Timbergold Trails Hunting Reserve, Montana, U.S.

September 6, 2017

12:40 AM

Everything was a blur as he sprinted blindly through the darkness. The faint silhouettes of the pine trees were his only indications to swerve left or right to avoid collision. The hiker profusely panted, his chest heaving as his lungs begged for him to catch a breath, but the adrenaline and fear resonating within him told him otherwise like a small voice within the back of his mind.

Run. Don’t look back. Run, or it’s gonna get you. His subconsciousness warned him. As if circumstances could not become any more unfortunate, an unlucky rock positioned in his path knocked his footing off-course, the force of the collision sending his foot awkwardly upwards and twisting to the left, thus resulting in a sprained ankle. To follow, his momentum combined with the sudden, forced halt sent the hiker crashing forward onto the pine needle-blanketed ground.

“GAHHH!” The young hiker yelled out in pain as he clutched his ankle following his hard collision with the ground.

Waaauuuooooooooooorrr

The low-pitched roar of… whatever that thing was… echoed from the distance, serving as a reminder to the hiker that there was no time to sit and cry due to a simple ankle sprain. He needed to get moving. Staying still and laying on the ground like a wounded animal would be nothing short of a death sentence. Once more energized by adrenaline and natural instinct to flee from danger, the hiker pushed himself from the forest floor, once more attempting to flee. While he did not feel the pain due to the adrenaline coursing through his body, he found himself a lot slower, as his injured foot was preventing him from running at full speed.

No… no, no, no… this can’t be happening… why did I choose to stay out later than the others!? He frantically thought. Surely, they would’ve been worried for me at this point? Maybe they called Search and Rescue?

His mind could no longer bear the situation he was in, producing hopeful thoughts.

The lodge isn’t too far away now, right? Right!?

A series of aggressive snarls and growls reverberated from over the hiker’s shoulders within close proximity as the thing quickly advanced upon him, joined with foliage tearing and branches snapping as the creature crashed through the woods in order to bring down its prey. By the second, it furthermore closed the distance between itself and its fleeing human prey.

“PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE!” The man screamed out in pure terror and desperation as he shifted 180 degrees in order to face his bestial adversary, of which leapt into the air with tremendous speed.

The creature opened up its claws and jaws, streams of saliva trailing from the corners of its mouth as it readied itself to commence the kill, while the poor soul of a man released his final screams.

Eric's Apartment, Grand Rapids, Michigan, U.S.

September 30, 2017

8:30 A.M. EDT

The tall, physically toned young adult man with light, auburn-brown hair and hazel eyes - named Eric Lanstrom - stepped out of the bathroom with a towel draped and secured around his waist. Today was the day. A trip planned years in the making, since he graduated from high school. After a series of poor luck hunting for whitetail within his home state, he had finally been selected by the Evergreen Hunting Reserve Conservation Association to have access to the Timbergold Trails Hunting Reserve, settled within a large chunk of land settled within the Western Rockies of Montana. The reserve itself measured a total of 8.2 square miles, well over five thousand acres. While hikers, sightseers, photographers, bird watchers, etcetera are granted free access to the reserve itself, being allowed to hunt it as of itself was considered a great privilege. The reserve was teeming with Mule deer and Rocky Mountain elk, of which grew to world class proportions. To follow, the reserve was also considered a safehaven for Grey wolves; albeit every now and then they would overpopulate and local reserve hunters would have to bag a few in order to cut the population down. Higher in elevation, within the chilly alpine peaks, Bighorn sheep and Mountain goats were a common occurrence, alongside Mountain lions that nestled higher up, only coming down in order to hunt or when traveling. White-tailed Ptarmigan commonly cooped up in extensive groups within the higher elevations, providing an extra treat for the bird hunters itching to fire away with their shotguns. Seasonally, Grizzly bears would make their way into the reserve while the trout and kokanee spawned in order to fatten themselves up until the coming Winter. Attacks from predators were rare, albeit every now and then a few reports popped up. Timbergold Trails was the second largest of the Evergreen Hunting Reserves, behind the Whiterime Ridge Hunting Reserve in Alaska.

