THE MAN WITH THE FIERY HAIR
 

By Brian campo

   And in those days as well as afterwards,
   there were giants on the earth...Genesis 6:4


  The brothers had ruled their earth for a millennia of
millenniums. Like children left alone in a house without
rules or boundaries, they reeked havoc on a primitive
unprotected planet. They had such an itiable hunger for
violence that they forced whole species to the brink of
extinction and sent them reeling over the edge. Their only
delight in life was in the destruction of it. Devoid of
conscience or morals, their blood thirst seemed to be
unquenchable. 
   Each was so different from his brother that the word
brother could only be used in the loosest of terms. They
were brothers in The Hunt. The endless forest of this land
were their own private game preserve, a field to be reaped
at their own leisure. 
   So efficient were they at their game, that few of their
victims realized that they were in danger until it was too
late. One second, a deer would be reaching into a low
hanging branch for a tender green leaf, the next, a clawed
hand would flash out of the foliage, slashing through flesh
and bone, ripping it's still beating heart from it's ravaged 
chest. 
   Yes in those day's there were giants in the land.
Carnivorous demons that fed on the hearts of the living.   
Like a child grows tired of a new toy, the brothers began to 
lose interest in this new world. It was no longer a
challenge to kill these mindless animals that infested the
land. Most were hardly worth the chase. 
   Then a new kind of animal started showing up in the
forest. Hairless beast with no apparent defense, yet provide 
more of a challenge than the mightiest bear. They utilized
sticks, stones and the dried skins of animals, combining
them into deadly weapons, with which they were able to
launch twigs with deadly accuracy. 
   For the first time in their existence, the brothers felt
a sense not unlike fear. There were new hunters in the land.   
These new animals would have been easy to kill if they were
alone, but they traveled in packs, armed to the teeth with
their sharp,pointed sticks. If you attacked them, they
fought back with a ferocity that surprised the brothers.
While they would attack one of the pack, the rest would
assault them with a fullisade of their deadly shafts. More
than one of their strange brother-hood fell victim to these
two-legged clans. Sure, they made kills, but at a high
price. 
   The brotherhood became confused over these two-legged
little fighters. Even the smallest of the brothers were
bigger than these creatures. But what they didn't have in
size, they made up for in spirit and cunning. 
   The brothers tried attacking the weakest of these packs,
the smallest easily fitting into their massive palms. They
soon discovered that the Two-leggs were very protective of
these tiny animals. Male and female alike, the larger ones
would lay down their lives in defense of the little
weaklings. It hardly fit in with survival of the fittest.   
Attempts to understand these new animals bewildered the
brothers to no end. No matter how many of their number they
killed, the Two-leggs never lost their spirit. In fact, it
seemed to add fuel to the flame. They would attack one
night, killing without prejudice, then return later and the
Two-leggs would be even more ferocious. 
   Then one day, to the delight of the brothers, they caught 
one of the creatures alone. It seemed like a good
opportunity to not only get a chance to study the creature
with out the danger of being shot at, it also would allow
them to work out some of their frustration as they ripped it 
to shreds. 
   They had caught the Two-leggs scent early in the morning
and quickly took to his trail. They sped through the forest
racing around trees, leaping fallen logs, eager to get on
with the kill. 
   The Two-leggs must have been very foolish indeed. He was
sitting right out in the open, in the middle of a clearing.
The clearing was enclosed with a ring of small boulders, and 
the brothers could smell the scent of other Two-leggs on
them. Despite the scents of other Two-leggs, this one was
undeniably alone. They would have smelled any others that
might be hiding nearby. 
   They moved in from different sides of the clearing,
anxious for the taste of blood. The Two-leggs made no
attempt to escape, he didn't even seem to notice that the
brothers were there. He just sat, tossing something on to
the ground. They appeared to be seeds of some sort. 
   As the brothers drew closer still, they could hear that
he was chanting in a low whisper. To the brothers, something 
was very wrong about this whole scenario. It wasn't like the 
Two-leggs to be this careless. 
   The Fire Demon reached the Two-leggs first. It reached
down with one long, thin arm and grasped it by the throat.
The Two-leggs might have been a leaf, the way the Brother
handled it. The Two-leggs still gave no indication that it
was aware of the Demon's presence. The Fire Demon hoisted
the chanting animal into the air and pulled back it's other
arm. The Two-leggs show no fear. It continued it's chant.
The brother's arm flashed forward, penetrating the Two-leggs 
chest. 
   It pulled back out in a spray of blood, a pumping heart
in it's hand. The blood poured on to the ground, splashing
onto the bare soil and soaking in. 
   In the brothers grasp, the Two-leggs chanted on. A smile
tugged at the sides of it's mouth. In the brother's other
hand, the heart beat a steady rhythm. 
   Beneath their feet, the ground began to rumble, vibrating 
noticeably. 
   The Fire Demon looked to his brothers in uncertainty.
From the ground, the seeds began to grow. A brother with
antlers much like an elk began to run. A tree thrust out of
the ground under him, pushing him into the air as the
branched folded over him. They pulled him down into the ever 
thickening trunk. 
   Tree after tree broke the surface, snaring the brothers
in their thrashing limbs, and enshrouding them in wood.   
The Fire Demon dropped his victim and strode for the edge of 
the clearing. As he passed over a seed, it sprang to life, a 
tree bursting from it's shell. The branches rushed up at him 
in a blur and for the first time since creation, the brother 
felt as if it were the prey. 
   The branches caught him up, pushing him toward the sky.
He fought them, but the strength of the wood was more than a 
match for him. He was pulled, still struggling, into the
bowels of the tree. The wood sealed closed over his
thrashing head. 
   The Brother's reign had come to a sudden end.   Cedars
and pines covered the mountain like a prickly blanket,
protecting it from the August sun. They stood like natures
big brother, sheltering their smaller siblings from the
elemental bullies. Tiny meadows dotted the forest, each
sporting a thick growth of wiry field grass. Black berry
briars sprouted from some, growing into thick tangled
masses. 
   The briar patches were a home to countless small animals, 
each counting on the vines and thorns to slow down any
predators that might be persuing them. Most of them fit into 
the rodent family in one way or another, rats, rabbits,
squirrels and chipmunks. Occasionally, a bird or snake would 
grace the briars with their presence. 
