The Return To Wayde Woods

With a final roar, the engine of the Harley-Davidson motorcycle was shut off. Its rider, a middle-aged man with shoulder-length grey hair, wearing a black leather jacket, unmounted the stripped down bike. He walked across the sidewalk to the diner.

Entering the diner, the motorcycle rider removed his aviator sunglasses and looked around. It was a crowded, old-fashioned diner. Plenty of chatter as families munched on burgers and truckers sipped coffee at the counter. In the last booth, near the back of the establishment, sat a large, untidy man. His plaid shirt was wrinkled and unmatching to his khaki cargo shorts.

The motorcycle rider walked over to the booth. The presence of this new person caused the untidy man to look up.

"Oh, hello Dusty," the untidy man greeted him.

"Mark," Dusty said, sitting down opposite Mark.

The waitress, an older blonde woman, walked over to help her new customer.

"What will it be, hun?" the waitress asked.

"Coffee please. Black." Dusty replied.

"Sure hun," the waitress said, retreating to get his coffee.

Dusty followed the trail of Mark's intense stare, which was fixated on the waitresses backside.

"Are you going to give me the information or stare a second hole through her ass?" Dusty asked.
Mark suddenly became aware of reality and focussed once again.

"Yeah, I got the information. People thought my fascination with The Hunter was useless, borderline psychotic. You know what I told them? Huh, do you know what I told them?"

"Don't know," Dusty replied, not really interested.

"I told them to suck my dick!" Mark said a little to loudly, gaining the disapproving attention of a nearby mother.

"The information please," Dusty requested, unnamused by the extra bit of information.

"Yes, well my point was that I knew one day someone would be asking for details," Mark pulled out a tan folder, opening it to various documents, "Two and a half years ago the small town of Loveling was rocked to the core when a group of teenagers were stalked and murdered in Wayde Woods, a large patch of woods north of the town. The killer, who was discribed by the surviving teens as being a large, strong man who wore a leather mask, much like a ski mask. Since he hunted them through the woods, the local papers decided to name him The Hunter. Fitting, huh?"

At this point the conversation was interupted as the waitress returned with Dusty's coffee. After filling his cup the waitress walked away, Mark's eyes watching her until her ass disapeared back behind the counter.

"Anyways, the teens were Tony Varcurolli, Ben Young, Manny Lopez, Megan Wilson, Suzette Conner, Michael Strave, Jennifer Putz, Nichole Stewart and William Dilahunty, also known as Fat Bill. Varcurolli, Strave, Putz and Fat Bill were all murdered, so was another guy named Earl Ray Tripp.
Apparently Mr. Tripp had stopped on the road to help Tony and then had his head smashed into the front of his own truck! They had to pick his goddamn brains out!
Anyway Young, Lopez and Wilson all lived and made it out of the woods to the police station. Occording to the report they filed, the Conner girl was alive but still in the woods, trapped in the basement of a house. The police went in. The official word was that they found the house, but the girl was not in the basement. They did find the cell opened though and believed that she had found a way to escape, probably meeting her death by the hand of the woods. The Hunter's body was taken and immediatly cremated, the ashes thrown in the dump. And the town lived happily to see another day."

Dusty let out a deep sigh and his hand curled up into a fist, "Mark, this was all on TV. I saw it..with my own eyes. Believe it or not, I know how to go to the library and read old newspapers. So why the fuck did I hire you?"

Mark let out a screeching giggle, something Dusty had never heard before in his life. It started out like fingernails on a chalk board and then exploded into a deep chuckle. Mark was definitely a strange guy, and he was starting to piss Dusty off.

"You are such a stereotypical biker. I mean no beard, but still," Mark smiled, his eyes wide with excitement.

"You're worthless," Dusty said, standing to leave.

Mark's hand reached out and grabbed his arm, stopping him.

"The official word was all bullshit," Mark said, the smile no longer occupying his face.

Dusty sat back down. "What do you mean?"

"I got lots of friends, Dusty. One of them is a deputy in Loveling. He was one of the men that went into the woods. They never even found the body. The whole creamation was total bullshit. They just wanted to keep the town calm and functioning, figured it wouldn't be good for moral to have a psychopathic killer so near by. The sherrif told his men that he was sure that predators just dragged the body off for dinner."

