Desperate Remedies

Desperate Remedies

Jack heard the sharp report of a rifle and smiled. By God, if Soak wasn’t going to get a buck this time. “Hey, Soak!” Jack yelled, “Didja get one?” No answer. Must be out of earshot, Jack thought. An involuntary chuckle rose to his lips. Maybe the stupid shit shot his foot off. The chuckle became an audible laugh. Wouldn’t that serve that bragger right for mouthin’ off about the ten-pointer he got last year? Damn straight it would. Just because Jack himself shot a button-buck (and so what if it was barely a year old?), was that any reason to tell the rest of the guys to “Bring the kids! Jacky-boy here shot Bambi. Let’s give the kiddies one last look at Bambi here, Jack,” crooned Soak in that throaty voice. “Just one last look before he takes off to that Disney studio in the sky.” The rest of the hunters had laughed like hell and Jack himself had good naturedly joined in, but while he was outwardly laughing at Soak’s stupid joke, inwardly he was seething.

Jack was startled from these thoughts by the sound of a branch cracking. He had been hunting too long to give away his position by making noise. Carefully, he scanned the ground for any small twigs of crisp leaves that would advertise his presence to any deer within two hundred yards. It was tough enough knowing they could smell up to a mile and a half away. He stepped gingerly, pausing every few feet and listened. There. A tiny, almost inaudible snap. He raised the barrel of the gun from the standard six inches off the ground when not in use, to the chest level, this-means-business position. He clicked off the safety. He took two steps. Five. The land began a slight decline and Jack’s feet found it and responded accordingly, seemingly without him being conscious of it. The slope became more pronounced, and Jack could see a clearing at the bottom where a solitary tree stood. “Pretty sorry excuse for a tree, aren’t ya?” Jack asked aloud. The sound of his own voice in the stillness unnerved him a little. What in the name of God was he doing talking to a tree in middle of a woods, while the buck he was tracking might be somewhere close.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “What buck?” Jack stopped. Had he even seen a deer? All he had heard was the snap of a twig or two. Christ, a rabbit could have caused that. Jack lowered the rifle and clicked the safety back on again. “The hell with it,” he muttered. He decided he would mosey on down to the tree and take a little catnap. He tramped down to the tree, now unconcerned with the noise he made. Upon reaching the tree, Jack was reaffirmed of his first opinion. It was a sorry looking thing, all right. First, it was HUGE. Not so much tall – (Jack guessed its height at 15-20 feet) but the circumference had to be at least 7 feet. It seemed odd that a tree of this size should be smack in the middle of all these saplings and light ground brush. It was as if the tree stood sentinel over the entire woods.

“Stop thinking crap,” Jack said to himself. It’s not a guard, it’s just an old, dying tree. It seemed to have some kind of disease as the limbs were blackened and some branches had broken off and were lying helter-skelter around the base of the trunk. As if on cue, a short branch broke off with a small popping sound and fell at Jack’s feet. “So that’s the noise maker,” Jack said, as he bent to pick up the limb. Damn, he thought, I’m really the great outdoorsman. Can’t even tell the difference between noises caused by animals and a branch breaking off a lousy tree that’s got a bad case of the creeping-crud. Jack looked at the branch more closely and absently wondered what Soak would think of his hunting skills. Just as this flickered through his brain, his nose caught the scent of fuel. Gas? Jack thought. Out here?

He lifted the branch to his nose and sniffed. “Gas,” he murmured. He walked over to the tree and closely examined the trunk. The smell of fuel was very strong now, yet the tree did not appear burned – just dead, or at least, dying. Now who in hell would come all the way out here to pour gasoline over a tree? And why? Jack decided this little escapade called for further investigation. Jack laid down his rifle and walked around to the south side of the tree.

He had already kicked aside the idea that whoever did this was trying to flush out honeybees or wasps. First, it was deer season – December. Bees and wasps had long since gone into their dormant sleep for the winter. Second, Jack reasoned, the smell of the fuel is too fresh. It smelled as though it was poured only hours ago. Jack shifted his gaze up to the crux of the tree where the main part of the trunk separated into two heavy arms. By God if it didn’t look like – it was – hollow. He quickly estimated the height from the ground to the hollow “V” of the tree began to be no more than six or seven feet. Jack grabbed hold of a knot just an arm’s reach above his head and with both hands, hoisted himself up. He dug into the bark with his boots and pushed as hard as he could until the knot was just even with his Adam’s apple. He dug harder with his feet and pushed again. Now the knot was boring into his chest. Just above was a heavy branch, jutting out from the thick arm of the tree that extended off to the right. Jack shifted his hold on the knot with his left hand and grabbed the branch with his right. “Gotcha!” he cried. Straining with both legs and putting painful weight on his right arm, he released his left hand and slipped it into the open mouth of the hollow hole. Freeing his right hand to join his left, Jack boosted himself up until he was looking down into the dark, inner chamber of the tree.

