The Hunter

My prey hides beneath a fallen tree—broad and covered in moss—yet, my keen eyes see him. Ragged, animal breaths give him away. He bleeds. He sweats. He knows he is beaten.

I crouch at the edge of a crevasse and plot my path downward; conscious of things that might compromise stealth. Bark, twigs, dead leaves—none of it must betray me. The forest is my accomplice: its breezes mask my scent; its mist cloaks my body.

I am fear. I am death. I am The Hunter.

As I descend, I am flushed with anticipation. I shudder. Does he hear? I am still and I wait. Will he flee or will he stay? This is what I love about the chase—not just the rush, but the risk. The reward makes me salivate. I can already taste the sweetness of his flesh. I can hear the adulation of my kin.

He cranes his neck. I stop breathing. Our eyes meet. Will he run? The moment stretches into eternity. In that instant, we know each other. Man and beast. Hunter and quarry. The Eater and The Eaten. He is pathetic and broken and I almost feel impelled to let him go.

When he gathers the courage to bolt, my instincts kick in. I charge. He weaves. I lose traction on the pebbles of the dried river bed. He’s nearly beyond my grasp! But, then, it happens: he slows on the bank’s incline. The advantage comes my way.

I have him.

My ancestors bay at the waning moon and the sound echoes through the caverns of my mind. As I rip and tear at his throat, I marvel at the creature’s simplicity. Its teeth are blunt. It has little fur. It can barely see in the dark. It walks on its hind legs. So laborious and inefficient: the lesser son of an indifferent Earth; like the world intentionally failed to prepare it.

He stops wriggling. His life force drains and my jaws are wet with it.

My howls are quickly answered. The pack will come soon; loping in from the shadows, armed with pointed tooth and claw. They will growl, and feast and they will approve—take me back into the fold—I know it. I will be lone-wolf no more.

I am fear. I am death. I am The Hunter.