THE HUNTER

He is a Hunter, and he is good at what he does.

He is stuck in the box for now, but it will not be long until he is free.

The box is small. Too small to stand up. It is dark enough that his perfect Hunter eyes, eyes that see the Prey in the blackest black, cannot see the walls. It is colder than cold, and it stinks of metal. But he likes the box. The box means, soon, he will hunt. Soon, he will eat.

And he is hungry.

The box shakes but he does not fall over. He is a skilled Hunter, a Hunter with enviable balance. A little shaking cannot knock him down. When the box opens, he will be ready. Ready for the Prey.

The first light cracks through the door, and he sticks his sharp black nose into the slit. Crisp. Chill. Purple in the faint light of night. Good. The Hunter prefers the night. He will be a shadow. The Prey will never see the Hunter. The Hunter will sneak up and strike it down with his pristine black claws, claws kept clean and sharp as any skilled Hunter knows to do. It is a shame the Prey will not live long enough to admire the talent and precision of the master who killed it.

His haunches shake with anticipation, and his skin stretches against either side of the door as he presses his face through. The opening is not fast enough. Not for the eager Hunter. He gets his shoulders through. His chest. Dirt flings under his four-fingered hands as he launches forward, finds his footing, and takes off into the wild on his toes. His naked black skin trembles with cold, but running will cure that. And he is a fast runner. The fastest.

The world is new. He has never been in such a place before. Silky blue grass coats the flat terrain. It seems to span for miles, but the Hunter knows this is not possible. The walls are close. The walls are always close.

A tall tree curls toward the painted roof and a set of twinkling lights that are not stars. New Prey lives on new terrain. He will taste meat he has never tasted before that night. What a delight!

His lips part to reveal a toothy grin. The Feeders are spoiling him. Really, it is no surprise. None of their other hunters can possibly compete with his prowess, with his expertise. The Feeders favor him. Love him. Care for him above all else. He is the greatest Hunter!

He will search the tree first. Cowardly Prey often hides in high branches. It never foresees the Hunter’s innate climbing ability. The Prey is often as stupid as it is weak. This tree, though, is a formidable opponent. Its trunk is too wide to wrap his arms around by many, many times. Interconnected limbs come together and spread far and wide like an entire forest all its own. It is a mighty tree, a Proud Tree.

It is no match for the Hunter. He digs his claws in and pulls up and up, sniffing for the smells of the Prey. A light scent separates itself from the smells of the tree. It has the aroma of soft animal musk, but it is faint. The Prey has been on those branches, but it is not there anymore.

He stretches to climb higher. The Hunter is small—for now! only for now!—If he hunts well (which, of course, he will) and eats the flesh of the Prey, he will grow bigger and stronger. He has already grown a great deal since coming under the care of the Feeders. But small though he currently is, he can conquer any tree, just as he can conquer any Prey.

Encased in a wall of twisty-twirly branches, the Hunter comes to a bowl. It is the size of him spread out, a natural dip in the Proud Tree’s trunk. His mouth waters. This place smells like the Prey. Like the Prey has plastered its scent against every surface for the convenience of the Hunter. Yes, stupid, weak, silly Prey. 

It is also here the Hunter finds a thing. A colorful thing. It appears to be a string, stretchy when the Hunter pulls it, and covered with pretty balls. The balls are round and small as the tips of one of his eight fingers. Colorful, and shiny. He collects it and wraps it around his arm. The thing belongs to the Hunter now! A fine trophy.

Thief? No! The Hunter is not a thief! Why does the Prey need it when soon it will be dead?

Climbing makes him breathless and gives him the trembles. The Hunter is weaker than usual. His stomach hurts. He touches it to find it concave. It has been a long time since he has eaten. But the Feeders did not forget about him. Never! Not him! He might have a hard time conceiving of another reason why it has been so long since his last hunt, but only because he has been confused with hunger.

In the end, it does not matter. They have not let him starve. They have given him this new hunt. This new Prey. Perhaps they have been busy trying to find a Prey worthy of him. Yes! They want to challenge their most skilled Hunter. Forget about the Hunter? Impossible!

He ignores his aching and continues the sniffing. It is no use. The Prey is not in the Proud Tree.

Come out, Prey. Come out for the Hunter.

He slides and slinks down the trunk into the grass and rubs his face against the blades. It is soft. Feels nice. He now knows the scent of the Prey, and he detects it. The smell is everywhere all at once, around the base of the tree, in the grass, the dirt, the air. The Prey has made a home of this place, but not for long.

The Hunter follows the strongest trail of scent to a footprint. It is not like his own. It is a flat-foot with round toes. No claws. At least, not on its feet, which the Prey walks on exclusively. The Hunter can find no prints of front paws or hands. Perhaps it has wings? What fun that would be! Harder to catch, though. And the Hunter is hungry. Maybe wings would be more fun next time when the Hunter’s insides did not burn so badly.

