Cover

THE PULLER

Publishing Details

Published 2021 by Pyr®

The Puller. Copyright © 2021 by Michael Hodges. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover illustration © Shutterstock

Cover design by Jennifer Do

Cover design © Start Science Fiction

Inquiries should be addressed to

Start Science Fiction

221 River Street, 9th Floor

Hoboken, New Jersey 07030

PHONE: 212-431-5455

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

ISBN 978–1–64506-052-9 (papaerback)

ISBN 978–1–64506-068-0 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

For Sarah, and the compassionate amongst us.

The Beginning

THE BEGINNING

The school bell rang, startling Matt Kearns with its cold metallic rattling. He slammed his biology book shut and hurried out of the classroom. As the last chaotic notes faded down the hallway, he felt something was wrong. There was no specific image to latch onto, he just knew.

The big glass doors at the end of the hallway beckoned him, leading him from the concrete tomb that was Walnut Grove High. He kicked open the doors, sunlight flooding onto his skin. Relief.

“Hi Matt,” Amber Lynne said. She was leaning against the brick wall and chomping watermelon Bubblicious. He could smell the gum from where he stood.

“Hey,” he said.

“Did ya see the big ruckus over at the athletic field?” she asked before blowing a bubble.

Pop!

“Lots of shouting,” Amber said. “Prob boys fighting. You know how guys are.” Amber rolled her eyes.

Matt bent down, pulled his jean cuff from the lip of his right boot, and leaned his biology book against the wall. As he jogged over to the athletic field, a small crowd gathered on the trimmed grass, mostly lacrosse players in full gear. Many of them were shouting. After reaching the group, Matt nudged his way into the center.

“Get that SUCKER!” Abe Johnson shouted.

“Haha it doesn’t know what to do!” shouted another male voice.

Then Betsy Armstrong chimed in, her angsty voice as shrill as ever. “Watch out for its teeth! It’s got a lotta teeth!”

As Matt inched forward, something yipped and whimpered from the middle of the group, a sad, pleading vocalization that immediately drew him further into the mix. When he reached the inner circle, Mike Armstrong loomed there in full lacrosse gear, jamming his lacrosse stick at an object on the ground. Matt sided up to Mike and followed the end of the lacrosse stick to the netting.

A coyote.

A big coyote with a beautiful, thick coat.

All two hundred and twenty pounds of Mike Armstrong leaned into the lacrosse stick, smashing the wooden netting frame to the earth, preventing the coyote’s head from escaping. When the coyote tried to back its head out from under the net, Mike jerked the stick harder until the traumatized coyote gave in. Matt had the sickening sensation the douchebag was enjoying it.

The coyote yipped and growled as its ribcage pulsed. Its bronze eyes glared from behind the netting, a beautiful prisoner that had made a dreadful mistake. Every few seconds the coyote bared its teeth as its upper lip quivered.

Matt studied the crowd, their faces red and contorted, spittle flying from their lips as they cheered. Something seized him, an unexplainable pressure. The maniacal cheering faded, the faces and clothes morphing from color to black and white. The grass bled crimson. The sky grayed and molted. Mike Armstrong turned monochrome, the whites of his eyes vivid. Everything had changed color except for the coyote. Its earth tone coat slick in the sunlight, its vibrant pink tongue. Then it all became slow motion, the yelps, the reaching, the shouting.

Another student emerged from the crowd dressed in lacrosse gear: Ben Jacobsen, athletic star of Walnut Grove and serial meathead. Ben sprinted towards the coyote, lacrosse stick high above his head. Don’t think so, Matt said. He knocked Ben to the side, but Ben kept momentum and smashed the coyote’s head.

“Get that bastard!” a male student shouted. “Get that vermin off our field!”

Matt recovered from his attempted sideswipe and ripped the lacrosse stick from Ben’s hand.

For a moment Ben stood there, eyeballing Matt, incredulous. “What the hell you doing?” he asked while cocking his arm back to deliver a punch. Matt ducked the punch and swept Ben’s lacrosse stick across his knees, eliciting a sick crunch. Ben collapsed, holding his legs and screaming. The screams intertwined with the yipping and growling coyote. Glinting blood now matted its furry head.

Undeterred, Mike continued to force the coyote’s head against the ground. The coyote kicked its back legs, throwing bits of grass and dirt.

Matt whirled and slammed Ben’s stick across Mike’s skull, triggering a hollow thonk. After a brief stagger, Mike lifted his lacrosse stick and swung it behind him, catching Matt across the shoulder and knocking him to the side.