Man, I remember the details of that brochure all too well. Eric thought as he finished dressing himself. Eric’s phone had begun to vibrate as he received a call, the vibrations against his nightstand creating a creaky humming noise. Eric paced over to his phone in order to see who was calling. Surely enough, it was his friend and hunting buddy Tom.

“Hey man, how’s it going!?” Eric asked jubilantly.

“Going well! Are you all packed up and ready to go?” Tom asked.

“Yeah, sure am. Just gotta get my guns and bow packed and I’ll meet you at the airport in a couple hours.”

“Sounds good, my guy. I’ll see ya later.”

“Bye-bye.” Eric finished off the call before turning his phone off and slipping it within his pocket. Tom and Eric had been very good friends since their middle school years, and were both avid outdoorsmen. Both enjoyed hunting, enjoyed fishing - anything related to the outdoors, they've both done. The two had always dreamed of being able to hunt the Rockies together, as a trophy bull Rocky Mountain elk was one of their mutually-shared top-tier bucket list animals to successfully harvest. And they knew for certain that Timbergold Trails would be the right place to go in order to harvest a big bull elk. Many world-class bulls had been taken from the reserve, such as the likes of a sixteen-point bull that scored a total of 445, of which was featured on the Timbergold Trails information brochure.

Eric caught himself daydreaming again.

"Back to the matter at hand… where's my rifle at?" Eric quietly told himself as he made his way to his bedroom closet. He'd slide his closet doors open as he'd inspect the contents of his closet. His rifle remained leaning against the wall, with the scope still attached as he had left it.

"There you are!" Eric exclaimed as he grabbed onto the stock of the rifle and brought it out from the closet. He'd pull out the magazine clip from the bottom of the rifle's polished dark brown carbon body in order to check for any live cartridges that may have been left inside from the prior hunting season, though as he expected, the magazine was empty. As he looked over the heavy rifle within his hands, memories began to flood Eric's mind; a concoction of both good and bad memories. It was originally his old man's rifle, a 9.3x62 Anschütz 1780 D FL Bolt Action of German design, and a limited edition engraved one at that. On the black steel barrel of the rifle were golden engravings of a Mule deer buck within a mountainous pine forest setting. Perfectly fitting for the location he was traveling to. On the dark brown-colored carbon body of the rifle was an engraving of a family portrait - including him, his dad, his mom, and his younger sister, of whom would be entering her junior year of high school by now. The scope affixed to the barrel was a high-magnification 5.5-22x56mm "Eagle Mk1" rifle scope, built for weather, shock, and water resistance.

Just looking at the rifle for the first time since the previous deer season took him back to when he first started hunting. When he was younger, his dad would always take him hunting year-round for whatever was in season; Turkey and Black bear in the Spring, pheasant and Whitetail in the Fall. Eric had taken his first buck, a mature four-by-four eight point, using his dad's rifle when he was only nine years old, and since then. His dad would always tell him hunting stories from when he was younger, including his Red deer hunting trip in Germany, from where he bought the custom-design bolt action rifle, following his return from Afghanistan during the war on terrorism under the Bush administration following the attacks on the World Trade Center on September 11th. Unfortunately, the long-term consequences of war had caught up with him, and in 2015, his dad was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer caused by smoke and chemical inhalation during his service that resulted in his death the following year, in 2016. Following his death, his mother and sister moved out of Michigan, while Eric stayed and bought an apartment for himself. All of his father's inheritance had gone to his widow, while Eric insisted on working himself and making money for himself.

Eric sighed as his gaze remained fixated on the engraved firearm. He'd then pop open the rifle case, gently placing the rifle into the plastic molding designed specifically for the 9.3x62 rifle and its scope.

"Dad would be so proud…" Eric said to himself. Luckily he had been provided with vacation time from his work as an electrician and part-time construction worker, having saved up cash since the passing of his old man, in preparation for this hunting trip.

