Ranger Danger

Park Ranger John Sterling watched the sun begin to set over the tranquil waters of Lake Diablo. He checked his watch and frowned. By his estimation, he had less than half an hour of light left.

John slowed the speedboat to a crawl and reached over to scratch his trusty partner Roosevelt behind the ears. The old tan Bloodhound whined, his mournful brown eyes trained on the thick, dark woods on either side of the lake.

"I know, pal. We're losin' light," John said, eyeing the treeline warily. "We gotta find this boy. I can't imagine he'll survive another night out here if he's survived this long."

The sun was only visible as a shimmering glow beyond the mountains, casting long shadows across the lake. Despite his years of experience as a Washington National Park Ranger, John imagined the shadows as thin, reaching claws, stretching across the water right at him. Ignoring the hairs rising on the back of his neck, John kept one hand on his dog and the other on the wheel, sailing steadily into the gathering darkness.

The radio at his waist crackled suddenly, startling John, and he yanked it from his belt, answering it with a click.

"Sterling," he said, ashamed at his shaky nerves.

"The choppers gone, Sterling. Best we could do for the day. Everyone else is turning in. What are you still doing out there?" the voice on the other end said.

Nancy, working dispatch. She wouldn't understand, John knew. Not really.

"It's been six days, John. The chance that he's still-"

"I know his chances. I'm the one who had to tell em' to the press, to his mom. I'm not wastin' time out here. I think I've got somethin'," John said. He reached over and reassured Roosevelt. "I'll turn back if it's nothin'. I brought my dog out. We're gonna find him. We've got to."

John turned off the receiver and set it back on his waist. He was an old school tracker, trained by his father, who claimed the Sterling people had been in Washington since the Seventeen-hundreds. There was no way he was going to turn back and abandon the scent Roosevelt had picked up. He knew these lands and what was in them. The dark waters and deep forests didn't frighten John.

"We close?" John asked Roosevelt, slowing the throttle on the old ranger speedboat.

The tan Bloodhound bounded from the passenger seat of the craft to the side, barking twice. His lips foamed with saliva, and his droopy eyes were alight and eager. John smiled despite the grim circumstances. They were indeed close, but they would have to get closer.

John brought the boat to a halt near the riverbanks and turned it off. Stepping away from the wheel, he checked his gun on his waist, making sure it was present and loaded. He stared out at the murky woods, feeling for all the world that they stared right back at him.

The void, John thought, coming up beside Roosevelt. North Cascades at night is like a great black void. A low whine from Roosevelt let him know the old Bloodhound agreed.

"C'mon, boy. It's our last pass for the night. Let's make it count. We gotta find that young man."

John hopped from the small speedboat, landing ankle-deep in dark muddy water. The park ranger wasn't as young as he used to be and not nearly as athletic. It took considerable strength to drag himself to shore through the sucking, squelching mud, and he groaned loudly with the effort. Next to him, Roosevelt bounded to shore, climbing from the mud easily and getting straight to work.

John made his way to shore, kicking mud from his boots. He produced a large flashlight and clicked it on, shining a brilliant light on the soggy riverbank. Roosevelt's nose was to the ground, sniffing profusely. The old Bloodhound looked invested, head down, tail wagging every now and then, and John nodded, fighting back a wry grin.

Roosevelt could find his way home in a snowstorm. There was no doubt in John's mind that the old Bloodhound would find something. If not the missing hiker, a trail to go off of tomorrow at first light. If not Mitch Lewis, if not the boy, then something.

Nearby in the forest, a branch snapped and broke, the sound seeming louder in the dead silence than anything John had ever heard. His breath caught in his chest, and he shone his light reflexively in the direction, cursing. Roosevelt had also gone still, his sad brown eyes staring into the dark forest with something more than just interest. After a tense couple of moments, Roosevelt's ears returned to normal, and he followed his nose for a few feet before coming to a stop and baying softly.

The Bloodhound had found something.

"What is it, boy?" John asked, coming up beside Roosevelt.

He shone his light at the riverbank and froze, the breath catching in his chest. Tracks. Humanoid tracks. Dozens of them.

"Fuck," John whispered, crouching down and touching one of them gingerly.

The tracks led from the woods straight to the river, stopping abruptly at the water's edge. There were multiple footprints, all barefoot by the look of them and grouped close together. The majority of them were deep, suggesting that the people who made them were moving quickly or very heavy.

John looked at Roosevelt. The only scent the old Bloodhound had to go on was the pair of boots discovered near Lake Diablo on the first day of the search. He looked down at the heavy tracks again, at the size and depth of them and a shiver shot down his spine.

