Content Warning
This entry contains sections of detailed gore, making up a good portion of the prose.
The cold air of November whips over the Hunter's naked face. His eyes water. His palms and knuckles are sheltered under fingerless gloves, but his bare fingers that grip the handlebars of the four-wheeler, that coax it forward, have gone numb. He's going fast, he's got places to be; She told him so. The rough dirt road causes the four-wheeler to irregularly vibrate, going the extra mile to numb his fingers, a dull buzzing sensation running up his arms. On both sides, the blur of trees whisks past him, their grey and brown branches melding into dead sludge in his periphery; the trees ahead are clear and crisp, in sharp contrast to their passing ranks, of whom they join in seconds' time, his eyes and mind intensely focused on the path before him.
The Remington Model Seven slung over his shoulder digs into his back as he leans forward, the gravity of intent and anticipation hooked into the fleshy space behind his chin, his tongue tasting the tinny copper of blood. He feels sweat begin to pool on his scalp, the thick hair held tight by a toboggan pulled down to his eyebrows. The mental cost is already beginning to make itself evident, always so long before the physical does. He could build up newer, thicker muscle when the old was torn, but the metaphysical tissues of his psyche seemingly only wore thinner and thinner as they tried to reconstruct themselves. Repetitive strain had taken hold in recent years, a demented kind of carpal tunnel.
He was slipping. Is slipping. Has slipped. Will slip.
Slip. The word tastes strange in his mouth as he mutters it to himself.
The Hunter slows the four-wheeler to a crawl, approaching a tree with a red nylon rope wrapped around it. He's arrived at the point of transition, where calm footfalls replace the boisterous vehicle, his foot inching the brake closer and closer to the metal foothold until he's stopped completely. His thumb jumps to the kill switch, flicking it to the left. The engine slowly wanes from its gentle rumble to hot silence, the cold morning air still rising off of it in a damp fog. With a practiced swing of his right leg, he dismounts and steps off, the rubber soles of his boots striking the frozen ground with a dull thump.
Slowly walking to the front, the Hunter opens the hard plastic case tightly secured to the four-wheeler. It's the only thing he's brought, needing to save the entirety of the back for his return trip if all goes well. And it will, She's told him so. He pulls out a small stick of a waxy substance wrapped in butcher paper and rubs a bit of it on his boots. The efficacy of scent covers was debated, some saying they were useless, others saying they were crucial. He should have formulated an opinion bordering on scientific by now given his decades of hunting, but he simply sticks to the notion of "Just in case." After he puts the scent cover back into the box, he procures a white spray bottle; formerly a bottle of Lysol cleaner, tag now torn off and interior thoroughly rinsed of all former contents so as to not ruin the new stuff. Scent is a fine thing, his prey's nose so keen. He has to take all caution, not let a single thing slip.
Slip. The word still tastes funny.
Licking his lips, the Hunter closes the box, snapping the plastic latches into place. He leaves the rapidly cooling four-wheeler behind, beginning his walk towards the blind. The bare trees that once passed him by in blurs of motion now gently shudder in the wake of his passage, their ugly skin rising from the genteel brown mulch, sitting against a grey, cloud-sodden sky that makes him feel empty. Fill, he'll soon have his fill. She told him as much. His clothes keep him warm, trapping his body heat. They're all camouflage, coating him in tones of terra. He blends into it, sinks, not a strand of fluorescent orange on him. No hunters come out here, he has no fear of becoming prey. He's deep in the woods of the unknown, owned by Her, shown to him by Her. Even if someone else set foot in the acres of wilds, he'd still strip himself bare of it. She despises orange, it's the bastard sibling of red. Fire chars flesh, turns the deep, succulent tones to crumbling facsimiles of night.
He laughs to himself, thinking of the poor fate of the fool who would step into these woods. Snared, shot, impaled, starved, or otherwise trapped or killed. She bade him protect Her righteous claim, he Her angel wielding a blade of fire. He used to find deer that had fallen victim to one of his flaming swords, but they're intelligent prey, learned what they look like, smell like. He urinates on the traps, has let them learn his scent. The riggings aren't for them, let them be spared, She said.
The dead leaves that litter the road beneath him, carried by winds he kept a keen eye on as they carried his scent, crack and crumble under his boots. He doesn't worry about the noise though, a creature trudging through the woods wasn't too uncommon a sound. All it meant was his prey would be skirting around him until he stilled, as if he radiated of panic and paranoia. Maybe he did. People had grown uncomfortable around him in recent times. Not because he slacked in maintaining appearances, She would never allow him to let himself be caught so easily.
As the crackling of the leaves meld into white noise, the Hunter realizes that the symphony is missing a normally present member: the gentle metal clinking of bullets. Once he realizes it, he can't stop listening for it, wishing they would return, though he knows it won't happen. She'd told him to bring only a single round, that it'd be all he'd need. Still, he begins to find himself a bit on edge, stuck on the change in his precious routine, his normalcy. He's a creature of habit and prefers for things to go as planned, as they have been going, should be going, will be going, can be going. It's a small wrench, but a wrench nonetheless.
Finally, he sees the second loop of red rope, choking a loblolly pine, its evergreen needles sitting in contrast to the mostly bare limbs around it. Turn left here, dear sir, turn left, it beckons, waving its arms like a traffic officer in the gentle wind. The Hunter does as it commands, the winds a product of Her wily hand, stepping up from the dirt road, an inch below the forest floor, erosion having taken its toll. The trail is now only as wide as he is, blanketed by layers of leaves and brush, trampled. Still clear enough to follow with an expecting eye, largely hidden to the idle passersby.
It's not long before the trail opens up again, revealing a dull green and gray clearing, fallen leaves tinging the color at the edges. To his right, he can faintly see the legs of the blind, wrapped lightly by a creeping plant; three diamond leaves: poison ivy. He has other business to attend to before he can climb up and inside the blind though, and walks out into the clearing. He carefully aligns himself in front of the blind's window, ensuring too that he's a good distance away, roughly three quarters of the way across the small clearing. The Hunter takes the plastic spray bottle and coats the nearby tall grass, spraying not too much, nor too little, of the doe urine inside.