His plans had already been set out, having negotiated with Tom on their plan of action. They would be renting bed and board at Everfall Lodge, to the Eastern side of the reserve. Due to its geographical location, they mutually agreed that it would be the better of the two lodges - Everfall and Goldhorn Pass - to stay. A large lake resided beneath the lodge, just beneath the hill. To the right side of the lodge was a pine forested-hill with a set of railroad tracks passing through on the way to higher elevations. Of course, this railroad system was old and defunct, no longer being in use today due to its aged and weathered condition. Due to the inactive usage of the railroads, the tunnels were commonly used as scapegoats for those who sought the higher-up Bighorn sheep and Mountain goats, though Eric doubted that they would have the time to do any sheep or goat hunting.

Eric scrounged around his closet, searching for the 10mm semi-automatic handgun he would use only in case of a bear attack, albeit highly unlikely, yet still possible.

"Oh, right. I think it's still under one of my pillows." He reminded himself. Though he wasn't a paranoid person, Eric kept his semi-auto pistol close at hand. Despite being calm most days, Grand Rapids had a reputation for higher crime rates during the night. Robberies, drug dealing, and the occasional murder weren't unheard of, and thus being so, Eric had gone through concealed carry training and purchased a 10mm handgun in case of anyone intending to inflict any malice upon him. Some day, he planned to move out of Grand Rapids and to somewhere more quiet and safe where he could potentially start a family of his own, but for now, he was stuck to his cheap-rental apartment as he continued building up his savings.

During his continuous train of thought, Eric had slipped his handgun from underneath the pillow, once more checking the clip. As opposed to the last inspection, Eric wanted the pistol to be loaded, as he never knew what time and what place it would be needed. Sure enough, the magazine was still full.

"Yup. Good, good…" Eric approved as he slid the clip back inside the chamber within the bottom of the handgun's stock. He'd then check the pistol's safety mechanism, checking whether or not it was set to “safe”. The small, rubber lever had already been pulled back, a green color coding behind the lever indicating that the safety was on. While safety mechanisms on firearms weren't always a guarantee to prevent misfire, he would first have to cock the handle of the handgun to even load a round regardless.

And now, all that was needed was his compound bow. While Eric preferred to hunt with firearm over bow, he still had plenty of practice with his Hoyt Axius compound. He hadn't used it for hunting much, except for the last time he had gone turkey hunting with his dad back in 2014. Due to the special personal value of the trip, he came to the ultimatum to pack the bow along, having purchased multiple new broadheaded arrows, also equipped with glowing red tracers on the end of each arrow. He didn't really expect to harvest anything with the bow, but still decided to bring it along in case he felt like spending time sitting and waiting in a treestand for a nice Muley buck or bull elk to pass by within close range. Tom had already agreed to bring a couple treestands and extendable tripod stands along, as he had been the one to have acquired the permits to place deployable stands within the reserve.

Eric would once more make his way back towards his closet, where he could still see the compound bow resting in the corner of the closet, slowly collecting dust as it was left untouched for a lengthy period of time. Eric reached into the corner of his closet, grabbing onto the neck of the compound and pulling it out. It wasn't as dust-covered as he thought, but there was still a bit of dust blanketed upon the camouflaged carbon surface of the neck.

"Welcome to the light once more, old friend." Eric stated as he placed the Hoyt Axius compound bow onto his bed. He'd then pop open the box of sanitary disinfectant wipes residing on his night stand, pulling out a wipe, then scrubbing the carbon surface of the neck. He'd end up using multiple wipes, but made short work of the dust that had collectively built up on the bow, before placing each of his new arrows into the quiver situated on the side of the compound bow. A nifty and useful additive. To finish off, Eric situated the compound bow within its respective casing. Now everything was packed and ready-to-go. He still had around three hours before he had to meet Tom at the airport in order to leave. With the remaining time, Eric planned to head out and buy himself some lunch in order to prepare himself - and his stomach - for the six hour flight into Bozeman, Montana - the closest city to the reserve - that resided ahead of him. A lengthy trip, but would be worth it in the end. Eric was certain about that.

Everfall Lodge, Timbergold Trails Hunting Reserve, Montana, U.S.

