HunterHunterHunted
HunterHe had been running for hours, it seemed, when the plants attacked.
This was wrong! All his young life he had been nature's defender. He had cried when his father cut down that old oak in the back yard to make room for the swimming pool. He had helped plant several trees each and every Arbor day that he could remember. And when the change had come, he began to stand up for the rights of Mother Nature, of Gaia, in other, more active ways.
As the red-haired, green-eyed human
son of David and Brenda Rushing, young Daniel had been sensitive to the
wounds man inflicted on nature. As a Fiana Garou, Runs-To-Ground
had learned to be somewhat more than just sensitive.
And now he was being assaulted
by nature, by the very thing he had fought so long to protect.
Earlier in the afternoon of this otherwise glorious Spring day in the Piney Woods of deep East Texas, Runs-To-Ground had strayed upon the bloom growing in the middle of the old cattle pond in the back pasture of Mr. Pennington's place. His family and the Penningtons had been neighbors and friends for longer than he'd been alive. Since the change, he'd taken to roaming and running through the woods and fields surrounding Grapeland, his home for the past 13 years, since he was almost 3 years old.
At first, before his parents were
aware of his new-found abilities, he had run mostly in secret, mostly late
at night. For the past few months, however, he roamed not only with
the acknowledgment of, but the blessings of Mom and Dad,
and of his Aunt Becki, a.k.a. Lover-Of-Trees.
So Runs-To-Ground was running. He was simply out among the trees and flowers and birds and insects and animals that were his passion, that he had sworn to protect. And there, miles from the nearest road, far back from the fields visible from the Pennington's beautiful home, was the bloom. Growing in the middle of the pond like some obscene flower was this great, blood-red, brain-like thing. The water in the pond was, likewise, blood-red as was the ground for several hundred yards in every direction.
It was the red soil and the stench
of death and rot that had drawn Runs-To-Ground to the pond in the first
place. Now that he had arrived at the sight he began to notice the
bones of several animals, including six head of prime Angus cattle, strewn
about the area. And that's when the plants began to attack him.
A particularly thick mass of dewberry
vines and nettles suddenly lurched, reaching hundreds of barbed tendrils
across the intervening four or five feet to grapple Runs-To-Ground around
both legs, dragging him to the red mud and pulling him, slowly, into the
heart of the pulsing briar patch.
Runs-To-Ground was, understandably, surprised. He was further startled to find that the ground was stinging, burning his exposed flesh as if he had been splashed with acid. He tried to pull lose, then to roll out of the grasp of this thorny foe, but to no avail.
The pain from the thorns and the ground was becoming unbearable. His pants and shirt were rapidly becoming so much confetti and his skin was following suit. The more he struggled the tighter the vines seemed to grow and the more the soil burned. He was bleeding profusely from several wounds and his exposed flesh now had many large blisters which were, of course, being ripped open by the thorns.
Then he heard the voices. Somewhere nearby there were at least two people talking. Perhaps it was Mr. Pennington and one of his sons or one of the ranch hands. He gave it very little consideration, simply wanting whoever it was to come to his aid.
He began to yell at the top of his
lungs. "Help! Somebody, please help me!"
And, shortly, around a small stand
of trees, there appeared a man and a woman. Who they were, he had
no idea, but they were here and in a position to cut or burn or pull him
out of this rapidly tightening trap.
But, as they walked casually toward him, Runs-To-Ground saw that they were very unconcerned with his situation. As they approached closer still he detected the same rotting scent on them that he had noticed in the area surrounding this pond. 'This must be what Aunt Becki had meant by Wyrm Stench,' he thought. He also thought he was probably going to die within the clutches of this uncharacteristically vicious berry vine.
And then the woman, who had stopped with her feet just inches from his head, pulled a .44 magnum from a holster located in the small of her back, pointed it at his face and looked over her shoulder at the man, saying, "I'll go ahead and kill it. Someone might hear it screaming before it dies."
Runs-To-Ground was stunned. That lasted all of a nanosecond. Suddenly his attention was drawn to himself. He had been growing more and more angry, more and more afraid. Now he was just growing. It hurt. Bad. But, for the first time since the very first time, he welcomed it completely.
Hair, claws and fangs sprouted forth where before there had been finger nails, bare skin and ordinary canines. He gained over two feet in height and over two hundred pounds of muscle.
Struggle though they did to maintain their hold, the vines could not keep up. Within seconds, in less time than it took for the woman to turn her head and take aim, he had transformed from Homid to Crinos form Garou.
Now it was the woman's turn to be startled. She hesitated, and she died as Runs-To-Ground simply backhanded her head completely off her shoulders.
As her head absorbed the impact the woman's body convulsed. The magnum fired and Runs-To-Ground took a shot in the upper abdomen. Screaming with renewed agony he turned from her falling body to face his other foe, the man standing less than ten feet away.
At this point he noticed a number of details that had eluded him earlier. This "man" not only carried the stench of the Wyrm about him, but his every move was accompanied with the sounds of micro-machinery. His jumpsuit, like that of the woman, was orange and bore the Pentex logo on the left breast. And, lastly, he was armed with a large knife -- a large silver knife -- and he moved as if he knew very well how to use it.
Runs-To-Ground made his decision.
He pulled his best head-fake from his short
stint as a wide receiver on the
Grapeland Sandies football team, and began to run at full speed toward
the nearest road. With a little luck he could find his Aunt before this
Wyrm-thing caught him.
He looked over his shoulder then,
to see the man rapidly closing from behind.
