Interlude — The Starving Animal

A/N: And we're back. Thank you everyone for your patience. We should now resume our regularly scheduled posting. Next week I'll have a recap summary of recent events in addition to the normal chapter to remind everyone what's happening. In the meantime, have an interlude that requires less context.

Engine noise swept through him as he clung to Father's broad back. Every bounce and bump along the old dirt road strained his arms and jostled his spine. He felt the comforting weight of wood and metal on his back, even as the strap rubbed raw the bare skin of his neck. His eyes were squeezed shut against the wind. Only darkness lay beyond them. It was an hour before dawn, and the hunt had begun.

Father pulled the dirt bike into a copse of trees. Branches scraped against them as they stowed it deep. The boy kept his head down and hand up, shielding his eyes from the worst of the brush. He followed Father's boots, barely visible in the starlight, and the quiet scrape of soles on stone. They tromped out of the woods and onto the trail, then made their slow way towards the distant field that sheltered their stand.

The woods were only just waking up. Cicada sang from every tree while leaves and gravel crunched beneath their feet. He could hear croaking coming from a pond somewhere, and the occasional cry of a larger animal. The ground was blanketed in cotton-white fog. The sky was a black roof speckled with starlight and a splash of russet-red peeking over the horizon. They reached the small box blind just as the red burned bright, and light spilled out into dawn. Two folding chairs were waiting in the cramped space, and on them, they settled in to wait.

The boy looked through the windows and saw nothing but fog. It crept in past the camouflage mesh, like soup through a strainer. He squinted, searching for the meadow he knew was only a handful of yards away. He felt Father's hand on his shoulder.

"Give it time," Father said.

The boy waited, patience coming easily to him. The white deepened as the darkness waned. Light scattered through vapor, brightening and blinding. But also fading. He watched as the sun chased away the night, and slowly the white mist followed. The curtain of white unveiled itself and the meadow came to light.

Father had laid out the salt lick last night and scattered corn across the ground. It was a new strategy, both the blind and the bait. The boy remembered past hunts as walking affairs, groups of men chasing game into other hunters. Now they sat, silent and still, waiting for prey to come to them. It was different. Neither good nor bad. Different, and special. This would be the boy's first harvest.

He hoped.

When the sun peeked past the trees, the first white-tailed deer emerged from the brush. A young doe, moving carefully from cover to nibble at the ground. The boy's breathing hastened. His hands began to sweat. He unslung the Winchester and started to raise it, but Father laid a hand on the weapon.

"Too young," Father mouthed. "Patience."

The boy relented and settled in to watch. More deer followed the doe, slowly at first, then with greater enthusiasm as they found the corn. The boy's grip on his rifle tightened. He eyed the herd, almost shaking with anticipation. He searched for targets with untrained eyes. There were males in there, young spikes and four-point bucks. But he was looking for the wrong thing.

"There," Father said, pointing to an old, limping doe. "That one."

The boy didn't question the command. He raised the rifle, squinting down the iron sights. The barrel weaved back and forth, up and down, as his excitement built. He searched for his target and found it.

"Breathe," Father said. "Wait for it to be broadside. Patience."

The boy breathed. He waited. He watched the old doe as it nibbled at the ground, turning slowly in place as it followed the trail of corn. It paused, chewing, perfectly presenting its side to him.

"Look beyond your target," Father said, and the boy saw it was clear. "Aim behind the shoulder." The boy tried to settle the sight onto the crook of the deer's front leg, where the heart and lungs sat. "Breathe. Find your aim, and squeeze the trigger."

The boy waited, heart hammering, barrel swaying, hands sweating. He waited until the sights fell on his target, and he squeezed the trigger. The rifle boomed, jerked back hard against his shoulder, and the meadow was swallowed by smoke. The boy worked the lever and brought the rifle back up. He searched, desperately for his doe, but the smoke was as bad as the fog, and deer were fleeing in every direction. Still buzzing with adrenaline, he lowered his weapon and looked at Father.

"Well done," Father said with a smile. "Well done."

They found the doe ten feet from where he'd shot her. She'd managed three steps before she fell. The boy stared down at the dead animal, that buzzing feeling in his chest building back up again. He looked to Father and asked, "What now?"

Back at camp, Father showed him how to clean the harvest. He showed him how to separate what they could use from what they couldn't. There wasn't much of the latter.

"The Native Americans used every part of their kills," Father told him. "We're not gonna go that far, but you can't waste your harvest. Never waste a life, son. You end something, you better eat it."

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The boy stalked through the deep woods, staying low to the ground. It was daylight in a dense forest, and sun rays peeked past the swaying trees overhead. There was gobbling ahead, the fluttering of wings, and the scraping of feet. He moved in a hunch, shotgun held sideways, barrel facing left. On his right side, Father followed like a ghost, eyes forward and always watching. He kept his pistol holstered and his hands unburdened. They moved slowly, carefully, clad in dark green shirts on which Mother had spray-painted brown leaves.

