People run from many things; conflict, despair, persecution.

   The one element that cannot be escaped no matter how stringent the effort, however, is one’s self.

   As the old adage goes, ‘wherever you go, there you are’.

   In the following terror tale, there arises that rare, rather bizarre scenario in which the person staring back in the mirror is indeed, a complete stranger. 

  So saddle up your steed and come along for a ride into pure terror, the catalyst of which is referred to as…The Shredder.

*

“You just gotta let us tag along, Patch. Took us a month of Sundays just to track you down,” the young man pleaded, his wide, bloodshot eyes turning towards his sister, who, in lieu of verbal support, merely stared at the rocky terrain at her feet while wiping her nose with the back of a gloved hand. 

   The older man continued to pack his saddle, refusing to visually acknowledge their presence. His steed whinnied as he reached to gently massage its left flank. 

   “Son, I ain’t got no time for babysittin’.  How old is she anyhow, thirteen? Not that you’re the picture of maturity yourself.  Goin’ on perhaps…fifteen or sixteen winters, are ya? Now git back to whatever one-room schoolhouse ya vacated, both of ya,” he grumbled while tucking a long-barreled rifle into his saddle’s leather scabbard.  

  The girl grunted, smirking beneath a floppy, mud-stained hat while running her boot tip through a loose pile of dirt.  Puffy-cheeked and milky of complexion, her coltish build nonetheless hinted at impending adulthood. 

   “Told you he’d be a greedy jackass, Earl.  Wants the kill for hisself. Wants the fame to boot.  Now what’re we gonna do-...” 

   “Hush up, Kerri! As always, you’re ‘bout as useful as tits on a boar,” Earl shouted before shifting a steely glare the older man’s way.  

   “It ain’t riches nor fame I’m after, girl, it’s a matter of black-hearted, red-eyed retribution,” the elder of the three injected angrily, “Damnable beast took my woman from me, not to mention two of the best blessed scouts I’ve ever rode with. I can’t be distracted with the likes of you when the time comes to end its hellish run in these mountains. ‘Sides, since it gutted my last scout, I ride alone.” 

   The older man eventually turned to face them, his massive frame made ever larger by multiple layers of beaver and rabbit pelts lining his bulky torso. His rugged visage was a virtual road map of scars, the lengthiest of which trailed from just beneath his stubble-coated chin to his right eye, tailing off at the lower edge of an octogan-shaped black patch. 

   “Now, y’all get back to your mama, y’hear? This here Griz ain’t to be trifled with. You two are barely a mouthful to ‘im, but that won’t stop ‘im from gnawin’ your bones just outta downright meanness.” 

   Staring into a blazing mid-morning sun as he mounted the leopard-spotted Appaloosa, Conrad ‘Patch’ Mooring drew a bead on the jagged mountain range to his left and rode slowly towards the thick tree line fronting it. 

  “We’re gonna shadow you, whether you like it or not!” the young man bellowed, shoving his sister roughly to the side before taking off in a mad sprint towards his own animal. 

  “Mount up, Kerri. I ain’t losin’ him.  Not after what it took to track ‘im down. Old buzzard is gonna have to shoot me to keep from sharin’ that reward money.” 

   Watching the staid mountain man ride purposely ahead through what little remained of the morning fog, Kerri Suggs couldn’t help but shake her head in mild disgust. 

   “He just might take ya up on that, big brother. Yep, he just might at that.” 

*** 

“Might as well crawl outta them damn bushes. I been smellin’ ya for hours,” Patch bellowed in a raspy, exasperated tone. Crouching, he was sipping steaming hot coffee from a tin cup with one hand while turning a freshly gutted rabbit over narrow tendrils of yellow flame with the other. The occasional gust fanned the fire’s coals, sending shards of scorched kindling sailing into the pitch-black night air like tiny specks of starlight. The makeshift camp was positioned in a sparse clearing between a pair of bare, jagged rock formations that pointed into the building clouds with their sharpened tips. 

   As the two figures slowly neared the light of his campfire, pulling their steeds close behind, Patch nodded his head slowly from side to side, his expression sarcastically droll. 

   “Park yer beasts a good distance from Quicksilver, boy. Old girl has a tendency to be a might territorial with those of her own kind.” 

   The young man tied the horses to a nearby elm as his sister faced the fire and placed trembling hands practically into the dancing flames. 

