Prologue

Autumn had always been Ryan Rose’s favorite season. There was something about the air on chill weekend mornings in October that was almost magical. He couldn’t put his finger on it - never had been able to, but there it was nonetheless. It was an intangible feeling of energy, as though the dying leaves permeated the air itself with their life force. He took a deep breath in, his nose tingling with the scents, the cold, and that energy. This was what he lived for at this time of year.

Ryan made his way along the path that only he could see, having been through this particular stretch of woods more times than he could count. He was a half hour trek from his house in Middletown, Vermont, still well within familiar territory, and feeling great. He longed for weekends like this that allowed him the freedom to roam the woods, and when those weekends arrived, he never let them slip by.

It was his senior year of high school, the end was in sight, and things had not gone horribly. Sure, things could have been better, but he had grown considerably over that last summer, gaining nearly three inches and putting on fifteen pounds of muscles from his unending hikes, and such was enough to at least grant him a little respect from the other guys at school. They had begun looking for someone else to push around. Yes, he thought, things were getting better all the time.

Ryan stopped suddenly, noting the four point buck that was staring back at him from some thirty feet off. He hadn’t been making straight for it, which probably explained why it hadn’t bolted. He smiled broadly as he stared at the animal, watching as it observed him in turn. Its tail twitched and its ears flicked, but Ryan didn’t think this beast was nervous. Oh no indeed, he thought, this one is too much like me. Come of age and ready to take on the world! Reveling in the morning sun as it sent flickering shadows on the forest floor through the stubborn leaves that had hung on through two weeks of chill and windy weather. Ryan knew this buck was, on some metaphysical level, an extension of himself.

Bullshit, he thought, almost laughing aloud at himself. Sure it was a fine animal, a wonderful specimen of nature, but there it ended except in his own subconscious thoughts that, try as he might, Ryan couldn’t quite beat down.

A few more moments of their staring contest, Ryan thinking for a moment that the buck might charge him, and the creature turned its white tail toward him and regally walked off into the woods.

You’re okay, human boy, but not worth my time.

Ryan grinned again, his over-active imagination reveling in the freedom he allowed it when he was out here on his own. Not like anywhere else. Too often it got him in more trouble than it was worth, but out here imagination could do no real damage.

Adjusting his pack, he began to set off again, his urge to sit in his favorite spot growing as the fringes of an idea for a new story tickled the edge of his brain. He had his notebook, a brand new one, and his camera as well - a cheap old Canon manual. It took nice pictures though, and he had three rolls of film in addition to the half-finished roll that was already in the camera.

With a final glance in the direction the buck had went Ryan renewed his trek, knowing this section of forest well enough to walk it blindfolded. Trusting in his senses not to get him lost, Ryan allowed his mind to drift into the story idea. Slowly the pieces of the fiction began to take shape from his known world.

It would take place in a high school, not unlike Middletown High School.

He would try a creepy story – fantasy was his mainstay, but he wanted to experiment with horror.

At the end of his junior year he and a few friends, the few friends he had, snuck into the school’s basement. It was a huge maze of pipes and concrete – dark, dank and creepy – a perfect setting.

Near the entrance to the basement were a series of dirt mounds. There were six in all, evenly spaced in two rows. His friends had joked that it was the janitors’ graveyard, and that idea had sparked Ryan’s horror story into motion.

Zombies. Dead janitors raised by a group; a cult. A cult of students.

On and on the details came, beginning with the spark of his friend’s off-hand statement until it became a raging inferno of ideas. It would have to be pared down of course. Already he was picking through the bits of storyline that were irrelevant. It was a short story, not a novella, and he needed to keep it crisp, yet detailed. He wanted whoever read it to be chilled to the bone.

For a moment, Ryan let the flames die down. He knew to make the story good he had to keep it real. He had to remain within the realm of possibility, even if it was the extreme possibility of zombies. Of course he knew from his avid reading that if he could suck the reader in - could trap them in his contrived reality - then he could hit them with the unthinkable and get away with it.

Writing the story had to be the same as baiting a hook.

That was when Ryan heard the report of a gun coming from just over the next rise, reverberating through the forest. It broke the tranquil silence of the woods like a scream in a church, and it happened a second time a moment later. A shotgun, he thought.

His heart pounding, Ryan stood for a moment listening for any more shots, but none came. Thinking that it was merely an over-exuberant hunter, despite being not quite in season, Ryan nonetheless pulled his collapsible tripod from his backpack. It was not the sturdiest thing, but somehow the cool metal was comforting in his grip as he continued his march up the rise.

He knew, reasonably, what he would find on the other side. A hunter would be there, probably with no hint of orange, crouched over a deer - possibly the very same buck Ryan had seen if the creature had doubled back. He was not concerned about being heard, for he was light of foot and took some measure of pride in his ability to avoid dead leaves and windfall branches that might mark his passing.

He would top the rise carefully and avoid being seen. He was not in the mood to be shot - whether by accident or intent. No, he thought, better to wait and watch. The hunter would soon enough carry the carcass away and Ryan could go on with his writing and photography. Maybe, if he felt daring enough, he would shut off his flash and snap a picture of the hunter. A memento of what was already turning into, from his imagination’s standpoint, a near-death experience.

Ryan topped the rise, peeking over a fallen log that marked the edge of what had become his domain. His breath caught in his throat as he saw the hunter, very much as he had pictured him with scraggly beard, full camouflage, and black ‘shit-kicker’ boots. That was where the similarity to Ryan’s imagined scenario ended. The hunter was on his back, unmoving, with his shotgun lying across his legs.

Ryan knew, beyond any doubt, that the hunter was dead.