When Rack MacNair woke up, he knew he was in trouble. Being tied up was hardly the worst of it.
He seemed to be in some sort of vehicle, traveling up a very bumpy incline. He suspected that it was a van, as he was sitting up, and could feel paneling of some kind behind him. He thought he could hear a low rush of air, as through opened windows, but the thick material of whatever was covering his head made any clear sound recognition difficult at best.
It seemed he had been kidnapped.
He could deal with that. He was rich, this sort of thing could be expected. He was an actor at the bottom of Hollywood's 'A' list, no Carrey or Ford but able to open a picture fairly impressively, thank you very much! His scowling face had graced the explosive poster of more than one action blockbuster. And he had made a conscious decision not to surround himself with burly bodyguards like so many of his peers had; he wasn't any damn pansy, he could take care of himself.
Of course, he had been careless, but then, who really expects something like this? You can wiggle the possibility back and forth in your mind, but you never really think it'll happen to you.
He had been on the back porch of his cabin in the mountains, cleaning his guns, watching the sun rise above the snow-capped mountain tops, through the bracingly clear air. He's seen a four-point the other day, and planned to bag him before sundown. The thought of that crystal moment when he squeezed the trigger and saw the tiny explosion of flesh as his bullet struck home excited him. It was a thought for a morning like this, as exhilarating as the mountain air.
Next thing he knew, he was waking up, here.
He had a headache. He imagined that someone had whacked him upside the head... somehow, they got close to him without the dogs going crazy. He hoped they hadn't hurt the dogs... he was momentarily more worried about the dogs than about his own skin, but, hey, he could take care of himself. Some action stars were wimps offscreen, but not Rack MacNair; let him get a second, an instant of opportunity and wham! There'd be payback, all right.
But, okay, say he didn't get the opportunity; someone would pay the ransom, they'd let him go. Big deal; what's a couple mil, anyway? A guest-shot in some summer film would take care of that. It just pissed him off that they'd taken him, that was all.
He felt the motion of someone moving nearby, and a voice, male, muted by whatever was covering Rack's head.
"I think he's coming 'round."
Rack pretended to be unconscious. Biding his time. Waiting. Careful.
The van continued to bounce and justle its way toward God-knows-where, its less-than-adequate shocks doing Rack's spine the courtesy of crushing his nerve endings to fine paste. Rack held firm, though; any shift, any movement of his position might reveal his consciousness to his captors.
He tensed subtly against the rope that held his hands. It was firm, and solidly knotted. Damn! He doubted there would be anything nearby he could use to cut through the rope. In one of his movies, the hero would have had a lighter in his back pocket, or a sharp key... his keys were in his front pocket, and he quit smoking years ago.
Not that he was politically correct, or anything like that. Quite the opposite. He was an old fashioned outdoorsman, and when his lungs began to react to that first deep breath of wild cold mountain air in the morning with a horrendous spasm of phlegm-intensive clenched-throat coughing, he knew that it was time to bid Marlboro adieu.
Sure could use one now, though.
He thought about the path events would take in the outside world. How long 'til someone noticed him missing? He was supposed to have a conference call meeting with the rest of the gang at ACS at noon. His failure to check in would raise some eyebrows; American Celebrity Sportsmen was his baby, after all, and the upcoming Charity Buckoff was largely a Rack MacNair project as well. Sure, the accountants and lawyers made the calls and paid for the permits, but it was Rack that got the names in to pull the triggers. The way Hollywood was these days, nobody wanted to get within a hundred miles of a dead deer... in public, anyway. But as long as Rack MacNair was there, it was all right, every weekend he-man worth his tube socks would want to be out there spilling some blood and raising some cash for the less fortunate.
It was a laugh, in a way. Hollywood made its name on spilled blood. Gangsters, Indians, Nazis, even Spacemen doused the screen by the gallons, and the people loved it. "She Came Back, Softly", his Director's Guild award-nominated drama barely paid for itself even after video and cable sales (and a big pay cut for him), but the gore-drenched "Work Hard, Kill Hard" series had earned close to a billion dollars world wide, once you figured in licensing.
But God forbid you should shoot an animal! Americans were so ridiculous in some ways. They spend more money per human on toss-away burgers than any three people in Europe (and any small third world village); yet are ready to cheerfully ignore the fact that today's beef once walked around on yesterday's cow.