September 30, 2017

7:00 A.M. MDT

Within his office, the local Sheriff typed away vigorously at his keyboard, clenching his teeth.

I'm growing tired of writing all these missing person posters. Why have so many people gone missing around the Trails? Why haven't we received any leads on where to find them? Why have no bodies turned up? What's causing this? The Sheriff pondered, his frantic mind running amok. He felt guilty and responsible for not being able to discover the whereabouts of the missing people. First it was a yoga instructor, a young blonde woman in her mid-20's, named Gabriella Baden on July 9th. Then it was a husband and his 7th-grade English teacher wife who had mysteriously vanished after having gone fishing at the northernmost lake on the Trails on August 7th. Then not too long ago, on September 7th, a hiker who decided to stay out later than the rest of his group the previous night was reported missing after he didn't return that night.

The amount of missing people around the reserve was painfully worrying to the Sheriff. He and his bloodhound, Rocky, had been investigating each disappearance, with assistance from law enforcement. Every time, nothing had turned up. However, upon each investigation, the Sheriff had noticed a peculiar occurrence with his dog, and even the K9 unit German shepherds. Some dogs responded with fear upon catching the scent of each person's last known location, while other dogs reacted aggressively; growling, barking, snapping, and even forcing their handlers to restrain them to prevent them from running off. Normally, domestic canines do not act with such aggression unless they catch the scent of a predatory animal, such as the likes of bears or even other canines.

Which begged the question: was there some sort of predator, more than likely a Grizzly, that had gained the craving for human flesh, residing somewhere within the reserve?

The Sheriff's phone interrupted the course of his worrisome thoughts as it began to ring. He'd picked it up from his desk and answered.

"Sheriff's office, this is Williams speaking." He'd answer upon picking up the phone.

"Hello, Buck. It's Doc." A deep, middle-aged man responded.

"Doc? It's been a while since I've heard from you." Sheriff Buck Williams replied.

"Sure has been, Buck. You know why I'm calling though, correct?"

"I assume it's regarding those missing individuals, of which we're still unable to receive any leads or indications of their current whereabouts." Sheriff Williams responded, a discouraged sigh exiting his nostrils.

"It's as if you read my mind. I'll be making my way down to the Trails in order to assist you with this whole ordeal."

"I'd most certainly appreciate the assistance. Reservations for October hunters have filled up rather quickly. It'd be a damned shame if they all got frightened away by the news of random folks up and disappearing."

"Most definitely. The amount of cash comin' in from those hunters will definitely benefit the EHRCA. So from a business standpoint, having them all drawn off by the news of missing people would definitely be a major loss."

"Yeah, you're right on that one. When do you plan to come down to the Trails, then?" Sheriff Williams asked.

"Expect me around later in October. I'd say about the 10th-15th. I've got plenty of paperwork wrapped around my head, as well as more troublemakers to deal with - you know how it is."

"That I do. I appreciate your call and arranging the time to help get this whole ordeal sorted out."

"No problem, Bucko. I'll see you soon."

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"See you soon. Bye."

Sheriff Williams hung up the phone and gave off another sigh. He was at least glad that he didn't lose his position as Sheriff of the Trails, but was ashamed to feel as if he were incapable of being able to uncover the mystery.

Colton Locke, known primarily by his nickname "Doc", was the current Master Warden of the Evergreen Hunting Reserves. He overlooked any activity that transpired within not just Timbergold Trails, but every other hunting reserve part of the EHR, sniffing out violators under any guise - whether they be poachers, irresponsible hunters wounding and leaving animals they shot to die, and even hunters using unethical firearms for select species. While at some points in time, he could be irrational and hot-headed, Doc was extremely professional at catching troublemakers red-handed. To receive a serious call from Doc himself meant that there was quite a serious issue at hand; even more so if he states that he's personally going to make a visit to the reserve.

"Whatever's going on around here… if it catches the eye of the Master Warden himself, then something is definitely quite wrong…" The worried Sheriff said to himself in a muffled, concerned tone.

