The Butcher and the Wren(42)

“You heard me correctly.”

Her smile drops quickly. She pulls back and lets out a puff of incredulous breath.

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

He can almost feel his eyes darken as he bends down to slip the knife from its place on his ankle. He holds it up in front of him, inspecting it and admiring the moonlight bouncing off the blade. She is paralyzed where she sits, her eyes flicking from him to the weapon. He can see regret flash across her face like a movie trailer.

“Now, run!” He yells the last word at her, never once turning to meet her gaze as he does.

Out of his periphery, he can see her take off into the darkness as a choked sob escapes her mouth. He stands as well, giving her a moment before walking in her direction. There’s nowhere for her to go. He brought her to a dead-end trail, lined with swamps and completely surrounded by barbed-wire fencing. The parks department’s efforts to keep the alligators out has now locked her in with the real predator. Her options are to face him or swim.

He knows this place well. His father used to take him here often to hunt feral hogs when he was young. He was taught patience on those evenings that they spent together, waiting for hogs in this secluded playground. Somehow, they managed to carry out their illicit excursions without incident from local law enforcement. It’s a pleasant memory, watching over the swamp as night fell.

Hunting at night is a lesson in fear. It teaches you to control your instincts and accept the unfamiliar sounds that slither out from hidden places once the sun goes down. Night dwellers know that the silence is a myth. It is always loudest at night. He’s able to distinguish between each of the hundreds of different sounds that make up this nightly chatter. A real hunter can tune it all out to listen for its chosen prey. Tonight, his keen ears tell him he’s on the right path. Of course, he has no interest in hunting hogs now. He puts into practice the countless skills he honed out here with his father in a different way today. He’s since found a far more exciting prey.

Through the cacophony, he hears a twig snap to his right. He can tell that she has stopped running. He would be able to hear her running. He walks softly, allowing the earth to absorb every step before placing the other down. He smiles as he strides.

“Calm down, Tara! Did you know that the meat actually tastes worse when the animal displays extreme fear before slaughter? Something about the lactic acid breakdown.”

He hears her stifle a sob. Her breathing has become loud enough to make out clearly over the din.

“Oh, Tara. I don’t want to eat you!” He laughs now, stepping over a fallen branch. “It’s interesting though, right? Do you think we’ve even tasted meat at its finest? After all, how could any animal be completely serene before its death? You’re enjoying my little fun facts, aren’t you, Tara?” He yells into the darkness when he reaches her name.

She’s running again. He can hear her take off through the brush. He hears her stumbling footsteps and ragged breath move farther away from him. Her panic is detectable even in the murky darkness that surrounds them both. He breaks into a sprint too. He lets the branches whack his face as he sails through the familiar terrain and enjoys the unbridled rush of an old-fashioned chase.

Ahead of him, Tara might as well be blind. He can hear her stop and start several times as she attempts to navigate the pitch black that spills out in front of her. Endless minute noises give away her location. Then, suddenly, the commotion stops. He stops with it. He stands in the middle of the trees and listens. She’s hiding, he assumes. She doesn’t know yet that he knows these woods well. He knows where a scared little piggy would take cover. He breathes in the crisp night air and tilts his head back to look up at the sky. It is vast and clear, framed by the cypress tree branches that reach out to cradle it.

He pulls the night-vision glasses from his pocket and allows his eyes to adjust. He also learned from his father to use thermal imaging equipment to stalk alpha predators that similarly reveled in the night once the last bit of light slid beneath the horizon. His world is green and focused now. A wall of trees stretches out in front of him, punctuated by small swampy areas and natural rock formations.

“Tara!” he calls out, shattering the silence. “I can see everything, Tara. If you try to run again, I will shoot you.”

He’s lying. There is no gun in these woods. He says this to increase her panic. He’s accelerating her fear response, strong-arming her amygdala into sounding the alarm that something threatening is nearby. He has to wait only a few seconds before her hypothalamus will trigger her sympathetic nervous system into giving away her hiding spot. Her heart is beating faster now, lungs opening to suck in as much oxygen as they can, increasing her alertness but creating much more noise as her breathing quickens. He focuses on that breathing now. He begins to follow it. He imagines her crouching in the muddy forest, trying to ignore the creatures that make their way onto her bare legs uninvited. It’s got to be torture for a girl like her. She’s been ripped completely out of her element and fully immersed in his.

He gazes at his surroundings through his glasses. Everything in his view is cast in a sickly green hue, but to Tara it’s as dark as the inside of an executioner’s hood. He moves, called by her breathing as it becomes choked and frantic. She can hear him coming toward her, but she can’t see him, no matter how hard she tries to focus her eyes. She can feel the fear take over her body like it’s replaced the blood in her veins.