At least when Rack was hunting 'em, the meat had a chance. Not a great chance; though Rack admired guys like Fred Pungent, the rock star, who hunted with a knife and bow, Rack liked the feel of a modern, high-powered, laser-scoped rifle. But it was a chance. Some even got away. No one was marching them down a conveyor belt into a slaughter box.
No, while many Hollywood hypocrites wanted to rain shame on the noble huntsman, Rack MacNair was proud of what he did.
A change in the frequency of spine-wringing bounces told him that the van was slowing. They seemed to have climbed quite a distance; he felt the change in altitude in his ears. Possibly he had been brought to some remote mountain eyrie, a lonesome hideout away from prying eyes. That was great; the mountains were a second home to Rack MacNair. If he could get loose, he could lose them in the forest, no problem. Pick them off one by one...
No, wait a minute, that was the plot of "WoodKill 2: Die in the Trees".
He had to keep his wits about him. Best to just ride this out. They wouldn't kill him unless he made it necessary; he was too valuable. Life is cheap, true, but not Rack MacNair's!
The van eased to a stop, apparently against a large rock, judging by the suddenness with which it ceased moving. There was a sound of doors opening, closing, footsteps, then the sound of the long side door sliding open. He could see the sunlight even through the blindfold or sack or whatever was over his eyes...
"I think he's still out," a voice said.
"Nah, he's awake," a second voice answered. "Probably has been the whole time."
"I was here in the back the whole time and he hardly moved. He's out, all right." There were three of them.
"He's an actor, you chucklehead! Playing possum, get it?" The second man spoke with a measure of authority. Rack guessed that he was the leader.
Suddenly a pair of hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him out the door. He had to react, extending his feet to meet the cold earth, or he would have gone face first onto the ground.
"See? Wide awake." The leader leaned close to Rack and began to shout in his ear. "Hello, Rack MacNair! I've seen all your movies. I'm a big fan."
Then why not let me go, Rack thought.
"You're probably wondering what's going on. Well, in just a minute we'll remove that blindfold and you'll probably figure things out pretty quickly.
"Lovely morning, isn't it? Brisk and bracing. Fine day for hiking. Or maybe... hunting?"
Rack didn't like the tone of the leader's voice. He sounded chipper, friendly even, but there was an undertone of malice that no amount of superficial sugar could glaze over. He tried to speak. "Why have you kidnapped me?"
"Wha hab oo kibbaped be?" is how it came out.
"Oh for Christ's sake, take that gag out of his mouth. Let's hear what he has to say."
He felt someone fumbling at the back of his head. Suddenly the pressure between his teeth lessened, and he was able to move his jaw again. "Why have you kidnapped me?"
"Kidnapped? Oh, we haven't kidnapped you, per se. We've taken you prisoner."
Oh great. This is starting to sound loony. 'Misery', anybody?
"As a matter of fact, you're a political prisoner. A prisoner of war. Just like you were in 'Nam Justice'. A POW. Free the POWs! Where's Rambo when you need him, eh?"
Rack was confused, though he suspected that was exactly the reaction his captors wanted from him. "I don't understand. Prisoner of war? What war?"
"Simply the oldest of mankind's wars. One that's been fought since the dawn of humanity. Man vs. Nature. It's a war man's been slowly winning, by attrition; slowly over the course of millennia He has poisoned and starved Nature into oblivion. But just being on the winning side doesn't make it right, or just; in fact, we're so convinced that justice is in Nature's corner, that we've switched sides! Imagine that!"
Rack was starting to sweat most profusely. There was an aura of insanity about this whole situation. "Look, I've got the ransom. Let's just sit down and work this out."
All three of his captors laughed. "Ransom! Money! As if!"
The leader stepped closer to Rack, so much so that it almost seemed as though he was whispering in Rack's ear. "We don't need money, Rack. Money is the destroyer, the eater of the earth. Money eats forests. Money tortures for cosmetics. Money hunts for fun. I hate your damn money!"
The leader stepped away from Rack and barked an order to his comrades. "Bring the ceremonial attire!" There was a sound of a box being opened, its three metal clasps flicking free. Then a rustling, then something large and heavy was placed over his head. He felt hands a t the back of his neck, fastening things...
"Now, you probably won't be able to talk very well through this, but we'll ease your blindfold down so that you can see a little, like... so!"