A sudden series of knocks on his door alerted the Sheriff, disrupting him from his troubled thoughts.

"Come in."

The door to his office was opened by the pretty young, black-haired waitress who had recently been hired.

"Mr. Williams?" The waitress asked as she entered the room with an aluminum tray containing both a mug of coffee and a plate of lumberjack pancakes with bacon and eggs on the side. "Your breakfast?"

"Let's see here," the Sheriff stated as he peeked over his computer monitor and at the contents of the tray. "Lumberjack pancakes, bacon and eggs, and a good ol' cup of black coffee… yeah, that's mine all right."

The young waitress approached the Sheriff's desk with the tray, noticeably struggling to keep the tray stable as she moved towards his desk.

"Here, let me help you with that." Sheriff Williams said as he stood up from his office chair and helped secure the tray as she laid it down upon his desk.

"Thank you, Mr. Williams." The waitress stated with exasperation in her tone of voice.

"Anytime. You've been doing good up here. Keep at it." The Sheriff complimented the waitress' work.

"Thank you once again. I can't stay and talk, though. Got more orders to carry out!"

"No worries." Sheriff Williams said as the noticeably rushed waitress rushed out his office door.

Suppose I'll go out and do a little bit of fishing after breakfast. The Sheriff thought. Ease my stress a little bit. Rainbows and cutthroat should be ripe within the river right now.

Gerald R. Ford International Airport, Grand Rapids, Michigan, U.S.

September 30, 2017

12:20 P.M. EDT

Eric relaxed against the window lobby, patiently waiting for Tom. Patience is a virtue, and is especially required for hunters. However, he had already expected Tom to have been here already. He'd once more slip his phone from his pocket, tapping on the "call" button on his phone. Eric started to dial in Tom's phone number, when a familiar voice called out to him in the distance, among the wave of chatter that reverberated throughout the lobby.

"Eric!"

Eric looked over from his phone to the origin of the shout, spotting Tom in the distance signaling to him with his arms, waving them from side to side with a goofy, open-mouth smile spread across his face. Despite being a few months younger than Eric, Tom still didn't look like he was twenty-two. He lacked a lot of facial hair, and his skin complexion was smooth in comparison to the roughness that develops with age. Despite that, his voice was still quite deep, almost as deep as Eric's. Tom proceeded to pace towards Eric.

“Hey, man! What took you so long?” Eric asked his youthful-looking friend.

“Had to make a pit stop at the gas station. Car was running low on gas. Sorry, dude!”

“All’s good,” Eric responded. “We’ve still got an hour before departure. Should we get some lunch?”

“If you want to.” Tom responded back. “I already ate lunch. You see those girls over there?”

Eric glanced over in the direction of where Tom’s finger guided. Waiting in line for the cafe was a small group of women; a black-haired hispanic girl, a tall girl with blonde hair, and a brunette.

“Yeah, what about them?” Eric inquired.

“All of them are quite fine, don’t you agree? I’m gonna see if I can get any of their numbers while you’re having lunch.” Tom stated with faint excitement in his tone.

“Mhm. Good luck with that.” Eric scoffed as he watched Tom make his way towards the group of girls. He’d sigh, before turning and making his way towards the sub sandwich vendor.

Thirty minutes had passed as Eric finished his lunch. He’d roll up the thin parchment paper that had come with the sandwich into a crumpled ball, then tossed it into the nearby trash can as he heard the clapping of tennis shoes against the polished tile flooring of the airport. Eric glanced over, and sure enough, it was Tom.

“So how did flirting with women out of your league go?” Eric asked, chuckling.

“Oh, shut up!” Tom expressed with annoyance, punching Eric in the arm. Tom wasn’t the strongest person physically in comparison to Eric, who had been lifting weights since high school, but Eric still played along with the punch as if it hurt a little bit.

“Ow, I was just kidding, man! Don’t gotta punch me that hard.” Eric jokingly stated while rubbing his arm.

“Hmph. Anyways, I didn’t get any of their numbers. Got asked if I was a teenager. Felt great.”

