struggling to stand up.
Man jumps to his feet, tumbles forward, his lead foot tripping on the shotgun. He picks it up, shakes his head and looks for Emma. He hears her, a low sobbing and coughing, the creaking of rusted wire. He retrieves a torch from his pocket, turns it on and scans the fence. The hunters will see it; Smith will see it. But he does not care. Man needs to find the girl. Needs to save her.
He finds her. The torch illuminates the wall and the barbed wire, turns the sheet a lighter shade of blue. The fabric has unravelled, pierced in multiple places by the barbed prongs. The same as the baby.
Man moves to her, looks over her body. Her legs are bent and broken from the collision with stone, her face is sliced open and bleeding heavily. He turns off the torch and steps back.
In the distance he can see the hunters. They’ve set fire to the farm house and as it burns they're rounding up the horses, readying themselves for the second attack. He can't stay long. Knows that they'll catch up. And he can't take the girl with him. Her wounds are too severe. She'll slow him down and then they'll both die. He knows what he has to do.
The hammer cocks back with ease, the over/under aimed using one hand. At this distance he'll not really need to aim.
On the other side of the fence a horse screams out in pain, clatters its hooves off the hard, earthy ground. Man will deal with that soon.
He looks at the girl, writhing in pain. He knows that if he leaves her the hunters will ignore her. They want him too much. But their hounds won't ignore the girl. She'll suffer a horrible death unless he does it.
'I, I tried,' he says weakly. 'I really tried. I'm sorry.'
The trigger is squeezed with little physical effort. The booming roar of the firearm ends the girls screaming. It ends her suffering. He knows, deep down, that she is free now.
************************
The forest engulfs him like a black leviathan, swallowing him whole, swirling his world around in a centrifuge of wilderness. He can hear the hunters in the forest, their hounds scurrying through the undergrowth.
He reaches a tree, takes the leg of beef and hangs it from a low branch. He smears the horse blood from his hands and places his jacket on the flesh and then continues through the forest.
A tree appears out of the darkness like a giant, a wooden warrior of nature. The low branches are perfectly aligned for climbing. So he climbs. Hard and fast and recklessly, the shogun swinging from his shoulders. There are no more rounds for it. But they don't know that.
He nearly falls twice but eventually makes it to the top of the tree. He looks down, sees the torches nearing him. Hounds bark and men shout threats of obscene mutilations. They call him 'Baby Killer' and 'cunt' and tell him that they'll rape him before anything else. They move in a line, five lights, not as many hounds.
'He's nearby, lads! The Baby Killer is nearby! Let the dogs sniff him out!' It's Smith.
Man wishes he had one round left in the shotgun. He'd take aim and squeeze the trigger until Smith's head exploded in a gory, mulched pop. The others, well, he’s sure he’d give them a run for their money. He could take another one of their dogs, spend the time training it to be his companion. Already, he misses Hound.
He watches the lights and men and hounds turn, the beasts barking in rhapsodic bursts. He isn't certain but can only hope that they are heading towards the blood-smeared beef leg.
The branches of the tree jut out like accusatory fingers, tightly knit together in clusters of wood. Slowly, quietly, he manoeuvres his way around the tree, sits with his back to the hunters, legs dangling over the edge like a bayou hobo. In his right hand he holds the empty shotgun, in the left the karmabit. He realises that stuck up the tree, his only method of defence is to bluff using the shotgun. But that would prove ineffective.
Man jumps to his feet, tumbles forward, his lead foot tripping on the shotgun. He picks it up, shakes his head and looks for Emma. He hears her, a low sobbing and coughing, the creaking of rusted wire. He retrieves a torch from his pocket, turns it on and scans the fence. The hunters will see it; Smith will see it. But he does not care. Man needs to find the girl. Needs to save her.
He finds her. The torch illuminates the wall and the barbed wire, turns the sheet a lighter shade of blue. The fabric has unravelled, pierced in multiple places by the barbed prongs. The same as the baby.
Man moves to her, looks over her body. Her legs are bent and broken from the collision with stone, her face is sliced open and bleeding heavily. He turns off the torch and steps back.
In the distance he can see the hunters. They’ve set fire to the farm house and as it burns they're rounding up the horses, readying themselves for the second attack. He can't stay long. Knows that they'll catch up. And he can't take the girl with him. Her wounds are too severe. She'll slow him down and then they'll both die. He knows what he has to do.
The hammer cocks back with ease, the over/under aimed using one hand. At this distance he'll not really need to aim.
On the other side of the fence a horse screams out in pain, clatters its hooves off the hard, earthy ground. Man will deal with that soon.
He looks at the girl, writhing in pain. He knows that if he leaves her the hunters will ignore her. They want him too much. But their hounds won't ignore the girl. She'll suffer a horrible death unless he does it.
'I, I tried,' he says weakly. 'I really tried. I'm sorry.'
The trigger is squeezed with little physical effort. The booming roar of the firearm ends the girls screaming. It ends her suffering. He knows, deep down, that she is free now.
************************
The forest engulfs him like a black leviathan, swallowing him whole, swirling his world around in a centrifuge of wilderness. He can hear the hunters in the forest, their hounds scurrying through the undergrowth.
He reaches a tree, takes the leg of beef and hangs it from a low branch. He smears the horse blood from his hands and places his jacket on the flesh and then continues through the forest.
A tree appears out of the darkness like a giant, a wooden warrior of nature. The low branches are perfectly aligned for climbing. So he climbs. Hard and fast and recklessly, the shogun swinging from his shoulders. There are no more rounds for it. But they don't know that.
He nearly falls twice but eventually makes it to the top of the tree. He looks down, sees the torches nearing him. Hounds bark and men shout threats of obscene mutilations. They call him 'Baby Killer' and 'cunt' and tell him that they'll rape him before anything else. They move in a line, five lights, not as many hounds.
'He's nearby, lads! The Baby Killer is nearby! Let the dogs sniff him out!' It's Smith.
Man wishes he had one round left in the shotgun. He'd take aim and squeeze the trigger until Smith's head exploded in a gory, mulched pop. The others, well, he’s sure he’d give them a run for their money. He could take another one of their dogs, spend the time training it to be his companion. Already, he misses Hound.
He watches the lights and men and hounds turn, the beasts barking in rhapsodic bursts. He isn't certain but can only hope that they are heading towards the blood-smeared beef leg.
The branches of the tree jut out like accusatory fingers, tightly knit together in clusters of wood. Slowly, quietly, he manoeuvres his way around the tree, sits with his back to the hunters, legs dangling over the edge like a bayou hobo. In his right hand he holds the empty shotgun, in the left the karmabit. He realises that stuck up the tree, his only method of defence is to bluff using the shotgun. But that would prove ineffective.
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