Buck Fever (2 page)

“Ain’t nobody gonna believe this—hah—we got ourselves a hell of a deer-hunting story. I need a beer,” Lopez said.

Greppleton giggled and slapped his leg. “I got my buck. I got my buck. Let’s get this beauty gutted and go celebrate. Ooh, shit, I’m going to have two nasty bruises, here,” he said, rubbing his chest while straining to move his legs.

The two men regained their senses, stood up, grabbing knife and bow, and walked over to the motionless buck.

“Damn, he’s gorgeous. That rack’s going to look sweet over the fireplace,” Greppleton said.

“Yeah, right. You’re so wife-whipped. Mary’s going to force it down to the basement in no less than two days from when you hang it.”

“No freakin’ way she can do that. This is my buck, man—my buck. Hey, look at this. Looks like dried blood on the antlers. What do suppose caused that?” Greppleton said, examining the antlers for a place to strap on a deer tag. He reached into his pocket. “Shit, I left the tag in the truck. Remind me to put it on when we get out of the woods. I better clean this rack so Mary doesn’t get all bent out of shape when she sees it.” He wiped each point clean of the blood-red stains using wet leaves.

“The buck’s been in a fight over some doe; I’ll bet that doe. Might explain why she got so hot and bothered.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Greppleton wielded the knife and proceeded to slash through layers of hairy skin revealing steaming intestines.

“God damn, it stinks. I don’t remember that smell when I gutted my buck last year. Maybe it’s diseased. Whew, I’ve got to get some air,” Lopez said, backing away from the carcass.

“I just cut through his stomach. Of course, it’s going to stink like shit. What’d you expect?” Greppleton continued to cut and tear out entrails. “Here, take over. I’ve got to take a leak.” He offered the knife to Lopez.

“I don’t want to get that shit all over my cut hand, could give me an infection.”

“You suck-ass pussy, take the damn knife.”

Reluctant, Lopez took the knife, knelt down and reached into the open cavity. Greppleton stood up and walked several yards away.

A fine yellow mist floated past Lopez’ face.

“Do you have to point this way? What the hell did you eat, asparagus? Christ, the wind’s blowing it into my face.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Greppleton stepped back several feet and turned away.

“That’s weird.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t smell now.” Lopez leaned closer and sniffed the oozing intestine next to his leg. “Smells sweet. Aw shit, where’s my ring? I lost my wedding ring in there.” He proceeded to reach into the bowels in search.

“Maybe you lost it over where the doe attacked you.”

“No, I just saw it a minute ago. It must’ve fallen off when I pulled his stomach out.

Lopez’ face suddenly flushed deep red. His eyes bulged as he struggled to suck in air.

“You okay Harry? What’s wrong?” Greppleton grabbed Lopez’ left arm and shook it, then slapped his back. “Are you choking? Good God, man, what’s happening?”

Lopez continued gasping for air.
My inhaler, need my inhaler
, he thought. He fumbled to open his left shirt pocket, stuck his right hand in and pulled out a small canister.

“Asthma…are you having an asthma attack?” Greppleton asked. He took the canister from Lopez’ hand, forced the opening into Lopez’ mouth and squeezed twice.

Lopez’ body became limp, his breathing shallow.

Damn close,
Greppleton thought as he checked Lopez’ pulse. A similar crisis happened two years ago at a surprise birthday party complete with two strippers. Lopez spent the following week in a hospital. Doctors said it was post-war stress caused by too much excitement.

“Wake up, man. Wake up.” Greppleton laid the drooping body on the ground several feet from the deer. “Man, you are a piece of work. Wake up. Don’t make me lose this deer.”

He knew what he had to do: drag Lopez to the car, take him to a hospital, and leave the buck behind.

Chapter 3

T
he Tuesday drive north from Detroit to West Branch took three hours. The men had only four hours to hunt before returning home. It was the first day of gun-hunting deer season. Until now, only bow hunters roamed the woods.

Typical mid-Michigan November day
, a
bout forty-five degrees
, Jack Hermanski thought.
Overcast, no wind, ideal.

“If we are going to get lucky, I say we head through those trees and not waste any time,” Hermanski said, while maneuvering his aging Hummer onto a side road marked as public land.