It isn't an attractant necessarily, nor a repellent. It isn't estrus— it came from a bladder he'd harvested months before October, far from rut. Ideally, a buck will simply stop out of curiosity for a few moments, showing his flank to the Hunter. He'd wanted to keep it in its natural sac, but knew the flesh wouldn't remain properly stable or fresh during long, repeated travels, risking tainting the urine's scent.
Satisfied, the Hunter walks back to the edge of the clearing, towards the poison ivy covered legs of his blind. Fortunately, the ladder is largely untouched, letting him climb up with little worry into the plywood and fiberglass shell, closing the small door behind him. The only thing inside the cramped space is a small, cushioned folding chair. The window sill is thick enough to adequately work as a rest when the time comes. He slips the rifle off his back, leans it against the wall.
Slip, slip, slip…
Viscous, bitter, but alluring.
The Hunter quietly grunts as he lowers himself into the seat. He'll spend the idle time waiting for game to strut out into the clearing communing with Her, silent reverie. He doesn't close his eyes, something he knows is atypical of religious supplication, as he needs to remain watchful. In mere moments, as his breathing settles into a calm, steady rhythm, and his vision ever-so-slightly blurs, She's over his shoulder, grinning. He can't see Her, doesn't turn his head, but She's always smiling, elegant ivory. When had She first spoken to him? He can't remember, it was so many years ago. A quiet notion sitting at the precipice of his mind, a gentle beckoning. She was a shy one, spoke softly at first. The more he indulged Her, let himself imbibe, the louder She grew. Now when She spoke, She was all he could hear. One hand is on his shoulder, the other lightly traces circles on his neck with a cold finger. Breath on his ear. Whispers, so loud, only he can hear, vibrating the blind, undisruptive of the morning's tranquility.
Yes, yes, he says, answering Her questions diligently.
Yes dear, yes dear.
I know, I know.
I will, I will.
We will, we will.
Mhmm, mhmm.
Yes ma'am, yes ma'am.
How long they spend cooing, the Hunter cannot say. The hours slip by, uncounted and uncared for.
Sssllliiip…
A branch cracks, the echoes filling in the silence as they sprint through the clearing, fleeing into the woods. He's jolted out of his dreams, eyes sharp and scanning. He quickly spots his prey. He stands tall in the clearing, nose twitching. Nine points. He's angled improperly, isn't giving the Hunter what he wants, but he's moving closer to the spot where the Hunter sprayed the grass. Beginning to turn.
The Hunter gently picks his Remington up, slowly resting it on the sill. He licks his lips again as his right hand grasps the bolt, slowly rotating it before pulling back, revealing the chamber. His breast pocket is velcroed shut— he curses under his breath for not undoing it earlier. His prey is moving towards the scent; he's losing time. Sure to not rip it open too quickly, too loudly, the Hunter gently pries the pocket open, teeth clenching with the noise of the velcro ripping. He reaches inside, pulling out the single .308 Winchester round he brought. Quietly, he presses the round into the chamber, seating it properly before sliding the bold back into place. With a press of his thumb, the safety switch is forward, resting against the F engraved into the action.
The Hunter quickly, but calmly, tucks the butt of the rifle to his left shoulder, finger sitting just outside the trigger guard, and leans in, closing his right eye as he moves his left to the glass lens of the scope. His prey is standing perfectly, his side completely exposed as he inspects the scent. The individual curiosity of deer can't be predicted, safer to assume a shorter span, so he likely only has a few more seconds to fire before his ideal window is gone and the buck moves on.
No need to rush, She whispers, No need to rush.
The Hunter situates the crosshair, the intersection sitting right behind his prey's front shoulder, a hair down. The lungs, heart. Vitals, rushing blood, cold oxygen. The deer's head raises a bit, away from the coated grass, looking back to the treeline. The broadside window is closing, the ideal shot. He can do it from a quarter, easy, but this was a guarantee, a divine moment. Utterly perfect. The Hunter takes a deep breath, steeling his position, lets half of the breath out, and gently, gently, squeezes the trigger. His shoulder easily takes the brunt of the kick, barely moving, and he lets the rest of his breath out as his prey drops to the ground, slips from this mortal coil.
He has to clear his throat, suddenly a bit constricted, breath coming quick, pupils dilated.
She lets out the breath She was holding in too, a sympathetic nervous system. She kneels down behind him as he pants, the Remington still tightly pressed to his shoulder, and wraps Her arms around him, resting Her chin on his shoulder. She whispers praise in his ear, the sweet words he's yearned for all his life, the ones She so graciously pours into him whenever he does well, does as She says.
But there's no time to waste, the Hunter has to dress the carcass, stave off rot and pestilence. He rushes out of the blind, letting his rifle clatter to the floor, dispelling Her into mist as he passes through Her. All that remains for the briefest of moments is the afterimage of Her ivory teeth smiling in the afternoon sun that leaks through the window, reveals the detritus particles that hang in the air, now swirling in his disruptive wake. He swiftly crosses the clearing, jogging towards the carcass that was once his prey. He's surrounded by tall grass, too obstructive, the land a bit too even for his liking, so he grasps the antlers and begins dragging him to another part of the clearing.
After some effort, the Hunter manages to pull the dead weight to an open spot, the land more of an incline, perfect for field dressing. He sets the body on his side with the head downhill, letting the internals sink with gravity. He reaches to his belt and opens up a small pouch, pulling out the only tools he'll need; a folding knife and the parts for his Gigli saw. He sets the handles and wire aside, opening the knife with a click as it locks, sounding as sweet as rain. It's a short blade, important for the work ahead; will help ensure he doesn't puncture any organs, ruin the meat. The Hunter takes a deep breath, though this time it isn't to steady himself, but to slow himself down. To remember to savor the moment, his favorite part.
