Page 113 of One Step Too Far

I scream. A wounded animal. A feral beast.

Then Miggy is there, jumping upon the hunter’s fallen form, going after the knife.

We are fueled by adrenaline and sheer terror.

Unfortunately for us, the hunter is powered by sleep, a solid meal, and a lifetime of experience. In a matter of minutes, he shakes us off as no more than bothersome flies. He rises to standing.

I go once more for his knees. He lashes out with his leg and kicks me solidly in the chest. I reel back, the wind knocked out of me.

Miggy lunges for the knife. Tree man slashes him across the face, then the chest, several times.

Miggy stumbles and falls. He scrambles backward like a crab.

The tree man advances, gleaming blade in hand.

Gun. Miggy dropped the gun. If I can just find it. I scrabble around in the dirt. I gasp and heave and search. I’m a seeker, this is what I do. Please, please, please...

The hunter stands above Miggy. He raises the knife high, and behind the mask, the goggles, the camo clothes and twiggy hat, I swear he is smiling.

Miggy looks up at him. He declares loudly, “Fuck you.”

The blade comes down.

And once more, the woods explode.

—

I never saw him coming.

He rams straight into the hunter, who doesn’t have a chance to defend himself before being slammed into the ground.

The two shapes roll free of the pines, into the open. I try to pull myself up but my right arm doesn’t work and a warm, salty fluid has coated my eyes. Finally, I manage to heave to standing. I have to wipe my face several times.

Even then what I’m looking at doesn’t make much sense.

Two men, on the ground, locked in a battle to the death. Tree man and...

The tree man gains the upper hand, smashes the other person across the face with a vicious right hook. The new intruder stumbles back. His face appears as obscured as the hunter’s. I just make out human eyes peering out from a mask of caked dirt and dried blood.

Martin.

Still alive. Kind of. And really, really pissed off.

The hunter slugs him again. Then again and again. Belatedly, I resume my search for Miguel’s dropped handgun.

“You... shot... my... son,” Martin is gasping. “Kill you... kill you... kill you...”

The hunter abandons control and starts slugging away. Martin doesn’t dodge. Bent in half and clearly grievously injured, he just keeps taking the blows, his lips peeled back into an unnerving grin. “Kill you... kill you... kill you...”

Now the hunter is fumbling with his pockets. No doubt searching for another knife, gun, bear spray of his own.

“Frankie,” Miguel croaks.

I turn to see him pointing. The handgun. Just five feet away. I lurch toward it.

“Shut... up!” the tree man yells at Martin.

He stabs Martin in the chest, his hand coming back to reveal a short, bloody utility knife. Then he stabs again and again.

---