“Good Hunting”

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Devin O’Leary

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            My father hates buying a turkey at the store for Thanksgiving. He always goes on and on about the hormones and antibiotics the industrial farms pump the turkeys with, claiming the chemical cocktail is causing cancer in the people who eat them. So logically, the only solution to combatting turkey-induced cancer is to go into the woods behind the house and hunt the wild turkeys that live there. For the last three years, he goes out the day before Thanksgiving, shotgun tucked under his arm, and spends the day finding “just the right one” to bring home for my mom to clean and cook. This year, my seventeenth birthday happens to fall on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and my father told me I was going to go hunting with him to “become a man”.

            I woke up to my father violently shaking me. His massive hand gripped my shoulder tightly like he was trying to put his fingers through the bone.

            “What the hell is your problem?” I shouted angrily.

            “I told you that you’d become a man today. Get dressed and meet me downstairs,” my father said, walking out of my room.

            I sat up in bed, letting the anger recede as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Looking out of my window I could see that it was still dark. A soft light emanated from the horizon, crossing the sky over the trees. I grabbed my phone from my nightstand and checked the time. It was 6:30 A.M. He woke me up at the literal crack of dawn on my birthday.

            After pulling on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, I made my way downstairs. Usually, my mom would greet me with birthday bacon and pancakes, the kitchen table decorated with balloons and a birthday themed table runner. My father’s rendition lacked her flair. An empty bowl, a box of Cheerio’s, and a half gallon of milk were placed in my spot at the undecorated table. My father sat at the head of the table with his army green canvas rifle bag resting against the back of his chair.

            “Eat quickly. If we leave soon, we’ll catch ‘em just as they're starting to wake up,” my father said.

            “Good morning to you too,” I muttered, pouring myself a bowl of cereal.

            “What was that?” my father asked.

            “I said ‘I’ll eat as fast as I can’.”

            “Your mother put a couple of those energy drinks you like in the fridge for you. Grab one before we head out, you look like you’ll need it.”

            “Where is mom?” I asked.

“She’s still in bed. I told her to sleep in since you’re coming with me this year,” my father said.

I quickly scarfed down my cereal and placed my bowl in the sink. As I was putting the milk away, I found the energy drinks my mom left me. On one of the cans, there was a post-it note that said, “Good luck! Happy hunting” with a heart. I carefully peeled the note off, put it in my back pocket and popped the tab on the drink. After the first sip I felt the surge of caffeine pulse through my system, washing away the remnants of my exhaustion.

            “Alright, let’s go,” my father called from the door.

            I went and grabbed my boots from the hall closet, slipped them on, and met him at the door.

            “Now let’s go get us a bird,” my father said, smiling as he slung his rifle bag over his shoulder.

            The path into the woods that my father used for his annual hunting trip started at the tree line that bordered our property. Some of the trees were nearly bare from the cool air and shorter period of daylight that accompanies autumn. However, the trees that still had leaves radiated with vibrant colors. Shades of red, yellow, and orange danced overhead as the crisp morning air blew through the branches. Frost that had collected on the leaves during the night reflected the first rays of the rising sun, causing the canopy overhead to shine with an autumnal radiance. The sounds of birds chirping rang out from all around the woods. I may have been forced to wake up early, but this trek through nature almost made up for it.

            After hiking the trail for an hour, we came across a wooded clearing. I was taking a sip of my drink when my father shot me a look.

            “What? I didn’t even sip that loud,” I said.

            “Keep your voice down. I thought I heard something,” my father said, bringing his finger to his lips.

            I lowered my drink and concentrated on the sounds around me. I heard the rustling of branches in the wind, but that was it. The calls of the birds I had heard before were strangely absent. It was too cold for the insects to be out and I couldn’t even hear the squirrels running through the fallen leaves. We cautiously took a few steps forward, toward the opposite end of the clearing, listening intently. I began to hear a faint scraping, like something heavy was sliding across the forest floor. Then I heard grunting and the rustling of leaves. My father and I shared a puzzled look.

            “Are there bears out here?” I whispered.

            “No. The biggest things that live out here are deer and I’ve never heard a deer grunt like that,” my father answered.

            “I think we should turn back,” I said.

            “Like I said, the biggest things out here are deer. If whatever made that sound is a bear, we need to make sure and call it in when we get back,” my father said.

            When we got to the edge of the clearing, my father cautiously took his rifle bag off his shoulder and placed it on the ground. The scraping sound had stopped, but the rustling of leaves grew louder, like something was rooting around in them. Carefully he unzipped the bag, his 20 gauge shotgun shining in the sunlight. At the tree line, I hid behind the wide trunk of an oak tree. After placing my drink can on the ground, I slowly peeked my head around the tree. My hands were trembling, sweat poured from my forehead, and my heart felt as though it would burst from my chest. What I saw made me sick.

            Fifty feet away from my tree, a man was scooping up leaves from the ground and dumping them over a woman. The man was tall, skinny and dressed like he was out jogging. He had a navy blue hoodie with the hood pulled up and black sweatpants. Despite the leaves covering most of the woman’s torso and legs, I could tell she was naked. She laid on her back, arms outstretched with her long, blonde hair fanned out across the dirt. Her eyes were open, fixed on the sky above, but they were unblinking. A strong gust whipped through the canopy, pushing branches aside and allowing sunlight to shine on the woman’s face. Her skin was a sickly pale, almost gray, color. Those unblinking eyes were milky white, partially rolled up into her head. Flecks of blood stained her cheeks and jawline, forcing my gaze down to her throat. A grotesque laceration spanned the length of the neck, so deep that pieces of white bone glistened through the ravaged tissue.

