Short Story Sunday

Welcome to the first instalment of the Short Story Sunday feature here at Rubber Chicken Studios.  Every Sunday we'll feature a very short story, from whatever genre takes me at the time.  I hope you enjoy!  This week's instalment is called "Hunter/Hunted", and hopefully has a fun surprise for you.

Hunter/Hunted

     Andrew sat motionless in the tree he had chosen, watching the huge bird thrash about in the snare he had placed six hours ago.  It was only a matter of time now. Thank god, his legs thought angrily.  The creature continued to thrash. It wasn’t giving up without a fight, but Andrew knew it was pointless.  The snare had cinched tight around its throat, so even if it snapped the line keeping the trap in place the thing would die before long.  Part of him wanted to climb down and put the bird out of its misery with his knife, but he wasn’t going to take any chances.  Not here. 

     It didn’t help that the bird was almost five feet long, and he was pretty sure the things beak would tear through his ribcage like tissue paper.  Not to mention the claws. So he waited.  His eyes scanned the shore, checking to see if anything was noticing the commotion, anything looking to steal his kill.  So far the thrashing bird hadn’t attracted any undue attention.  He was glad the thing couldn’t squawk. The scavengers here were fierce and outclassed him in pretty much every respect save intelligence.  When the bastards figure out how to make traps he would be well and truly doomed, he thought.

     The bird looked like a sort of cross between a giant heron and a penguin, if he had to guess.  It was flopping on its side now, passing out.  Andrew started climbing out of the tree, his legs shooting pins and needles angrily into his brain.  By the time he reached the bird the only thing twitching was the tiny excuse for a wing sticking out of its side, no bigger than a baby’s hand.  The creature was pitiable, reclined in unconsciousness before him, unlucky enough to have been caught in his trap.  Andrew knelt before it, and paused.  He ran a hand gingerly along its head, down its neck and back, tenderly.  He whispered something to the creature.

     Then he plunged his knife into its neck, severing its spine and killing it instantly. 

     He breathed deeply, wiping his face with the back of his knife hand.  He scanned the area quickly as he sliced through the snare, freeing the corpse of the bird.  Still nothing coming. 

     He grunted as he hefted the creature onto his shoulders, the damn thing must weigh a hundred and fifty pounds.  His legs were even less pleased with him now.  The others would be ecstatic when they saw it he knew, but Andrew would just be happy to see a bed again.  He’d been hunting for three days now, and he had yet to discover a comfortable tree. He began trudging his way back to camp.

Imagining the faces of the group all lit up with joy, sitting around the fire eating until they get too full to move, laughing and relaxed... Andrew was lost in the daydream he’d conjured to forget about the mile hike back to camp carrying a giant dead bird.  Suddenly he froze in his tracks.

     It was the smell.  An unforgettable, piercing aroma.  The reek of death and decay mixed with power and fear.  He knelt close to the ground, and let the bird slide off his back silently onto the forest floor.  Please don’t let it be them. His hand slipped the knife out of its sheath, and he gripped it tight as he knelt.  He tried to make himself as small as possible, as slowly as possible. They were close.  Too close.  He should have been more careful.  Please let it be something else.

     His mind was racing. He was kneeling in the middle of a small clearing, no tree to hide behind, no bush to slide under.  Just the foot-high underbrush to provide cover, and not much at that.  Just him, his head and torso completely exposed, and the bird.  Not a bad meal. 

     His eyes slowly scanned the area around him, trying to be as still as possible.  He watched the undergrowth sway in the light breeze, and he tried to match it gingerly.  Anything to not stand out.  Then he saw them. 

     They could be damned quiet when they wanted to be.  They walked toe-first, slowly rolling their immense weight backwards on their foot.  It was slow, but it was quiet.  He guessed they were headed to the lake for a drink and a snack.  Something on the edge of the water was about to have a really, really bad day.

     Andrew hoped it wasn’t going to be him. 

     There were three, an adult and two juveniles about the same size.  Andrew stopped breathing.  Partly to hide, partly to avoid the smell.  Black gunk dripped from the mouth of one of the juveniles.  He didn’t want to think about what that would do to you if that got into you.

     They were passing close to him now, as close as they would get if they were headed for the lake.  They were just on the other side of the small trees in front of him, no more than three metres ahead.  His knuckles were white on the knife, not that it would do him any good if they noticed him.  The big one passed beyond him, then the first juvenile.  The second stopped.

     So did Andrew’s heart.

     It put its foot down, and turned its head to face the tiny clearing Andrew was in.  It sniffed quietly.  It sniffed again. 

     There was a low, quiet rumble from the adult.  Andrew didn’t dare turn his head to see how far it had gone in the eternity since it passed.  The juvenile sniffed again, impudently, but moved on. 

     Andrew closed his eyes, and breathed again.  He could wait a few minutes, and then get on the move again.

     He turned to watch the T-rex family slide through the forest.  He hated them.  He hated them so, so much.