"But your friend doesn't think so," Dusty guessed.

"His father and grandfather were welders. He grew up around all that kind of shit. He said whoever made that cage in the basement made it strong, knew what they were doing. He said there was no way that girl got herself out of it."

"Why did he tell you this and not the sheriff?" Dusty asked.

"The sheriff's an asshole. Racist, sexist, homophobic, you name it. But he isn't stupid. He knows that his explaination wasn't likely. He said what he said for a reason, and he isn't the kind of guy you cross. He'll lock you up even if you didn't break the law, and that's if he doesn't just put a hole in your head."

"I see," Dusty said, "so has there been any activity from The Hunter?"

"No, actually the sheriff's plan seems to be working. Maybe he didn't survive long, I don't know. Maybe he just keeps to the woods as long as he isn't disturbed."

"Can I keep the file?" Dusty asked.

"Sure," Mark replied, "it's all just copies. I made it for you anyway."

Dusty took a long gulp of his coffee before getting up and walking toward the door. Mark nervously tapped on the table before jumping up. He ran toward Dusty and caught him just outside the door.
"Dusty, wait up!" Mark shouted, trying to catch his breath.

"Yeah?" Dusty replied.

"That's a nice Honda," Mark stated, nodding toward Dusty's ride.

"It's a Harley, and I don't think you ran out here just to tell me that."

"You're right," Mark answered, "Look, I never ask why a customer needs information. I mean, most the time it's a cheating wife or some stupid shit and they volunteer their motive. But I never ask."
"Good," Dusty replied, getting on his bike.

"Yeah, but I have to ask this time. Why do you want the information?"

Dusty put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it before replying, "I'm going hunting."

With that Dusty roared down the road toward Loveling.

* * *

There was a dense morning fog blanketing Wayde Woods. This was consfusing to Michael Owenby as he woke up and looked around.

"Where the fuck am I?" he asked out loud.

He looked on the ground, a couple feet from him layed his best friend Timothy Orue. He reached over a pushed Tim awake.

"Ugh, what?!" Tim moaned, still half asleep.

"Wake up dickhead, we're in the fucking woods."

"What the fuck?" Tim mumbled, sitting up. "What the fuck happened last night?"

"Apparently we had a really good time," Michael answered.

"Paying for it now," Tim pointed out, gripping his head. "My head hurts like a motherfucker!"

"Where's Shawn?" Michael asked.

"How the fuck should I know?" Tim replied, still gripping his head.

"Well let's find him and get the fuck out of here."

Michael stood and began walking. Tim followed. It was hard to see with all the fog. They kept having to dodge branches at the last moment. Tim, the definitely more hung over of the two, ran into stuff more than dodged it.

"Hey slow down!" Tim called out to Michael, "I think I'm gonna puke my guts out."

"You're fine you pansy ass motherfucker," Michael replied.

"Seriously, I'm gonna be si..." Tim turned around and puked...right on someone. Regaining his posture, he could see the man he had vommited on. The man was tall and massive. He wore brown overalls and a camoflauge jacket. Over his face was a brown leather mask, similar to a ski mask.

"Dude," Tim remarked, "thank fuck we found you! We're lost, we don't even know how the fuck we got in these woods!"

Tim was laughing now, then he noticed something animal like in the man's hand.

"Dude, are you a hunter or something? Is that like an animal or something? Sweet! Can I see it?"

The man turned the animal around, revealing that it was Shawn's head.

"What the..."

Michael was still walking when Tim's screams caused him to turn around. He hadn't even realised that Tim had falled behind. He quickly moved toward the calls for help. Suddenly he was stopped as a hand shot out and grabbed him by the throat. Immediatly his hands shot up to pull the choking hand's arm away, but it wasn't working. The pressure was building at the tips of the hand's fingers, digging deeper and deeper into his throat. Suddenly Michael could feel five cuts, as the fingers broke through his skin and forced themselves deep into his throat. Having a handful, the hand simply ripped his throat out.