Turkeys were rare and flighty animals, with strong ears and stronger eyes. Staying in cover was paramount, but the forest provides. They moved from bush to bush, slowly approaching the flock. The boy felt like a stalking jungle cat, an apex predator, and his heart raced with excitement.

They found an opening in a patch of tall weeds, where the boy could slide the barrel of his shotgun forward and wait for his prey to wander into his sights. The flock kept tight together, maybe a dozen all told, but they were slowly expanding outwards as they foraged. He was still. He was patient. And when the big tom stepped too far from his flock, the boy squeezed the trigger. His ears rang and shoulder ached, but when he stared down at his kill his blood sang with joy.

Later, after Father showed him how to clean his prize, the boy watched as the breast bubbled and cooked over the fire. Juices and oils dribbled down, hissing and spitting as they fell into ash. The smell was divine. The boy licked his lips and took a bite. Flavor exploded across his tongue. He closed his eyes, savoring the knowledge that he had hunted this meat. Somehow, it felt right. He swallowed and took another bite. Something cracked between his teeth. There was no pain, only a different texture, and a new flavor. Like cracking open a nut.

His instincts said swallow, but his brain needed to know. He spat out a tiny chunk of silver. Father looked at it in bewilderment.

"It's a BB from the shotgun," he said, brow furrowing. "That's steel. You bit right through it?"

He made the boy spit up the rest and used a stick to sort through the shards. Then he opened the boy's mouth and peered inside through the firelight, checking his teeth for cracks and his gums for cuts and gashes. Father was disturbed by the end, a deep frown on his face.

"That shouldn't be possible," was the last thing he said before falling into a deep silence. Father stared into the crackling fire for a long time then rose up, patted the boy on his shoulder, and fell into his bedroll. The boy followed suit and slept, and thought no more of it.

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"Bite down, young Jeffrey," Doctor Smith said, and the boy squeezed his jaw shut. He felt the instrument in his mouth deform, twisting like taffy. His tongue sampled it and his nose crinkled. It tasted bitter and unearned. He swallowed, and it went down as easy as chicken.

Doctor Smith pulled away, holding what was left of the steel tongue depressor. He examined it curiously before turning to Father, who watched him with hard eyes.

"What's wrong with my boy?" Father asked. His hands rested on his son's shoulders, squeezing gently.

"It's White Sands radiation," Doctor Smith said. "The change has taken him."

Father's grip tightened. The boy's shoulders ached but he did nothing except sit quiet and still, suddenly afraid he'd done something wrong.

"How do we fix it?" Father asked quietly, and something in his voice made the boy look up at him. The stern lines of Father's face had deepened and darkened. There was a grimness about the man, a coldness that scoured away emotions.

Doctor Smith shook his head. "Nothing you can do. How he is now is how he will be. Just be grateful the change was so slight."

"It's unnatural," Father said. But his hands remained on the boy's shoulders, comforting and steady.

At school, the boy showed off his new trick. He ate his lunch in front of his peers, then he ate the container it came in, then he ate the utensils, and finally the tray. The extras tasted as bland as the food. Manufactured, sterile, and unearned. Later that afternoon he was called into the principal's office for destroying school property. Mother was called, and Father came with her. He crouched down to the boy's height and explained what the boy had done wrong.

"Just because you can, doesn't mean you should," Father said, bone-deep concern etched across his face. "It's not for eating. It wasn't yours, and it's not for eating," he repeated. "Do you understand?"

The boy understood. He ate what wasn't his. He hadn't earned it. That's why it tasted so bland. He nodded, and Father sagged in relief.

The other children were disappointed the next day when he didn't repeat his trick. They didn't talk to him much after that, but that was fine. The boy wasn't all that interested in them, to begin with. He'd rather be hunting.

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The boy was nearly a man. Now twelve years old, he was strong enough to pull a bow. Stalking a deer on the ground was much different from a turkey. It wasn't just sight and sound to be wary of, but also scent. He had to mind the direction of the wind and circle his prey before moving into range. The bow was a poor weapon in dense forest. Any branch or even leaf could throw an arrow off course. The boy would need to move within only a handful of yards from his target.

Father followed, watchful as always but silent. This was the boy's hunt.

The wind shifted, and the scent of deer brushed the boy's senses. He turned and moved, following his instincts. He came upon the herd as they moved along a game trail. He waited behind a copse and watched them as they passed. His eyes found a weakness in the straggler at the back. There was an old injury there that had never healed. Prey to be culled.