The Hunter begins his work by sliding the blade into the flesh around the buck's anus, carefully cutting around it. Once he's completed the circle, he slips his fingers into the cut, prying away all the membrane that keeps the fleshy tube attached to the buck's pelvis; pushing, peeling, and separating the springy stuff, letting it fall limp. Already, he's fallen into rhythm, muscle memory, and when he's removed his fingers and wiped them off on his pant leg, he takes hold of the deer's back legs and rolls him onto his back. The white fur stands in contrast to the bristly brown that otherwise covered the beast, running from his belly to his namesake tail.
Taking hold of his knife once more, the Hunter begins gently cutting the skin around the genitals. Evidence of sex is state law, something he once cared for. Though no game wardens knew of his hunts, no one investigated, and he no longer cared for following the letter of the law, he found it easier to abide by the patterns already ingrained in his mind. Once he's cut around them, he disconnects them and tosses them aside, whole, intact. Now that the pelvis was cleared of obstruction, the Hunter takes his knife and slices through the meat just above the bone, the legs falling aside a bit more in response, less and less holding them together.
The knife falls to the grass once more as the Hunter exchanges it for the wire of his Gigli saw. Leaning over the thing's pelvis, he runs one end into the exposed space behind it, shoving it up back to himself until he can see it poke out. Hooking a handle to each end, he begins to run it back and forth, back and forth, the hollow sound of the wire grinding against the bone filling the air. Faster, faster, he see-saws, rapidly cutting through the pelvis, until his hands are jolted upwards as he breaks through, the bone now in half, split at the middle. With a final push, one hand on each section of the pelvis, the remaining sinew and cartilage separates, cracking and snapping. A small smile creeps across the Hunter's face. He loves that sound.
The saw is unhooked to individual pieces, returned to the pouch on the Hunter's belt. It's served its purpose. Taking hold of the knife once more, he stands up and straddles the thing's chest, facing back toward the sawn pelvis. He sticks his free hand into the cavity he's created and tucks two fingers under the skin where he's removed the genitals, pointing a peace sign back toward himself. Gently prying the skin up, the Hunter begins to slice it away between his fingers, taking care to not puncture the warm, bulging organs that rest below. Slowly, he cuts skin away, closer and closer to himself, until he reaches the sternum and stops.
Standing up again, the Hunter closes his knife and clips it to his belt. He takes a few steps backward until he's standing over the limp head. He finds himself staring at the red painted lips, the pale tongue lolling out the side of its mouth, the vacant eyes. He crouches down and pinches the tongue between his fingers, rolling the rapidly cooling, drying flesh around, thick and rubbery. No photos to be taken, no evidence to be kept, no one but Her watching. No disrespect to be found. He laughs to himself, letting go of the tongue and grasping the thing's antlers. With a grunt, he lifts up and begins rotating the body, turn it so that its head lay uphill, the organs sloughing down toward the split pelvis.
Then he's back at the pelvis himself, knife in hand, reaching into the ribcage. He slips the knife past the slick organs and begins slicing into the diaphragm, giving him easy access to the upper section of the body's interior while also beginning the work of separating the mass of organs from the walls of meat. His right hand, free of any tool, begins sliding up into the body, wet, supple warmth slowly engulfing his arm as he goes deeper, deeper. He creeps up, wriggling around, until he reaches the beast's throat. His fingers prod and grasp the windpipe, shuffling around it, disconnecting the membranes that hold it in place, just as he did the intestine. Once the Hunter believes it's adequately loose, he sinks his left hand into the crimson depths, angling the knife's blade upwards so as to not accidentally puncture one of the organs. Soon, both arms are bicep-deep in the cooling carcass, his right hand still grasping the esophagus while the left begins slicing into it. Once it's completely severed, he pulls out the knife.
With his right hand still tightly gripping the slippery, rubbery tubing, the Hunter begins tugging, slowly bringing the organs out of the carcass in a fleshy, squelching mass, all rolling and sliding over one another, bunching up before spreading out on the grass. As he pulls, more and more little connections break, blood beginning to pour out, slicking his arm and pants. He jams his knife in the body occasionally, slicing away at tissue that doesn't give way with a simple pull.
Finally, most of the organs sit in a bloody pile, the intestine and bladder cleanly following through from his work before disconnecting tissue and opening the pelvis. The Hunter sits back on the ground, admiring his work, some of his cleanest yet. No a single organ punctured, esophagus cleanly cut, only a hollow, beautifully marbled concert hall left behind, the ribs the buttresses, tightening as they approach the stage of throat.
She sits on the earth next to him, crisscrossed, one hand cradling Her chin as the elbow sits on her lap. She stares at the carrion as if lost in a love-drunk stupor. Hollow eyes half-open, upper lip pulled back as the corners tug away. He doesn't blame Her, he finds himself lost in the image himself. The Hunter goes to wipe his hands off on his pants before a spike of curiosity jolts through him. Slowly, he brings a blood soaked finger to his mouth, gently suckling it clean, tongue wrapping around it, trying to get at every succulent inch. The taste is different from his own, the metallic tones lost in an unexpectedly sweet burst. The more he laps up as he moves from finger to finger, the sweeter it tastes, the mere act of imbibing sending pulses of dopamine through his mind, ecstasy filling his form. She begins to lightly chuckle at him as he's soon dragging his tongue across his palm and forearm, a stray dog presented with a steakhouses' dishes, lapping up the juices and worcestershire.
