The Last Hunt: A Short Story by Dellosso Mike

Author:Dellosso, Mike [Dellosso, Mike]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Christian, USA
Publisher: Darlington House
Published: 2013-04-17T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 5

Surprisingly, I made it there in four steps, threw open the door, jumped in, and locked it behind me. No problem. What was I afraid of? The inside of the Wagoneer was cold and quiet, the windshield blanketed with snow. For some odd reason I thought it felt like a tomb or a coffin.

I flipped the flashlight on, reached into my pocket and fished out the keys, and slid one into the ignition. After pumping the gas pedal three times I turned the key and pressed on the gas. The engine whined and moaned but wouldn’t turn over.

“Come on.”

I tried again. Turn key, give it some gas. More whining, but no life.

I hit the steering wheel with the heel of my hand and cursed.

Pushing the key forward two clicks, I flipped the switch for the wipers. I could at least clear the snow from the windshield while I waited a few seconds before trying again. The wipers sprang to life, sweeping a wide arc clear on the glass. The snow was light and fluffy and blew away like powdered sugar. Now at least I could see out the front window, though all I saw was blackness.

I tried the ignition again and got the same result as before: a lot of whining but no success. The windshield was covered with a dusting of snow already so I hit the wipers again and watched as they slowly slid across the glass right to left then reversed. Searching with my left hand, I found the switch for the headlights and pulled it toward me.

I can’t accurately describe what I saw standing there in the snow just inches from the hood of the Wagoneer. I’ve thought about it for two decades, have tried to erase the image from my mind and have had some success only to dream about it or have it triggered by some horror movie trailer. I suppose I never will rid myself of the memory. Eyes are like cameras and everything we see is captured and stored somewhere in the convoluted twists and turns of the noodle in our head. No matter how hard I try to stuff an image in some far corner and lock the door securely, it eventually finds its way out and pushes itself to the forefront of my mind. And then it’s there, staring at me with those black eyes and twisted smile.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. At first I thought it was a man. Just to see anyone standing out there in the snow made me nearly jump out of my skin. He was at least seven feet tall and thin. His skin was black, or maybe dark brown, and stretched taut over an angular face, like a burn victim. His cheekbones were like razors trying to push through that leathery skin, and his jaw was square and ended in a narrow chin. His head was hairless, his nose just two holes in his face, and his eyes . . . black and cold as coal, and lifeless.

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