The boy's heart hammered in his chest, but his hands were steady. His breath was steady, even as his blood danced and burned. He drew and fired in one smooth motion, and his arrow passed between the doe's ribs in a smooth arc. She ran, blood fountaining from her side with every frantic beat of her heart. It smelled like sticky syrup, and the boy licked his dry lips.

The deer didn't make it far, and they brought it back to camp with little trouble. They cleaned as normal, but the boy paused at the end. He eyed the waste they'd set aside to discard. The guts did not stink like they did with his first kill. The hooves and head didn't seem so unappetizing anymore.

"Father," he said, "should we not use it all?"

He pointed out the remains and his concerns. Father seemed disturbed at first but eventually agreed to save the hooves, tongue, and heart. The boy boiled the hooves in soup and cooked the tongue over the fire. The heart he ate raw, sweet nectar dripping down his lips as he ripped and chewed. It tasted like triumph.

Father did not partake.

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The hounds raced ahead, barking and howling. The teenager's boots pounded against the forest floor as he sprinted enthusiastically after them. Bushes and branches battered him, but adrenaline pushed away the pain. He chanced a glance backward, catching a glimpse of Father following distantly behind while carefully picking his way through the brush. The hounds' master shadowed them both, shouting commands that echoed off the thick canopy of trees.

There was a burst of snarls from somewhere ahead, followed by the squeals and snorts of a wild boar. The teen increased his pace even as the hounds' master shouted for him to slow down. He raced between bushes and trees and burst into a small clearing. Caught halfway between cover and open canopy, a boar struggled against a pack of hounds. Its great head swung back and forth, tusks seeking flesh, but six full-sized hounds weighed it down and kept it still.

Behind the teen, Father and their guide entered the clearing. They saw the struggle taking place and urged the teen forward. His heart raced as he approached, drawing the Bowie knife Father had gifted him. There was caution somewhere in him, but it was drowned out by anticipation, and he plunged the blade into the struggling boar's side. He felt when it pierced the heart, felt the animal's struggles cease, felt the moment it died. He drank in the victory as he pulled free the knife and struggled not to lick the blade clean while Father was looking.

The dogs released their prize, panting with exertion. The boy panted with them, feeling the adrenaline still buzzing through his veins. His blood was on fire, but some small part of him demanded more. He eyed the pack and the enormous hog they'd held in place. It had been so... easy. Far too easy. No fight, no challenge.

He wanted more.

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Sports held no appeal for the teen. Nor did friends. Mother worried, but loneliness was not something he seemed to feel. There was no connection to his classmates. Isolation might have a cost for others, but not for him. There were comments of course, and feeble attempts to assert dominance by those who considered themselves his peers. He registered them by nature, but not by effect. They could not harm him; their opinions never even entered into his mind.

As he grew older, new instincts began to surface. There was a hunger in him that he did not know how to satisfy. It was a constant feeling of need, untargeted and unfocused. He did as he always had when something confused him: he asked Father.

"You need to find yourself a woman," Father said. "We've had this talk, you remember?"

The boy did, though he hadn't given it much thought since.

Father smiled, a little sad. "They might think you strange, son, but you're strong, you're handsome, and you're confident. These things will take you far in romance and in life. Be bold with your intentions and you'll get results."

The teen obeyed, and for a time the hunger was satisfied. And whenever it returned, when it felt like he was seized by madness and need, he would enter the forest and hunt.

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The hunter moved through the woods on bare feet and bare-chested. Mud was smeared across his body in thick stripes while twigs and leaves stuck to his hair. He had no weapon other than his knife and his wits, and he stalked a fellow predator. He could smell the grizzly bear somewhere up ahead. He stayed downwind as he tracked it, relying on his nose and his ears and the occasional fresh track. Eventually, he scented blood on the wind. Perhaps the bear had made a kill.

He came upon it feasting on the corpse of something large and unidentifiable. Carrion, the hunter guessed. He could smell the rot. The grizzly was enormous. Almost half a ton of bulk and 7 feet tall, a single paw could wrap around his torso and its head was the size of an oak barrel. The boy drew his knife and pondered how he could possibly bring it down.

The neck, he concluded. Thick as it was, the damn thing needed to breathe. He'd fill its lungs with blood and let it drown on dry land. Could he do it in a single strike? The hunter was not particularly large, but his muscles were sleek and strong. He could see success; he demanded it. The hunger was in him, screaming for release.

He crept towards his prey as the grizzly tore at its carrion prize. The hunter coiled himself like a spring and launched upwards. He landed high on the bear's back, plunging his knife down into the side of its neck. The blade bit into thick muscle and stuck fast. His other hand latched onto a furry shoulder and held tight as he sawed at the wound, seeking to sever those precious blood vessels that led to the brain.