HuntedCruising down the crowded street
A nuclear roar takes him through
the heat
of the night
His father's voice screams in his
wake
He remembers well
He begins to quake
His eyes are burning bright
Loremaster -- The Cruiser
Runs-To-Ground ran as fast as his two massive legs would carry him. Though he was unaware of it, he had accelerated beyond thirty miles-per-hour and was maintaining that velocity. Still he was unable to shake the man in the orange Pentex jumpsuit.
They had already crossed several small Farm-To-Market roads when, after what seemed like hours, Runs-To-Ground finally reached the banks of the small stream which led, ultimately, to the old Country Club lake on the east side of Grapeland. He was tired and bloody and nauseous, but he had a plan and, desperate as it seemed, he was determined to give it a try.
His aunt, Lover-Of-Trees, lived in an old house almost at the top of the easternmost hill overlooking the lake. If this plan didn't work, his only hope was to get around the lake, up the hill and attract the attention of his aunt before the son-of-a-bitch with the big, silver knife caught up with him.
He turned east, following the stream. The trees and vines and underbrush slowed his passage considerably, but at least they were not actively attacking him. He struggled on as best he could. Up ahead, somewhere, was his objective, but the pain in his side, caused by the resent gunshot wound, was clouding his vision and his judgement.
The stream turned more to the south now, and the high banks became more muddy with each step. Runs-To-Ground pulled his left foot out of the ankle-deep bog for the hundredth time when another thought occurred to him.
'I can always change again,' he said to himself, and he was right, in theory. In practice, however, shape changing was a bit more complicated. Several factors had to be just right in order to pull it off and chief among those factors was concentration and control of Rage. Runs-To-Ground had very little of either, and he was running out of time, space and energy.
He stopped short, suddenly, as the old, dead pine tree loomed just ahead. It had died over a year earlier in the terrible storm that caused so much damage to downtown Grapeland and tore the new football stadium almost to the ground. He spent weeks helping where he could to repair the broken structures and the broken lives left in the wake of the worst tornado in the history of Houston County.
He found this tree two days prior to the storm. The tallest tree for miles around, he thought it would provide an excellent view of the countryside, and so set about climbing. The tree turned out to be far sturdier than the average pine, and supported Daniel's weight well into the upper reaches.
It was then that he discovered the
secret: a golden eagle had built a nest near the top! In the
nest were two eggs, and in the sky... Mommy was returning!
Daniel never gave it a second thought.
He simply pushed away from the trunk and plunged down, over ninety feet
to the ground.
The relatively soft earth cushioned his fall and prevented major injuries and the density of the canopy prevented any pursuit. He waited and watched and discovered that there was no mate for this one, lone, female eagle. Daniel was glad to have found the nest, and happy to protect its contents, vowing to patrol the area until the nest was empty.
Two days later, the storm hit, destroying this tree and all its precious contents, including the lone eagle. Since that time it had remained as it fell, precariously balanced across the broken, splintered trunk of a neighboring tree. Daniel had always thought that one good push would dislodge it, sending it crashing to the ground along with the eight or ten other dead trees piled on top of it.
And now here he was. Standing before his goal in Crinos form, bleeding from a .44 magnum gunshot would in his upper abdomen and with a killer close behind, Runs-To-Ground realized the folly of his plan: after being shot and then running for more than 12 miles, he doubted that he could ever gather enough strength to move the trees.
He turned, looking over his shoulder. The man with the silver blade was coming up fast. Flashes of orange could be seen through the trees, and Runs-To-Ground could easily hear the man's footfalls.
And then the man broke through the underbrush, coming into full view for the first time since then beginning of this ordeal. He still held the knife in his right hand, and now he carried a Mini-Uzi in his left.
Runs-To-Ground, in desperation, howled at the top of his lungs. He wasn't certain if he vocalized it correctly or not, but his intent was to call for help from anyone within hearing who could understand. Then he bolted straight for the man, hoping to catch him off guard.
The plan failed. Instead of being startled, the Pentex man simply raised his weapon and emptied the clip into Runs-To-Ground, filling the young Garou's body with deadly, silver fire.
Runs-To-Ground screamed, but continued on his chosen flight-path. The orange clad machine-man caught the 350 pound werewolf squarely in the chest and went down with a crash into the jumbled undergrowth.
The man, through he struggled mightily, never had a chance once in the grip of the Garou. Limbs and internal organs, along with several biomechanical devices, began to litter the forest floor for yards around. Then all was still for a moment before Runs-To-Ground rose to his feet once more.
His chest a mass of splintered bone and torn flesh, his body burning from the inside out, his mind devoid of nearly all human reasoning, the beast began to walk. The only image in his mind, that of a modest green home at the top of a small hill overlooking a small body of water, drove him forward. Still over five miles distant, some remote portion of his fevered brain knew that there he would find safety, healing, comfort.
Each step was an infinity of pain. Blood poured from a hundred wounds. Sights and sounds and touch swirled into a single sensation of agony as Runs-To-Ground forced his body to move through the trees and briars and mud.
After an eternity of struggling through the scenic backwoods of East Texas, his will failed him. Falling to his knees, he finally gave in to injuries that would have killed ten men. His massive body began to change back to Homid form and began to die. As a last, desperate act Runs-To-Ground howled.
Howling, he fell face first into the mud. As he lay there he became still. His ear was pressed into the earth and, as blackness began to close in he noticed a vibration, a rhythmic thumping as if a large creature were running fast.
And then he detected another vibration. A heavy chopping sound that seemed to come from the air as much as from the ground. A sound that he had heard before... A sound that he had heard at the air show last summer in Fort Worth. A sound...
As Lover-Of-Trees approached, Daniel
succumbed to the dark.
To be continued...
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