   The snakes were what kept the other animals on their
toes. These little devils could slide down into the animals
dens and turn them into lunch in no time at all. That's
probably why the squirrels were as skittish as junkies on
some bad blow. They lived on edge, ears constantly listening 
for the tell-tale rasp or scrape of an approaching hunter.   
Down toward the forest, a man sat eating his lunch. The
sandwich was tuna and the chaser was a cold can of Coke. He
wore a thin striped hickory shirt that was loosely tuck in
to a beat up pair of jeans. Every once in a while, he would
pause from his eating to pick a burr from his clothes. 
   His face looked like it hadn't had a close encounter with 
a razor for months and tiny bits of bread clung to his
mustache. His fingers brushed at them absent -mindedly. His
long hair could have used a good washing, but was pulled
back into a pony tail and tied with a leather thong.  On his 
feet, he wore sturdy, well-worn, hiking boots. From the
looks of them,the had seen a lot of mountains. Thick mud was 
crusted on the bottom and quite a way up the side. 
   It could be said that the man looked a little like a
hippy. He didn't think of himself in this way. His
appearance was the result of staying out in the forest for
months on end, far from bathtubs or razors. Water was not
easy to come by up in the logging camp and what there ,was
used for drinking. A bath was a luxury he could ill afford.   
He looked up into a nearby pine, as if expecting something.
What he was looking for must not have been there, for he
turned back to his sandwich. He bit out a hunk and chewed it 
thoughtfully. 
   His name was Doug and his favorite time of the day was at 
lunch, when he could get up here on the mountain and eat his 
lunch away from the thumping of axes and the buzzing of
saws. The shade of the trees was nice since it was in the
nineties out by the clear cut. In his humble opinion, that
was much too fucking hot. 
   There was a flicker of brown and his visitor arrived. A
chipmunk ran down one of the pines at a madcap speed, it's
claws clinging to the rough bark. It eyed him suspiciously
and then made it's way to the ground. 
   He tore off a bit of sandwich and offered it to the
little beggar. The chipmunk scooted a little closer to the
morsel held between Doug's index finger and thumb. The odor
of the tuna wafted to it's nose invitingly. It still hadn't
decided if it wanted to commit itself to getting this close
to a human, but the sandwich was arguing a pretty good case
for human-chipmunk relations. It stretched it's nose an inch 
or two closer to the sandwich, it's tail twitching
nervously. 
     With an air of committed determination, it rose onto
it's back legs and reached for the food. A crashing of
underbrush to Doug's left just about sent the little critter 
into a heart attack, making it hop spasmodically in reverse. 
It turned and scurried for cover. 
   Jerry Barret stumbled out of the pucker-brush,
black-berry briars clinging tenaciously to his grungy jeans.   
"There you are!" he exclaimed when he saw Doug. "I've been
lookin' everywhere for you. Boss says lunch is over." 
   Doug tossed the tuna into the brush that the chipmunk had 
disappeared into. He got to his feet and considered beating
some of the dirt off of his ass, but figured, what the fuck, 
the queen probably wouldn't visit today. Besides, he
preferred not to think of it as dirt, instead, as forest
camouflage. 
   He gave Jerry a grin and said "Jerry, you're as graceful
as a bulldog with rabies." 
   The big logger's head bobbed up and down
enthusiastically. "Thank ya' very much!" he said proudly.   
Doug flashed him a weak smile and followed Jerry out of the
woods. Jerry started whistling, the unwitting slaughterer of 
the simplest tunes. He didn't have the heart to tell Jerry
to stop, so he just grinned and bore it. 
   Jerry had joined their logging crew about four years ago
and it had taken Doug less than a minute to figure out that
Jerry was a couple sandwiches short of a picnic. He was
about thirty and acted like he was about ten. His eyes had
that real simple look that usually accompanied mental
retardation. 
   However, even if he wasn't always intellectually stimul-
ating, he could work all day, from sun up to sun down and
you would never hear a bitch out of him. On top of that, the 
guy was only slightly stronger than a horse. 
   It had only taken the boss less than thirty seconds to
figure out Jerry's mental state and physical capabilities.
Mr. Kurtzen had been paying Jerry minimum wage since he had
started working with them. The big guy seemed content though 
so Doug left it alone. 
   Jerry's passion in life was comic books. Not the violent, 
bone breaking kind. He liked stuff like Chip-n-Dale and Bugs 
Bunny. After Doug's father had died two years ago, Doug had
been digging through the attic and had come across a big
chest of his comics from when he was a kid. He had brought
the chest to work and gave it to Jerry. Every since then he
had reached a position of godhood in Jerry's eyes. Doug took 
being a deity lightly. 
  They slid down a small dirt hill onto the logging road,
kicking up a cloud of red dust. The word road was used
loosely. A narrow ridge had been carved out of the side of
the mountain, leaving a path just wide enough for the log
trucks to travel on, allowing them to get near the clear
cut. At the end of the road, a broad clearing had been cut
and leveled flat by bull-dozers. 
  There was at least a thirty degree difference in
temperature between the forest and out here in the open. It
seemed that the breeze had forgotten to blow and the sun was 
just reaching it's zenith. 
   When the road had first been laid, a shallow layer of
gravel had been sprinkled on it to give it some tread. Most
of the gravel had been ground in by the trucks or pushed to
the side, so there was little left but hard, sun baked dirt. 
Jerry found a good size clump of rock and started kicking it 
in front of him, up the hill. 
   Pretty soon, the heat and up-hill walk started to wear
down on Jerry, bringing him to a point somewhere between
sweating and boiling. He shook his head in wonder and said
"Jesus, Doug, it's hotter than hell out here!" 
   Suddenly he gulped and stuttered in shame and embarrass-
ment at what he had said. 
   "Oh, I'm sorry Doug. I didn't mean to swear. It just
popped out." 
   Doug slapped him on the shoulder and said "It's okay. It
was just an accident." 
   A look something like religious fervor came into Jerry's
eyes. The almighty Doug had forgiven him. Doug knew that
Jerry had learned such colorful phrases from the camp
dick-head, Dennis. Just last week, Jerry had come up to Doug 
and asked him what a virgin cunt was. It had taken him a
second to get his bearings and then told Jerry that it was a 
cinnamon roll from the Virgin Islands. Well, what the hell
was he supposed to tell him? Doug's biggest fear in life
giving this guy the information he needed to become a
psycho-rapist. 
