Predator Ridge
Photo by Oleg Kryzhanovskyi on Unsplash
Predator Ridge
You flatlanders don’t understand. There are natural rules in the mountains. They have always been. Predators patrol the ridges. Looking down on the prey in the valley below.
I am a ridge creature.
My wife and I live in a small cabin. Over the years, we watched homes strip away the forest. Valley people were a constant source of annoyance.
The squeak started late one night. Rhythmic. Consistent.
Night one was rough. Every time sleep touched my eyelids, the squeak shifted. Not a lot. Just enough to grab my attention.
“Is that a duck?” my wife asked.
I squeezed my eyelids together, trying to understand the incessant noise. “No. Too rhythmic. Mechanical?”
“Doesn’t matter. It needs to stop.”
The squeak continued. A week later, my eyes tried to drift closed as it hit in perfect time. Filling my head.
“I can’t take much more of this,” I said, swallowing my tears.
“The squeak?” my wife asked. “I barely notice it anymore.”
My head pulsed to the gothic rhythm.
Another sleepless week went by. The overwhelming noise called to me from the valley, but we had stopped talking about it. I didn’t sleep anymore. I couldn’t think anymore. My wife carried on.
Then the noise changed.
I sat in my deck chair looking into the valley below me and rocking to the now-broken rhythm. At first, I thought it was just the consistency that had changed. As I listened harder, I found slight changes in the pitch.
Then it repeated.
And again.
It wasn’t random. It was familiar. On the edge of my mind. I knew it. A particular nuance that I’d heard every day. Not the sound, but the pattern. The repeating pattern rose and fell, soft accents on… syllables. Pauses between sentences. Someone was trying to tell us, ridge dwellers, something.
Without thought, I rose to my feet and found myself before my bookshelf. My tattered copy of David Kahn’s The Codebreakers opened in my hands.
I brought it to my desk and opened my code-breaking notebook. Only three pages left. Not enough for this code. I ripped the blank pages from the book and tossed them on the floor behind. I placed the book beside my five completed ones and grabbed a new one from the desk drawer.
Two notebooks sat on the floor behind me. I was midway through a third.
“Working on a new code?” my wife asked.
The pen leaped from my fingers as I turned to her. How could she ask such a thing? What else could I be doing? The infernal noise… has she blocked it out so completely?
“I’m close.”
I sneered before picking the pen back up and continuing.
She tilted her head gently to the left, a question brushed across her deep eyes, but she turned and left me to my work.
I wasn’t as close as I had thought. That notebook lay on top of the others. I was a quarter into the fourth. It was by far the hardest cipher I had ever worked with. Now that I had mastered it, it was elegant, beautiful even. I stared at my solution.
15282 Creek Valley Road
Bring knife
The clock read 12:13 a.m. It was late for a drive into the valley, but this message was for me. It had to be for me. Who else in the area had the skills to read it?
Yes… I had to go.
I pulled my truck in front of 15282 Creek Valley Road. The hunting knife scraped against my pocket as I stumbled.
I knew this place. Something long ago. Forgotten. Or at least not remembered.
Badges.
Camping trips.
Weekly meetings.
Why did we stop?
I swallowed my fear. Fear is for valley creatures. I rested the truck door against the frame, afraid that if I closed it, it would interfere with the plan. The squeak was louder. All-consuming. It vibrated through my body. Yes, that was where the shaking came from. What did I have to be afraid of?
My knuckles rapped lightly on the door. More of a tap than a knock.
The door swung open. Behind it was an old man with gray hair and an unkempt beard. He held a small revolver. Narrow eyes sized me up.
“Can I help you?” the man asked.
“Can… can I use your phone?” I said, raising my voice to be heard above the now thunderous squeak. “My car ran out of gas. I need to call my wife.”
The old man nodded, stepping aside. “Come in,” he said.
After I called my cellphone and left a message, I sat across from the old man in a cramped space. He smiled with the pistol on his lap and said, “How long is she going to take?”
“Dunno,” I said. “We live on the ridge, and she doesn’t like driving at night. I could take some time.”
The man’s eyes washed over me. For a moment, they stopped on my right pocket. Blood rushed through me as I eyed his gun. Could I get to it? If I had to, of course.
“Views are beautiful from the ridge,” the old man said. “And it’s a great outlook for wildlife.”
My eyes slowly moved from his weapon to his gaze. “It’s different wildlife than the valley.”
“What daya mean?”
“You have deer, elk, sometimes boar.”
For a moment, I lost my train of thought. Was the squeak getting louder? Recovering, I added, “We have the dangerous animals?”
A grimace passed the man’s face.
“What are you talking about?”
“Predators rule the ridges, prey hides in the valley.”
The old man leaned back, stroking his beard. “Son, I think you are misinformed. Just the other day, I almost hit a deer on Old Ridge Road. Generally, the predators are where the prey are. Altitude affects species, sure. But very few predators live away from what they hunt.”
“You are wrong.”
My throat tightened. Why couldn’t I breathe?
“Son, I was a wildlife biologist before retirement. A Scout leader well into retirement. I know these mountains; I know the animals. Not to be rude, but you are mistaken.”
Blood steamed through my veins, whistling in my ears. I leaned forward, taking the bridge of my nose between my fingers.
“I’m… I’m not feeling well. May I use your restroom?”
“Sure,” the man said, looking at me from the corner of his eye. His right hand lifted and came to rest on the butt of his gun.
The water.
The fan.
The mirror.
For one moment, the squeak was… gone. I had forgotten what silence felt like. What life was like without the constant, rhythmic distraction. It wouldn’t let me rest for long.
When it came back, it was at full force, but it had changed. No address. No familiar pattern. It spoke to me, not with words, but with squeaks. I understood.
A supposed biologist? Clearly not.
I watched the stream flow from the faucet. It almost smiled back at me.
A biologist would know better. Why should he lie?
The water spun in the basin and rolled into the drain. For a moment, I was trapped in it. Spinning. Splashing.
Perhaps you could show him the truth?
I left the water running and the fan on. The door opened gently without a sound. My face reflected in the polished blade, distorted, but clearly me.
The old man sat in the same chair, back to me, hand resting on the weapon. He was going to kill me. He wanted to prey on the ridge. I could not allow it. Each step fell slowly, silently. In that moment, I was a cougar. I stood behind him. Reveling in my impending victory.
…
I slammed my left hand onto his, pressing it into the cold metal of his weapon. With my right hand, I stabbed the knife into his neck.
Over and over.
Each strike brought a loud squeak.
He was limp when I slid the gun off his lap onto the floor. It struck the floor with a clang. The cylinder fell open. Six empty chambers looked back at me. Where did the bullets go?
He didn’t resist. He didn’t breathe. It was done.
The drive home was silent. I felt alive. Connected to the ridge in a way I had only imagined before.
I nearly floated through my front door. My wife looked up from her book, her already light complexion clean white.
“What happened?” she asked, voice wavering.
I smiled, “The squeak is gone.”
“Are you okay? Whose blood is that?”
“I made the squeaking stop.”
“The squeaking? You mean the old mill? They fixed that weeks ago.”
With her words, the squeak returned, but I couldn’t make sense of it. I was distracted by the lights and sirens racing up the ridge.
Had I been wrong?
Was I a valley creature after all?
No, it can’t be. Let them come.
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