Three eager men, outfitted in camouflage hunting clothes with bright orange vests and hats, departed the vehicle. They opened long gun cases, removed their weapons and chatted about ammunition and scope adjustments. With barrels held down, they marched single file toward a tree line of tall pines towering over knee-high brush.

“Another truck passed through here in the past day or so,” said Dillon Lacarter, probing tire tracks with his boots.

“They definitely dragged something out,” Hermanski said, examining a trampled path into the woods.

“Bet it was a small buck. The big one is probably still in there, Jack. I can feel it,” George Montagno said.

“Yeah, right,” Hermanski said, forcing an encouraged smile.

~ ~ ~

The three business partners and close friends spent the previous three weeks together reviewing invoices. Hermanski acted as the boss and directed the work. As partners in a firm supplying small dashboard switches to a major auto company, they had to make every penny count. The competition from foreign suppliers was fierce, causing the men to work long hours with little time off. Last year, they took a week off around Thanksgiving to hunt. This year, they had one day and had to make the best of it.

The public land off highway 55 bordered several farms. The deer would pass through the cornfields looking for food, then wander back into the woods for shelter. It was the perfect setup to bag a couple of white tails with full racks as they had a year earlier.

~ ~ ~

“I can taste the venison already,” Lacarter said, now about 25 yards in. “Remember to shoot into the neck, here to penetrate the windpipe, and here to pierce a major artery feeding the brain. That should bring him down quickly and preserve the meat,” he continued, pointing to his neck. “I think I’m going to stay here next to this tree.”

“You showed me that sniper trick last year, and I’ll say it again, I’m no sharpshooter. Anyway, deer don’t wear armor; why not just shoot them in the heart?” Montagno said.

“Spoils the meat, we need a clean kill.”

“Seriously?” Montagno said. “You said you learned that in Desert Storm. Why were you worried about a clean kill over in Iraq? You weren’t going to eat those people. Plus, why waste a shot to the windpipe first? Deer don’t yell out like humans, just shoot them in the jugular vein. Plus, we don’t use silencers, so the first gunshot will alert other deer in the area anyway.”

A dried-up cornfield appeared through the brush facing west.

“Just shoot to kill any way you can, who gives a shit, okay? I’ll be down wind about fifty yards. I’ll call you when I get there,” Hermanski said, tapping his wristband walkie-talkie.

“I’ll stay here with Dillon, if you don’t mind. If we see a deer, he can shoot it. I’d rather be drinking a few brewskis,” Montagno said, grabbing pocket pouches on his pants, bulging with beer cans.

“Suit yourselves, but for God’s sake, don’t shoot each other—especially not in the neck.” Hermanski laughed at the thought, shook his head and walked on through the woods.

~ ~ ~

Hermanski eventually approached an aging-plywood deer blind next to an open wet field. A small six-foot-round patch of rust-colored wheat stalks stood in water nearby, half with tops gone. The rest of the twenty-acre field was plowed under. A small animal lay on the ground next to the wheat patch.

Damn locals, they’ll shoot at anything
, he thought, as he approached the animal.
It’s a goat, probably a family pet.
He poked the animal with his gun barrel, shook his head and walked back to the blind.

“You guys see anything worth shooting?” Hermanski said, pressing his walkie-talkie call button.

“No bucks, just some haggard-looking doe coming through the cornfield. She was limping like she took a bullet in the ass,” Montagno said into his walkie-talkie.

“Dipshit locals, they apparently shot some family goat over here. Probably shot that doe too,” Hermanski said. “If I don’t see anything in an hour, I’m heading east about fifty yards to another blind. Will let you know if I move.”

“Okay, but it’s already four o’clock. We need to be out of here by five,” Montagno said.

“Yeah, maybe I should go over there now. Will let you know when I get there.”

Click, click, Montagno acknowledged.

~ ~ ~

Hermanski picked up his gun propped next to an oak tree and headed east. As he approached another blind, he looked up, seeing a tree perch 20 feet up strapped around a foot-wide oak tree.

Locals,
he thought.
Been here too.

“What the...” he blurted and clicked his walkie-talkie. “Guys, you’re not going to believe this. I just found a half-gutted buck with an arrow sticking in its neck next to a tree with a hunter’s perch strapped to it. An eight-pointer no less and it looks like a fresh kill from yesterday. It’s been cold out so the meat should still be good.”