   The heat didn't bother Doug that much. He had been
working on mountains like this since he was eighteen and had 
long since grown accustom to the climate and terrain. His
body wasn't a physical powerhouse, But he wasn't a wimp
either. Climbing up and down these mountains exercised
muscles that most people weren't even aware that they had.   
They reached the summit and the logging crews equipment
spread out before them. Several travel trailers were parked
off to one side,, well out of the way of the log trucks that 
came barreling through here all day long. Just about
everyone in the crew had a pick-up, so there were quite a
few parked here and there around the camp. Doug's was a nice 
red chevy that he had gotten more than a few years back. It
had a couple dings here and there but all in all it was a
pretty good rig. It got down off the mountain and back on
week-ends and he didn't have to worry about it leaving him
stranded somewhere. 
   Various types of logging machinery crowded the plateau,
dusty veterans of more than one clear cut. Some of the crew
were already climbing up into them, getting ready for the
remainder of the day. A CAT thundered past him and the
driver gave him a friendly honk. He acknowledged them with a 
wave of his hand and walked to his truck. 
   The door to a faded blue pick-up creaked open and out
stepped the modern day tribute to the Neanderthal Man. He
shouted at Doug in a voice that would have been audible in
Empire, seventeen miles away. 
   "Hey, Doug! You tryin' to catch that fuckin' squirrel
again?" 
   Doug had been trying to get the "squirrel" to eat from
his hand for about a month now and it was common knowledge
around the camp. 
   "It's a chipmunk, Dennis." 
   "It's lunch if I catch it!" 
   Doug shook his head in disgust. "Did evolution pass this
camp by?" he said crabbily to himself. 
   He reached into the back of the pick-up and hefted out
his saw. He rested it on the tail-gate for a couple seconds
while he checked the gas. It could have used a hair more so
he topped it off with the can of gas in the truck. 
   He was just screwing the cap back onto the saw's tank
when Mr. Kurtzen strode by in a huff. 
   It's one-thirty-five, Charter. I don't pay you to stand
around with your thumb up your ass." he said. 
   "Sorry Mr. Kurtzen." said Doug. They weren't actually
supposed to start back to work for another ten minutes, but
he didn't want to argue with his boss. 
   "It's alright." said Kurtzen. "I just want to get down
into that valley before sundown." 
   They had been working their way down the side of this
mountain for a month now, cutting down trees and pulling
them to the top of the hill with the massive cranes near the 
slope. There was a dense valley below filled with pines,
cedars, and a thick copse of oaks. It was the oaks that
Kurtzen had his eyes on. Because of the sheer size of the
trees and the number of them, they were worth about fifty
grand. Oaks weren't usually found in this area, and finding
so many of them together was a lumber dealers dream come
true. 
   Picking up his saw, he told Kurtzen he'd see him later
and that there was a good that they would get to the valley
today. He made his way to the edge of the clearing and
started down the slope. Down below, Dennis stomped through
the stumps and sawed off tree branches. For the eighteenth
time that day, he asked himself why he was working with
these fuck-ups. 
   He'd been a logger for twelve years and he had learned
that there was a very fine line between a "Good ole' boy"
and a "Fuck-up". Sometimes, he felt like the world's biggest 
fuck-up. Logging hadn't been his life-long dream. After
high-school, he had needed a job to earn college money and
logging was the best he could find. It was only supposed to
last a couple months, but there was always something else
that needed paid for. First off, he'd had to buy the truck.
For five years that had taken a generous chunk out of his
paycheck every month. The truck was a good one, but the
rough logging roads often got the better of it. Truck parts
weren't exactly cheap. There was always rent, insurance, and 
other bills. Then his old man had gone and had himself a
heart attack a couple years back and Doug  had had to clean
out his savings yet again so he could give his dad a proper
burial. There was always something else to pay for. 
  Sub-consciously, Doug had long since given up on the idea
of going to college. Sooner or later he would come around to 
the fact that he was to old of a dog to be taught any new
tricks. 
   It wasn't like he wasn't doing well as a logger. He took
home about ten bucks an hour, and considering that the
spotted owl was turning loggers into an endangered species,
he figured it was better than a sharp stick in the eye.   
Besides, Doug liked working out in the woods like this. It
was nice being this close to nature, Even if you were
killing it in the process. He had to admit, he and his crew
sure knew how to tear the hell out of a beautiful landscape. 
The clear-cut that he was climbing down through gave the
mountain a look not unlike a bad case of mange. It put
Doug's mind to rest knowing that one way or another, the
human race would probably wipe itself out in a couple years
and the forest would left in peace to grow again. 
   Believe it or not, Doug was not a pessimistic man. Just a 
little sarcastic. 
   Jerry came trudging down the mountain behind him, trying
to catch up. Doug paused for a moment, letting the weight of 
the saw rest upon his knee. A look somewhere between fear
and intense concentration was on Jerry's face. 
   "What's the problem, Jer?" he hollared up at him. 
   Jerry puffed his way down to Doug and said "You ain't
really going to let Dennis eat your chipmunk, are you?" 
   Doug put on his most honest face and said, "I wouldn't
worry about Dennis. This stump here has got more sense than
him." 
   He figured that Jerry didn't need to know that one of
Dennis's little joys in life was to take his shotgun and
turn small birds into pillow material. 
   Jerry seemed to be assured so Doug headed the rest of the 
way down the mountain. They reached the first of the
standing trees. A bright red X marked it as one of the trees 
that had to come down. Farther up the tree line, saws were
starting up. They sounded like a swarm of angry bees. He
reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pair of
leather work gloves. After pulling them on, he took the saw
by the handle and gave it a good yank. It stuttered to life
and the chain's teeth thinned out into a silver blur. He
turned and sawed into the tree, kicking up a plume of
saw-dust. 
   No, Doug hadn't always wanted to be a logger, but he knew 
he'd wanted to be near the woods. If not working there, at
least have a cabin out there somewhere. Maybe start a camp
ground or something. Some kind of park that protected
animals and kept dolts like Dennis and their guns out. He
didn't like hunting. He'd had a bad experience with it when
he was young. 
