked on, and the extra traveling time gave him room to think. I blew it.

Defeat weighed on him, and he knew that wasn’t right. The notion of Scar-lip roaming free was a bone in his throat that he could neither cough up nor swallow. He felt some sort of obligation to let it be known that something big and dangerous was prowling the Pine Barrens. But how? He couldn’t personally go public with the story, and who’d believe him anyway?

He was still trying to come up with a solution when he heard faint voices off to his right. He angled toward them.

The brush opened up and he found himself facing a worn two-lane blacktop. A couple of SUVs were parked on the sandy shoulder where four men, thirty to forty in age, were busily loading shotguns and slipping into day-glo orange vests. Their gear was expensive, top of the line, their weapons Remingtons and Berettas. Gentlemen sportsmen, out for the kill.

Jack asked which way to the Parkway and they pointed off to the left.

A guy with a dainty goatee gave him a disdainful up-and-down.

“What’d you run into? A bear?”

“Worse.”

“You could get killed walking through the woods like that, you know,” another said, a skinny guy with glasses. “Someone might pop you if you aren’t wearing colors.”

“I’ll be sticking to the road from here on.” Curiosity got the better of Jack. “What’re you hunting with all that firepower?”

“Deer,” the goatee replied. “The State Wildlife Department’s ordered a special off-season harvest.”

“Harvest, ay? Sounds like you’re talking wheat instead of deer.”

“Might as well be, considering the way the herd’s been growing. There’s just too damn many deer out there for their own good.”

A balding guy grinned. “And we’re doing our civic and ecological duty by thinning the herd.”

Jack hesitated, then figured he ought to give these guys a heads-up. “Maybe you want to think twice about going in there today.”

“Shit,” said the balding one, his grin vanishing. “You’re not one of those animal rights creeps are you?”

The air suddenly bristled with hostility.

“I’m not any kind of creep, pal,” Jack said through his teeth. Barely into the morning and already his fuse was down to a nubbin; he took faint satisfaction in seeing the jerk step back up and tighten his grip on his shotgun. “I’m just telling you there’s something real mean wandering around in there.”

“Like what?” said the goatee, smirking. “The Jersey Devil?”