            Horrified at the scene unfolding before me, I took a step back, my foot landing on my drink can. The crunch of the aluminum rang out, echoing through the trees. The man’s head whipped around to the direction of the sound, my direction. We locked eyes and he smiled at me.

            “Hey! What the fuck are you doing!?” my father shouted.

            My father racked the shotgun, aiming it at the killer in front of us.

            “Don’t you fucking move,” my father ordered.

            The man stared back at my father and continued to smile.

“Hey, this isn’t what it looks like,” he said, taking a step towards us.

My father fired a shot over the killer’s head, into the canopy above.

“What did I say? Don’t move,” my father shouted.

            He pumped the forearm of the shotgun again, aiming at the killer once more.

            “We can talk this out. Maybe we’ll come to an understanding,” the man said.

            He took another step towards us, still smiling. My father pulled the trigger, but the gun didn’t fire. It just clicked. He looked down at the gun and tried to pump the forearm. It wouldn’t budge. The man’s smile grew as my father desperately tried to pump the shotgun. The distance between us and him was becoming smaller and smaller. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a large black knife handle. With a flick of his wrist, the six inch steel blade folded out and locked into place.

            “Alex, run!” my dad shouted as he flipped the shotgun in his hand.

            He took a step forward and swung the shotgun like a baseball bat, making contact with the killer’s head with a satisfying crack. The man was sent reeling, causing him to fall to one knee. His smile never faltered.

            I was paralyzed with fear. My legs wouldn’t listen to me. My dad turned to me, shoved me backward, sending me to the ground on my ass.

            “Alex, please. Start fucking running,” my dad pleaded.

            He turned back to the man, who was back on his feet, and swung the shotgun again. The stock collided with the man’s shoulder, forcing him to release the knife.

            Scrambling to my feet, I took off across the clearing. When I reached the trail that led back to the house, I looked back to see if my dad was following. He was running in my direction, shotgun in hand. The killer was laying on the ground at the opposite edge of the clearing. It looked like my father knocked him out, but I couldn’t see his eyes. My dad caught up to me and we began running down the trail together, we had to get home.

            We didn’t stop running until we could see the house through the trees. Dad and I fell to the ground, sucking in lung-fulls of air. My legs pulsed with pain, my feet were numb. Running for that long caused my legs to cramp up, sending hot jolts of pain from my calves all the way up my hamstrings. My dad helped me up and put my arm around his shoulders to help me the rest of the way. When we were walking up the path to the door, I remembered my mom’s note. She gave us the luck to get out of there unscathed. I reached into my back pocket to fish out the note, but it wasn’t there. My heart began pounding again, my stomach dropped as my mind formed a horrifying thought.

            “Dad, the note mom left me is gone!”

            “Really, Alex? We got attacked by a psycho and that’s the thing you’re worried about?”

            “What if he has it?” I asked.

            “So what if he does? It doesn’t have anything like our address on it. Be happy that’s the only loss of the day.”

            We walked through the door and my dad quickly ran up the stairs to get his phone. My mom rounded the corner of the kitchen, beaming with her usual bright smile.

            “There’s my birthday boy!” my mom cheered, “I wasn’t expecting you to be back until after lunch.”

            Mom wrapped me in a tight hug and I finally felt safe. I hugged her back and relief flowed through me, tears welled in my eyes. My mom looked at my face, saw my tears, and a concerned look flashed across her face.

            “What’s wrong honey?” she asked.

            Before I could answer, my dad bounded down the stairs.

            “Alex, the cops are going to be here in ten minutes. We’re both go-”

            “Cops? What the hell happened out there!?” mom said, cutting my dad off.

            My dad and I looked at each other, took a deep breath, and told mom the whole story. The body, the man, and the fight. As my mom listened to the story, her jaw dropped and her eyes brimmed with tears.

            “You two could have been killed!” she cried, “God knows what would have happened if you couldn’t fight him off. This is why you bring your damn phones!”

            “All that matters is that we got away and the cops are involved,” my dad said.

            “Could he have followed you?”

            “When I got away, he was unconscious. There’s no way he could have seen what direction we were going. I kept his attention on me as Alex got away. Every cop in town is going to be in the woods or here getting statements. We’re all good.”

            “Next year, we’re buying a turkey at the damn store,” mom said, wrapping me in a hug once more.

            Ten minutes later, three police cruisers pulled onto our property. Two officers came to the house to talk to dad and me while the rest made a beeline to the trail leading into the woods. The rest of the day was a blur of talking to officers, telling and retelling my story, and answering all kinds of questions about the man and the woman whose body he was disposing of.

            Finally after hours of talking to police, they left for the night after promising my mom that there would be a regular patrol by the house every half hour. My mom ordered a pizza, not the most glamorous birthday dinner, but welcome after the day we had.

As we were sitting at the table, digesting our pizza before cake, I looked at the back door. Something was stuck to it. I went and opened the door to see what it was. As I looked, my heart leapt into my throat. It was the post-it note my mom left for me that morning, except two words were crossed out so it read, “Good hunting”. The note shaking in my trembling hand, I walked past the table and peered around the corner of the kitchen. A man with a familiar, demonic smile stood at the front window, then the lights went out.

 

 

     Devin O’Leary is a student studying math and chemistry at Kean University in New Jersey. Despite being a STEM student, he has a love of reading and a passion for writing.

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      Luke Lester is an artist and writer from Victoria, Canada. He has recently been published in Absolute Underground, Black Petals, Flash Fiction North, Paragraph Planet, Ultramarine Literary Review, and Yellow Mama. More of his art and writing can be found on his blog: The Other Place.