   For his thirteenth birthday, his dad had gotten him a
hunting rifle and he had gotten good with it. It was only a
.30-.30, so he wouldn't be bringing down any elephants with
it. It was still a good gun for him to start out on. His
evenings were spent out in over-grown pastures, shooting at
cans and bottles. Each week he would go to the sporting
goods store and buy a couple boxes of shells from a guy
wearing a N.R.A. baseball cap and a patriotic gleam in his
eye that seemed to say, "God bless you, son.". Before deer
season came around, he just about drove his dad bugshit beg- 
ging and reminding him to get tags. 
   He just about went insane himself. It seemed that all he
could think about was going out in the woods and shooting
something. His rifle stood behind his bedroom door, cleaned, 
polished, and ready to be loaded. The weeks until deer
season dragged along and he could have sworn that someone
had stuck a couple extra days in here or there. An extra
Thursday or two. 
   Despite his constant nagging, his dad was proud of him.
Doug supposed that he reminded his father of himself before
his first hunting trip. His mother had just watched these
spectacles with disgusted wonder, keeping her opinions to
herself to avoid a fight with his father. She must have
realized and dreaded the fact the her only son was becoming
another gun-toting idiot. His father said it was one of the
many steps to manhood. Doug didn't know about that, but he
sure liked the way he could turn a soda can into so much
confetti'. 
   Well, deer season couldn't elude them forever and one day 
his father came home with a handful of papers, including
licenses and tags for their hunt. Much to Doug's delight,
his father had gotten him out of school for the next couple
of days and had put some of his own vacation time to work.
He told Doug that he should get a good nights sleep, because 
they were taking off early the next morning. It would have
been easier to tell him to grow wings and fly. Doug didn't
get a wink of sleep that night. 
   A couple hours before the sun came up, his father knocked 
on the door lightly and told him to get up. He hopped out of 
bed and dressed quickly, pulling on his thickest sweaters
and warmest pants. He got two boxes of shells out of the top 
of his closet and slung his rifle over his shoulder. 
   His mother had breakfast cooking when he came into the
kitchen and the smell of sausage, pancakes, and eggs tempted 
his jittery stomach. Mom had insisted that he lean his gun
against the door leading to the back porch, not against the
table. He submitted, too hungry to argue. He scarfed down
the food, pausing only long enough to tell her to be ready
to cook some venison, because he planned to bag a big one.   
She smiled and told him once again to be careful out there
today. His father came in right then and said that she
didn't have a thing to worry about, because he was going to
take good care of Doug. His mom didn't look all that
convinced. Again, she stayed quiet. 
   She had watched them as they had pulled out of the
driveway the morning, staring after the truck like she was
seeing them for the last time. Doug had waved good-bye to
her. 
   Dad was really in high spirits. Two miles down the road,
he reached past Doug, into the glove compartment and pulled
out a pack of smokes. He lit one up. He was supposed to have 
quit six months ago. He grinned at Doug. 
   "Nervous, Dougy?" 
   "If someone lost a flock of butterflies, I think I found
'em." 
   His dad roared with laughter. "I know how you feel, son.
The first time I went hunting I had this Winchester repeater 
with me. I caught sight of this buck and I just started
pumping cartridges. Didn't get off one shot. When it was
over, the buck just skipped it's way down the mountain and I 
was left standing in a pile of shells. Don't know what got
into me. Buck fever, I suppose." 
   Doug laughed at his father's story. They headed east, out 
of Empire and into the surrounding farmlands. His dad pulled 
onto a gravel side road and shifted down. The tires dug in
and the truck moved off into the mountains. A half hour
later, they pulled over next to a little creek. His father
pulled his own rifle from the rack in the back window. His
was a .30-.30, also. He started loading it. 
   Doug got his own gun out from behind the seat and loaded
it. His hands shook uncontrollably. This was it. His first
hunt. 
   They set off through the woods, Doug behind his father.
The first hint of dawn appeared over the hills behind them.
His dad seemed to know where he was going so he just
followed along. Over the next hill, there was a marshy plain 
and at this point his father put one finger to his lips.
They moved down into the valley, as quiet as two city boy
could be. 
   A dense fog was lifting off of the ground, but Doug
thought he could see shapes moving around in it. They
marched down into the field and started across it. The tall
grass dropped it's load of dew on their boots and jeans.
After twenty steps it had soaked into Doug's shoes and
socks, making them squeak annoyingly. His father gave him a
stern look, like he could stop his shoes from squeaking. He
ended up walking on the balls of his feet, which cut down on 
some of the noise. 
   A sound like muffled thunder made him and his dad jerk to 
the right. His father's foot slipped on the wet grass and he 
came down hard, his ass hitting the ground with a wet smack. 
The fog billowed and out burst a buck, at least five points. 
Doug was so surprised that for a moment he just stood there, 
doing nothing. Then he remembered the gun in his hands and
snapped it to his shoulder. The buck was making for the
forest at a run. Doug pulled the trigger and nothing
happened. The safety. He thumbed it down and sighted again.
He squeezed the trigger. The gun roared, drowning out all
the other sounds of the forest, silencing the birds. Echoes
reverberated from the mountains around them, rolling back
and forth across the valley like a steam-roller of sound.   
The bullet struck the buck right behind the shoulder, what
some would call a perfect shot, what Doug would call a lucky 
shot. It tore through the deer's body, collecting flesh and
bone and pushing it along in front of it. It struck the
shoulder blade and slammed through it, shoving it's payload
a blood, tissue ands bone out the far side of the animal.
The shoulder blew out, spraying the grass. 
   The deer stumbled and tried to keep running but the
shattered shoulder blade and punctured lung brought it to
it's knees. It fell on the grass, trying to get back up. It
panted weakly, it's breath sounded like it was hyperventa-
lating. Only no air was getting into it's ravaged lungs.   
When Doug had imagined hunting, it hadn't been like this.
The animal was supposed to simply fall dead, they packed it
up and took it home. A couple hours later, they were eating
venison steaks while they looked at the mighty stags head
mounted over the fire place. 
   His father had gotten to his feet and was slapping Doug
on the back. 
   "Good shot." he said proudly. 