Before he knows it, the Hunter's kneeling at the pile of discarded guts, disconnecting the creature's heart from the mass. Blood leaks from the tubings, from the entry and exit wound of the bullet, recoating his hands in the wonderful, wonderful stuff. He sinks his fingers into the folds of the organ, where the separate sections were joined together, where deep red flesh gave way to white. He caresses it, brings it up to his nose and deeply inhales the intoxicating scent. He brings it to his mouth and sinks his teeth into it, the meat squishing under his incisors and canines, at first refusing to yield, eventually giving way and filling his mouth with a gush of blood. He rips the rest away, feeling the chewy stuff squirm about in his mouth, little pieces he manages to separate with his teeth slipping down his throat. As his molars work to grind the hunk of meat down, he opens his eyes again and finds Her watching him intently. Staring into his mouth as he chews openly, savoring the taste, the sensation.
The Hunter indulges for a few bites more before tossing the remaining meat back into the organ pile, licking his hands clean once more. There's more work to be done, further prep to be performed. Standing up, he walks to the head and kneels down, grasping the antlers and beginning the drag out of the clearing. He'll pull him as far as the dirt road before retrieving his four-wheeler. Lift the now much lighter carcass up onto the back, tie him down, and return home.
The stark fluorescent lights illuminated every inch of the small warehouse, the sheetmetal walls and concrete floor brightly lit. Their subtle buzzing becomes white noise to the Hunter, letting him get lost in his mind with ease. There was no insulation, only the metal walls and floor separating the interior from the outside, leaving the space to chill alongside the November night air. Still in his bloody clothes from the afternoon, the Hunter stands with his hands in his pockets, admiring the installation before him.
It was a simple art piece of his own making: a steel cable hung from the rafters, attached to a pulley system. At its bottom, it was hooked onto a small triangle of metal, meeting the apex of the shape. At either end of the triangle's base was a hook, the carcass of that day's hunt hung from them. The thin flesh between the tendon and hind feet had been cut on both sides, the hook run in between. He'd started on the floor, splayed awkwardly, no part sitting naturally against the concrete, but once the Hunter had turned the crank on the warehouse wall, drawing the steel cable through the pulley and back to him, he'd started fitting to his new position. With each turn, the body jerked up a little more, a little more, until the antlers were hanging just above the ground.
The Hunter had strung him up that afternoon. The carcass had been hanging from the rafters for a few hours now, flesh cold and dead. Now the two of them had reunited, come together again, falling into the next steps with grace and ease, both adequately relaxed and ready. With a smooth movement of his thumb, the Hunter opens his knife again, hears that lovely click.
For a moment, the Hunter stops to stare at the pale tongue, now completely dried out, limply hanging out from between the deer's lips, the red tinge around them gone dark with time. The dried remnants of droplets of blood sit below the head, perfect crimson impacts, too thin on their own to even begin falling down the incline towards the drain dug into the concrete. The image stirs something in him, almost a passion, a memory so deeply engraved that it's lost all form and detail, only the fire of the moment left.
With one hand, he grasps one of the hind legs, the other running the knife around the joint. Again, the other hind leg, running the knife around the joint. Then, with practiced swiftness, he slices down the inside of the legs, towards the gaping hole he's already made. Just like that, the skinning begins. The Hunter slices at points of serious connection, at joints, but otherwise he's taking handfuls of the hairy skin and pulling, yanking downwards. A subtle tearing sound fills the warehouse in bursts, in sync with his fists clenching, his biceps tensing as he slips the skin off the carcass. As he gets further down, he has to retreat to the crank and raise the carcass further, further up. Soon, he's made it to the neck and begins the delicate task of slicing away at the tissues still connecting the skin to the neck's meat until he's reached the base of the skull.
The white noise of the fluorescent lights have long since faded into nothingness, a steady 3/4 beat taking its place amidst the meditative atmosphere, creeping up from his subconsciousness until it deafens him. The Hunter gently takes his dance partner in his hands, grasping onto his antlers tightly, and lets the deer spin him. The carcass loudly responds in tune, his neck breaking, as the Hunter completes his twirl. Satisfied, he slices away at the remaining flesh around the now cracked neck, the head falling to the concrete floor with a dull thud.
Standing back to admire his handiwork, the Hunter finds himself overwhelmed. The meat beneath the ugly, bristly hair is smooth and chilled, perfectly marbled. Red and white intermingle at the perfect points, emphasizing the musculature and form of the beast. Once a roving stud of the woods, conqueror of doe, now reduced to his purest form. Laid bare before his better, naked and dead. It's a pure, medical sight that can't be rivaled by illustration or model.
His dancing partner is limp and unresponsive, yet still the music plays in his head, unrelenting. The Hunter feels compelled to languidly, elegantly manipulate his form, feel the white and red of his musculature flex and stretch, compress and stress. Turning on his heel, the Hunter is elated to find Her standing in the warehouse with him, Her left hand already up in the air next to Her head, Her right stretched out to the right, waiting for him. The Hunter slides forward, already preparing himself for the moments to come, lightly grasping Her left hand with his right. She gently puts her right hand just behind his armpit as he rests his left on her bicep. They stare at each other for a moment, letting the music in his head meet them, their feet together, facing the others'.
They begin moving in elegant, slow motions. His left foot slides backwards, as if pushed by Her right as it slides forward between his feet. Their other feet soon follow in suit until they've met again, standing in front of each other. Without a hint of stillness, the Hunter slides his right foot to the side and She matches with her left. Only then do they pause, standing still for the briefest of moments. Then, he steps forward as She steps back, mirroring the fluid movement of before until they've completed their box step in full.
The pair repeat the dance for a while, beginning to slowly twist and turn as they do, each compensating for the other's turning step by adjusting the length their stride, ensuring that they always stay right in front of one another, eye-to-eye. Their bodies gently move up and down, up and down with their pivot points.
Step, step-slide, step,
Step, step-slide, step,
Step, step-slide, step,
Step, step-slide, step.
Step, step-slide, step,
Step, step-slide, step,
Step, step-slide, step,
Step, step-slip, step.