   “Coffee, girl? Or would ya prefer warm milk and sweet bread ‘fore beddy-bye time?” Patch spat sourly, “Choose carefully, as truth be told, it just might be yer last meal.” 

   The girl glared at him through wide, fearful eyes, then quickly turned her attention back to the searing warmth beneath her bare palms. 

   “Ya might as well quit tryin’ to scare us off.  That two-hundred dollar reward is the only shot of bravery I need to overlook any possible danger,” Earl chimed in, joining his sibling in rubbing his hands briskly over the slowly dwindling flames. 

   Patch quickly leaned to one side and spat a mouthful of java, howling with laughter as he stood, having balanced the browning meat over the fire with the aid of a sturdy tree branch.   

   “Possible danger? Possible, you say? Boy, you ain’t got a blessed clue, do ya? This ain’t no run of the mill Grizzly I’m stalkin’. This evil som’bitch is a flesh shreddin’ machine, plain and simple. It don’t just enjoy the flavor of human meat when it accidentally runs across it, no sir. It pursues…it hunts; savors the kill and the feast that follows. By paw print alone, I’d say it stands no less than sixteen feet high on its hinds and outweighs ol’ Quicksilver over there. Damn thing has a bite mark ‘bout two feet long. Now, what are you and the young missy there packin’ that’s gonna bring such a beast down ‘fore it turns your hide into chopped jerky?” 

   Whirling about with his narrow chest bloated from a cockiness born and bred in youthful pride, Earl spoke in a husky tone normally reserved for a man ten years his senior. 

   “Well, since you ask, I got me a Sharps Carbine Buffalo Rifle that our pa previously laid claim to, rest his soul. Kerri there has a Remington repeater. Don’t let our age fool ya, Patch.  Me an’ Kerri been huntin’ since we were stout enough to yank a trigger.” 

   Patch sneered, stepping over to where he had offloaded supplies from his saddle. Grinning devilishly, he displayed the weapon in the full glow of the firelight. The siblings gasped in unison at the mere sight of the double-barreled, thickly stocked rifle that looked comically oversized even within Patch’s considerably wide grip. 

   “This here, boys and girls, is a Coggswell and Harrison double-barrel, four bore Elephant gun that fires nothin’ less than Forsyth ammo. That’s explodin’ bullets, children. Her Remington is just gonna piss ‘im off. Yore Sharps might slow ‘im down a tad. This here African model cannon will scatter his innards like dry leaves in an Alabama twister. I’ve hunted bear. Taken quite a few of ‘em down. This ain’t no bear. This here is a demon warrior from hell’s darkest hole walkin’ upright. Make no mistake, there is a big difference.” 

   Reaching over to stroke the rifle’s oil-slicked barrel with a noticeably shaky hand, Earl was obviously awestruck. 

   “Lordy, looks like a pair of civil war muskets melted together. Bet it kicks like a team of mules though.” 

   “Not if ya know how to cradle ‘er, son,” Patch replied before turning away to replace the weapon. 

   A hoot owl wailed somewhere in the far distance just as Patch rejoined the siblings at the fire’s edge. He poured himself a fresh cup and knelt, balanced on the balls of his mud-coated mukluks. 

   “Is it true about that village south of Red Bank, Patch? We...um....heard…well, I reckon you know what’s myth and what ain’t,” Kerri muttered. She seemed to have calmed somewhat since their arrival, but still hugged herself close as if fighting off a severe chill. 

   “Ya mean the Spartan Ranch a few months back? Darn tootin’, girl. I rode through with the….with the last scout I employed. Crooked Bow...uh, that''s his Choctaw moniker, said we probably only missed the beast by a few hours. Can’t honestly say I regret not bein’ present at such an ungodly slaughter, though.” 

   The color in Patch’s cheeks turned instantly pale; his eyes glazed and distant.  He no longer gestured when he spoke; his large, scarred hands remaining still and lifeless while propped atop bony knees. 

   “Only a couple’a farms and a tradin’ post really. Spartan clan was the largest, so the village was named after ‘em. Six adults and five children all told. The other family lived a few hills to the east of the Spartan''s.  Just an old wheat farmer and his wife. 

