Hudsonville: Tales of the Hunted

Chapter 13: Retribution

The thick black tires of Martin's pickup roll to a stop in the clearing, just outside of the fated treehouse.

This was it.

The two stepped out of the vehicle and slowly approached, both scanning for threats, adversaries, guards, what have you. They stood the advantage of standing just downwind of the home, Andy able to pick up on the many aromas within. Still getting a knack for this scent thing, he could hardly distinguish one odor from another, but he still picked up on a few interesting details. The smell of cinnamon, the faint traces of pickled meat—one scent stood out among all others, that being the immutable smell of dog. Andy had a feeling he knew who it was coming from.

"He's in there," the boy said under his breath.

"...You sure?" asked Martin. Andy nodded.

"Positive. That can't be anyone else."

"Alright. Let's move—and be careful."

Wind continued to pick up in the clearing, even when braced by the wealth of trees surrounding it. The sky had darkened further beyond the norm for a star-filled night—the clouds moved in like a pack of hungry sharks. Andy could feel the light drizzle of the coming rain on his nose.

So how would they go about their entrance, then? Only one way in, it seemed, the most obvious point of entry. No doubt whoever was inside heard the roar of the engine and saw their approaching high beams. When they reached the ladder at the base of the tree, the pair looked to one another.

"You go," Martin said. "I'll watch your back."

Andy nodded, then went on ahead up the tired rungs. With each step up the ladder, the pit in Andy's stomach continued to grow. He felt like the helpless character in a grim fable, like Jack climbing up the beanstalk to be met with the giant. Warily, he looked down, again and again, making sure that his father was still in one spot. Martin scanned, back and forth, the large clearing they had set themselves in.

Clok. Clok. Creaaak.

Andy had reached the final rung. He looked to his father one last time before pulling himself up. The moment he was on the deck, he heard the distinct pop of a firearm. Andy ran to the edge of the lofty porch, looking over to see his father locked in combat with Tanya, the girl having Martin held in a tight headlock. Shouting, the boy nearly vaulted over the railing to rescue his father, but his shoulder was suddenly grabbed. Andy was hoisted into the air—he turned to his attacker, tall, pale, eyes filled with tempered rage.

"Well well," said Davis. "Look who it is."

Squirming, writhing, kicking, screaming—Andy did anything he could to break from the grip of his giant adversary. Davis shrugged it all off, hardly flinching the whole time. He dangled the boy over the ledge for a moment, then let him drop.

Tumbling from around fifteen feet in the air, landing right on his back, the boy let out a dry wheeze when he made contact with the cold hard ground.

Oof.

Davis followed, leaping down, the earth quaking with his hard landing. He looked over to Tanya and the old man—Martin was already bound, uttering a desperate prayer beneath his breath—good.

"Tie this one up good," Davis said. "I think it's time we had ourselves a little chat."

...

The flick of a matchstick brought the faintest light to the room. They'd been sat in the darkest, smallest corner of Davis's home after being hoisted up. It was quite claustrophobic once the flame of a lit candle illuminated their surroundings. Many trophy skulls, pelts and other works-in-progress coalesced back here.