The smell hit him at once. Then the spectacle. The stench issuing from the black chasm was fuel, all right. Fuel and…and a charred, burned smell…burned…and that’s when his eyes told his nose what it already knew.

Flesh.

Burned flesh.

Human.

Oh Jesus-omigod-ah Christ, a human being! Jack’s arms could no longer support him, and they betrayed him – gave way – letting him slide down the trunk of the tree, scraping his arms, his neck, rough bark tearing his left cheek, shearing through the top of his upper lip. He screamed aloud more from what he had just seen than from pain. He laid in a prone position at the bottom of the tree for an unknown length of time, squeezing his eyes shut, tasting the salty warm flavor of blood in his mouth. As long as he lived, Jack didn’t think he would ever forget that sight. Not ever. “The eyes are open,” he said, “Oh Christ.”

Slowly, stiffly, he rose to his knees. He gave himself a quick appraisal. He was scraped up pretty good, but nothing too serious. He raised his head with some effort to look at the crux of the tree. It was only then the thought of murder entered his mind. Who in God’s name would devise such a way to off somebody? Why? Who is—was—that in there? Questions, nagging at his brain. Help. He had to get back to the lodge and get a call in to the sheriff. Come on, Jacky-boy, get moving. He started to follow his own advice when he felt the cold steel of a double barrel shotgun on the back of his neck.

Jack’s entire body went stiff. He felt his stomach do a slow roll over. “Please…” was all he could manage to utter. The owner of the gun at his neck said, “Oughtn’t to be pokin’ your nose where it doesn’t belong.” Jack let out a small whimper as he realized this was probably the fellow who had given the poor unfortunate in the tree such a wonderful sendoff. 

“Who are you?” he finally managed to get out. “First things first,” the voice answered, “that your rifle over there?” Jack choked out a weak – “Yes.”

“Well now,” the voice continued, “you’re gonna go on over there and pick it up and unload. And I don’t think you’re going to do anything stupid; I don’t think you’re going to give me any problems at all. Am I right?”

Jack found his voice at last and answered, “Whatever you say, pal. I’d just like to see my family again, ok?” The voice seemed to consider this. “Fair enough,” it said. “Let’s go.”

They walked with Jack in the lead to the North side of the tree where he had lain his rifle. When he leaned over to pick up his gun, the voice said, “Just go real slow. Now, unload.”

Jack unloaded the gun and helplessly waited for further instructions.

“Pitch those bullets over there in the brush, just as hard as you can.” Jack did as he was told. “Can I leave now? I haven’t seen your face and I’m not going to tell anyone anything.” He was pleading…begging. It was degrading and he felt like a coward, but when someone has a shotgun leveled at your back, it’s hard to feel like John Wayne.

Then the voice said, “Turn around.” Oh, Jesus, Jack thought, here it comes. I wonder if I’ll live long enough to know I’m dying. But when he turned around, those thoughts flew from his mind and were replaced by utter confusion. 

The voice belonged to a man that looked to be no older than forty. About my age, Jack thought. He was wearing an old pair of jeans and an oversized hunting jacket with the collar zipped up against his throat. His face was a pasty white and there were dark blotches under his eyes. The eyes themselves held no malice, no lunatic twinkle, nothing that would indicate a murderous train of thought. They just looked tired, sorry and incredibly sad. This alone was not what caused Jack’s confusion. It was the way he was holding his gun. He was cradling it in a relaxed position. It was not pointing at anything, but the ground and his hands were no where near the trigger. The man let out a deep sigh that seemed to take tremendous effort. “I need to talk to someone,” he said and gazed at Jack with painful eyes. “I need some help.”

Jack was still frightened, and the man seemed to sense this. “I won’t hurt you,” he said, and then waited for a response. Finally finding his voice, Jack stammered, “D…Did you kill that…that…” he couldn’t finish. The man let out another sigh. “Figured that would be your first question.” Then, “Yes, yes I did.”

“Oh my God,” Jack said, “why?”

The man considered this for a mom and sent and said, “Would you mind if we sat down? I’m not feeling real well.” As if to punctuate this statement, the man staggered back a step and sat down as though his legs could no longer support him. “Please,” he said, “I really need to talk about this.”

What the hell am I doing? Jack thought, as he sat down across from the man. He’s an admitted murderer! But there was something in his eyes that made logical thought seem inconsequential. Jack looked at the man and asked – “Why did you kill him?” The man leveled his gaze at Jack and said – “Because he lied to me.” Jack was at a loss. “For chrissakes, buddy, you don’t kill people for that!” The man shook his head slowly and said, “You don’t understand.”

