Hearing a rustling, he turned and saw Faesch emerging from the bushes, rifle in hand. He was grinning. "Found some tracks," he said in French. "Real fresh. Can't be more than a half a mile away. Grab your gun and follow me. This trip might not be a total waste after all."
Lucien nodded. He never said it, but he was a bit nervous. Technically they weren't supposed to be out here. Although it was hunting season in Aurnberg, the area of the province that the two were camped in was uncomfortably close to land owned by Augustus Steranko. Steranko maintained a private army, it was said, and, as Chancellor of the European economic community he wielded a considerable amount of political power. That much Lucien knew. He knew that if they got caught by Steranko's soldiers hunting on the Chancellor's property, they'd be in jail so fast their heads would spin.
Still, he figured as long as they steered clear of the cliffs, they'd be safe. He grabbed his own rifle and followed Faesch, the two trudging through the forest. Faesch walked slightly ahead of his comrade, stooped down low, following deer tracks that Lucien, for his part, found difficult to see. Faesch was the tracker. He just pointed his gun at things and shot.
About ten paces in, Faesch stopped. Behind him, Lucien also paused.
"What is it?" asked Lucien.
"Footprints," said Faesch, stooping lower.
Lucien walked around to stand beside his friend. Now these were footprints he could see. Human footprints. Someone wearing shoes. "A soldier?" he asked worriedly.
"Possibly," said Faesch, standing and continuing on. "No, more likely another hunter. These aren't combat boots. Come on."
They walked on a little further in silence, Lucien growing warier and warier by the moment. If there was another hunter stalking a deer so close by why hadn't they heard a shot? He got his answer soon enough. As the two came to a steep incline, leading downwards, Faesch's foot struck a rock that was hidden by the underbrush. With a cry he tumbled forwards and rolled down the slope, his rifle flying from his hand. Lucien didn't see where it landed. He was too busy watching Faesch rolling head over heels down the hillside in an almost comical fashion. Finally the other hunter hit bottom, and sprawled face-down on the ground.
"Faesch!" Lucien cried, and, mindful of the rocks, struggled down the slope as quickly as he could, to kneel beside his fallen friend. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine," Faesch replied. "I--" But be stopped midsentance, looking over at something. Lucien followed his gaze.
Five feet from where the two men were was a deer carcass. Fresh. Obviously the one they'd been following. And hunched over the carcass, his back to them, was a man wearing loose-fitting slacks and a dirty white shirt with a colorful striped scarf. He had nearly shoulder-length, matted black hair. Was this the other hunter whose footprints they'd found earlier? He was...doing something to the deer.
"Holy hell," Lucien whispered.
The man tensed suddenly, as though sensing their presense for the first time. He turned, revealing himself to be not a man but a boy of perhaps sixteen or seventeen. Lucien felt his stomach lurch. The boy was holding in his bare hands raw deer flesh, and there was some blood smeared around his mouth; the carcass splayed before him was completely eviscerated. The youth was eating the dead deer raw. He glared at the two interlopers with wild, hateful eyes, and, then, to both men's surprise, he growled at them.
"I think we should go," Faesch suggested, reaching up and grabbing Lucien's shoulder for support. Slowly, so as not to antagonize the obviously crazy boy, Lucien began helping his friend to his feet.
The boy growled again, and dropped the meat, jumping up suddenly. With a speed and ferocity that caught the two hunters off guard he charged at them completely unprovoked. Lucien cried out and released Faesch, who fell to the side; Lucien brought his rifle up instinctively, but the boy grabbed the barrel before he could fire and wrenched it from his hands. Lucien could only stand there, gawking, as the boy, still clutching the gun by the barrel, held it like a baseball bat, and swung it.
Blood sprayed through the air as the butt of the rifle slammed into Lucien's head, sending him reeling. He managed to keep his balance, although the blow spun him around so he stood with his back to his attacker in a daze.
As Faesch watched, wide-eyed, the youth swung the rifle again and this time hit Lucien in the back of his skull. There was a loud crack, like china breaking, and Lucien fell forwards and didn't get up. The fact the hunter was dead did not seem to satisfy the boy who continued bashing the corpse with the rifle.
Faesch meanwhile looked around in vain for his own weapon, then made an attempt tp escape by crawling back up the slope. He made it halfway up when the boy finally remembered there were two of them, and grabbed Faesch's ankle. Faesch screamed shrilly as he was dragged back down, and died under a fury of blows from his attacker's fists, as the enraged boy hit him...