“I’ll bet it’s some moron without a license. He probably got spooked by someone coming through the woods and left it,” Lacarter said.

“You know, I have half a mind to claim it and take it with us. I’m so pissed at these guys getting all this meat on the cheap. What do you think?” Hermanski said.

“We’re with you. We have to go soon anyway. Might as well bag a dead one as a live one,” Montagno said. “We’re heading over to help. Guide us in.”

~ ~ ~

The three men stood over the fallen buck.

“Hmm, nice kill to the neck. Let’s get the arrow out, clean out the rest of the insides and drag it out,” Lacarter suggested.

“Sounds like a plan,” Hermanski said, removing a knife from the strapped sheath on his left leg.

“You’ll get goo shit all over your hands; use these. Here, take this knife; your diddly knife isn’t cutting through that hide,” Lacarter said, offering Hermanski a pair of rubber gloves and a large stainless-steel knife with a jagged back edge and rounded point.

“Go, Rambo,” Montagno said, backing away from the knife.

Hermanski slipped the gloves on, reluctantly accepted the larger blade.

Lacarter tugged on the arrow, removing it.

“Look at this. It has a razor-tip and carbon shaft. There’s another opening just above it, like he’s been hit twice.”

“Whoever it was knew your sniper trick. Must be an ex-Marine,” Montagno said.

“Probably explains the arrow lying over there. Like I said, one shot to the neck and down he goes without making a sound; another and you are sure of a clean kill.” Lacarter pointed to a fallen tree about 20 feet away.

“Without making a sound, huh? That’s great if you’re shooting arrows, but a gunshot to the windpipe is going to spook all other deer in the area anyway—I still don’t get it.”

Hermanski bent down and patted the carcass. The meat’s cold and firm. Hey, does this meat smell unusually sweet to you? A little like asparagus?”

Montagno bent down and sniffed. Lacarter followed. They agreed.

“Hope it’s okay. You don’t think it’s spoiled do you?” Hermanski looked concerned.

“Cut some muscle around the stomach area. If it’s mushy then maybe,” Lacarter said.

Hermanski cut out a small chunk of meat next to a rib. He held it up for a sniff test.

“Looks and smells fine. It doesn’t have an odor of the intestines. Probably the smell of whatever food he was eating,” Hermanski remarked. He then slit the stomach open revealing a reddish-brown mush. “Here’s the culprit. Whew, it smells like asparagus and…and urine?”

“His bladder probably burst earlier and backed up through the intestines,” Montagno said.

“We’re over-analyzing this. Let’s get the rest out and get going.”

Hermanski worked diligently for five minutes cleaning the breast cavity. Montagno retrieved a rope from his coat pocket and wrapped it around the antlers to form a towrope. Lacarter offered up a deer tag and secured it around one of the antlers.

“Gents, we are ready. This buck is ours,” Hermanski said, taking off his rubber gloves. He rolled them neatly inside out and stuffed them into his coat pocket. He cleaned the knife with some leaves and handed it back to Lacarter.

“What should we do with these guts? Bury ‘em?” Montagno asked.

“Naw, leave them for the locals. They deserve it. Besides the turkey vultures and other predators will have the mess cleaned up in a couple of days anyway,” Hermanski said.

The three men took turns dragging the dead animal through the woods.

Chapter 4

A
mid-twenties newspaper reporter stretched back into his desk chair, twirling an apple with his right hand, taking determined bites, while patting his slightly disheveled blonde hair with his left. His scuffed-black loafers rested on an open file drawer to maintain balance as he leaned out his cubicle to gaze through a green-tinted window. The view from the 20th floor of the new Detroit Times building, overlooking the Detroit River, encouraged daydreaming. He had two hours left on the clock before the long Thanksgiving holiday weekend officially began. His last story went to the editing department at noon. The November sun waned behind other buildings. It would be twilight on the drive home.

“Porter, my office, now!”

“Yes, Chief,” Jeb Porter replied using his best movie-line mimic voice, straightening up, throwing the apple core with determined force into the file drawer, kicking it shut. He had dreamed of becoming a major-league baseball player and even won a sports scholarship to Michigan State. However, an elbow injury his sophomore year ended that notion, so he concentrated on journalism classes to become a sports writer.