Hunger

Shadows lengthened relentlessly as they moved quickly and quietly through the trees. The setting sun teased them with the false warmth of its amber glow; while the frost filled air nipped at the exposed orbits of their eyes, gathering on their eyelashes in sharp fronds.

Threadbare and patched parka jackets worked hard to keep winters chill at bay. Hoods up, with scarf covered mouths, the hunters pressed on; sensing their quarries nearness, but knowing their time was short. In the sweet light of twilight, when the shadows ended, they would wake: Then the hunters would become the prey.

Hearing his son panting, Michael slackened his pace. Adopting a crouched gait, he examined the tracks more closely. When Lewis caught up, Michael planted his makeshift spear in the ground; pulling down his scarf he opened his mouth wide & shook his head with a scowl. Closing it, he pointed at his nose nodding. Mouth breathing at these temperatures could be lethal, even to the young and healthy. Another of many lessons Lewis had heard, but not heeded.

“Wh...”

Michael dropped his spear: Both hands shot out to cover Lewis’s mouth, cutting him off mid syllable. Twisting and turning; his eyes darted between trees looking for any signs of movement. Noting its absence, he relaxed a little, closing his eyes to listen: Lewis sucking air through flared nostrils, trees creaking in the gentle breeze, the muted babble of an ice-covered water flow, the trill of a robin singing for supper.

Satisfied all was as it was, he turned on Lewis and fixed him with a hard stare. Feeding all the frustration of a day of disappointments into his eyes, he threw the look at his son. No other word or action was taken. None was needed. Lewis was wide eyed with shock. Or fear? He wondered which? Did he recognise the possible levy for his mistake? Was he scared of him?

The answer was of no consequence. Another lesson had not been learned. “He shouldn’t be out here. He’s not ready!”

The knot of fear that had sat in his stomach since the moot coiled tighter. The others had pushed Michael to bring him. Hunger fuelled their insistence: Hunters were needed. The nearest cities were weeks behind them. Intentionally so! They had lost too many to the things now inhabiting those crumbling death traps. The distance diminished their threat, but similarly the opportunities for scavenging supplies.

“He’s only twelve!” He’d argued. “He’s a boy and easily distracted. He hasn’t learned to fear!”

Despite his protestations they were resolute; so, against his better judgement he acquiesced. He grimly mused that there was a lesson in this that he needed to learn. He knew the toll that could be exacted for his mistake. But there was still hope.

Softening his gaze, he slowly released his grip. Sliding his hand from behind Lewis’s head he rested it on his shoulder, giving it a gentle - he hoped reassuring - squeeze. Turning, he retrieved his spear; his hand wandering to the comforting bulge of the Glock 17 holstered under his left arm. He had taken it from the body of a Police Officer in Leeds months ago. The precious ammunition had been surrendered to the pool, too valuable for hunting. It usually held only a single round in the chamber. Today there was one extra. Sighing: Reassured he was ready should the worst happen; he made a directional chopping motion and they moved on.

The pause had cost time; the sun was still lazily falling to the horizon. They had maybe half an hour till it touched, then three minutes to hide. Plotting a route back to their hideout, Michael ran a quick mental calculation; they had about ten minutes to conclude the hunt. Hunger gnawed at his guts; as it did for them all, as it must for his son. One eye on Lewis, the other on the trail, he quickened pace.

With pride, he noticed Lewis easily matched his tempo. Wiry and lean he possessed the emerging energy of manhood, making him both flexible and fleet of foot. Responsive to the terrain, he effortlessly crested and bounded obstacles without breaking stride. Ducking and twisting, he weaved to avoid hanging branches and navigate brittle thickets. Faint puffs of vapor snitched on his mouth breathing. Smiling, Michael forgave it, imagining he had the makings of a good hunter regardless. He would make sure to tell him when they got back. The lessons could wait a while.

Skrick, skrick, skrick.

They both heard it; slowing their pace, they surveyed the way ahead for signs of movement.

Skrick, skrick, skrick.

It was coming from the direction of the tracks. Briefly stopping, they noted that no frost had flowered on the hoof prints. Fresh; they were close!

Skrick, skrick, skrick.

Trees, river, robin; the other familiar sounds carried on with no newcomers. Onward they went as the woodland thinned and broke.

Cautiously they emerged from the tree line onto a steep embankment. Their vantage overlooked a series of interconnected detention ponds that ran out into a larger body of water. Almost directly ahead, the waning sun painted the quilted cumulus clouds with purples and reds as it retreated. In the middle distance, the sky was perfectly mirrored in the semi frozen stillness of the lake. Dappled pink ice disks peppered the shallows around its shoreline, diffusing the fuzzy white blanket of the hard frozen ponds at its edge.

In another time, the ethereal beauty of the spectacle before them would have been a joy to behold. A sight for lovers to linger over, and exchange promises, before retiring for the night. But for the hunters it was a stark reminder that time was short.

Skrick, skrick, skrick.

