The Hunter
by Andrew Nadolny
The smell of decomposition calms him- he breathes in deep, that sour
smell, that rotting meat in the humid air slowing the thump, the last
adrenaline dump falling away as another day bleeds away. So long as he
can catch the scent of decay, he’s safe.
The Hunters have no use for those already dead.
So he follows the bodies, the corpses a bloody breadcrumb trail that’s
yet to fail him, going alone, atoning for those he’s left behind but-
The living only attract death,
He remembers watching The Walking Dead, where head to toe they covered
themselves in blood and remains of those gone, the zombies’ sunken eyes
fooled by that disguise.
The Hunters aren’t tricked but their beasts aren’t as slick, and he
sticks a hand in his pocket flicking his lighter watching the flame,
the same fire that followed the first clean sweep, hoping he never
meets another soul ‘til London. His other hand slips between his lips
like figgy pudding licked. It’s a habit he acquired, dimmed in his mind
some time that blurs and whirs like an old computer.
Once he dreamt of being a winner like Nadal, but all that remains of
that dream is the silly affectation of a duffel bag, an old rag faded
with his picture, and a racket that couldn’t save a stray ball let
alone his life.
By tunnel he goes, knowing those were the first places purged, the
first trapped rats seeking to hide and now inside most sit piled half a
man high with bodies. Bones regurgitated back, still coated black in
the digestive fluids of the monsters, chunks of flesh torn out of the
throat especially where they tried to shout for anyone to save them but
he knows-
God doesn’t save rats from hungry cats.
The Summerhill tunnel is nearing collapse as his tracks lead him there,
a stare and a memory ghost of the lovely host who gave him the maps
before-
Well that isn’t important.
No more waiting, standing still, and anticipating the sounds or smells
of any other soul. He boldly goes inside, sliding past another rotting
wall of flesh, the fluids enmeshed in his clothes, another absent lick
of his sticky fingers as his feet land steady on the ground. He hears
the buzz buzz of flies in the rotting mouths and eyes, and
reaches for his lighter again when-
“Don’t.” he hears before he pops the top, and he drops it with a start.
His hearing, he’s been told, is better than most, and he was sure he
didn’t hear anything he should fear, but at the end of the world
turned, he’s learned that a man is as dangerous a monster as the
Hunters.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes deep keeping ready to run, whispering that he
can go a step back slow so-
“Go?” He hears a man, he thinks. His knee sinks with a bend so he can
turn and escape out the other end because- “Now that would be a
shame...” the hairs on his arm stand up at the buzz of conversation,
head fuzzy as he bites his finger licked clean again. “I’ve not had the
pleasure of such a lovely young man...”
A swallow- his stomach is hollow. The voice is surely mad, and he’s
glad he can run faster than any of them.
He knows he’s nothing to see and not good company now either and well-
“I’m sure you can smell me sir, and you should know you’re better as
one, for all I’ve done. It’s better you know, for me to go.”
“I assure you I’ve smelled none better but hereafter-” Laughter, as he
stands his ground listening for any other sound than a faint hissing,
nearly missing his mouth as he licks more blood from his hand.
“Right, and what a brilliant nose you’ve got, grandma. Better to smell
me with and all that.”
“No nose, as it goes,” and the man supposes that’s why the other prayed
for the dark to stay, though he’s sure that voice must be insane to
remain here. Lighter retrieved, he conceives that’s the reason the
voice didn’t want to be seen.
He keeps going, knowing that his sight only grows darker and the marker
of sibilance only increases but he ceases to be afraid as he’s made his
choice.
The voice still raspy, tells him it’s waiting, and that sense of warmth
from within prompts a tap of his chin and a sink of his knees as he
eases to the ground and crawls towards the sound. He doesn’t dare risk
a slip or a trip stripping away his best weapon so far- his runner’s
legs.
“You’re safe from the Hunters here in any case-” he cuts in, mouth with
a grin as the voice slithers around him like a serpentine blanket.
“It’s funny you think so when I know-” the voice begins.
“You know, like hell. They don’t like that death smell- don’t like
their food already dead. They’re wed to the fear like some old vampire
trope you hear, cause I think. . . that is they say the blood tastes
better.“
He chuckles dark as if there truly were a stark contrast to his own
oddly acquired addiction to that salty tang.
“Not just the blood, the meat,” agreement as he’s treated to another
rush of hot air the closer he grows. He knows he’s climbed over a few
more stiffs, quick to imagine if this truly were like World War Z
he’d be a fool to continue his climb when they could rise at any time
but-
He’s never thought to eat the meat and like some fated clockwork, a
jerk of his foot snaps free some fleshy bit that fits between his
parted lips nicely and he doesn’t know why he’s gone and done that when
they say cannibalism is a sin you can never return from, but it’s the
end of the world anyway and-
“Is it really the end?” the voice asks and he’s tasked with parsing the
question for a joke.