   Doug stared, astonished, at the deer. It was pushing
itself along the ground with it's back legs. Thick blood
poured from it's nose and mouth and steam rose off of it.   
His dad shook him. He looked up at him. Dad looked as though 
he expected Doug to do something. 
   "I said finish it off, Doug!" he said sternly, a
questioning look in his eyes. 
   Doug took one more look at the deer and bent over,
vomiting. His dad made a disgusted grunt and stepped back,
careful not to get any puke on his boots. 
   "Ah, Jesus, son! What the hell?!" He sounded a bit more
pissed than worried. He walked past Doug, flipping the
safety off on his rifle. The gunshot startled Doug, turning
his retches to hiccups which in turn, started him to puking
again. 
   His dad stood next to the buck's carcass, cursing like a
drunk sailor. When Doug looked back now, he didn't think
that his father knew how to handle it. He'd probably had all 
kinds of father-son bonding plans in mind. Like celebrating
his son's first kill. What he had gotten was a son that
couldn't keep his stomach down. It must have been quite a
shock to him. Quite a revelation. 
   He stood over the deer and looked at his vomiting son
with a look that might have been sadness. 
   That was Doug's first and last hunting trip. 
   He yanked the saw back out of the groove he had cut and
let Jerry work on it with the axe for a minute. Sweat
streamed off of his head, dampening his hair. When Jerry had 
it cleaned out, he moved in again, taking out another
sizable chunk. The tree groaned loudly and he told Jerry to
get back. 
   He put the saw to the tree again and cut into the wood
until the tree started to lean. Pulling the saw out, he
stepped back and gave the tree room to do it's thing. With a 
sharp crack of splintering wood, the tree came down. 
   They reached the oak grove a little after five, just as
the sun was sinking behind the mountains. Doug volunteered
to go up top and tell Mr. Kurtzen while a couple of the guys 
started on one of the oaks. The rest of the guys sat down
and took a break. 
   It took him a couple minutes to get to the top and as he
reached the summit, he heard the oak go down with a crash.
Mr. Kurtzen was cracking open a beer on the step of his
trailer when Doug got there. He asked if Doug wanted one and 
Doug declined. 
   "We just got into those oaks." said Doug. 
   Mr. Kurtzen nodded. "Yeah, I heard it come a minute ago.
You guys made good time today. Good work." He took a long
pull off of his beer. "You can go ahead and knock off if you 
want. Those trees aren't going anywhere before morning." 
   "Yes, sir." Doug said. "I'll go tell the guys." 
   "Thanks, Doug." said Mr. Kurtzen. 
   Doug started back towards the clear cut, but stopped when 
he saw someone coming over the top. It was Stuart King. The
rest of the guys called him Stupor because Stuart spent most 
of his weekends with a bag of weed and a package of
cigarette papers. 
   "What's goin' on, Stu?" 
   The curly haired-logger huffed and puffed from climbing
the mountain. "Get Mr. Kurtzen." he said. 
    Kurtzen came across from the trailer. "What's wrong,
son?" 
   Stuart shrugged and said "I think that you should just
see it for yourself. 
   Mr. Kurtzen sighed as if the idea of climbing down the
mountain wasn't a very appetizing one for him. "Let me get
my coat and flashlight. Stu, this had better be pretty damn
important." 
   "I'll be goddamned!" exclaimed Mr. Kurtzen when he saw
the end of the tree's trunk. 
   Dennis stood next to him with his usual look of dumb
surprise. "Yeah, ain't that just the damndest thing." 
   Doug squatted down next to the fresh oak stump and ran
his fingers across it. He raised his middle and index finger 
to his nose and sniffed. 
   "What is it?" demanded Kurtzen. 
   "Smells like blood." said Doug. 
   "It is blood, man! This tree's fuckin' bleedin'!" Dennis
looked scared. Kurtzen told him to put a sock in it and
Dennis clammed up quick. 
   The boss turned back to Doug. "What do you think,
Charter?" 
   "I don't know." said Doug. "You sure no one got cut?" The 
crew shook their heads. "I don't know boss. All I can see is 
that the tree is bleeding" 
   "I already said that." said Dennis, as if making the
statement first scored you points. 
   Kurtzen glared at him and told him that he wouldn't tell
him to shut up again. He motioned Doug over away from the
other guys. Doug wondered why Kurtzen was asking him for
answers. Just because he had been logging longer than anyone 
else here didn't mean he knew why this fuckin' tree was
bleeding. Kurtzen shoved his hands deep into his pockets and 
pulled his jacket closer around him. 
   "Doug, I want to get someone to test these trees and see
what's going on. I want to know if it's going to cut down on 
their value." He looked to Doug, like he expected Doug to
tell him it was the right thing to do. 
   Uncertainly, Doug said, "Sounds good, Boss." 
   Mr. Kurtzen nodded, like he had made a decision. "Guys,
gather round."  The men moved over by their boss and waited
for what he had to say. Jerry stayed over by the tree but
Kurtzen let it go. Jerry would do whatever he was told,
anyway. 
   "Okay, I need you guys to cut off a good size slab of the 
tree and haul it up top. We're going to take it in tonight
and have it looked at. Everybody okay with that?" 
   Dennis was about to say something but Kurtzen said,
"Tough shit. Do what you're told." 
   The men started back toward the grove and that was when
Jerry screamed. There was a weird flickering of light and
Jerry screamed again. The scream was cut off in mid-note.
Doug shoved through the guys and raced into the oak grove.   
The weird flickering of light was moving off through the
forest, easy to keep track of in the darkening woods. Doug
jumped the fallen tree and nearly fell on Jerry. He lay on
the ground, his legs twitching. There was a massive hole in
the middle of his chest, right over the left side. Doug
stuck a finger to Jerry's wrist, searching for a pulse. He
knew he wouldn't find one. You can't have a pulse if your
heart's been ripped out. The rest of the guys were catching
up. 
   "What the fuck happened?" asked somebody. Doug stood up
from behind the fallen tree, feeling sick to his stomach.
"Something killed Jerry. Tore out his heart." 
   The crew looked like someone had slapped them in the
face. In their own way, everybody liked Jerry and it just
didn't seem right for him to be laying there dead. 
   Doug notice the tree for the first time. There was a
large hole in the tree and it hadn't been there before. He
ran his hand over the splintered wood, carefully stepping
over Jerry. 