Zigesfeld stood, panting, over the lifeless body of the second man, lying alongside that of the first. Both of them had been beaten almost unrecognizable. Sometimes the boy was amazed at his own strength, especially considering he wasn't very big. As he caught his breath, he looked down at his hands, which were drenched in the second man's blood. With a cry he ran to a nearby stream and dipped his hands into the frigid water, wincing at the cold. As he washed himself, Zigesfeld thought again of how he had gotten here, living in the wilderness like a wild animal.
Born to middle-class Polish parents, the young Zigesfeld had always acted differently from the other children. Slower in his studies, quiet, and a bit of a loner, he didn't like being bothered. But the other boys wouldn't leave him alone. Even when he lashed out violently to try and make them go away, they never seemed to get the hint. So it came to pass that he beat a boy to death in a fistfight in the schoolyard. Before he knew it, he was taken away from his parents and sent first to a juvenile detention center. After he killed another inmate there, however, a doctor declared him mentally incompetent, and he was shipped off to the Aurnberg Home For Disturbed Children. Which is where he'd remained for the last seven years, drugged, studied, poked and prodded.
Finally, unable to take it anymore, he had attacked his psychiatrist Dr. Baker in a therapy session, strangling him with his own necktie, and escaped. The one thing he'd had the presence of mind to grab on his way out of Baker's office window had been the doctor's hat and scarf. The hat flew off his head during his frenzied flight down the road from the hospital, but he managed to keep the scarf.
Now, he'd spent the past several weeks wandering further and further away from the hospital, sticking to the woods, surviving by catching and killing the local wildlife. Now, though, Zigesfeld was finding it more and more difficult to survive. When he'd escaped from the asylum, it had been fall still. Not too cold. But now with the temperature dropping and winter on its way, Zigesfeld was beginning to wish he'd had the presence of mind to steal Dr. Baker's overocat, too. The scarf just wasn't cutting it. Remembering the two men, Zigesfeld glanced over. They both still lay where they fell. Shaking his hands dry, he rose and walked over to them. They were both dressed in winter coats and mittens.
Immediately, Zigesfeld set to work stripping the second man of his clothing. The first man's clothes were too bloody from being bludgeoned with the rifle, which now lay twisted and broken beyond use on the ground nearby. He didn't feel any remorse about having killed them. Even though they hadn't attacked him, he was certain they would have if given the chance. After all the first one had brought his gun to bear on him! Besides, had they escapes, they would've almost certainly reported his whereabouts to the asylum.
From the second man Zigesfeld took his coat and his mittens. He smiled, instantly feeling a little better. After standing a moment to enjoy the warmth, Zigesfeld decided it was time to get moving again. Deciding he may as well have a look in the direction the men must have come from, the boy trudged up the steep hillside. Smelling something cooking, he follow the scent until he came to a small campsite. There was a pot of stew cooking over a dying fire, a tent, some folding chairs, and, nearby, a parked Ford Courier pickup truck.
Figuring he was in no hurry, the youth helped himself to some of the stew, and ate it as leisurely as he dared, forgoing either of the available chairs and crouching beside the fire, occasionally glancing warily around lest more men appear. When he was finished eating, he stood and looked at the Ford. He had a basic idea of how to drive, even though he lacked a license. He walked over and tried the driver's side door. Locked. He was about to return to where the two dead man lay when he thought to check the pocket of the coat, and managed a smile as he found the keys. Unlocking the door, he got inside.
He jumped a little as he started the motor up, and, trying to figure out what to do, randomly pushed buttons on the dashboard before him. This turned the headlights on, off, and then on again, and got the windshield wipers going, but didn't get Zigesfeld any closer to getting on the move. Growling in frustration, he grabbed the gearshift and jerked it down. Stepping on the gas, he yelped as the truck suddenly shot backwards, driving over the smouldering campfire and crushing one of the chairs. It slammed into the trunk of a tree, denting the tailgate. Zigesfeld frowned, and pushed the gearshift up this time. Now when he stepped on the gas, the truck surged forwards.
He held on for dear life as the pickup crashed through the foliage and bounced over rough terrain, windshield wipers swishing furiously, before finally shooting out onto a paved road, where he nearly collided with another car, a stretched Mercedes-Benz limousine. The limo driver slammed on the brakes, honking his horn; Zigesfeld growled and gave him the finger, then spun the truck around, both passenger's side hubcaps popping off, and then he shot off down the road, tires squealing.
He wasn't quite sure where he was headed, but at least he was getting somewhere, and that was all that mattered at the moment.
To Be Continued...