Out in the forest, another sharp crack rang out, the telltale sound of wood breaking. Roosevelt let out a low whine and pawed at the set of tracks in the middle of the group. John shone his flashlight momentarily at the forest as if the light would ward off whatever was out there, then back at the footprints. He wondered if he'd made the right call staying out tonight.

Shaking the dark thoughts away, John put a hand on Roosevelt and examined the tracks closer. The ones in the middle were slender and curved exactly like a human foot was supposed to. The others around it in comparison seemed wrong, and John knew why. Compared to the slender, probably male footprints that disappeared by the water, the heavy prints around it seemed almost ape-like.

John shook his head, growing anxious. The majority of the tracks doubled back, vanishing on solid ground in the direction of the woods except for the slender ones in the center, which stopped at the edge of the water.

He had come out here searching for one missing person, hiker and backpacker Mitch Lewis, separated from his hiking group six days ago. John had expected to find a trail, tracks that he and Roosevelt could follow, possibly to a cave or a shelter the young hiker may have discovered, but not this. The sheer number of footprints before him suggested he hadn't found just one person but dozens.

"Good boy, Roosevelt," John whispered, standing. "Good boy."

He reached for the radio at his hip, thinking of calling his discovery in when another sharp snap sounded in the forest, this time much closer. Roosevelt whined and backed up in the direction of the boat, his ears as far back as they would go.

Reflexively, John put his hand on his gun and unstrapped it. Goosebumps rippled across his flesh, raising hair all over his body. He felt eyes upon him, and though he could see no one else on the riverbank, he couldn't shake the feeling.

Another loud crack in the forest, then another. A heavy evening breeze blew across the riverbank, and John shivered, cold to the core suddenly. He waved the flashlight back and forth, carving the shadows with brief flashes of illumination, never showing enough of the picture to calm his hammering heart. He swallowed hard, summoning his courage. The sound of branches snapping underfoot was clear as day now and coming straight for him.

"My name is John Sterling. I'm a National Park Ranger," John called, getting his gun out and pointing it where his light shone.

A scream pierced the night, so loud and sudden that John nearly pulled the trigger. Roosevelt started baying, long, loud alerts that John knew all too well, and he backed up, getting closer to the boat in case he needed a quick escape. Despite the fear coursing through John's veins, he planted his feet in the wet mud and refused to go further. It was a young man's voice he had heard just now. It was him!

From the trees, sprinting like a wild man and looking frantically over his shoulder, came a tall, ragged boy of no more than seventeen years old. His shirt was ripped and bloody, and he was barefoot, his feet unrecognizable beneath a tangle of blood, mud, and thorns. Tripping over nearly every branch in his path, the young man screamed incoherently again, reaching for the boat.

"Here! Here!" John shouted, pulling himself from the mud and running for the boy.

Wide-eyed, the boy collapsed into him, eyes red, face dirty. He looked over his shoulder back at the woods, trying to run to the boat, but John held him, collapsing with the frightened young man on the riverbank.

"It's ok! It's ok! Can you speak? Hey, it's gonna be alright, ok? Can you talk? Are you hurt? You're Mitch Lewis, right? Are you Mitch?" John said, brushing the boy's matted blonde hair out of his eyes.

The youth was hysteric, struggling against John as if his life was at stake. It took a considerable amount of strength to hold him in place and check for injuries, of which there were many. Claw marks and scratches lined his arms and face, some of them as deep as cougar slashes. Wide-eyed and crying, the young man collapsed in John's arms, muttering something under his breath too low to make out.

Roosevelt bayed loudly, nearing the water and the boat waiting just off-shore, and John looked in the direction of the woods, feeling once more that the void was staring at him. He leaned down, putting his ear to the young man's chest. His heartbeat was erratic, and his shivering was indicative of fever. His forehead was burning, and he was

covered in sweat.

"Hey, are you with me? You're Mitch Lewis, right?" John asked, propping up the young man's head and starting to stand.

"Yeah," Mitch said weakly. "I...am. It's not safe. It's not safe. Not safe..."

John helped Mitch get to his feet, supporting the hiker with an arm under him. Mitch was starved and dehydrated, and surprisingly light. John nodded, starting to turn him towards the boat and the murky water.

"What happened? Is something hunting you? Was it an animal?" John asked, looking over his shoulder.

"Not an animal. Like animals, but people," Mitch said, shuddering out the words as though he was horrified.

John froze. He had felt eyes on him before, but the feeling intensified tenfold as he waded out into the lake. A cold sweat broke out under his heavy Ranger jacket, and he looked down into the wild eyes of Mitch.