The bear immediately went berserk, snarling with rage and bucking wildly. It spun, snapping jaws searching for the creature biting at its neck. Then it jerked back and forth with such immense strength and speed that the hunter's grip was torn free. He tumbled to the ground, one hand full of fur and the other clutching the knife. The bear spun on him as he regained his feet and a paw the size of a trashcan lid struck him full on the chest. Ribs were shattered and huge gouges were ripped out of his flesh as he was tossed like a ragdoll across the clearing. Shock and surprise lost the knife, the metal flashing as it soared somewhere into the woods.

The boy hit the ground with the grace of a stone, limp and broken. Blood poured from his wounds and his heart raced. He found his feet somehow, excitement drowning out the pain, just in time to catch the charge of the grizzly. Its great jaws snapped at his face and some hidden strength let him catch them and force it aside. He gripped its lower mandible tight with one hand, pushing it up and away, while his free hand scrabbled at the beast's neck. He could see the gaping wound his knife had left there, and he clawed at the opening with desperate fury.

Human nails were not built for ripping or tearing. He scrabbled uselessly at the flap of skin, while the bear's great paws battered his sides. He held tight to its jaw, somehow kept his footing, and snarled as the hunger inside him grew ever greater. His nails became claws and he ripped at the bear's neck, tearing into the knife wound and digging deep. The bear roared in agony, pulling away now but the hunter held tight. He was dragged forward as the beast sought an escape, but his grip held tight to its jaw while his other hand sliced and gouged until the blood stopped flowing and the prey stopped struggling. At long last the hunter let go of his prey, and he collapsed onto its side gasping and laughing and filled with triumph.

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He emerged from the woods with a new bear skin pelt slung across his shoulders and full belly. His wounds had healed as he feasted, and his nails had returned to normal once the need had passed. His hunger was sated, and deep satisfaction welled within him. He had proven something to himself and accomplished a feat that could never be taken away. And he'd saved the sweetest treat for last. The grizzly's heart was clutched in his hand, and every bite from it tasted of sweet ambrosia.

He paused as he reached a dirt path, still nibbling absently at his prize. His truck was on the side of the road where he'd left it, but its tires were slashed and windows broken. There was another truck parked behind it, and three young men idled there, armed with crowbars. Seeing them there reminded the hunter he'd forgotten to retrieve Father's knife.

"Saide!" one of the men bellowed, stomping forward with the grace of an elephant. "You think you can fuck my girl and get away with..." He trailed off, looking at the blood-soaked form of the hunter. "What the fuck were you doing in there, you freak?"

The hunter took another bite of bear heart while he considered the question. He was in a wonderful mood, and so he graced them with an answer.

"Hunting."

"You're sick, you know that?" the young man said. "I can't believe Marlene got it on with a freak like you."

"Who?" the hunter asked, then his eyes drifted to his truck. The broken windows were not a problem, but the tires would be bothersome to replace. Father would be displeased. "Did you do that?"

The boy and his herd exchanged incredulous glances. "Yeah, obviously," he said. "And now we're gonna make you match." He brandished the crowbar as if it meant something.

The hunter watched them, steady and unconcerned. He felt as if he had passed a great distance, and was now looking down on them from afar. He could smell their unease, their discontent, their fear. They smelled like prey.

I slew a bear with my own two hands, the hunter thought, and now the cattle bleat at me.

"Well!?" the meat demanded. "You gonna say anything?"

The hunter did not. He looked past the herd at the empty dirt path. He breathed in deep, checking the scent of the forest. They were alone here, miles from civilization. The hunter's claws unsheathed and he went to work. It didn't take long. They'd fooled themselves into thinking their herd was a pack. They were sheep pretending to be wolves. The hunter laid the truth bare with tooth and claw, and when the screaming stopped he stared down at the bodies with a sense of detachment.

He couldn't just leave them there. He realized that. And furthermore, they were his kills. It would be wrong to abandon them. Immoral. And they smelled divine.

Jeffery Saide looked down at his harvest and remembered Father's words.

"Never waste a life, son."

He licked his lips—

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Shark-grey eyes opened beneath the waves as the hunter emerged from its hibernation. The pressure of the ocean weighed down on him, but he'd felt far worse before. He could feel lingering aches from where he'd taken some tremendous blow, but the healing continued. The hunger, though, was overwhelming. He uncurled from the divot he'd formed at the bottom of the sea and swam steadily upwards. His head broke the surface and he breathed deep, tasting the ocean air.

He had no idea where he was. Somewhere new. But he could smell steel, sweat, and distant life. The ocean swelled and a wave carried him upwards. In the far, far distance he could see a shoreline. Tiny figures ran across, a herd of young humans. There were roads beyond them, ramshackle but functional. His stomach ached and the hunger urged him forward.

The Cannibal turned toward civilization and started to swim.