October 21st, 1976
Hollow Creek, Pennsylvania
12:03 P.M
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The forest was shrouded in a dense fog, the sort which made it difficult to discern distance and suppressed all sound. Condensation clung to branches of the trees like dew upon a spider web, dripping periodically onto the bed of wet leaves at their base.
Across the terrain, police units moved from the rim of Green Hollow Trail to the slopes at Briar Ridge. Boots pushed quietly through the earth and foliage. Whispers into radios. The distant shout penetrated weakly into the fog. The fog was so dense that even the powerful flashlights penetrated only minimally into its depth.
Shadows moved with pace.
Sheriff Benham paced beside a temporary mobile command center that was parked just off the service road. A hot coffee balanced in his hand, tension spasming in his jaw. His gaze swept the mist-hung treeline, the stillness out there unnerving. Each creak of the forest made him jump.
Lieutenant Cross floated over the primary radio console in the van, scribbling notes and time-stamping every transmission with military precision. Antennas jutted into the sky above them like skeletal fingers.
"Unit Six, check-in," Cross said into the receiver. His voice was cold, with little emotion.
A moment passed. Then another.
Only static crackled back at him in response.
"Unit Six, respond. Carmine, Wallace, Nunez. Do you copy? Over."
Nothing.
Benhamstepped out into the open door, flinching into the gray beyond. The fog almost appeared to move now.
"Who was closest to them last contact?"
Cross spun back to Deputy Rivers, who scanned from a clipboard smudged with hand-drawn grids and troop placements. Crosses and circles marked routes, sweeps, and dead spots.
"Unit Five was patrolling less than a half-mile east. Want me to get them taped in, Sheriff?"
"Do it," Cross instructed Benham before he could answer, already reaching out for the switch.
The radio bursted into sound.
"Command, this is Unit Five. We picked up something — maybe ten minutes ago. Short burst. Sounded like a struggle. No gunfire. Just movement, then silence."
Benham's hand clutched his coffee cup more tightly. The foam collapsed inward.
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Green Hollow Sector
12:34 P.M.
Wallace didn't hear him coming.
A second, and the deputy was quickly brushing against a leaning branch. The next — a brief flash of motion in the fog. Bell came out of the underbrush like a specter, a noiseless furious movement.
His arm wrapped around Wallace's throat, a metallic hold. A spin. A sickening crunch.
Wallace tumbled into leaves, mute.
Carmine wheeled about a shocked scream, gun rising. But Bell was near, low and fast. The deputy had one shot — the bullet snapped through the bushes — but it was a wild one.
Bell came down hard, driving his boot into Carmine's knee with brutal force. The deputy screamed in pain and collapsed onto the forest floor. His sidearm skittered away.
Nunez picked up his radio, staggering to locate the emergency call-in.
Bell was upon him in two steps. He jammed Wallace's commandeered baton into the side of Nunez's head. The deputy hit the ground like a marionette whose strings have been severed through. His radio sputtered beside him, clicking out half a syllable.
The forest was silent again.
Bell crouched beside Wallace's body, his breathing labored and measured. He drew the deputy's sidearm and radio with practiced fingers, checking ammo and function with a soldier's reflex.
He found a small flashlight, a field knife worn from use, a half-full canteen, and a packet of matches crammed into Wallace's jacket.
He disappeared as quietly and quickly as he'd come.
He made no tracks.
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Command Post
1:08 P.M.
The radio crackled.
"Command, this is Unit Five. We've got a body. Wallace is down. Neck's broken. Carmine's not here. Nunez is breathing, but he's unconscious. His head's been cracked — gear's missing. His gun's missing to."
Benham slammed his coffee down on the folding table. His chair screeched as he stood.
"Son of a bitch."
Inside the command trailer, Cross remained calm. He tapped the mic with the back of a knuckle.
"All units, regroup in fours. Nobody goes alone. Space patrol time to avoid routine travel. Check in every five minutes, no delay. Suspect is now armed and has taken police equipment. Repeat: suspect is armed and very dangerous."
Deputy Rivers marked a line through Wallace's name on the roster. Another fatality.
The air in the trailer grew thick, thick with fear and the silent understanding that they no longer were pursuing him.
They were coming onto his turf.
Benham looked down at the topo map spread out across the command table. Ridges, blind spots, and ancient trails flowed through the paper like veins.
"He's not running anymore," he snarled. "He's stalking us now."
Cross finally looked up.
"Then we're not fighting some basic criminal anymore.. We're fighting a monster."
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DUSK
6:58 P.M.
The sky grew dark to a rich, bruised purple as night blanketed Hollow Creek. The fog, thick and strangling, never lifted.
The Sheriff majority of the units had come back to headquarters for the night briefing. Only two four-man patrols remained clearing the outer sector. Their flashlights barely scratched at the darkness. Each beam of light was devoured whole.
Helicopter support had been shut down by rain-laden storms moving in from the west. Thunder boomed in the distance, as if the woods themselves were warning them. Raindrops spattered on the trailer roof. A gust of wind blew through the trees but brought no cooler air.
Inside the command trailer, Lieutenant Cross massaged his temples, staring at the wall. His radio crackled spasmodically.
Cross hunched over maps and contingency plans, reading infrared watch proposals. Tomorrow, maybe — if the storm didn't get worse.
Deputy Loring stood across the room, arms crossed, listening to the gentle hum of the com lines.
"I don't like it," she breathed. "Smells like we're being watched by the fucking sicko..."
Rainy air with wet leaves and crawling rot outside.
Well away from camp, Bell knelt in the hollow of a dead tree. The borrowed service pistol laid on his knee. Dirt and rivulets of dried blood were on his face.
His unblinking eyes watched the final dwindling strip of twilight along tangled branches.
He didn't speak.
He scarcely moved.
He waited.
The manhunt had turned into something else.
It wasn't pursuit anymore.
It was a game.
And he was winning.