"You're delirious. It was an animal of some kind that got you. A mountain lion, that's what those slashes are," John said, nodding to his dog. "Boat, Roosevelt. Now."

The Bloodhound obediently waded out into the water and climbed up the side of the boat, displaying surprising dexterity.

John tried to get Mitch out in front of him, but the young man whirled around. The dirt on his face and the red cracks in his eyes from lack of sleep and sheer terror unnerved John, but not as much as what Mitch said next.

"Not a cougar, not a lion. A woman. A monster with claws like knives and yellow, evil eyes," Mitch said, grabbing John by the shoulders. "You have to believe me! They are out there! They hunted me! Tried to kill me, to eat me! You have to believe me! They are out there!"

John looked into Mitch's eyes, and the boy smiled, relieved at what he saw. John pulled away and pointed his gun at the woods, his gut twisting in knots. Though he couldn't see a thing, the sun had gone too low, and what light remained faded fast, it seemed like the darkness was alive to John, that it could contain any number of wicked, impossible things.

"I believe you," John said quietly, lowering his head for a brief moment. "You said you were hunted, that...people tried to kill you and eat you?"

"Yes," Mitch said, crying now.

"Hunted. Were you followed? Did you get away?" John asked, swiveling the gun to one dark section of the woods, then another.

A cold breeze blew through the woods and out over the lake. In the dark, the forest creaked and groaned, keeping its secrets.

"I think...I got away," Mitch said, starting to wade towards the boat. "I lost them by doubling back through the river."

John nodded, trying hard to collect his thoughts.

In the silence, John's radio crackled abrasively. He snatched it up, a relieved grin breaking through his frightened features.

"Sterling," John answered, giving Mitch a reassuring smile.

Out in the woods, a large tree branch broke and fell to the floor with a resounding thud. Mitch shivered, faltering in the water without John's support.

"You've left your unit and overstayed your welcome in the boundary. I take it you have a good reason for this?" the voice on the other end of the radio said. It was not Nancy.

John straightened.

"Yes, ma'am," John said. "Missing hiker Mitch Lewis located. All's well."

Mitch stumbled, his injuries getting the better of him, and John caught him, keeping him on his feet and helping him towards the riverbank again. The boy was swooning now, hardly able to stand. The voice on the other end of the radio said something that Mitch couldn't make out, to which John replied "Yes ma'am," and set it back on his belt.

"Thank you," Mitch said, tugging on John's jacket. "But we need to go. They could still be-"

Without warning, John turned, aimed his gun, and fired twice, putting holes in both of the young man's legs. The bang of the two gunshots rang out in the early night, and Mitch screamed, falling over on the muddy riverbank.

Roosevelt whimpered from the boat, and John looked up. In the darkness, like faerie lights manifesting, John could see hundreds of eyes, in blues, greens, and yellows, all trained on him and round with hunger.

Mitch gasped, sucking in air to scream again, and John kicked him hard in the ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs. At once, dozens of enormous individuals stepped from the shadows, glowing orb eyes revealing hints of horrid, animistic features on each of their faces. They resembled beasts more than men, showing long curved tusks that jutted from squat, chattering jaws. John kicked Mitch again, sending him sprawling on the muddy shore, and turned, running back through the water and up onto the speedboat.

A choked wail pierced the night.

"Why?!" Mitch managed, rolling over and staring at John as he turned the engine and began to steer away. "Why are you doing this?"

A chorus of eager growls and yips drowned out Mitch's incoherent babbling as the feral men and women of the woods, draped in animal hides and hunched like the skins they wore, descended upon the unfortunate young man.

"This is your third offering this year," John called out to the beast people, flipping the boat around and heading for safety. "Observe the rules: Stay in your boundaries, hunt only those who stray from the marked trails and paths. People are starting to take notice."

John received no answer as the skin-walkers dragged Mitch into their midst and back into the woods, the young man screaming fruitlessly for a near minute before something silenced him.

As John sailed away, looking once over his shoulder and shaking his head, Roosevelt let out a low groan from the passenger seat. John's radio crackled again. He sighed, answering it the same way he always had.

"Sterling," John said, sailing the boat calmly towards the nearest Ranger Station.

"Is it done?" The woman on the other end asked.

"Yes, Ms. Sanguine. It's done," John said, putting a hand out and scratching Roosevelt behind the ears.

"Good," the woman replied, sounding pleased. "People are panicky creatures. They aren't ready to know the truth about our world."

The radio clicked off, and John set it to the side. He lit a cigarette and leaned back in the helm seat.

"No," John said to Roosevelt. "And they never will be."