They move in the silent orchestra for minutes on end, savoring the sensation of Her hand clasped to his, the rhythm of the music and their steps. As much as it pains him, though, he has work to continue doing, so She soon bids him farewell with a small spin, thanking him for the dance. As he walks away to begin slicing off the meat for later consumption from the carcass, She whispers a final notion in his ear, causing his already slaked mouth to pour over with saliva.
Another, begin tomorrow, it's time, it's time…
The hunts are on the weekends. His facade is erected on the weekdays. He waits with great anticipation for the weekend, preparing for the thing he's dreamed of, craved for so long now.
Lumber and sheetrock, PVC and mulch, bolts and lights. The Hunter smiles at the slackjawed customers, points and advises. He's a gentleman, a hard worker, a kind soul. All praise falls dead at his feet as he walks away down the towering aisles, boots on the cold concrete floor. They're all hollow, cultural normalizes, required politeness, Southern hospitality. They mean nothing.
One of his coworkers sits in silence with him in the break room, neither saying a word to another. He's usually a talkative one, but knows the Hunter doesn't enjoy casual conversation. The Hunter already knows a lot about this coworker: no family, few friends, frequently out sick. He's ideal.
Every weekday, the Hunter drives to work, letting the A/C blow an image over him like pesticide, keeping invasive vermin from getting too close to him. A shroud of normalcy, generic nothingness, wallpaper.
Every weekday, he drives back from work, letting the mist cascade down onto the highway behind him, leaking from the cracks and holes in his old pickup truck. By the time he's home, he's himself once more, quiet, diving into solitude. The gravel beneath his tires sounds beautiful, like the click of a knife's blade locking.
He pulls the things he's bought out of the backseat or the bed, takes them inside, prepares them. He's done this for a while now, but today, Thursday, he has the second to last thing he needs.
Tomorrow, he'll bring home the last part of Her grand machination.
Then the weekend will begin.
The freezing November air bites at the Hunter's face as he walks through the woods, a strong breeze carrying his scent away from him, but he doesn't worry, his prey's nose is so pathetic in comparison to his usual game. The afternoon sun shines through the trees, the sky's color more vibrant than during his last hunt, though still covered over with clouds.
He released his prey into the wilds last night, giving him ample time to explore the area, test his boundaries. The Hunter had strapped an electric GPS collar to the thing, modified so as to prevent him from finding a way to take it off. The strap was interwoven with metal wire, the clasp held closed by drilling screws through it, locking nuts on the other side pressing tightly into the metal. The electric shock it delivered had originally been too mild, but now it was enough to cause severe pain, burn skin, flash spots in his eyes as the Hunter's prey collapses to the forest floor. High voltage lightning amped up, sent out in pulses that allowed for repentance, a stumble back to safety before the next strike.
Now he's wandering through the woods, searching, hunting. His Remington Model Seven is slung across his back, five .308 Winchester rounds in his already-open breast pocket. His eyes are glued to the trampled flora around him, occasional spatters of blood that decorate rocks and trees. He'd originally feared that he would have to resort to unsportsmanlike tactics to find his prey, utilize the GPS in his collar perhaps, but he'd forgotten just how unprepared, how inexperienced his prey is. His trail is blatant, a panicked stumble through the woods, ripping and tearing, trampling and trodding. Inelegant. Now all the Hunter has to do is follow it.
While his prey's nose is vastly inferior to deer, his hearing is still keen, and he'd know the sound of the four-wheeler, know it was him. He's going to be terrified, paranoid, take no chances. The Hunter has to be cautious, desperation and fear inspire ingenuity. So he trekked out into the woods on foot, slowing down once he'd found his prey's trail. Each step was filled with giddy anticipation, his mind filling with fantasies of the pale flesh coming into view in his scope. The sensation of pulling the trigger, watching his prey crumble to the ground. The Hunter gets closer, the trail becomes fresher, the blood lighter, slowly but surely. Likely exhausted, his prey's walk will be slower than his. Ideally, he still hadn't heard him, hadn't begun sprinting away. As long as the Hunter keeps himself unseen, unheard, then his prey would have no opportunity to retaliate or flee. Keep his distance, aim steady.
Then, the trail diverts suddenly. The Hunter stops for a moment, considering what the sudden change from what had been a consistent path thus far could mean. In the silence, he hears his answer, hears the sound of a tumultuous stream, water rushing and falling, crashing into rocks, into itself. Following the trail again, moving towards the water, the trees begin to thin. They open up to a creek, the shores made up of thin strips of gravel and silt. On his side of the creek, the land juts upwards just after the rocky shore, a good six feet of sheer dirt and mud, giving the Hunter an excellent view of the locale, up and down the creek. On the opposite side, the grass sits flush with the shoreline, opening it to both easy access and rapid escape.
Kneeling just on the treeline, not quite out in the open, the Hunter takes in the depressions in the grass, freshly trampled. His prey is somewhere downstream, not far. Slowly, he begins walking downstream, still hiding in the trees, his keen eyesight scanning the creek ahead of him, searching. His heart beats faster, the exhilaration of the hunt injecting fire into his veins. His back begins to ache from being hunched over, trying to be as clandestine as possible, but he can feel Her fingers interlock with his muscles, gently run between the threads of meat, soothing them. He is an instrument of Her desire, so She worked to keep his strings taut, oiled, well cared for. Loved.
A spot of pale catches the Hunter's scanning eyes, a contrast to the dull browns and greys of the nature. He stops and kneels back down, taking hold of his Remington, pulling it from his back and tucking the butt into his left shoulder. He moves the scope to his left eye as he shuts his right, but keeps his finger resting outside the trigger guard, laying on the metal frame. For now, he's only scouting.
Pointing it at the distinct smudge he can see in the distance, the vague form of his prey comes into view, sitting perfectly in his scope. He's knelt over the creek, drinking. The Hunter lowers his rifle and begins slowly, slowly trudging forward. He leaves the shelter of the treeline, trying to stay low, using the land's height to his advantage. He wants to be closer, wants for his prey to fill up his scope. Pale, shivering flesh, reflecting the afternoon sunlight.
