Victims of the HUNT

By Win Wilkins

Special Agent Henry Landis thought he had seen it all. The murders he is investigating are the most brutal he's ever encountered and the murder weapon, different with each victim, was a living animal. When he realizes that each victim is linked by their actions, Landis begins to see the irony of the killi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Win Wilkins
• Release date: Oct 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798868939709

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Victims of the HUNT

By Win Wilkins

Copyright © 2018 by

Win Wilkins

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted in writing from the author.

Published 2023 by Win Wilkins

Introduction

    I want to thank my family and friends for their support as I’ve finally been able to get my first story published. I would also like to thank the editors that helped a new writer complete his vision in the best possible way. A special shoutout to Shawsome Reads Editing Services for a wonderful final edit and finishing touches. (Marissa, I may owe you a new comma button for your computer. My bad!) Any errors contained within this story are solely mine.

    Lastly, I want to thank everyone who has found this story. I hope you enjoy it.

    Now, I want to tell you a tale. Before I do, I must ask a seemingly simple question. What is murder? Is it simply taking life? Is it taking innocent life? Or is the right to live merely afforded to humans, leaving murder defined as taking human life?

There is a man who defines murder as taking innocent life. And, yes, he takes it seriously.

Prologue

    He stood in the dilapidated warehouse and knew right away this was the next victim in the animal killings. He had seen all of this a few months before—only this time, the animal responsible was different. The first two victims had been killed by big cats. The claw marks were unmistakable, and the victims had been partially consumed. While this latest John Doe was missing limbs and portions of the torso appeared to have been bitten and removed, there were no claw marks. In their place was evidence of brute force. The body was, simply put, twisted in odd directions in certain places. The agent in charge, Henry Landis, had not been able to get any leads on the previous two cases. As his team began to piece this new murder together, Landis worried that, again, the scene would yield nothing important. How he hoped he was wrong.

1

    Robert Wilburn turned off his alarm clock and headed to the shower. It was 6:45am, and his workday started at 8. The hate he felt for his job made facing the day quite a challenge, and every fiber of his being told him to resist. As the warm water ran over his head, he reflected on his poor career choice. It wasn’t that he specifically hated installing cable as much as he detested the people he was installing the cable for. They were always griping about things, the biggest of which was the horrible wait for him to arrive. The ironic thing was they never realized the reason he was late, most of the time at least, was because the previous appointment had held him up with all kinds of questions, as well as an apparent innate ability to spontaneously forget how to use electronic devices. And God forbid they had children and he had to explain how to use the parental controls. That alone would add 30 minutes to his install time. Luckily, the internet afforded these people the ability to become experts before he even arrived, which made him wonder why they had so many questions to begin with.

    Feeling his blood pressure already rising, Robert cut the water and dried off. He hadn’t washed his uniform—had in fact thrown it on the bathroom floor—so he picked it up and shook off what appeared to be the world’s largest dust bunny and reluctantly pulled on his work pants. Once completely dressed, he wiped his hand down the mirror, removing the fog barrier his hot shower had caused, and looked at himself. Fuck! He needed to relax. He looked like shit. Well, there was nothing he could do about it right now. It was time to eat some breakfast and get the hell that was his work day started.

    Just as Robert sat down to eat his bowl of Raisin Bran, his phone rang. It was his boss. He exhaled, trying to remain composed, then answered. Hello? 

    Robert! Hope I didn’t wake you. We’ve got a bit of an emergency. How soon can you get here?

    I’m eating right now, Mr. Bales, but I should be on the road in 20 minutes. What is the emergency?

    Mrs. Simmons wasn’t pleased with your visit yesterday morning and says she still doesn’t have an HD picture. I need you to go back to her immediately and see what you can do.

    That bitch is 63 years old, and she doesn’t have the right TV for HD. I explained this to her. The picture is clear, and everything is working as it should. Can she not remember our discussion from yesterday? There’s nothing I can do! Robert was somehow shocked that it was only 7am and he was already pissed over work.

    Robert, she says she has everything she’s supposed to. The guys at the store set her up with all the necessary equipment, and she is adamant about it. Head there instead of coming here first. I know her house is on your way in and that will save you some time. We’ve had a lot of complaints about you recently so just figure this out.