“How come that doesn’t surprise me in the slightest?” Eric asked with sarcasm, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, fuck off, dude.”

“You know I was just teasin’ ya, man.” Eric snickered.

“Right. Anyways, let’s change the subject. What’s the plan of action for the elk?” Tom inquired. Eric momentarily pondered on Tom’s question. He wasn’t exactly certain, but he had a few ideas brewing within his mind.

“If the other hunters posted at Everfall are willing, we could drive them from the railroad tracks and down to the lake. Might even trap a few mulies in the mix. How’s that sound?”

Tom would remain silent, as if he were questioning the method. “Are there any regulations preventing us from driving animals?”

Eric shook his head, furling his lips back. “Nope. There are no rules preventing us from doing drives in the Evergreen Hunting Reserves. In fact, Logger’s Point and Whitehart Island are commonly used for drives.”

“Ah.” Tom slowly nodded his head as his question was cleared up. “In that case, I’m down.”

The intercom abruptly interrupted their conversation as a female voice announced, “Flight 176, please prepare for departure.”

“That’s us!” Tom exclaimed. “Come on! Don’t wanna miss our flight!” Tom said ecstatically, like a child at an amusement park.

“That we don’t. We’re not getting a second opportunity!” Eric chimed in as the two began to pace towards their designated flight terminal.

Timbergold Trails Hunting Reserve, Montana, U.S.

September 30, 2017

2:14 P.M. MDT

Sheriff Buck Williams pulled his ranger jeep off to the side of the dirt road, parking next to the cluster of aspen trees before the start of the old bridge that crossed over the river conjunction, from where water from the northernmost lake flowed down to the main river. Beneath the bridge would be the honeyhole, as the union of the rivers formed a deep pool where river-running trout and salmon would temporarily be relieved of the rushing rapids that carried them as they spawned. Buck would hop out from the jeep, retrieving his fly rod from the back of the jeep. He didn’t plan on keeping any fish, nor did he expect to catch anything, but fishing made for a great recreational activity to free himself of the stress that came with the duties of being the local head Warden out on the Trails. After grabbing his fly rod, the Sheriff carefully paced his way down the steep decline from the road down towards the river.

As he made his way to the river, Sheriff Williams noticed a small bachelor group of bull elk in the distance, drinking from the flowing river. He’d place his fly rod onto the gravely riverbank in order to pull his miniature binoculars out from his vest pocket. He’d raise the binoculars to his eyes, scoping through the optics in order to get a better look at the cluster of bulls.

“Fresh out of velvet, it seems. All nice bulls, too.” The Sheriff said to himself. “That one in the back definitely looks like a trophy. Got the back tines, the height, the width… very nice bull, indeed. Probably a fifteen - maybe sixteen - pointer.” He’d then lower the binoculars, placing them back into his vest pocket. “Some hunter’s definitely gonna get a thrill out of taking that brute down.”

Buck picked up his fly-fishing rod from the gravel, inspecting the rig at the end of the line.

“Salmon fly. Definitely what I’ll want for this spot.”

Sheriff Williams gave his line some slack as he gripped onto the handle, casting back and forth, the rod and line resembling a large whip, as he waited for the line to extend to his liking. He’d cease his casting as the salmon fly nymph lightly landed on the still surface of the river intersection.

And now, the waiting game. He thought to himself. He’d glance back over towards the bachelor group of bulls, of which were now traveling upriver.

“Won’t be too long until those bulls split up and start competing over cows.” Buck mentioned to himself. He’d then continue to scan his surroundings. Now was also about the time the Grizzlies would be scouring the rivers in search of the spawning fish. While Grizzly attacks were almost unheard of within Timbergold Trails, he still couldn’t risk being attacked, and thus always brought along his .454 revolver in case of the small chance a Grizzly attempted to assault him. Sure enough, there were no bears around at the moment. He didn’t know how long that would last for, but usually once they discover that there’s fish in a specific location, the bears would collectively gather and wait for an opportunity to catch one - or multiple - in order to sustain themselves.