   Crooked Bow an’ me had tracked the beast through a wide pastureland that led directly into that village. Found the tradin’ post turned inside out, along with eldest Spartan. Man looked like he’d swallered a stick of dynamite that managed to fire up inside his gut. I ain’t never seen...,” Patch paused, lips noticeably trembling while staring into the burning embers, “Anyhow, we found the remain...the remainder of the Spartans at their farm a bit later. Front door to the place was ripped off the hinges and layin’ a good hundred feet from the house. The...they must have been doin’ some harvestin’ that mornin’, ‘cause we found ‘em all in the wheat field out back. Limbs scattered about like cord-wood...adult sized legs and ki-...child-sized arms. Found a he-...a woman’s...head near a water-well out back...floatin'' inside an old wooden bucket like a big ol’ gourd. 
 
   “I sent Crooked Bow into Spring Lake to fetch the sheriff, only ‘cause I had decided then and there, standin’ at the center of all that human wreckage, that I was gonna track the bastard myself, and not be responsible for another good man dyin’. 

   Eight months I’ve followed the thing’s trail. Just lately I’ve felt the end is near. He’s…close and…he knows I’m trackin’ ‘im.  I can feel it as sure as I know my dear wife Susan is starin’ down at me from heaven’s pearly gates, waitin’ for her man to put an end to the sufferin’ of the souls this damned abomination has already claimed.” 

  Shrugging casually, Earl’s outwardly flighty response was nonetheless laced with obvious anxiety. 

  “Don’t mind rightin’ a wrong, Patch, long as someone slaps a thick wad of spending money in my palm afterwards,” he blurted, reaching over to pat the larger man firmly on the left shoulder. Patch glared up the boy with utter disdain before turning his one good eye towards the younger sibling, who continued to warm her hands in silence. 

   “Girl, is this young ''un as stone-cold dumb as he acts?” 

   She smiled wryly without meeting Patch’s intrusive gaze. 

   “Without a doubt.  Birth defect I reckon.” 

   Rising with a loud huff, Patch ambled off towards his supplies and began laying out a blanket. 

   “I’ll say it one more time in case you two decide to snap to and run back to yer mama’s waitin’ arms; this grizz ain’t killin’ for food. It kills for the pure joy of it. Tearin’ and shreddin’ is what it does ‘cause it don’t know anything else. Re-pack yer gear and git, ‘fore you ain’t got no choice but to stay.” 

   The girl looked to her brother as if awaiting a final, decisive answer. 

   “All due respect, sir, but we didn’t trail you through three blessed states and a half dozen mountain ranges to turn back empty handed. ‘Sides, you might just find out you need us, despite what you think now,” Earl announced stoically before turning towards his own pile of sparse supplies. 

   Her narrow shoulders slumped in utter defeat, his sister walked over and joined him a moment later. 

   Patch took a final sip of coffee, rinsed his mouth briefly, then spat it to the side as he lay atop the spread blanket. 

   “Suit yourself then, damn it. Can’t say….I didn’t warn ya,” he mumbled under his breath while staring into the star-filled sky with a single, unblinking eye, “Lord knows….I tried. I….always do.” 

   Later that night, Kerri woke him with a light tap, looming over his prone form as if suspended in mid-air. 

   “Please be there for Earl…for us, Mister Mooring. He...we ain’t got no folks, and Earl...he’s…he’s really scared, jus’ don’t know how to show it. His blasted pride won’t allow him…us, to just walk away,” she had whispered, sounding on the verge of tears. Patch had not replied other than a muted grunt. 

   Somewhere in the distance, a coyote bayed at a full moon that bathed the misty landscape with an ivory haziness normally associated with the early morning sun—a full moon that appeared to possess an unnaturally reddish glow, creating an aura of mystical malevolence as thick as the accompanying fog. 

*** 

Just as a light sprinkle began to slap the tree leaves overhead, he knelt down with a hand clamped over his nose and mouth and carefully examined the boy’s remains. The stench of perforated gut filled the crisp morning air in pungent waves. Careful not to place his knee onto the scattered entrails that seemed to envelop the sparse clearing, he stared at the boy’s open left eye and felt strangely captivated at the lifelessness displayed within its milky, dead pupil.  

    The boy’s neck had been ravaged, held onto the ruins of his torso only by a select few tendons. His left arm was missing below the elbow, as was his right leg below the knee. The buffalo rifle lay at least a dozen feet away at the trunk of an aged birch tree. The man seriously doubted the young man had gotten off a single shot. A sob built in the man’s chest as he departed the clearing. It hung in his raw, reddened throat like dry chunks of aged bread as he painstakingly made his way back towards camp. 