   He didn't mind admitting, he was scared shitless. The
crew was looking at him, expecting answers, and he was about 
to lose his tuna sandwich and coke. Jerry was a good friend
and it hurt like hell to see this simple, innocent man
laying there with his chest ripped open. He didn't feel like 
taking a leadership role. He just wanted to get the hell out 
of there. 
   Mr. Kurtzen was looking the hole in the tree over. "What
do you think could have done this?" 
   "A really pissed off wood-pecker." said Dennis. 
   Doug came over the log and tackled Dennis. He took the
big jerk down and proceeded to beat the hell out of him.   
"This is no time to be making your stupid jokes, you fuck!"
he screamed into Dennis's bleeding face. 
   Stuart and a couple other guys pulled Doug off, although
a little reluctantly. Most of the crew thought Dennis needed 
a severe beating. Doug struggled for a couple seconds, but
then he started to relax. Tears rolled down his cheek,
marking little trails in the dust on his face. 
   He put Dennis under his steely gaze and said in a flat
tone that left no room for question, "One more comment,
Denny, and you're a dead mother-fucker. Got it?" 
   Dennis nodded, cupping his hand over a nose that was
probably broken. Mr. Kurtzen cleared his throat and said,
"Let's get Jerry and get out of here." 
   Nobody seemed real enthusiastic about carrying Jerry's
corpse up the hill so Doug angrily stomped over and tried to 
sling the dead body over his shoulder. Jerry had been a big
man, so Doug only succeeded in getting blood all over his
clothes. One of the other crew members, a guy named Ben,
helped Doug lift the body and together they started out of
the grove. 
   The crew noticed the flickering of light just an instant
too late. The bright flickering of flame danced through the
darkness for one second and then it was in the midst of
them. It floated about ten feet above the ground and below
it an indistinct, tall, spindly shape raced along. 
   Mr. Kurtzen had been carrying Jerry's axe and he spun
toward the flame, brandishing it. What ever it was struck
him and the axe went flying. The boss was lifted fifteen
feet into the air and the thing ripped his chest open. 
   The stunned silence that had frozen the men broke and
they split up, running for their lives. Doug and Ben dropped 
Jerry and ran. There would be time enough for taking care of  
the dead later. Right now, the living needed attention.   
Jerry's axe had landed somewhere in the bushes to Doug's
right and he dove for it. He saw the dull gleam of it's
blade and realized it was reflecting the light of the
killer. And it was getting brighter. He grabbed the axe and
spun around. The thing was coming his way. 
   It had extraordinarily long limbs, absurdly long, on
which it ran. It's arms tapered into massive clawed hands,
which dripped blood. But it's head was the worst thing. It
had a rictus grin, filled with teeth like razors and two
glowing slits that must have been eyes. And crowning it's
skull, instead of hair, there was a tall flickering mane of
flame. It roared out behind it as it ran, the wind flowing
through it like a candle on a stormy night. 
   It must be some kind of demon, Doug resolved. He told Ben 
to run and then he made tracks himself. Ben didn't get far
though. It caught him and took him to the ground. There was
the crunch of bones and a very wet sound. Doug didn't stop
running. He headed uphill. His pulse thundered in his ears,
a steady rhythm to run by. He raced upwards, the axe held
firmly in his clenched hands. He realized that by most
standards, these were the actions of a coward. But then
again he didn't see any of the other guys taking a shot at
fighting that thing. 
   Another scream rang out behind, but he couldn't tell who
it was. But the important thing was that it was from the
other side of the grove. But then again, the acoustics of
the hills could really fuck with sound. 
   He ran harder, hurdling stumps and downed trees like an
Olympic track and field star. Adrenaline pumped through him, 
pushing him on. 
   A surprising thought sprang into his mind. For the first
time in twenty years, he wished he had a gun.
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  When the Two-leggs had trapped him in the tree, they
thought they had been so clever. Well now the wood demon was 
free and the Two-leggs were running from him like a
fright-ened herd of deer. 
   He raced through the forest in mad glee, blood running
from his grinning mouth. The Two-leggs were quickly
dispatched, one by one, killing one then running down the
next. 
   The first hadn't even known what had hit him. The Fire
Demon had felt his prison start to weaken around him earlier 
and he had begun pounding on the restraintive wood. That
must have been what had drawn the Two-leggs so close to the
tree. He had heard it's muffled voice through the wood. He
couldn't understand the words, but they had a questioning 
tone to them. With his next punch, he felt the wood give way 
and his hand had shot out of his oppressive cocoon and into
the open air beyond. The Two-leggs had screamed horribly.
Another shove and he broke free of the tree, breathing in
air for the first time in what seemed like forever. The
Two-leggs before him wore even stranger skins than what he
remembered. It screamed again and the demon silenced it with 
a direct blow to the heart. It ripped the beating organ from 
the Two-leggs chest, allowing the body to drop to the
ground. Heart in hand, it raced for the woods. It had
learned long ago that the Two-leggs were very dangerous when 
you killed one of their number. 
   At a safe distance, it paused to gulp down the bloody
pulp it held in it's hand. The blood did wonders for it,
awakening hungers, thirsts, and needs he hadn't felt
for...well just how long had he been in that tree, anyway?   
There would be time for such ponderings later he figured. At 
the moment, he had a lot of killing to do. 
   After a couple kills, he began to realize, with much
disappointment, that Two-leggs must have grown weak during
his incarceration. They were so easily dispatched. They
didn't even stick in a group to fight him. Instead they
spread out, making his job a lot easier. 
   He soon learned that they also didn't seem to feel that
fierce need for revenge that they used to feel. When he
attacked some in a bunch, instead of jumping to their
fellows aid, the rest ran like scared rabbits. He realized,
with disgust, that the two-legs were no longer a challenge.   
One of them had tried to fend off the Fire Demon with some
kind of knife with gnashing, blurring teeth. It had made a
loud frightening roar and put out a stinking cloud of smoke. 
The Two-leggs just hadn't been fast enough and had paid for
it with his life. He had kept an eye on the knife-thing for
a minute, just to make sure it wasn't going to try to attack 
him. 