The Sheriff was still distracted in his thoughts that he at first didn’t notice his salmon fly had disappeared beneath the surface of the water. The slack in his line had started to tighten up as Buck finally noticed a bit of tension on his rod. He’d glance over towards his fishing line, noticing as the slack proceeded to tighten up. The sudden realization hit Sheriff Williams like a train as he abruptly jerked back his rod, stepping a few steps back, as he hooked the fish that had taken his fly. His heart pounded and raced as the fish tugged and jerked back. The Sheriff would pull his rod in different directions to prevent whatever fish was at the end of his line from evading through any rocky crevices beneath the surface. He’d feel the fish thrash and rise up, preparing to jump from the water. Sure enough, the fish breached the surface, thrashing wildly as it leapt from the water, gleaming a bright silver as the sun reflected off its scales. From the distance, Buck couldn’t exactly tell what type of fish it was, but knew it was decently large.

He’d proceed to reel in his catch, swinging his rod to the sides every now and then to prevent hanging up on any snag. Soon enough, his line would be closer to the riverbank. He’d glance down into the water in order to see what his catch was. He’d spot the fish, still thrashing in an attempt to free itself from the fly in its mouth.

“Looks like a rainbow.” Sheriff Williams told himself as he lifted his rod up in order to bounce his catch from the water and onto the shore. As he pulled up his catch from the water, the large, slender fish would flop vigorously, still attempting to free itself. The Sheriff quickly placed his hand upon the cool, slimy skin of the fish. The fish had a solid, rounded head with a hook-shaped lower jaw. Its long, slim body was green and dotted with many black spots. The fish’s gill plate was a vibrant pink with traces of blue around the edges, and an elegant red band spanned down the middle of the fish’s body.

“Yeah. Definitely a rainbow, all right. Male, too.” Buck said as he pulled out a pair of pliers in order to pluck out the salmon fly nymph from the trout’s lower jaw. After extracting the fly from the trout’s mouth, the Sheriff lifted his catch into the air.

“Too bad I didn’t bring my measuring tape, though I’d guess this trout to be about sixteen or seventeen inches. Beautiful fish.”

Buck would lower the trout as he stepped closer towards the river’s edge. He’d lower to his knees, placing it into cold river water. He’d gently swing the trout back and forth, coaxing it to take off. It didn’t take long for the still-energetic rainbow trout to slip from his grasp and speed off back into the depths.

Sheriff Buck Williams continued fishing for two and a half more hours, having caught an assortment of fish since his first catch, including three more rainbow trout, two cutthroat trout, and two kokanee salmon, all of decent size. He had just started to pack up when he heard the squawking of crows in the distance. Crows were a common sight around the reserve, usually flocking above wolf kills or the forgotten harvests of irresponsible hunters, so thus the Sheriff initially thought little about the crows. He’d glance over towards the source of the squawking, originating to his left, across the riverfork. Next to the pine forest on the riverbank, the Sheriff spotted a moderately large group of crows, circling above the kill site, patiently waiting for other crows to gain their fill of carrion.

However, something seemed off. Usually, even from lengthy distances, the Sheriff could spot whether or not the carcass belonged to that of a deer or elk. Whatever the crows were feeding on seemed to be too small to have been either of the reserve’s low-faring herbivorous ungulates. Buck slipped out his binoculars in an attempt to get a better look at the carcass that the crows were scavenging from, glancing through the lenses in order to get a better visual on the corpse. Even then, he was still unable to fully make out what it was. He’d have to cross the river to get a closer look. Fortunately for the Sheriff, there was a shallow portion of the river that hunters regularly crossed to get from one side of the river to the other, and it just so happened to connect nearby. Buck hooked up his salmon fly nymph to the central ring of his fly rod before departing from his fishing spot, making his way back uphill to his jeep. He’d gently place his rod in the back of his jeep before hopping in the driver’s side and starting up the ignition.

“Time to find out what those crows were feeding on."

Bozeman Yellowstone International Airport BZN, Bozeman, Montana, U.S.

