Predators

[CONTENT WARNING: Harm to Animals]

CLICK. I pull back the bolt, chambering a round. CLICK. My eyes focus on the huddle of dark figures between the trees: a small herd of pale-brown elk silhouetted against the snow and the grey horizon. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my dad put his hands to either side of his head, signalling me to go for one of the bulls.

I take a breath. I hold it, and each passing second feels like an hour as I squeeze the trigger.

…

My family has lived in these woods for decades, and for most of that time, it’s just been me and my dad. Up until about two years ago, no one ever came this way. Even now, visitors are rare and mostly consist of people wanting to trade. As a little girl, I had to come up with all kinds of ways to keep the loneliness at bay when dad left to go hunt. Mostly books, some we had lying around and others that I had to find.

It’s been nice, meeting new people. We’ve become less reliant on the hunt to provide for our food, as they usually have preserved goods and even dried rice or pasta with them. We use a lot of the meat as currency. Fresh game meat is apparently quite rare on the other side of the mountain. Instead, they raise animals in pens and butcher them once they’re fat enough.

To be honest, it sounds kind of cruel to me.

…

I exhale as my grip on the trigger loosens and I realize that I closed my eyes. I can feel my heart racing as I turn to my dad. “Did I hit it?”

He nods, “Yeah. Now we follow.”

We pick ourselves off the ground and dust off the snow that clings to our coats. Even from our vantage point beneath the fallen remains of a pine tree, I can see the red stains amongst the disturbed snow ahead. If we’re lucky, it wouldn’t take more than an hour to catch the wounded buck. If we’re not, then it could take days. Regardless, there isn’t much chance of it getting away from us. Not anymore.

…

These woods are full of ruined buildings and abandoned towns, tons of them. Every time I finish picking one clean, there are always a dozen more just a few minutes away. If you look carefully beneath the snow, you might even come across an old roadway; the asphalt worn away by the near constant freezing and thawing of ice. If you follow it, you’ll eventually find yourself in the middle of a hundred ruined buildings, half buried in the snow and ash.

My dad and I live on the edge of one of those ghost towns, abandoned over twenty years ago. Every year the trees continue to spread, sprouting up from beneath the snow with no regard for what’s around them. Dad predicts that in another decade, the whole town will likely be swallowed up by the woods and the buildings will eventually be buried in ice. Our little home will be all that remains.

While there isn’t much left for me to see or find after 22 years of living there, I don’t know if I’m ready to say goodbye to it all just yet.

…

As we follow the trail of blood left behind, the trees are alive with bird calls. The gunshot seems to have set them off. We continue forward, surrounded by a chaotic jumble of sounds that makes it impossible to distinguish the source of each individual call. At most, I can make out some chickadees on the lower branches.

I only started joining my dad on hunts two years ago, but even now he only lets me join him during the warm season. When we do go together, I have a tendency to notice things that he doesn’t. Not exactly useful things, but things none-the-less. For instance, I noticed that the blood trail broke off from the herd about fifteen minutes ago. It has me wondering if the buck broke off to lead us away from the herd, or if the herd broke off, leaving the buck to its fate.

I want to believe it was the former. Both are sad observations about the current state of reality and have functionally the same result, but it’s nicer to think that not everything in these woods is out for its own self-interest. I can’t really say the same for us. Whether we want to admit it or not: we’re predators, and predators have to kill or we don’t eat. It’s not something I’m proud of.

Dad says some people try to eat nothing but plants. They view it as more humane than killing an animal. It sounds nice, and if I ever got the chance, I might just try it, but we don’t really have that luxury out here.

…

I’ve never been on the other side of the mountain and what I do know comes from what information I can squeeze out of the traders that come by. The people there live in walled towns and grow food in big glass buildings. No one ever told me what the walls were supposed to keep out, so I just have to assume that the countryside on the other side of the mountain is full of monsters or violent people that want to get in. It doesn’t make sense to me otherwise.

Some of the traders tell me that there are even more people farther east, on the other side of an even bigger mountain. Those people live in even bigger towns with electricity and paved roads. They have entire fields dedicated to growing food and they eat meat but don’t hunt for any of it. I probably wouldn’t believe any of it if it wasn’t for all the books I’ve read about places just like that.

Maybe one day, I’ll see it for myself.

…

As we reach the top of a hill, we see the blood trail lead to a small nook beside some rocks. There, the dying buck is lying in the snow, a red spot matting its grayish brown fur just above where its heart should be. It looks young, with antlers that are short and sharp. When we get closer, I notice that it's still breathing with some difficulty, but the side facing us doesn’t expand like it should. Its glossy eyes stare off into nothing, barely blinking.

“You got a spike.” My dad says, kneeling down but keeping his distance. “Collapsed lung. It’ll suffocate or bleed out soon.” He reaches to his belt for his revolver, taking it out and taking aim at the buck’s chest.

I know what happens next. I turn my back to the buck as I hear the metallic click of the hammer being cocked. I take a deep breath, and this time on purpose, I close my eyes.

…

I can’t seem to think of any more stories to tell as my dad and I drag the buck back towards our sled. I just focus my thoughts on the dull red of the sky peaking through the trees and the calls of the birds, having now grown distant and hesitant. It’s all I can really do to keep the buck out of my head.

My dad seems to read the look on my face and, in a strange attempt at comforting me, says: “Don’t think too much about it, Felicia. If it wasn’t us, it’d have been a wolf or some other thing.”

I know he meant well, but I can’t hide the sting of being equal to a wolf. When I was a little kid, my dad would tell me stories about wolves as a way to keep me from sneaking off to the woods. He described them as nothing short of malicious, relentless monsters that snatched away children to eat. You couldn’t run from them; they’ll just catch up eventually.

It wasn’t until I was already all grown that I learned the truth: that wolves are frail and mortal, and when you cut them they bleed and whimper and cower just like we do. When they die, their loss is mourned and the pack is weaker for it. They aren’t malicious, they’re just hungry and scared.

But at this moment, I can’t seem to remember any of that. All I can think of are malicious beasts, and an elk herd that’s missing a son.