October 22nd, 1976
Hollow Creek, Pennsylvania
12:11 A.M.
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The storm hadn't let up.
Rain hammered the trees, and the fog had become even denser, shrouding the forest. Visibility was virtually nothing.
The steady rain drowned out any hope of hearing footfalls, and the wind howled through the forest with an unearthly, mournful cry.
Inside the command center trailer, tensions were running high. Sheriff Benham who had came back with the units walked back and forth, his fists clenched tightly. His face was pale, a far cry from the composed leader who used to be.
Every move was measured, but it did not hide the weariness that clung to him. The loss of officers had unnerved him, but worse, he could feel the looming inevitability that the man they were chasing was already ahead.
Lieutenant Cross leaned over the radio equipment, his face twisted in concentration. The constant crackle of static was beginning to annoy him.
"Unit Five, come in," he snapped into the mic, drumming fingers on the receiver. "Unit Five, report status."
There was a silence, and the crackle of static once more. Nothing.
Benham stopped pacing and looked over at Cross. "This is getting out of hand," he growled. "We need something solid."
Cross glanced up, his eyes hard. "He's been playing with us, Sheriff. He knows exactly what we're doing, and he's staying two steps ahead." His voice was calm, but there was a dangerous edge to it.
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Green Hollow Trail
2:13 A.M.
The forest was choking.
The rain was not just a nuisance anymore; it was a weapon. Everything was damp—the leaves, the ground, the officers wading through it. Visibility had dropped to near zero, and each step was made more difficult by the sticky mud that clung to their boots.
Their radios crackled with the news every so often, but it was becoming more fragmented. The storm had knocked out much of the communications equipment, so it was that much harder to maintain contact.
Sheriff Benham and a new four-man detail traveled down the curved path slowly. He had Deputy Loring, Sergeant Williams, and Lieutenant Cross along with him.
They moved in a tight unit, their eyes sweeping the ground around them for any sign of movement.
"We're too exposed out here," Williams complained, his voice drowned out by the storm.
"We need to keep going," Benham replied stubbornly. "Bell's out here. And he's moving. We need to make sure that son of a bitch doesn't get the upper hand on us again."
Loring tugged up her hood, wrapping it closer around her head to block out the rain. "Any report from the other teams?" she asked in a strained tone.
Benham's gaze flashed out to the horizon, a tension shining in their depths. "No news yet. That's not good."
Cross tightened his hold on the rifle strapped across his chest, his gaze jumping uneasily from shadow to shadow. "We need to get in his head," he said softly. "He's not merely hiding. He's stalking us now."
The group hesitated as a distant, muffled crack tore the air. They all froze.
"Did anyone else hear that?" Williams whispered, his voice low-key, tense.
"It was too far away," Loring answered, her voice tight. "Could have been anything."
Benham clenched his teeth. "That wasn't just anything. Be careful. We have no idea what he's capable of."
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Command Post
3:22 A.M.
Both Lieutenant Cross and Sheriff Benham returned to the command post, and the night dragged on. The storm had grounded all airborne support, and the few still functioning radio links were spotty at best. Benham's eyes ached like a pair of burst balloons, their reddening a testiment to the stress of near twenty-four hours of being relentlessly on the move.
All lines on the map, all contacts from the units were becoming increasingly unreliable.
Cross hovered over the radio equipment, looking to intercept any substantial communications. Each flash of static was a gut blow.
"Unit Four, do you copy?"
Static.
"Unit Four, report in!"
Another flash of static.
Benham took the mic from Cross. "Unit Four, this is Command. Do you copy?"
Nothing.
"Goddammit!" He slammed his fist onto the table. The anger gnawed at him. They were being eliminated, one by one, and they had no idea where Bell was hiding, no idea where he was hitting next.
Cross turned around, his expression stern. "They're gone. It's like he knows exactly when to move and when to stay still."
Benham's gaze hardened. "Then we'll make sure he has no place to hide. He won't be allowed to outlast us."
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Deep in The Forsst
3:45 A.M.
Bell was a ghost.
He had heard the movement of the officers, felt their unease. They were getting closer. But he was always one step ahead, just out of sight.
The storm concealed his movements, just as it concealed theirs. The rain was his disguise, the shadows of the trees his cloak.
Bell crouched behind a fallen log, his breathing steady and relaxed as he watched the four-man team pass by.
He knew they were looking for him—desperate to find any lead that would lead them to him. But they were making every mistake. They were predictable.
He moved silently, easing between the trees, without warning. His gun, borrowed though it was, hung at his hip, his step deliberate and slow. Darkness was still, save for the distant rumble of thunder. He was hunter now.
Each in turn would die. Each would fall prey to the same traps as before. And he would watch. He would wait.
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Command Post
4:30 A.M.
In the command post, the feeling of isolation was overwhelming. They were no longer pursuing a man—now they were being pursued.
Every minute in the dark seemed like an eternity. Benham knew they could not go on this way. They had to pin Bell down, to run him out into the open.
Cross, ever the tactician, addressed Benham. "Sheriff, we have to make one more push. No more units. We go in hard, all at once."
Benham shook his head slowly. "All right. We strike him fast. We strike him hard. No more stalling. We find him now."
But they could have no notion what Bell intended.
The storm raged on.
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Deep in The Forest
5:00 A.M.
Bell waited, a silent figure blending into the darkness.
The storm, the darkness—it was all designed. He had nothing left to fear. The game had shifted. And now, he was in control.
He was becoming the winner.