September 30, 2017

4:33 P.M. MDT

Eric's eyes slowly peeled open as he felt butterflies in his stomach. The airplane was de-elevating and preparing to land at the airport. He'd look out the airplane window, overlooking the entirety of the city of Bozeman. From Bozeman, he and Tom would be renting a car in order to make their way towards Timbergold Trails, which was around forty miles Southeast of the city. There was a "bing" on the plane intercom.

"Hello, everyone. This is your captain speaking. Please make sure your seat belts are on while we prepare for landing. Thank you, and hope your flight was enjoyable!"

Tom was still fast asleep in the seat next to Eric, unaware that the plane was landing.

Tom always was quite the heavy sleeper. Eric thought. Guess I should wake him up?

Eric placed his hand on Tom's shoulder, shaking him lightly like a limp ragdoll.

"Hey, wake up, Tom! We're landing!"

Tom would slightly stir and grumble as he was awoken by Eric thrashing him around.

"Okay, okay. I'm awake. Quit shaking me around." Tom grumbled as his eyes began to sluggishly open.

"Well, the altitude drop surely didn't wake you up, so I had no other choice!" Eric replied.

As the plane landed on the runway, Eric turned towards Tom once more.

"Even though I'm paying for the car rental, you're still pitching in on gas, remember?" He assuringly reminded Tom.

"Yeah, yeah. I know. That was our agreement for the trip."

Eric nodded in approval. "Glad you remember."

There was a brief period of silence as the plane decreased in speed under the signals of the ramp marshals.

"So where are we renting the car from again?" Tom inquired, breaking the silence.

"Nextcar." Eric answered straightforwardly.

"Gotcha."

The commercial aircraft came to a complete stop. The ground crew wasted no time as they prepared the jet bridge for passenger departure. The intercom dinged again as the flight captain addressed his parting announcement.

"This is your captain speaking. You may now feel free to exit the plane."

Eric and Tom both stretched as they stood up, arching their backs as they lumbered up their bodies to readjust to moving on their own two feet.

"Well, let us get to it, then!" Eric stated as he stood up and scooted into the aisle, with Tom following behind shortly afterwards.

Timbergold Trails Hunting Reserve, Montana, U.S.

September 30, 2017

5:05 P.M. MDT

The Sheriff stepped out onto the gravely riverbank from the shallow river passing. The flock of crows scattered as soon as they noticed him approaching. Immediately, a foul stench filled his nostrils, watering up the Sheriff’s eyes and churning his stomach. He’d grown used to the decomposing odors of the reserve’s ungulate species, but this putrid smell had outclassed anything he’d ever smelled. The buzzing hums of swarming flies emanated from the source of the stench. Sheriff Buck Williams inhaled deeply away from the stench in preparation to approach it, as the foul odor would only get worse the closer he got within proximity to it.

“Deceased predator? A wolf, perhaps?” He pondered aloud. Due to their carnivorous lifestyles, deceased predators gave off strong, rancid stenches consisting of digested meat within their systems and the bloating of internal gases during decomposition. Because of its smaller size, Buck assumed that the carcass belonged to that of a wolf.

Maybe a poacher shot it and left it for dead. Huge violation. Sheriff Williams pondered to himself, disgruntled.

“Only one way to find out.” Buck quietly said aloud to himself. The Sheriff pinched his nostrils shut in hopes of blocking out the gut-wrenching odor that would increasingly get worse as he came closer to the carrion. He’d then slowly approach the carcass, his eyes still attempting to make out what animal it was.

Something peculiar abruptly caught the Sheriff’s eye as he came within fifteen yards of the corpse. A piece of blood-stained red cloth, bearing the pattern of a flannel vest. Buck’s heart dropped and the color drained from his body due to fear that the worst had come to pass.

“No… it can’t be!” He’d exclaim aloud as he sprinted towards the body to get a better look, all while in total shock. The remaining distance to cover had not been very far as he forced himself into a halt, his leather boots skidding into the fine, gravelly sand.

His eyes widened upon the clear visual of the carcass. It was not that of an animal. It was the mutilated body of a young man.

“Oh my God…” Sheriff Williams stated in complete and utter shock.