He's now about twenty-five yards closer to his prey. The thing's stopped drinking from the creek, now just resting on the gravel shore. The Hunter lowers himself to his belly as he nears the edge of the grass, crawls forward until he can rest the end of his rifle's barrel just over the drop off. With a calm breath, he brings the scope to his eye again, a pathetic vision filling it. His prey is covered in dirt and mud, bruises and scratches littering his bare skin. His feet are battered, covered in dried blood and filth, toes beginning to turn blue. He sits on the shore, his knees tucked to his chest, almost touching the collar still tightly strapped to his neck. The position isn't ideal for the Hunter as he stares at him straight on through the scope. He could approximate where the heart was through the knees, but would have to contend with going through them, likely hitting bone. He wasn't sure if a bullet had enough kick in it to go through the leg twice and still kill him. Still, he needs to be ready in case fortune smiles on him, so he lifts himself up slightly and reaches into his breast pocket, pulling out a .308 Winchester round. With a practiced hand, he quietly opens the bolt, the moving creek doing much to cover any errant sounds he makes, shrouding his presence. He presses the round into the chamber, ensuring that it's seated properly. One after the other, until all five are in and he closes the bolt, flipping the safety off.
As the Hunter continues to watch his prey through his scope, pondering his next move, a branch somewhere in the woods snaps, likely a wild animal. His prey doesn't know this, doesn't know he's already being stalked, between crosshair, and his head bolts upwards, eyes wide with fear. The beast stumbles up, nearly losing his balance and falling back to the gravel and silt. He's on high alert, whipping his head around, every muscle tense, flight about to overcome him, but he's exposed, his chest uncovered. Already, the Hunter's put his crosshair to just a bit the right of his prey's sternum, his finger on the trigger.
She's watching thought the scope with him, breathing heavily as he slows his own. A deep breath in, half of it out…
In that last moment, as the Hunter begins slowly, slowly squeezing the trigger, the eyes of his prey fall onto him. He can see the shock in his eyes through the scope, the beginnings of utter terror taking him over, but it's too late for anything to be done. The rifle kicks into his shoulder, a loud bang echoing out through the woods as his prey begins stumbling away, making it only a step before he slips on a wet rock and falls to the shore, completely still.
The Hunter doesn't even wait to hear what She has to say, see Her manic grin. His excitement is overwhelming and he jumps up, leaving his Remington in the grass as he falls down to the shore, quickly wading through the creek. On the other side, the corpse of his prey lies on his back, empty eyes watching the cloud-laden sky. He can hear Her laughter, it echoes through the woods, shakes trees, deep and joyous. Without hesitation, the Hunter pulls out his knife and begins his work in earnest, elation filling his form.
Spreading his prey's legs open, he cuts around his anus, making a small circle. Once he's gone all the way around, he reaches his fingers inside and begins prying away the membranes that keep it attached to his pelvis. After that, he cuts around the genitals, carefully removing them from the body and tossing them to the side. He laughs to himself as he thinks of a game warden investigating the matter, looking for evidence of sex. He's running on muscle memory, treating the corpse as he would a deer's, but it's still different enough that he isn't as perfect with his slices, veins pouring blood as he cuts.
The Hunter cuts into the meat of the pelvis, disconnecting muscle and sinew, exposing the bone. Setting his knife aside, the Hunter procures the parts to his Gigli saw. He isn't sure if it's necessary, but feels compelled to follow his routine nonetheless. He slips the wire behind the pelvis, pulling it through with some effort through the remaining meat, digging his finger in to find the loop. Attaching a handle to both ends, he begins moving it back and forth, back and forth, faster and faster with each pull in one direction. The hollow sound of bone being hacked through fills the air, a resounding white noise. Then, his hands jerk upwards as he breaks through, the pelvis now split in half. Satisfied, the Hunter tosses the Gigli saw to the ground, picking up his knife again and walking to his chest.
The Hunter kneels down, facing the corpse of his prey's feet, and tucks two fingers under the skin where he removed his genitals, pointing a peace sign towards himself. Slowly, gently, making sure to not puncture any organs, he begins slicing the skin pulled taut between his fingers, making his way up past the stomach until he hits the sternum. With every cut, more blood spills out, coating his hand and knife.
As he backs away from his chest, he passes by his prey's head. He stares into his glassy eyes, lips tinged red with blood. The Hunter runs a hand through his prey's hair, laughs to himself about the poor buck with no antlers. He was a genetic malady, better to cull him than ruin the population with his genes. Not that he would have ever been able to mate with a doe. He puts his fingers beneath the collar on his neck and slips it back slightly. Where the metal prongs that protruded from the collar dig into his neck are black, pinpoint scars surrounded by red, seared skin.
Moving back to his prey's hips, the Hunter reaches his knife up inside the corpse and cuts away the diaphragm, exposing the upper part of the interior to him. His right hand begins creeping up the corpse's interior, sliding past warm, odorous organs, slick with blood and fluid. The Hunter wriggles his hand up, further and further, until he can feel the throat, can poke and prod the esophagus. Now he moves his left in, still grasping his blade, until both of his arms are bicep deep into the corpse. Securing the windpipe with his right hand, he begins cutting above it with his left, severing the rubbery tubing. Carefully, he pulls his knife out, still yet to nick an organ. Then, he begins pulling with his right, still tightly gripping the windpipe. The mass of organs beginning to slough out of the corpse, loudly squelching and sucking, tissue snapping, blood readily flowing out. His clothes are soaked in the stuff, the gravel stained, trickles of it running into the creek, swept away downstream.