    Tim Bales wasn’t a bad boss, and there was truth in what he’d said. Robert had gotten so upset with people, in general, that the smallest comments would make him angry. He thought about Mrs. Simmons and how she had specifically used the power of ignorance to rile him up the day before. During that visit, he was about to plug in the HDMI cables when a gunshot had pierced the quiet morning. Had they been in the city, or even the suburbs, it would have been out of place. This, however, was the country, and people shot guns all the time for recreation or hunting. If that was an issue, move the fuck out. Most people living in the country knew this, but for some reason, Mrs. Simmons took offense to the gunshot—which sounded like it was a mile away—and decided to share her unwanted opinion. As Robert so luckily found out, Mrs. Simmons had quite the disdain for hunting and hunters. She rambled on for nearly five minutes with that high and mighty tone of hers, and Robert was stuck listening to her. He had to fight so hard to keep his mouth shut, not just because he had a very different opinion but also because he could smell the sausage this dear woman had cooked shortly before his arrival. How about a side of hypocrisy with your meat, ma’am?

    Just when he thought she was finally going to shut her mouth, she took it too far. She said, What type of bully needs to shoot an innocent animal with a high-powered rifle? And probably using a scope, too. Cowards, all of them! As an avid hunter, Robert began to sweat. Holding back his tongue by sheer force of will, he mumbled some vague form of assent. It was at that point he decided he wouldn’t properly hook up her system, and that calmed him down. He wanted to use logic on this bitch and explain how all animals kill something. Some killed for food, others for territory, and some simply to mate. Some killed their partners immediately after mating! And while animals didn’t kill for skins or trophies, they also didn’t have to pay bills, something the spoils of hunting could help with. 

    Robert? Are you still there?

    Robert’s memory had taken him away briefly, and he’d forgotten he was still on the phone with his boss. He was still, in fact, holding a spoon that was dripping milk back into the bowl below it. Robert took the spoonful of cereal and chewed it quickly, then said, I’ll be at her house at 7:45, Mr. Bales. I’ll see what I can do.

    Robert hung up the phone and quickly finished his breakfast. The start of this day had given him quite a bad feeling.

2

    The search took a little longer than normal. Earlier that morning, Chris Rickman had spoken over the phone to the local game warden, Michael Terry. Posing as a journalist, he’d asked about any reports of animal trouble. There had been three in the area, and the largest was just outside of Woodville, Louisiana, the town he was currently in. As Rickman and his team checked what would be their third bayou of the day off the Mississippi River, he finally saw what he was looking for. At the previous two bayous, they had found tracks, but he could tell the animals that had made them weren’t quite large enough for the task; Woodville had been the right call. The tracks in front of him now had been made by a perfect specimen. He signaled to the two other men that it was time to set up.

    Just on the other side of this particularly thin inlet was a small section of reeds protruding from the shallow water. As the water gave way to land, there were broken branches where it looked like something fairly large had walked through. As the team made its way over, bubbles stirred the water just a few yards from the path. They proceeded with caution through the branches, and the land went upward sharply about five feet from the water. The peat moss, the sheer density of the woods, the unbelievable humidity, the proximity to civilization, and the size of the tracks leading over the slope and disappearing among the flora gave rise to the voice inside all living beings that says, Danger. He knew they had found their tracker.

    Though Chris Rickman was in charge and thought up the group, he knew that the men with him, Jason Glazer and Dave King, were invaluable. In total, HUNT consisted of five main members and one occasional helper. Their mission was to educate, and Rickman’s chosen subject was the ethics of hunting. He believed that hunting was perfectly acceptable and that everything could be hunted. But for only one reason: food. Nothing was to be wasted. When you killed an animal, you ate it and used the skin for clothing, containers, or whatever. You could not stuff the animal and you could not sell any part of it, either. No trophies allowed, at all. You could also kill an animal in self-defense. Essentially, you should hunt animals for the same reason they hunt each other.

    For those that did not—sport hunters, big game hunters, and poachers—a violent and life-ending lesson was coming their way. They became a client of HUNT, and when that happened, they were marked for death. HUNT would research the client and then, as best it could, find a way for the client’s sins against nature to become balanced. So, if a man killed a lion, they would do their best to have a lion kill that man. Thus, they were called HUNT: humans utilizing nature’s trackers. It was a dangerous and costly group, but Rickman could easily afford it, and his team was first-rate. Rickman and HUNT had been in the education field for over five years, and they had no plans to retire any time soon.