Movement. Subtle, but the Hunter’s eyes catch the light drift of the grass. There is no wind, nothing else could make the movement. It has to be the Prey. The Hunter ducks into the grass and moves on silent knuckles and toes, low to the ground.

Grass tickles his naked chest and pets his cheeks. He follows his nose more than his eyes. He stays down, stays hidden, licks the overflowing saliva from his lips.

This is it! This is the moment he will feast on bloodied red meat, metallic organs, and his favorite goopy, slurpy treat from inside of bones. Oh, what a good night!

Just inches away now. He readies his muscles, steadies his breath, and pounces!

The grass parts. The Prey flees. The Hunter’s claws dig into nothing but dirt. The Prey is quick, but the Hunter is quicker, and boy! does he love the chase. He is compelled to dart after the Prey by some invisible string pulling him by his neck. The string is more than fun, more than hunger, it is instinct and drive. He would chase the Prey whether he wanted to or not, but make no mistake. He wants to.

The Prey is not a flying winged creature like the Hunter imagined. It moves along the ground on its two little feet, swallowed up by the grass as the Hunter is. It is small. Smaller even than him. The Hunter hopes it has a lot of meat for a Prey its size. He will be disappointed if it does not.

The gentle touch of the grass turns into sharp snapping, then nothing. The grass clears. His toes fall on a cold rock surface and his claws click and clatter. The Prey has led him to a wet place, full of clear water slapping and sloshing against a stone container. Then, up, up, up. It hops along a staircase of gray rocks stacked against a painted corner.

All of the Feeder’s wet places worked the same. At the top, water flows from a tube and cascades down the rocks where it is drained and cycled through again. The Prey runs to its doom. Once it reaches the peak, it will have nowhere to go. It cannot fit into the water tube and there is nothing else but wall. Easy pickings for the Hunter.

The Prey stops on the highest rock. The yellow light of the false moon hanging from the ceiling illuminates its features. Its tawny fur is short and smooth. Two nubs stick out of the brown mane on top of its head like the Hunter’s horns, but shorter and fuzzy. Its ears curl around either side of its face, and its green eyes sparkle. It is a pretty thing, the Hunter thinks, like the string covered in balls it left for him to find in the Proud Tree. But not as pretty as it will be all sticky and red and delicious when it is dead.

It holds up its hands with five fingers on each and no claws. The singing sound it makes is funny. Almost like it is trying to talk! Of course, the Prey cannot talk. It is a dumb animal. Not at all like the intelligent Hunter.

The Prey has perched on a small break in the rocks where water falls through. An easy jump. The Hunter is thankful to have something nearby to drink during its meal. He crouches, presses his toes to rock, and springs.

The Hunter’s leg catches.

Something wraps around his ankle.

He stumbles and falls into the break.

Instead of tumbling all the way to the pool of water far beneath, he is caught in the air and slams into the surrounding rock.

What has happened? The Hunter is dizzy. His leg is on fire. Mixed with ice cold water, hot wetness drains down him. Blood. Not the Prey’s blood but the Hunter’s. How?

The Hunter hangs upside down and struggles to free himself. Around his leg, a string covered in little balls slices through his skin and tightens with every pull and tug. He pricks at it, but his claws cannot cut through.

Although each swing is agony, the Hunter sways to reach the rocks. He cannot dangle upside down all night. His claws connect with rock, and he pulls with his arms until his chest rests on stone. He has escaped the waterfall, escaped hanging upside down, but has not escaped the thing that caught him.

His leg wraps around the back of a rock above him, still constricted in string. Stuck. Trapped. Wait! The Hunter fell into a trap? That cannot be. The Hunter could never be trapped by the Prey. What a ridiculous thought. His chest tightens and his eyes grow heavy with tears, but he will not give in! The Prey will not get the better of the Hunter. He is smart and strong. The Hunter will find his way out!

The Prey appears in the dark. The Hunter roars. He snaps. His claws leave thin scratches in the rock. The string rips into his leg, but he is not helpless! The Prey is helpless! The Prey will be torn limb from limb by the Hunter! He is a good Hunter! The best! He will not let this happen to him. He will not let the Prey win. He writhes, fights, and wriggles until he has worn himself out, until the Prey has long disappeared into the dark, until his body is cold and weak.

The Hunter lays still. He cannot move. The suffering does not subside with time. The string digs deeper, bringing more pain and more blood. But the Feeders favor him. They will not allow him to die. He will beat this. He will not be afraid. That irritating sourness in the Hunter’s stomach is only because he is still oh,

so,

very,

hungry.