The Hunter drags the mass of warm organs away from the corpse, letting the slick mass come to rest on the gravel shore. Satisfied with his work, the Hunter runs a blood-soaked hand through his hair, pulling it away from his face. He stares at the corpse for a moment, at the red painted lips, the steam still rising out of the cavity within the body, rapidly cooling meat and flesh. His eyes are drawn to where his stomach had been, the beautifully marbled flesh, the deep red of the blood that coated the interior. A tightness rises in his chest, excitement bubbling up once more. She's laying on Her side next to him, breathing in the scent of the blood, of the organs. She knows what he wants, so She pulls Herself up to his shoulders, rests Her lips right against his ear and whispers, Do it. I want to see.
Grasping his knife again, the Hunter kneels over the corpse, reaches into the interior. He cuts into the meat on the back, taking out a hunk of red from where the tenderloins on a deer would be. He's unsure if it's a similar cut, but he doesn't care. Greedily, he shoves the warm meat into his mouth, feeling the blood coat his tongue. He chews, the tender stuff refusing to give way, forcing him to grind and slice with his molars and incisors, vein and sinew stuck between them, juices gushing out, filling his mouth, spilling from between his lips. Eventually, he gulps down the mushed mass, voraciously licking his lips, lapping up all the errant fluids that managed to escape. When he reaches back into the corpse for more, he doesn't even use his knife, he peels away any meat he can with his bare hands, his fingernails, so enthralled with the taste, the rush, the laughter that pours from Her throat as She watches him in childlike glee.
Back and forth, he moves from the corpse to the organ pile, cutting, peeling, yanking away chunks of whatever seems appealing. Whatever is warm, filled with fluid, supple. So slick with blood that they slip from between his fingers as he tries to keep hold of them in his fervor. Back and forth, back and forth. A charcuterie of delectable flesh, so sweet, so savory. Umami, the word he'd seen on the Food Network the other night, umami.
As he tears a hunk of succulent meat apart with his teeth, the Hunter hears the snap of a stick breaking. The crack echoes loudly through the trees, pierces his ears. He's been so engulfed in the silence of his reverie, only the gentle squishing of raw meat and the sucking of chewing breaking through, that it startles him. The Hunter throws his head up, neck stiff, at full attention. His eyes dart around, staring into the trees. Dusk is beginning to settle into place, obscuring the depths of the woods with a dark haze that threatens to inch closer with each passing moment as the sun slips lower and lower.
His mouth still, his ears keen, the Hunter finally hears the sound of approaching footsteps. They're gentle and practiced, much like his own. Predators on the prowl, come to get their fill. His head is still whipping around, spine twisting, but his search becomes more focused as the footsteps grow closer, the echoes giving way to firmer sounds more telling of a direction. Even still, he can't wait them out, he needs to see them now.
Then their eyes connect, dull orange sitting just within the treeline on the same side of the creek as the Hunter. A brindle fur form, its head down, staring at him, nose twitching. They stare at each other for a moment, the coyote taking cautious steps forward. The Hunter's eyes dart to the left and he sees a second coyote, slowly beginning to flank him, its body angled away while its head still faces him, watching.
The pair get closer, closer, beginning to pull their thin lips back, flash their teeth in the waning light. Their noses twitch more and more the closer they get, overwhelmed by the carnage the Hunter's created, that he's covered in. They'd smelled the blood and come running, carrion-eaters come to chew errant meat. The other hunters of the forest, his fellow stalkers. They've caught the Hunter in a position not too dissimilar from his own prey's when he'd put a bullet through his heart.
The Hunter takes a moment to throw his head around again, searching the shore for his Remington, where he sat it down while he dressed his game, but it's nowhere to be found. A bolt of panic runs through his form that makes his knees weak. He still had four rounds left, more than enough to send the coyotes into nothingness, that cold black he sees in Her irises. The thought of Her mixed with the unfamiliar anxiety causes him to seek Her out, latch his eyes to Her visage, find a semblance of comfort, of security. She sits on the edge of the drop off across the creek, one leg crossed over the other, watching him with great interest. Smiling.
He remembers— sees the Remington lying in the grass in his mind's eye. Abandoned in his excitement. Looking back, the Hunter finds that the coyotes have grown much closer, maybe twenty feet away from him. They take up both ends of his periphery as they continue to walk to either side of him. He searches the ground again, desperate to find that he's mistaken, that he'd actually brought his rifle down with him, but to no avail. All he can find are the parts to his Gigli saw and his blood-soaked knife.
His knife— blade still open, locked into place. He can feel Her eyes burning into him, the cold of Her smile coating his heart in the sweetest of hoarfrost. Picking up the knife in his left hand, the fear melts away, replaced with a kindling anger, a sense of utter indignation. The pair had been seduced by the scent of blood— blood he spilt, blood that was rightfully his. They were marauders, highwaymen come to pick the flesh from his game, his prey. The anger ascends to white-hot rage, his mind and eyes burning, acidic brimstone rising in his throat.
The coyotes were mutineers, insurgents come to vie for his throne. The Hunter tightly grips the knife, licks the leftover blood on his lips. He crouches down, meeting the bastards in form, in intent. You're only prey once you've lost your spirit, your fire. The coyotes move closer still, low growls rising from their throats, their muscles tensing as they prepare to leap. His eyes dart from one to the other, waiting to see which pounces first. They're close now, close enough that he can smell them, smell the adrenaline.
Left, right, left, right, left, right…
The coyote right of the Hunter stops moving closer and crouches. Digging his left foot into the gravel, the Hunter easily keeps himself upright as it leaps at him, teeth bared. With a quick shove, the coyote is knocked back to the ground, landing on its side. The second coyote still doesn't leap, just keeps walking around the Hunter. Choosing to use the moment for himself, the Hunter takes a heavy step towards it, letting his other boot fly forward and smash the coyote in the ribs. It falls backwards with a loud cry, high pitched and pathetic.