3

    As Robert made his way closer to Mrs. Simmons’s house, he couldn’t escape the feeling that he needed to change his life—immediately. He slammed on his brakes, ignoring the blaring horn of the minivan behind him as it swerved and then passed him. The driver showed his appreciation for the near collision by extending his middle finger, but Robert just turned around and headed home. No longer was he going to take this shit from people. Fuck that bitch, fuck his boss, and FUCK cable!

    He pulled into the driveway he’d left 10 minutes before and turned off the engine of the company van. He closed its door behind him for the last time and felt an enormous weight lift. He stepped up onto his creaky front porch, unlocked the door, and went and sat down in front of his computer. He opened up his Facebook page and started looking at some of the pictures from his recent hunting trips. He knew he had to limit who could see his pictures because so many people wouldn’t understand. While he knew he was a hunter, some would label him a poacher, including the game warden. He had some friends that had helped him in the past, so he messaged two on Facebook, emailed his buyer, and then called Joe Morris, who answered on the second ring.

    His excitement getting the best of him, Robert spoke before Joe could even speak. Joe, I’ve got some news for you!

    Even though they’d grown up together, the correspondence between Joe and Robert had waned quite a bit the last several years. Robert knew that Joe had taken exception to his killing juvenile alligators when they’d been out poaching in the past. The look of shock on Joe’s face when Robert had left the small gator corpses floating told him all he needed to know about the stomach Joe possessed.

      Joe sighed into the speaker. Hey, Robert. What’s your news?

    Robert knew two things based on Joe’s tone and the preceding sigh. There would be no partnership here, and Joe would know his wrath was coming. All Robert’s friends knew he didn’t take rejection well. Still, he pressed on, hoping to be wrong in his assumption. I just decided to quit my worthless job at the cable company and pursue my dream. I literally turned around on my way in this morning and am now back home and looking to enlist some help. I’ve messaged the boys, but wanted to call you. How about it?

    After a brief pause, Joe finally said, I’m glad you’ve quit that job. I know you hated it and that you love huntin’. I ain’t ready to commit to somethin’ like that, though. I got enough goin’ on where I don’t need the game warden breathin’ down my neck. Word is he’s been out a lot at night in the bayous. I’m sorry, man, but I just ain’t interested.

    Robert was getting angry as his friend talked with his heavy southern drawl and slow delivery of words. Robert’s heart rate increased as he waited for Joe’s answer, which finally came. He knew Joe had changed over the last two years and hadn’t gone out deer hunting nearly as much during the season. He had come out for the gators, but not much else. Trying to remain calm, Robert said, You lost your nerve, man?

    Naw, man. I just kinda made peace with everythin’ and don’t see no need in killin’. That’s all. I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ to no one, so maybe Billy and Sam will help. I know this means a lot to you, so I wish you the best. I ain’t gonna be no part of it. I hope you understand.

    Robert didn’t think Billy and Sam would help, either. He was fucked. His excitement was now mostly gone, and he was about to lay into Joe when his computer notified him of an email. Chester James, his buyer, had replied. He needed to get off the phone with Joe. Alright, man. Call me if you change your mind. By not berating his weak friend, Robert hoped the bridge would still be there when he started flashing all his earnings in his friends’ faces. They just might change their tune when they see the reward.

    Joe, sounding almost surprised, said, Good luck, man. I hope it works out for you.

Chester’s reply brought back some positivity to Robert’s now darkened day. The prices for gator skins were even better than he thought, so this was perfect. While reading through all the details in Chester’s message, two notifications popped up on his phone. Billy and Sam had responded, and not one of those pussies was willing to help him. Instead of letting this bring him down again, he decided to focus on a very big positive that was now in his mind after seeing the new pricing from Chester. He saw an opportunity to make even more money, since he would not have to split the earnings. He didn’t reply to Billy and Sam, instead he posted that he was starting a new job, one that he was going to love, but didn’t say what that job was going to be. It was time to take a short nap to ready himself for the preparations he’d need to make this afternoon for the night hunting he would start next evening. Just as he was about to fall asleep, his phone rang. He looked at the screen and saw it was his now former boss. He ignored the call and was out in no time.