The faces in the crowd transformed from cruel, self-satisfied domination to twisted confusion.

“Get him Mike! He took a swing at YOU,” Betsy Armstrong shouted.

Sensing an opening thanks to Betsy, Mike took another powerful swing, nailing Matt square in the jaw. His world blurred and swam, his hearing rang, and then dialed back into focus.

“Shouldn’t have done that,” Mike yelled, eyes wild as he prepared for another swing, holding his stick high over his beet red face. But the look on Mike’s faced changed from one of victorious rage to bewilderment. And then his face contorted into a scream a Hollywood starlet would be proud of.

From the ground, ripping flesh and frenetic growling, rising in intensity. The coyote, now free of the lacrosse netting, tore into Mike’s ankle, nipping his tendon in half like a pair of scissors to string. As the coyote took its revenge on the downed lacrosse player, Matt noticed its eyes, brimming with rage but also containing a certain wisdom that he would never have expected. The coyote’s muzzle and coat was slathered with blood, although whether the blood was Mike Armstrong’s or the coyote’s, he could not tell.

Mike swung around to smash the coyote, but collapsed when he placed his weight on the severed tendon. His ankle lay limp and bloody as he screamed on the ground. As Mike reached for his injured ankle the coyote slashed at his hand. When Mike pulled his hand away, only three fingers came back.

Cursing and mumbling, Ben Jacobsen crawled over to the coyote and swung his stick one-handed onto its head. The coyote yipped and retreated, then shook its bloody head, spraying crimson droplets onto the faces of the onlookers. The coyote gazed at Matt, lifted its snout into the air, and sneezed twice. Then the coyote limped to tree line at the edge of the athletic field.

The students behind Matt grew quiet. The only sounds left were the self-pity cries of Mike Armstrong and Ben Jacobsen’s watery sobbing.

Matt dropped the lacrosse stick and it hit the ground like a bone cut loose from a whale.

Mike scowled up at him, his lips blubbery and slick. “Asshole!”

Then Betsy Armstrong got in his face, wagging a finger at him. She smelled of starch and makeup. “I’m calling the police,” she said. “You’re not allowed to hurt athletes.” She ran over to Mike, examined his severed fingers and cried. “You’ll pay for this! LOOK at his hand! He won’t be able to play! LOOK at his hand!”

Matt tuned Betsy out and checked the southern end of the field. The coyote sat at the wood’s edge, eyeing Matt as its tongue lolled. Then the coyote slunk into the vegetation, bushy tail suspended above the weeds until it was no more.

He figured the coyote would be alright, give or take a few bumps on the head. Matt limped away from the stunned crowd and the world slowly segued from black and white to color. The sound of car engines washed into the audio spectrum like cool waves.

It turned out Ben Jacobsen had a broken leg and a sprained knee. His high school sports career was in question. Mike Armstrong’s fingers were never found. Matt assumed they were eaten by the coyote, snatched up like chicken McNuggets from the grassy salad of the athletic field. Mike’s tendon needed surgery, something that would take a long time to recover from.

When Matt heard the news he didn’t exactly feel remorseful. They were doing the wrong thing and he stepped in to do the right thing. His father had always told him the right thing was always harder to do.

His father was right.

Matt was more concerned with a trapper the town had hired. The coyote would be euthanized, a chickenshit way of saying “killed” (probably by a .22 to the head). He wondered how they’d know which coyote it was. They’d end up killing a bunch to find the one. The police had come to his house and asked questions, but no charges were filed. Some of the students had testified that Matt was attacked first, and this absolved him of any wrongdoing. This was not the case with Walnut Grove High. An emergency meeting was called between the school and Matt’s parents.

Principal Anderson was a short man who fancied three-piece suits. He was bald and covered it with a toupee. His cheeks looked like that of a chipmunk storing seeds. “You’ve been a pretty good student, Matt. Not grade A but good nonetheless. We’ve looked at all options for you here at Walnut Grove, but we think it is best for you to move on,” Principal Anderson said, licking his thumb and finger to help separate the papers in his file.

Matt sat back in the chair, rubbing his hiking boots together, heel to toe.

“What about a suspension?” Mrs. Kearns pleaded, a tear-damp paper towel balled into her small fist. “Our son was attacked.” She was a conservatively beautiful woman, and her pleading was not lost on Principal Anderson.

But Anderson was not in the mood for convincing. “We’ve been informed that if Matt is not removed there’ll be a joint lawsuit filed against the school on behalf of Ben Anderson and Mike Armstrong.” Principle Anderson said.