“What else would you call it if you woke to this one day?”
“I would say... the extinction of a single destructive species is
little obstruction to the world turning on-”
“So you’re one of those.”
“I suppose.”
“And so it goes,” he quotes with a sigh, pant leg snagged and he stops
before it drags knowing a cut could mean certain death. He heaves a
breath asking if the voice has a name?
“If it’s all the same you couldn’t say it.”
“Well I must call you something and it’s a sign of trust-”
“Trust is a treasure and it would give me no greater pleasure but-”
“Right, cut out my tongue and all-” and he didn’t think the wall was so
close, thinking there must have been a fall from the ceiling that sharp
something still pinning the jeans and it seems that he won’t be able to
pull it free.
“You catch on quickly-”
If he could only see perhaps he could work it loose as again he fails
and swears it’s like the end of a scorpion’s tail.
Until it releases and he ceases, sighing deep- those True Religion
jeans not cheap- finger sucked in his mouth again. He wonders not for
the first time if he might not get some sort of brain disease as he
eases closer still, hearing respirations loud like a furnace without a
light still no sight, rocks under his knees and-
“That’s close enough if you please.”
“I’m not gonna bite.”
“I might.”
“Alright.”
“You shouldn’t make light of these things.”
“It just brings to mind a funny thing- You see all these doomsday
movies where everyone comes together like Armageddon or Independence
Day and they play a rock ballad while everyone cries and some hero
dies. But really it’s just every man for himself and it’s shit and you
sort of just quit being a good person.”
When there’s no reply he doesn’t ask why, just continues to explain the
first time he found himself watching a family being devoured hiding,
and biding his time while he saw another man there just as scared. The
two of them stared each other down, and here he frowns and asks if the
voice might know what his thoughts were in that moment?
“I didn’t have some unwavering dream of saving them, my friend. All I
could think as I watched the Hunters drink, was that if we were found-
if they gave chase, I could use him in my place.”
He swallows, pulling knees to his chest a shaky rattle in his breath as
he continues in a whisper.
“You see I’m fast, so fast that in the past I might have been an
Olympic sprinter if I hadn’t loved tennis instead and it’s a dreadful
thing, but when you’re out there all you care about is staying alive
and to survive you don’t need to outrun the Hunters. . .” Softly
trailing off, thinking maybe it truly is only the two of them left,
because he’s outrun them all and the question then begs-
“Yesss,” he hears from so close to his ear that he closes his eyes even
in the dark, a shift in the voice harkening to something deep inside
that he thinks he’s been hiding from his entire life. “You do have
those long, beautiful legsss.”
And that’s when he feels the dancing brush to his pants, feels a ghost
over his shin, his skin prickling with pins as he slaps at it, the
invader gone. But it tingles on where it left.
“Was that you?” he asks though he thinks he already knew. “I mean I’m
flattered but if that was your hand-”
“You underssstand,” it says surprised, and though his eyes are
still blind he reaches out and wants to shout that of course he can
understand and it’s rude to just paw at people, end of the world or no.
He goes still when the skin in question isn’t skin but scales and his
nails scrape, his fingers curl, and his mind is a whirl when again that
hiss tells him that feels nice.
He should feel ice but it’s only a sort of exhilarated rush as his
fingers go to his mouth once more, reaching for that lighter knowing
what he’ll see when it flicks on this time. The chime of the Doomsday
clock long past for the world’s eternal night, as the voice warns again
not to turn on the light, and he only grins wicked stroking the serpent
harder, thinking perhaps ardor is the wrong feel should this be real,
and that he should be awfully afraid but-
“Don’t turn on the light, if you don’t want to run.”
His choice was made long ago, licking blood again from his mouth, heat
from his head to his feet as the light blinds his own sight just long
enough to think that as much of the blood, and as much of the
creature's secretions that’s he’s managed to drink and allow to sink
down his throat-
“Those who eat the food found in the underworld are cursed to that
place from that single taste.” His mother once said, as she read
him before bed some tale, and he’d only said in childish innocence. “But
what if the food is so good you can’t stop yourself, mummy?”
The ambient light kicks shadows off the wall, and all he can think of
the creature that writhes with those ebony scales is that surely he
pales in comparison to the beauty of the dark demon which rears up as
it appears in all its gory Hunter glory.
“I’ll run,” He says standing, mouthing at his palm already demanding
more of that taste, heart racing.
“I’ll catch you little one...” it promises drawing up the night,
shadows cast from that flickering handheld ember, and he thought he
remembered the Hunters stood no bigger than he. But if this is the true
form of that murderous swarm-
He feels warm.
“And what if you do?”
“Run, and you’ll see.”
“You'll never catch me.”
THE END
© 2020 Andrew Nadolny
Bio: Andrew Nadolny is writer and artist currently living in
Dayton. Andrew is proudly trans and when not running through the woods
or tearing up their kitchen, they enjoy writing short stories and
poetry.
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