4

    Chris Rickman decided to check his phone. Setting up a gator trap and then camp was never fun, least of all in the 100-degree Southern heat and humidity that made it feel like you were caught between Satan’s left nut and thigh. Of all the trappings he had done, this was the most tiring. There were no calls, but his tech guy, Brian Marshall, had sent a text and an email. He had successfully hacked into Robert Wilburn’s computer as well as the computer of Robert’s now former boss. Brian had emailed the termination papers along with Facebook conversations between Robert, three of his friends, and Chester James. From the start, Rickman’s instinct told him there would be only one lesson to teach. Reading the replies from Robert’s friends had confirmed that they would not take part. He smiled and put his phone away, taking a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

    Rickman thought back to his informant’s first message about a poacher. Having numerous interactions with these types of people gave him a good idea of how to quickly locate the culprit. With the sweat successfully removed, Rickman’s smile faded as thoughts of Robert’s deeds invaded his mind.

5

    Robert had fallen asleep quickly but found that his excitement affected his sleep almost as much as the stress of his old job. He’d taken a three-hour nap but stayed in bed for another two thinking about the work he was about to start. He needed to buy some ammo, which he’d do soon enough, but first, he wanted to look at boat prices. He’d need to get a new one, a bigger one. He’d be bringing in a lot of gators, and he needed somewhere to hide the evidence in case the game warden showed up. Michael Terry had paid him a few visits over the last couple of years, and Robert knew that he patrolled the bayous at night when he was in the area. He really needed a partner to keep a lookout, but for now, he’d have to risk it alone. 

    Finding a partner would be tricky. The last thing Robert wanted was some bleeding-heart pansy that wanted to be sure they didn’t kill the wrong thing; AKA a baby gator. He didn’t give two-shits about what he shot because the time it took to properly identify the size of a gator at night could cost him money by giving it time to escape. That was not going to happen. Anything killed that shouldn’t have been would simply be left where it died.

    There had been a few times when he’d shot unusable gators but they hadn’t died. His partner would also have to accept the fact that bullets cost money. The fucking thing would die eventually and saving those bullets was more money in the bank. Another gator would probably come along and eat the wounded infant or juvenile. Hell, he was helping the ecosystem.

    He decided to get out of bed once his mind reached the conclusion that there was no one in the area fitting his needs in an accomplice. He flipped on his computer and looked at some pictures of the gators he’d killed. Satisfied with seeing some corpses that he had produced, he closed his folder and opened Google to check on the cost of boats. He was eager to kill.

6

    Rickman was shocked at the size of the gator—a 15-foot monster. He was fascinated by all creatures, but the large apex predators were the most amazing. They were so efficient, so perfectly designed, and he loved watching them work with the upper hand in an unfair world. He researched how to care for every animal and he talked to experts—anonymously, of course—to make sure their temporary captivity was humane. The part of the capture that Rickman truly didn’t like was withholding food from the tracker to make sure it was hungry when the time came. Luckily, Rickman’s planning allowed the smallest amount of time needed for capture and holding of the animal so at no time was its health in danger. After all, it would be fed. Eventually. He had captured many animals without causing harm to them or his team. This truly was his calling. He was their voice, their champion, their revenge, and their protector. Robert Wilburn, a cowardly murderer, would be removed from the equation shortly. HUNT was Rickman’s greatest invention. As he tracked poachers and sport hunters, he found that they were all idiots. It was a disease. Killing the innocent blinded them, and they became as defenseless as the game they murdered. Though hunters were his priority, Rickman also went after people that abused animals. He had his eye on another potential client in the area but knew he couldn’t quite get him yet. He’d wait a couple of weeks; patience was a strength of his. It’s why he was still around doing this important work.

    Glazer and Dave were so good at the delicate job of capturing the trackers. They never got hurt and, more importantly, never hurt the animal being captured. Never.

    They loaded the 15-foot monster and were on their way to the site. While Rickman always did his own research about the location, and did it before the rest of his team knew anything about the next client, he would generally defer the capture to these two men, because he trusted them. They were just as methodical and careful as he was. All he required was that they brief him on their plan. He was always there to assist and would normally lead the effort in the end, but he would work things the way his men wanted to. In the end, with subtle variations, they all drew the same conclusions, anyway.

    The warehouse had been abandoned for five years. It was generally empty, though the occasional vagrant would wander in and stay a few days, and kids would show up to add to the graffiti, drink, or get high. Rickman had started putting a vehicle in the empty parking lot to see if it would deter these visitors. HUNT set up cameras around the perimeter of the building, and they had seen two occasions where kids turned around on seeing the vehicle, a Crown Vic meant to look like an undercover police car. It had worked beautifully.