Mrs. Kearns furrowed her brow. “Well, who cares? They can’t do that, can they, John?” she asked, looking at his father, her eyes glistening.

Matt’s father nodded. Big John, they called him. But not big enough to do a damn thing in this situation. “They can. But we can file a countersuit. This isn’t over,” his father said.

Principal Anderson sighed. “I’m afraid it is, Mr. Kearns. We’ve exhausted all possible options.”

Matt looked on, mouth agape, dismayed that doing the right thing merited expulsion. He bore down on Principal Anderson with his eyes and pointed a finger at the table. “You’re telling me that I’m being expelled for defending myself and a helpless animal? I was in danger, Mr. Anderson. And protecting the dignity of the school by stopping psychotic behavior. Please, I’ll do anything to rectify this.”

“I’m sorry,” Principle Anderson said, shifting his beady eyes from Matt to his father. “You folks are aware that both Ben’s parents are trial lawyers? The school doesn’t want a drawn-out legal battle and I don’t think you folks do either.” Principal Anderson leaned back in his leather chair, satisfied with the dagger he’d unleashed.

A pall crept into the room, and then his mother and father rose from the table. His mother placed her gentle hand on his shoulder and whispered. “Come on Matthew, it’s time to go.”

That was the end of Matt Kearns’s career at Walnut Grove High. He’d opted to finish his senior year at a computer-based satellite school. He flew through the courses, earning his diploma in June.

Two weeks later, a few residents reported seeing the trapper leave the area, empty cages rattling in the back of his truck.

Journey

JOURNEY

Matt Kearns gazed out the windshield, the truck headlights slicing through the Michigan darkness. Moths and mayflies fluttered in the beams along the sloping embankment. He cracked the window and breathed deep. Clean gusts of air curled the edges of three photographs taped to his dashboard. Green glow from the instrument cluster illuminated the photos like museum pieces. The first photo was of his father and him, each hoisting a fresh brook trout. The second photo was of his ex-girlfriend, Stacey. The third photo was of his childhood dog, Elmo.

They were all dead.

His father from lung cancer, and his ex-girlfriend from a drunk named Ed Higgins. The inebriated Ed Higgins ran her over while she was jogging in Ruger Park. She never heard the drunken slob coming thanks to her ear buds. Elmo, good old Elmo, had been taken by cancer as well, but he didn’t go as quietly as his father. There wasn’t much quiet about Elmo. He’d been a protective, if not psychotic Shih Tzu.

Matt sighed and took in the Northwoods air, which always had a way of clearing his thoughts. He gripped the wheel and sighed again.

Trucks beat you up. At least that’s how they used to be before they became luxury couches on wheels. Matt liked his trucks the old fashioned way, the kind that kicked your tail on the highway and gobbled up logging roads. Like the truck he was driving now, a trusty old Toyota 4x4 he’d inherited from his father. He shook his head and couldn’t help but smile for a change. Here he was, heading up to the beloved shack for nine days of peace and quiet. And maybe along the way he’d figure out his life, and finally decide if he should go back to college.

The drive from Chicago was close to eight hours and uneventful until reaching the Ottawa National Forest. The “Ottawa,” as it was known to locals, was a million sprawling acres of undeveloped federal land on the Wisconsin/Michigan border. Long stretches of red pine, jack pine, and aspen dominated the drive. One of the reasons for this trip was the fishing on the Black River, a cutting stream with a slate rock bottom and numerous waterfalls. It was September, and the coho salmon would be spawning upriver, eager to strike any flashing lure dangled in the clear pools. The other reason for the trip was to heal. Stacey had left this world sixty-four days ago. Elmo one hundred and twenty days, and his father six months now. He thought the sorrow had fractured his mind for good, and even his mother noticed he wasn’t doing well. She insisted he go north. She knew this was where Matt was Matt.

I’m getting too old for these drives, he thought even though he was twenty-one. He snorted at this, knowing full well it was nonsense. The three hours of sleep the night before might have something to do with it. Might.

The four-cylinder engine rumbled on, not a force at highway speeds but a real fuel sipper. As he entered the Ottawa National Forest, the big pines increased. The Forest Service liked to keep the roadside trees tall while logging the hell out of the forest beyond view of travelers. If someone were to hike fifty yards in, they’d see stumps and clear-cuts. They’d also notice an abundance of stunted poplar and other overcrowding hardwood trees. These took the place of the giant old growth white pine and hemlock that had covered most of the Northwoods. He’d explored a huge portion of the area as a child, and over the years, he’d come to know this country as his home. He’d built up his legs hiking the ravines and rocky ridges of the Huron Mountains.