   “Maybe the girl...maybe she...rode off before...,” he mumbled, instantly realizing the idiocy of such brazen malarkey. Leaves and weeds were matted to his bare chest and lower abdomen in thick clumps, and he wiped at them with great fervor, as if slapping away a swarm of pesky insects. 

   Careful to negotiate around the many jagged rock formations that dominated the terrain, it took him less than a full minute after leaving the boy to arrive at the campsite. 

   The horses, as was usually the case, were nowhere to be found. He would, no doubt, find Quicksilver in a nearby field, grazing peacefully. The pattern rarely differed. Animals were normally spared, as if the beast felt some sort of nature-driven obligation to do so.   

  His foolish hopes for the girl’s safety were quickly dashed once he noticed the single boot lying atop a pile of ashes from the previous night’s fire. A boot with a severed foot still stuffed inside, a slender, jagged white bone protruding from the ankle like a white flag of surrender. 

   What little remained of her was tossed about the clearing in thin, crimson strips of soggy flesh and frayed sinew. Once he spotted her butchered, bludgeoned torso balanced at the center of a thick shrub like a half-eaten insect trapped within a spider’s web, the man felt no need to investigate further. 

   “I...warned ‘em. G-god kn-knows.  Warned ‘em several times. Nothin’ else I could...do. I could’a threatened ‘em at gunpoint, but they would’a just ...followed me anyhow. Followed me...just like all the others,” he growled, his voice cracking with emotion. Without further pause, he scooped up his meager belongings, slung the elephant gun over his right shoulder, and headed east. He had ridden past and duly noted a series of tiny ponds a few hours before setting up camp the previous night. Water was most likely stagnant, but he could at least use it to clean up. Might even find Quicksilver milling about. The old girl was loyal to a fault, despite it all.  

   It would take a few hours to spruce up, to change clothes, to find his horse. From there, he would continue the quest he’d began some six months earlier. A quest to find a territory all his own. A territory void of all temptation. Human temptation. His dear wife of a dozen winters had been the first to pay the ultimate price for her husband’s eternal damnation. So many others had followed; far too many to recall, although such hellish details were rarely dwelled upon to prevent the fevered madness from snatching his ragged soul one fatal, final time. 

   The Spartan ranch had been the worst, by far, if only because of the children. At least he had spared Crooked Bow from a similar fate. He prayed his old ally remained a stranger to him now, although he also knew the man was the best Injun tracker in the western U.S. Regrettably, it was only a matter of time before they crossed paths once again. The monetary reward was substantial indeed, and the trail of killing would never cease as long as greed bore such foolish seekers of fame and fortune. 

   “There...has to be a place. A safe hidin’ place somewhere,” Patch Mooring announced to the open sky above, washing the dried blood from his neck and chest as he stood waist deep in the murky pond water, "Maybe a cave...or a mountaintop so high it looks down onto the clouds. Long as I’m…alone. Until his...blasted hunger goes away...damn it...I gotta be...alone.” 

   A few dozen feet to his left, Quicksilver casually gnawed on the base of an overgrown weed of unknown origin. 

   “Lord, show me the way. I...don’t have the courage to end it myself. I’ve tried...you know I have. This damned curse has turned me yellow, as well. Pulled the trigger on many a man and animal in my lifetime, Lord, but I can’t seem to turn the barrel on myself, at least...not with any real conviction. The devil owns my soul, Lord, this much I know. Help me.  Help me please to get it back so’s I can…so’s I hand it back over to you where it rightfully belongs.” 

   As he continued to scrub the dark maroon streaks from his pale, pasty flesh, Patch’s thoughts turned to that fateful October night some thirteen months earlier, when a pack of wolves descended upon his makeshift camp. Waking from a deep slumber, he was unable to reach either his rifle or colt before one of the beasts had torn into his right thigh with razor-sharp incisors. He had managed to beat the animal off with his bare hands and miraculously escape further damage. 

   Six days later beneath a brightly lit Oregon sky, Charles ‘Patch’ Mooring, master scout and tracker for hire, discovered that it was indeed possible to become both the hunter and the hunted, all within the same fractured soul. 

   A soul cursed to eternal damnation each time the moon shone full. 

END