   Then he was back on the run. His thirst for blood and 
hunger for the hot steaming hearts of the Two-leggs drove
him on in his mad hunt.

  The sound of the saw starting up had startled Doug, making 
him stumble. He had barked his shin painfully, peeling the
skin off almost all the way to the knee. In his fear crazed
state, he hardly felt a thing. 
   He got to his feet and started off again. It usually only 
took a couple-ten minutes to get to the camp, but he felt
like he had been running forever and he still hadn't reached 
the top. 
   Once he got to the top, he could arm himself and drive
out of here. He worked with mountain men and figured that
there was enough guns in the pick-ups up there to arm a 
small army. From the sounds of things down the slope, he
didn't figure that many of the guys would mind if he
borrowed their guns. 
   Man, wouldn't his mom be proud?! All it took was a heart
rending killer tree demon and he was already dropping all of 
his moral codes and trying to get his hands on a gun.   
  Something moved to Doug's right, and with a force of
instinct more than thought, he swung the axe toward it with
his adrenaline pumped muscles. He came within two inches of
taking Dennis's head off at the shoulders. The blade sliced
the air an inch below his chin and two inches from his
Adam's apple. 
   Dennis stood with a look of dumb surprise, one that was
quite familiar to him. Funny, in all the years that he had
worked with Dennis and Jerry, he always thought of Dennis as 
the dumb one. 
   "What are we going to do, Man?" Dennis asked, his voice
quivering like he was on the verge of tears. 
   "Well," Doug said, "I'm going up top and you are going to 
get the fuck away from me." He started back up the hill in a 
loping run. Dennis stood with his mouth hanging wide open.
Then he started to wail. 
   "That thing's going to get me, Doug! Don't leave me!" he
cried. 
   Yeah it will if you don't shut the fuck up, he thought to 
himself. He started to turn back, to get Dennis and get him
moving. There was something very weird about him. He had a
halo around his head and it flickered strangely. 
   "Run, Dennis!" he screamed. 
   It was too late. A hand exploded from Dennis's chest,
giving Doug's clothes another dose of blood. The Demon stood 
up to it's full height, well over ten feet. It's long, thin
limbs straightened out and it looked like some hellish
marionette come to life. Dennis still from it's wrist, his
body jerking. For one absurd moment, to Doug they looked
like a ventroliquist-dummy team. 
   With strength borne of fear, he swung the axe and let it
fly. The blade made silvery circles in the air as it spun.
Ben could have probably stuck that axe right into that
thing. He was-had been the axe throwing champ at the state
fair. Doug had never practiced axe throwing so he wasn't at
all surprised when the axe didn't sink in to the demon's
mottled, brown flesh. Instead, the butt end of the handle
hit it directly in the middle of the chest. It fell
backwards, tumbling down the hill, Dennis still swinging
from it's wrist. 
   Doug hoped that it had broken it's goddamn neck in the
fall, but he wasn't going to stick around and find out. He
made it the rest of the way to the top of the hill, feeling
somewhat defenseless without the axe. He looked the pick-ups 
over, trying to remember what kinds of guns the different
guys had. Dennis had had a shotgun. He remembered that. 
   He ran to Dennis's blue truck and yanked open the door.
The double barreled shotgun hung in the back window. He
pulled it out and broke open the chambers. It wasn't loaded. 
He rested the gun under his armpit and over his left arm
while he pulled the seat forward. Amid the pop cans and
Mickey Dees wrappers he spotted a couple boxes of shells. He
grabbed them and quickly loaded the gun. The rest he shoved
down into his shirt. 
   He gave a quick look behind him, scanning the crest of
the slope for any sign of the fiery-headed man. Nothing. He
clicked the shotgun's barrel back into place with the stock.   
He was going to shut the door, but something under the front 
of the seat caught his eye. He reached under and pulled out
a pistol. He didn't know what the caliber was, so he popped
out the clip. It was loaded with what looked like 9mm
shells. Slapping the clip back in, he jacked a round into
the chamber and engaged the safeties. 
   He wasn't real familiar with handguns so he hoped that
the shotgun would do the job. The 9mm semi-automatic went
into his waste band and he cinched the belt a little tighter 
to hold it there. 
   Deciding that he had already wasted enough time, he ran
for his truck. For one horrifying second he couldn't find
the keys in his pocket. Then he remembered that he had left
them in the ignition. There wasn't much chance of it getting 
stolen up here. He slid behind the wheel and set the shotgun 
on the seat, beside him. 
   He turned the key. The engine turned over twice and
caught. Giving it gas, he put the truck in gear and pulled
out. It took him a couple seconds before he realized that he 
had forgotten to turn on the headlights. 
   He steered around the logging equipment and started down
the road leading out of camp. 
   The headlights picked out the curves and bumps and helped 
him negotiate them at this high speed; he was going much too 
fast for safety. The road made a gradual curve, winding
itself around the edge of the valley. The truck fish-tailed
and weaved on the loose dirt, slipping dangerously near the
edge of the ravine. 
   He rounded another corner and sped up for the straight
stretch. A bright flash of light burst from the valley and
the man with the fiery hair landed on the hood of the truck. 
It shrieked at him through the glass, eyes pulled into
hateful slits. Doug's heart skipped three beats. 
   It's fingers grasped the lip of the truck's hood and it
clung to the metal as the truck slid around another corner.
It pulled back it's arm and punched through the glass, it's
clawed hand grasping for Doug's heart. Doug leaned to the
right and the Demon embedded it's claws the truck seat where 
Doug's chest had been a second before. 
   Doug fumbled for the pistol, but couldn't get it out of
his waist band. Trying to get the gun and avoiding getting
his heart ripped out distracted him from his driving. On the 
next curve, he let the truck stray too much to the left, and 
it struck the bank there. Doug slammed into the steering
wheel and the air rushed out of him. With a shriek of
tearing metal, the hood came off of the truck, taking the
Demon with it. 
   They sailed off through the air, the hood making a hollow 
"whoomping" sound as the weight of the demon crushed and
buckled the metal. The Demon hit the ground farther down the 
road, struggling under the truck hood. 
   Still trying to get some air into his lungs, Doug shifted 
into reverse and floored the gas. Several roots and limbs
had become tangled in the grill but they snapped loose under 
the truck's pull. He realized, too late, that he was going
too fast and in the wrong direction. 