There! He touched Lewis’s shoulder and pointed. The Stag held itself proudly, as it walked out onto the ice-covered pond: magnificent crown pointed skyward, it scented the air. The breeze was both gentle and favourable to the hunters; they went unnoticed. Dropping its nose down, it once again pawed at the ponds icy surface; seeking a weakness that would let it through to the water beneath.

Skrick, skrick, skrick.

Eyes locked on target; with economic gestures he indicated the position his son should take. Should his spear fail to find its mark, he knew the direction the stag would bolt. Its flight instinct would compel it to run away from the movement. Repositioned, Lewis would have time to follow up his throw.

Skrick, crack, crunch.

Once more it lifted its crown, scenting the air, before taking a drink. Startled as Lewis settled into position, the singing robin took flight. The stag was alert again, head up, searching. Lewis made to move in the direction of the robin, but Michael lifted his hand stalling him. Turning slowly; he pointed two fingers to his eyes, then one back to their prey. A flustered snort and exaggerated shrug greeted his instructions. Irritating but harmless rebelliousness: It can wait, he thought, as the stag lowered its head to drink.

Michael favoured his right arm for the throw. From his low crouch, he unfurled his left arm; extending the spear, while keeping it low to the ground: Shifting his right hand under the shaft, he hooked it with his thumb; sliding his palm back till both arms were fully extended. Staying low, with practiced skill, he slowly shifted his balance: Turning his waist, he sighted his prey down his left arm. Unblinking, he slowly raised the spear tip, coiling his muscles ready to release.

“Why do robins sing in winter?”

Although quietly spoken, the words might as well have been a gunshot in the eerily silent depression. The Stag jerked upright. Michael’s blood ran cold as he spun around to face Lewis. Eyes wide in shock, he thought, “how could you be so stupid?”

The Stag was forgotten, as slipping, sliding, and staggering, it made an ungainly escape across the ice. Shaking his head while watching it go, Lewis looked back at his father with bemused incredulity.

“RUN!” Michael screamed.

All thought of subtlety gone, he started towards his son. As he moved, it was apparent that Lewis was not listening. His eyes looked past him, behind him, widening, pointing!

Understanding registered. Despite pulses of adrenaline demanding action, Michael forced himself through a series of measured actions: Blood throbbing in his ears he dropped the spear; dry mouthed he pulled the glove from his right hand with his teeth, in the same movement he reached for his pistol. Drawing a deep breath, he started to turn and draw the pistol...

“ROAAAR!”

A sudden gust of wind unbalanced Michael mid-turn; something fast, and heavy, hit him from behind. His feet kicked out seeking stability, but found nothing but air, as he toppled over the embankments edge.

“DADEEEEEEEE!”

Anguished, Michael could do nothing about the fading call, as he tumbled down the embankment. Branches scraped and stabbed; rocks bludgeoned and battered, as he fought to control his fall. Slamming into something hard, he felt his ribs crack and an energy sapping warmth spread through his chest.

After what felt like an eternity, the embankment abruptly levelled out onto the ice-covered pond. Thudding onto his back, his head snapped back hitting the unyielding ice with a crack! For a moment Michael felt peace. The sounds of the world blurred, becoming meaningless: Warm, tingling, pinpricks danced through his limbs and dark stars passed across his vision, as the world gently swirled around him.

“LEWIS!”

Michael came back to reality, heart racing, fearing for his son. He wondered how long he’d been unconscious.

Sitting upright, agony lanced through his head and chest, threatening to steal consciousness: Michael struggled to suck air into his wounded frame. Coughing, he retched. A metallic taste seeped into his mouth. He was seriously hurt.

Moving more tentatively, he tested himself. With relief, he found his gun still holstered. He had hope. He’d slid out to the midpoint of the frozen pond and noted the sun threatening the horizon. He’d been unconscious for around fifteen minutes: Time was short, but it remained.

Aware the ponds icy membrane had been weakened by the stag’s attentions, he shuffled back to the edge of the pond on hands and knees. All the way the ice clicked and clacked threateningly beneath him.

With urgency, he scrambled up the steep embankment. Breathing in great wheezes he cast around, looking for, and finding, the direction they’d taken Lewis. Standing upright, he lolloped along the drag lines as fast as his injured body allowed.

In the fading light he almost missed him.

Bursting into a narrow clearing, he found Lewis; staring across the frozen lake as the last embers of sunlight faded on the horizon. His parka was slumped around his shoulders. He was mouth breathing again, but it didn’t matter. By some miracle he was alive.

“Lewis.” He croaked, hobbling toward him.

Lewis’s head quickly cocked sideways, and he started to turn.

Relief quickly morphed into trepidation.

Something was wrong.

Lewis continued to turn, but the movement - his limbs - they were rigid!

“HELLOOO DADDEEEE!”

Its voice was unnaturally deep and rattled with phlegm. A rictus grin split its face from ear to ear, as it glared at him through bloodshot eyes.

Hot tears bubbled up in Michaels eyes as he sobbed pitifully, “No!”

Dropping to his knees, he couldn’t bring himself to look at the grinning thing that had been his son. Hearing a shuffling step, he remembered he still had hope.

Gritting his teeth, he snatched at his holster and looked up.

Two shots rang out across the lake.