Despite logging, the Ottawa and Hurons managed to maintain populations of wolves. Native wolverines and mountain lions had long been extirpated from the ecosystem, the result of over-trapping and speciesism-based persecution. His community college biology teacher, Mr. Emerson, was always impressed with Matt’s knowledge of flora and fauna, and they often had lengthy conversations about the U.P. These were the school moments he remembered with fondness, the exchanges with teachers where you were equals, just two adults having a conversation.

High road densities in the once roadless forest facilitated the elimination of many predator species via poaching. Former roadless areas were whittled down to nothing over decades. The only remaining unroaded lands were a few twenty-thousand-acre wilderness areas protected by the federal government.

Matt had plans to explore the intriguing Huron Mountains further, always interested by the possibility they may well be the oldest mountain range on earth and at one point as high as the Rockies. Now they were just two-thousand-foot rocky knobs. But there was always something about them he found captivating. Isolated stands of old growth hemlock reached from ravines and granite-shrouded patches of soil. Wind-battered red pines clung to cliffs. These places were the opposite of the Midwest: scenic. Remote. The old hunting shack he was heading to this very moment sat in the shadow of the Huros, in a wide forested valley cut by the Black River and its numerous falls and glinting pools. The “shack,” as it was known, was surrounded by a defunct apple orchard that now produced miniature, tart apples. Bordering the orchard stood a forest of aspen, alder, balsam fir, and spruce. Springs and bogs supplied the Black River with water all season, refreshing the riverbed even as summer and fall wicked away the water. To the west of the shack loomed Twenty Mile Bog. The rest of the area consisted of thick forest, home to fisher, black bears, wolves, and owls. These creatures made the Northwoods what it was. The idea that they still existed made him smile. Coming from the Chicago suburbs, this was a paradise teeming with life and adventure.

Matt ran his hand through his brown hair and searched for some music to accompany the darkness that had crept over the land. In the fading light, the instrument cluster bloomed like a spaceship panel.

Green Day? Neil Young? Eh . . . not yet. Pink Floyd? Yes. If his parent’s generation did one thing right, it was rock music. No, they didn’t just do it right, they kicked all sorts of ass.

Matt inserted the disc into the Pioneer CD player and “Let There Be More Light” pounced through the speakers.

He rolled down the window by a third and breathed cool North-wood’s air. Such a contrast from Chicagoland.

The Toyota pickup rolled down empty U.S. 2. The locals were either at home watching TV or at a convenient watering hole, usually called “Insert Name Here showing possession” Northwoods Tavern. One of the benefits of this wild locale was the lack of people, so traveling on an empty road was a kick.

As Matt reached for the heater switch a stout white-tailed deer leapt in front of the truck. He hit the brakes and gripped the steering wheel. Tires shrieked and the sick smell of burning rubber stung his nose. The unlucky deer let out a sheep-like cry as the driver’s-side hood skimmed its left rump. The deer’s eyes widened to the size of tea cups as it sprinted up the embankment to the spruce trees. The truck screeched to a stop, rubber smoke wafting in front of the headlights. The chattering four-cylinder and radio penetrated the sudden stillness.

Matt rolled his window down. The deer was nowhere to be found. He turned the music down, grabbed the heavy-duty flashlight from under the seat, and inspected the truck’s grille. No visible damage, no blood and no deer hair. For good measure he walked over to the embankment, shining the flashlight into the ditch, working a good fifty yards in front of and behind the truck. If he found the deer he’d ease it out of this world one way or another. He hated people who ran over animals without looking back to see if they were still suffering. Running over an animal didn’t mean it was dead, not at all. A year ago in Glacier National Park (on a trip with Stacey) he’d seen a red squirrel run over by a car doing forty in a twenty-five miles per hour zone. Only the back legs of the red squirrel were run over. The squirrel had chirped and cried, valiantly pulling itself a few feet before collapsing in a heap on the road, still alive. Another red squirrel had scurried onto the pavement and tried to pull the crippled squirrel off the road. He remembered watching in horror as the scene unfolded, the desperate chittering of the healthy red squirrel, and the terrible screams of the injured one. When the healthy red squirrel had given up, he’d returned to his vehicle and proceeded to drive over the injured squirrel, ending its life before any more suffering could occur.

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