   The back of the truck flew out over the valley and Doug's 
stomach sank sickeningly. It remained airborne for a moment
and then the back end hit the ground. Doug slammed into the
back of the seat and his head smacked into the back window.
A wave of darkness got so close, he could have reached out
and touched it. 
   The trucks engine quit with a stuttering cough and the
lights went out. Darkness shrouded the truck, making it
impossible for Doug to see his surroundings. When ever he
moved, the truck would sway nauseously. 
   His breathcoming in ragged gasps, Doug threw open the
door. The truck leaned to the left with a loud groan. He
caught his breath and clung to the seat trying to avoid
falling out. He could hear the quiet gurgle of water below
him, although how far he could not tell. The truck seemed to 
be caught over a ravine, the back end on one side, the front 
bumper hanging on to the edge of the other. 
   Well, he couldn't hang around and wait for the psychotic
cigarette lighter to come after him. The shotgun had fallen
into the floor, so he reached over and grabbed it. He slid
over to the open door and hung his legs over the precipice.
Even though he couldn't judge the distance to the ground, he
still felt a wave of vertigo. 
   Shoving outward, he dropped from the truck. The shock of
cold spring water made him gasp. His knees folded and he
found himself kneeling in calve deep water. He held the
shotgun up to avoid getting it wet and he didn't think any
of the water had reached his crotch where he kept the 9mm.   
He got to his feet and looked up. The truck stood out
against the moonlit sky. He'd made a drop of about ten feet. 
He started wading upstream. If he kept in that direction, he 
ought to come out by the road on the far side of the valley.   
Fallen logs criss-crossed the creek with ferns growing on
them in thick patches. The creek bed was lined with smooth,
rounded, water-worn stones and rock that made his booted
feet twist painfully at the ankles. The shotgun shells
jingled quietly in his shirt. He crept on, trying to muster
up all the stealth he could. 
   Suddenly the ravine lit up and flashes of red and yellow
danced across the water. The Demon had jumped silently on to 
one of the logs behind Doug. 
   He started to run, but he tripped over a good sized
boulder in the middle of the creek. He went under, thrusting 
his arms above him in an attempt to keep the gun dry. Even
through the water he could see that the light was getting
brighter. 
   He sat up, aiming the shotgun in front of him. The Demon
had jumped on to the boulder he had tripped over and was no
more than two feet away. It's gleaming grin told Doug that
the chase was over. 
   It's body coiled for the spring, and it's flames turned
white with it's blood-thirst. It dove for him. 
   Doug pulled the trigger and let him have it with both
barrels. The Demon stopped in mid-air, as if it had run into 
an invisible brick wall, and then it was thrown forcefully
backwards. It landed on the other side of the boulder,
sending up a spray of water. 
   Doug scrambled to his feet, pulling the pistol from his
pants. He prayed that it was still dry enough to fire. The
Demon lay under the water thrashing about. The fire on it's
head burned on, even under the water, boiling the water
around it. 
   The Demon jerked again, it's legs pumping out straight.
The flame flickered and went out with a hiss. 
   Doug stood with one foot on the boulder and one in the
water. He held the pistol with both hands and kept it aimed
at the Demon's dark form. It was still. 
   He untucked his damp shirt and let the shotgun shells
fall out and sink into the stream. He let the pistol join
them and started back up stream, leaving the Demon floating
against the boulder. 
   The moon broke through the trees, giving Doug all the
light he needed to find his way.

  The coyotes were hungry, and they had been following
the scent of blood all night. The smell was carried up the
 hills on the slight breeze, and every animal with a taste
 for meat was headed for the low lands, to see what they
 could find. The coyotes had followed the winding little
 creek down out off the mountain, occasionally taking 
long detours to avoid one of the larger predators, like 
the wolves who were also following the scent of blood.
  The coyote that seemed to be leading the pack stopped 
and flicked his ears. The rest followed suit, knowing that
the leader had scented something and was deciding if 
they were in danger. The coyote crept forward with his 
head low, sniffing at the water. The others came up closer 
and saw what he had stopped for. There was a carcass 
floating in the water. It was dead, but a cautious coyote 
was a long lived coyote. The pack leader decided it was
safe and reached his snout under the water. He took a
firm grip on the carcass and started dragging it toward 
the bank of the creek. Excited that they would be eating,
several others grabbed hold and helped tug the body up 
on the land.
  The rest of the pack ran up and started sniffing the body, 
trying to decide where the choices parts would be. The pack 
leader chased one away from the area where the liver would
be with a snarl. He returned to the carcass and sank his
teeth into the mottled brown flesh. It was tough but he was
able to pull off a chunk. He swallowed it and went back for
more.
   There was a popping sound and the rest of the pack
scattered. The pack leader tried to jump away, but it found 
that it was all of a sudden caught in some way. Intense 
waves of pain were coming from it's side and it was suddenly
hard to breathe. It looked at it's side. One of the carcass's 
arms was impaled in the coyotes side. The arm flexed and it's
hand exited the coyotes body with a still beating heart. The
coyote fell dead as the top of the creatures head popped into 
flame.
  The creature sat up and took a thoughtful bite out of the organ 
in it's hand. the warm blood felt good to his cold, wet body. 
When it was done eating, it felt strong enough to stand, so it
got slowly to it's feet.  It's fingers slid up it's chest, idly playing
with the holes that were healing there. 
  So the Two-legs had learned a new trick or two, it thought to itself.
   It scurried up the side of the creek, it's claws and long 
limbs making short work of the steep bank. It started back
to the heart of the valley, it's long stride eating up
ground at an incredible pace. It reached the clear-cut in no 
time. Bodies were strewn out across the ground in various
positions. One of them had an axe in his hands and the man
with the fiery hair took it from him. He entered the oak
grove and as he passed the fallen tree, he gave it a hateful 
look. 
   He stopped next to the first oak, spread his feet a
yard apart, and braced himself. He swung his axe and sank it 
deep with in the oaks hard wood.   There was a hard knocking 
from within the tree. The Demon leaned close to the wood and 
whispered to it. He let his brother know that he wouldn't
have to wait much longer.   He stepped back and swung the
axe again. the hollow thumping of the axe filled the woods,
disturbing the quiet of the dead.