The first coyote, having recovered, takes hold of the Hunter's left forearm, his body still twisted from the kick. It sinks its teeth in, piercing the sleeve of his camouflage jacket, digging into flesh. It immediately begins tugging him backwards, catching him off-balance and tipping him over, down to the gravel shore. Still clamped down on his forearm, the coyote begins to thrash, tearing into muscle, fire running through his nerves. The Hunter slams his free fist into the coyote's skull, aiming for its eyes and snout. Suddenly, the second coyote is at his right calf, clamping tightly down, teeth tearing into the tender flesh. Barely thinking, the Hunter slips his middle knuckle out and punches the first coyote as hard as he can. The protruding knuckle digs into the animal's eye, eliciting a yelp as it lets go of his forearm.
His arm now free, the Hunter quickly sits up and bends forward, his hands grasping the second coyote's maw, trying to pry its jaws apart. Unable to get a grip, he rears back his left leg and slams the sole of his boot into the beast's snout until it disconnects and scampers back. It watches as he stands back up, blood trickling from its nose, fury in its eyes. It crouches back into a stance, ready to pounce, while the first coyote still whimpers, pawing at its damaged eye.
With a quick step forward, the Hunter slashes at the second coyote with his knife, slicing its snout. It backs away a bit further, growling, watching the Hunter for an opening. Distracted, the Hunter doesn't hear the first coyote leap towards him, its teeth sinking into his already damaged calf. The jolt of pain causes him to fall to a knee, screaming. The second coyote leaps forward, but the Hunter manages to stick a hand out and catch its neck, its jaws snapping wildly right in front of his face. With a heave, he tosses it aside, sending it flailing into the creek. Quickly, he turns his knife around and throws his arm back, embedding it deep in the first coyote's flank, a dull thump sounding out as it yelps. The beast thrashes with the injury, both letting go of the Hunter's calf and slipping the knife out of his hand, leaving it hilt-deep in its side.
The second coyote sprints out of the creek and pounces on the Hunter, sending him onto his back. He just manages to throw his hands up and catch its snout, one hand inside the maw, the teeth clamping down. It tries to bite forward, aiming for the tender space between the Hunter's shoulder and neck, but the Hunter's painful grip lets him divert it, shoving its head to the side. Throwing all of his weight over, the Hunter manages to knock the coyote onto its side, gripping its foreleg with his free hand. He yanks it up towards himself, causing the coyote to shriek, freeing his other hand. Now putting nearly his full weight onto the coyote, the Hunter slips the hand holding the foreleg all the way to its paw before clenching his other hand into a fist and slamming it into the joint. With a loud crack, the leg bends unnaturally and the coyote screams.
The Hunter stands up, freeing the coyote from the pin, and it begins trying to stumble away. The coyote with the knife stuck in its flank watches. It's apprehensive, but still growling. The Hunter makes the choice for it, running forward and kicking it in the throat. Its head is thrown down, its chin catching the follow through and jerking upward, and it flops to the ground. As it squirms on its side, trying to recover, the Hunter slams his boot into its flank as hard as he can, feeling a rib crack through the rubber sole. He brings his boot down again and again, the animal's cries getting weaker with each stomp.
Once it's rendered into nothing but a battered pile of fur and shattered bones that can barely wheeze— once the Hunter's had his fill— he reaches down and pulls the knife out. He walks away from the twitching mass, leaving it to slowly slip away into the night with each breath. He makes his way towards the still shambling coyote as it tries to flee, whimpering and barking. It tries to use its broken leg, but can never quite take a step with it, bent too far outwards to catch its weight properly, causing it to stumble. As he walks closer, the coyote looks back at him with wide eyes full of terror, its cries growing louder. Still the Hunter doesn't hesitate, he brings his boot down on the thing's spine, sending it to the ground. He doesn't lift his foot back up to rain down more blows, he keeps it pinned down, kneels and puts his weight on its back.
Its whimpers and cries devolve into animalistic shrieks as it thrashes beneath him. Putting a hand on its head and shoving it into the gravel and silt, the Hunter stabs his knife into its neck. The coyote begins choking and coughing as it pierces its windpipe. The Hunter leaves the blade in for a moment, listens to the air leak out of the wound as the coyote breathes. Slowly, he pulls the knife out and lets it wallow in its pain for a moment more, its eyes staring off into the distance, occasionally looking up at him. Watery, pleading things. Satiated, he plunges knife into its neck over and over again until its completely still, piercing it a few times more simply because he wants to.
Still crouched over the body, the Hunter raises his eyes to the raised shore of the creek. She still sits there, one leg over the other. Her smile turns to a full grin, teeth glaring in the fading light of dusk, as laughter escapes Her mouth. In his waning adrenaline high, dopamine soaking his brain, he laughs too. Her pleasure is his pleasure, Her jovialness his. In his victory, She find great joy. In Her joy, he finds great satisfaction. He is Her instrument, sharpened to a fine point. A blade, heated and quenched in the hunt, hardened.
The moon's radiance is shining on the Hunter when he finally begins dragging the corpse out of the woods, making the slow, arduous trek, limping. The clouds had dispersed with the night, leaving the world to be shone on by the elegant reflections of the yellow moon. He savors the ethereal light, the cool air, the fog of his breath, the weight of the corpse. It's all so picturesque.
The Hunter is in his warehouse, the corpse hung from the rafters, skin whittled and pulled away, leaving only the white and red of his musculature, revealed in the stark fluorescent light. This is the happiest he's ever been, the happiest She's ever been. She holds him closely from behind as he does his work, watching with silent reverence. She whispers sweet nothings into his ear, encourages him to sample his prey occasionally while he works.
When his excitement builds up too much, they dance. The expulsion of energy feels good, lets him focus back on his work, lets him ride the high over and over again. Down and up, down and up, just like their dance.
As the night wanes, the meat stored in a cooler, the scant remains of the corpse still hanging from the hooks, She leans in close to him.
She kisses him on the cheek and whispers one final thing into his ear before She melts into the night.
Let us do this again. And again, and again, and again.
Let us walk hand-in-hand into the night, feast until day breaks and we're shone on.
But day will never break, will never find us, I promise.
So do it, do it for me.
Again, again, again.