    The warehouse offered seclusion but was selected for another reason. It had a large rectangular depression in the concrete floor that Rickman would fill with water to help keep the gator relaxed and cool. They had considered a secondary location—an abandoned home with a pool—and while that location was also secluded and didn’t have kids who visited it for a fix, his instinct told him to go with the warehouse.

    Cleaning the property before and after use was critical. They needed to ensure beforehand that there was no danger to themselves and the animals by making sure, in this case, the warehouse didn’t have any dangerous debris in the pit.  The last thing he wanted was the gator to have a nail or broken glass penetrate its skin. After they were done, he had to be certain that no evidence was left that could be traced to them. Dave and Glazer were invaluable in this regard, too. Rickman knew how lucky he was to have them.

    He looked at his phone and smiled. It was time to go meet the client. Rickman had Dave position himself on the roof to keep an eye on the dirt road that led back to the warehouse. Since it was now after midnight, darkness would help provide camouflage, but he still wanted a lookout.

    Glazer and Rickman headed off to Belfast, Louisiana. The trip would take about 30 minutes one way and, if all went as planned, they’d be back with Robert in three or four hours. Rickman looked at Glazer as he drove the stolen van. Fortunately, the warehouse had a covered receiving area, and he could park his black Lexus ES 350 inside where no one could see it. The van Glazer was driving had been in there, too. They would be able to use the headlights on the vehicles to illuminate the inside since the warehouse didn’t have power, and they were facing the pit they’d be using. It truly was the best location for what they were doing. Glazer looked calm and composed as always, and Rickman was equally relaxed. His mind went back to the file on Robert Wilburn.

7

    Rickman had received a call from Justin Arton eight months ago. Though most of HUNT’s clients were sourced from online research, he was Rickman’s main informant and had given HUNT the snake case a few months back. Arton said that numerous alligator corpses had washed up in Louisiana and Mississippi bayous. Many of them were baby alligators, and all had been shot. It was obvious that this was the work of poachers and not people who felt threatened by the reptiles. After the conversation with Arton, Rickman traveled to Louisiana and started camping in the bayous until he found the culprit. It took less than a month. He knew there had to be more than one poacher in the area, but with other cases on the backburner, he decided to go after the first one he found. He could always come back later.

    The man he would later identify as Robert Wilburn drove a faded-red Ford F-150 pulling a boat. The truck had a gun rack in the back window and a Confederate flag mounted on the bed, which was jacked up quite a bit over factory level. Getting out of the truck, Wilburn epitomized the redneck stereotype to a tee in his wife beater and dragging on a cigarette. Rickman’s money was on Marlboro Reds. The man unloaded his Jon Boat and then his rifle.

    Rickman had gotten lucky. He had almost missed this dirt road cutoff from the highway. He had driven down to the docks and backtracked in a canoe to his current location where he waited, hoping. His patience had paid off. The only person that would use a place like this was someone that was up to no good.

    Rickman had always been slippery. Even in the woods, he was able to move quietly enough to get a picture of the license plates off the truck and trailer to find out who this asshole was. After he finished gathering his data, he smiled. For Rickman, this was where the job finally became fun.

    The poacher waited until nightfall before heading out under the cover of darkness. Rickman had gone back to his canoe, hidden next to a downed tree. He was impossible to see as long as the douchebag didn’t come out and to the left right away. Since the inlet ended about 100 yards down to the left, he felt sure the man would go to the right, which he subsequently did.

    Rickman waited until his new client was around the corner, then paddled up to where the river opened. Though the poacher’s boat had a motor and was moving much faster, he could be heard from a mile away, so following him was no issue. Rickman stayed along the shore, knowing that if he needed to, he could move off and pull his canoe out of sight. He figured the poacher wouldn’t stray too far from his truck because once he fired his weapon, he’d want to make a quick getaway.

    As the man continued ahead, Rickman paddled on. He was closer than he’d prefer, but the man wasn’t running the engine hard at all as he moved stealthily. Finally, the motor stopped. Rickman took a moment to assess, then moved to the shore and pulled out his night vision goggles. He wasn’t a ruthless murderer but rather, a punisher. A punisher of sinners against nature. If this man was just fishing at night, unlikely as it was, he did not want to hurt him. The rifle and lack of fishing equipment told him all he needed to know—but it was important that he never assumed.