“No,” Jack stated, “no I don’t.”

For the first time, the man dropped his eyes. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, “But maybe you’ll understand when I show you this.” He reached up to the collar of his coat and pulled the zipper down to his collarbone. He had on a turtleneck sweater and Jack noticed an odd prominence under the fabric. When the man rolled down the neck of the sweater, Jack felt his stomach do another somersault.

There was a large – no, huge – it was huge – growth starting from just under the left side of the man’s chin and extended down to the top of his shoulder. It was a horrid pale-pink color and – oh god, Jack thought, and felt his stomach turn its now famous backflip. He looked away, down at the ground. “I know how you feel,” the man said. “That’s the way I feel every time I look in the mirror. But what you don’t know is the pain that goes with it.”

Jack lifted his eyes to meet those of the man. “What is it?” he asked. 

“Cancer.” The man answered. “Diagnosed by the dead man in the tree.”

Jack’s eyes widened. “He was a doctor? You killed a doctor just for telling you that you have cancer?”

Now the man showed signs of agitation. “No. I killed him because he said he could cure me when he knew he couldn’t.” The anger in his face was gone, replaced by a sadness so genuine that Jack believed he could feel in emanating from the man in dark waves. “I love these woods. Lived here most of my life. Have a cabin that’s been in my family for three generations. When the pain started, I went to the doc. Figured if I was too bad off, I’d just come back here for the end. You know, live with nature and die with her.” Jack could relate to that statement. Each year, when he came to hunt, he would sit on a log somewhere and wonder if there would ever be another time or place when he would feel as peaceful as at that moment.

Jack felt those penetrating eyes boring into him. “What happened? Jack asked.

The man leaned back and closed his eyes. “He guaranteed me a new, experimental drug would work. Twenty-five treatments and the cancer would be gone. I think doc felt he had found a perfect lab rabbit. No family, disconnected from the world, and desperate to stay alive.” The man opened his eyes and fixed them on Jack. “That last one was a big misread. Death is part of nature. Matter of fact, it’s an absolute goddam necessity.”. The man shook his head gingerly and chuckled. “I shoulda been smarter.” He said, “If a doctor cheats on a guarantee for life, how you gonna collect if you die?” Jack considered this – “So you did the treatments?” 

“I did twenty,” the man said and gestured to the tumor “and this thing just got bigger and bigger. The treatments also did nothing but make me sick and weak. Did nothing for pain. I’m not sure you can imagine the pain.”

Jack glanced at the huge growth and the obvious suffering of this man and concluded that in the surreal world of carcinoma, true empathy is a crock of shit.

The man seemed to reflect for a moment. “I went back and told him I’m done with the treatments. I’m done with puke and diarrhea and pain. Mostly, I’m just done. Like this tree. You know, trees get a kind of cancer. They rot and slowly die. They make way for the new.” The man wiped at his eyes and said in a tired voice, “I told him I wanted to die the way nature has chosen. He called me crazy. Said I was throwing my life away. I said it was mine to throw and walked out.”

Jack watched as the man’s face clouded over and asked, “How did the doctor get here?”

“Tracked me down out here. I think he knew my plan. I decided to do it on the first day of deer season.” He shrugged and gave an embarrassed smile. “Sentimental reasons and a gunshot wouldn’t attract attention. I loaded up and came out here to this tree. My tree. Guess who was waiting?”

“The doctor,” Jack said and thought of the thing in the tree and shuddered.

“Right,” the man said, and a tear spilled over the rim of his right eye. “He starts pleading and then he says he could sue me for pulling out of the drug trial and costing him grant money. Kinda funny, huh? He’s gonna sue me for dying.” The man let out a paper-thin laugh that sounded more like soft crying. “He grabbed the gun…and…it went off. I didn’t mean it, but no one will believe that.”

Jack’s throat closed over a lump, and he said in a tight voice, “I believe you.”

The main looked intensely into Jack’s eyes. “I want you to go back to the lodge and call the sheriff.”

 “They’ll arrest you!” Jack gasped.

The man’s eyes never left Jack’s face and he gave a shy smile. “Can’t arrest a dead man.”

Jack opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came.

 “Can you help me up, friend?” the man asked. Jack lifted him to his feet. For a moment, they were locked in an awkward embrace. The man stepped back and smiled. “Thanks, friend,” he whispered. Jack wished for some eloquent words to say. Nothing came. He walked over and picked up his rifle and began walking back in the direction he had come – a hundred years ago.

He glanced back once, and the man waved. Jack waved back and turned away. About twenty minutes later he heard the sharp report of a shotgun.

“Season’s over,” he murmured and walked on.