Rack blinked rapidly as the shock of sudden brightness made his eyes sting and tear. He was staring out of a pair of crudely cut eyeholes. He saw the leader, a tall, gaunt man in his mid-forties, his long gray-black hair tied back in a ponytail. The other two men were wearing ski masks... which wouldn't attract that much attention in these cold hills. And they were holding a mirror.
He looked in the mirror and realized that there would be no ransom, and his scream was choked in his throat as the pony-tailed leader stuffed the gag back in his mouth.
They'd made him into prey.
The encumbrance on top of his head was a deer's head, a four-point stag. As he struggled, the leader secured him into the makeshift costume. His eyes remained clear, and he knew without looking closer that he would be easily mistaken for the real thing once he was let loose in the forest.
"We've even given you a fluffy white tail. Sure, up close you're no match for the majesty and grace of a real buck; but I figure you look at least as much like the real thing as that jogger that some moron shot in Connecticut, or the woman out walking in her back yard in Maine."
Rack struggled against the gag, but it was no use. No sound came out but "mmm-mmmm." A sound not unlike a deer's voice.
"What did you want to say, Rack? Some spirited defense of 'Hunters' Rights'? Let me save you the trouble.
"Here's the situation. It seems to me that the population of hunters is out of control, and it's time to cull the herd. There are just too many for the available supply, and they're starting to wreak havok in suburbia. But don't worry, you've got a sporting chance. Look at the situation; you're an intelligent beast, you know the score. Those are your people out there. Sure, they're a little liquored up and trigger-happy; but that's their right, after all, second amendment and all that.
"Listen! Can you hear them? Lurching through the forest like wobbling bowling pins, ready to battle man-to-man with the savage deer jungle deer, armed only with a humungous high-velocity laser-scoped radar-tracking explosive-ammoed megakill phallus extension. Bang! Bang! Kaboom! When the smoke clears, anything not moving is a trophy."
Rack stopped struggling to speak. Dear God, these were madmen.
He had to keep his wits. Maybe he could get out of this.
"Well, it's just about time, Rack. They'll be coming over the ridge any second, and we'll want to get to a good vantage point. See, we'll be filming the action. Think of it as your last performance. Make it a good 'un!"
They walked away from him and climbed into the van. Rack watched them drive away, and wondered what to do next.
Rack stumbled to his feet. The obscene head-dress that his captors had affixed to his upper body made it difficult for him to stand, especially as his legs were cramped and buckled from the long hard ride they'd taken to get here. He strained to free his hands, but they were tightly secured; cuffed together, arms pinned by the straps of the deer-head straight-jacket they'd dressed him in. He staggered, nearly fell, then got his bearings, and began to run.
He'd considered rushing toward the oncoming hunters, but that plan seemed too uncertain. The psychos that had brought him here were right about one thing; some of these Sunday Marksmen would shoot at anything moving. Especially if it looked like a deer. And Rack McNair looked like a deer. Hell, he'd have taken a shot at himself.
He thought about struggling to pull the deer-head off, using a tree for leverage; locking the antlers around the trunk and twisting until something tore. It seemed like it wouldn't be that hard to do, requiring only leverage and some patience. Then he realized that his captors must have thought of this; why hadn't they taken steps to prevent him from doing that?
A second away from trying it, the reason dawned on him with a chill; they wanted him to. In the attempt he would look exactly like a buck whose antlers were moulting.
So he ran down the side of the hill, cursing the poor visibility of the damned costume as he crashed through thick underbrush, banging into the occasional tree. He was making a lot of racket, but didn't see how he had any choice.
Rack was no stranger to these mountain forests, with their hidden glens and sudden cliffs. He really did have a chance. But the costume slowed him down, impaired him. He couldn't run well, he couldn't see well.
There was a crunching of brush somewhere behind him. It echoed across the hills. How far away were they? Could be feet. Could be miles.
If Rack had been able to see more clearly, there's a good chance he never would have run down into that ravine. If he hadn't run into the ravine, he wouldn't have had to climb up the other side, moving slowly, presenting a perfect target. If he wasn't such a clear target, they might not have seen him. If the underbrush hadn't been so dense, they might not have taken him for prey.
If he hadn't looked so much like a deer, they might not have shot him.
He felt the laser sight pinpointing his back. He heard the crack of the rifle. But he only felt the impact for a second.
"Way to go, Sammy," a voice yelled in the distance as Rack McNair hit the ground, face first, "Right in the gut, just like I tol' ya!"