Shadow and Sign

* a continuation of The Blinking Moon

Typically, a Beretta 391 makes its wielder feel powerful and safe. Typically, however, the wielder is the hunter. Not tonight.

The sun set over an hour ago and now twilight is fading into black. There's no moon tonight and he curses his timing. He had noticed the new moon symbol on the calendar before he left to come here, but was incensed from the local sheriff's decision to stop the search for his sister and her boyfriend. Even if he weren't, he's not sure if he'd have noticed the significance, anyway. But now, with three of his four rounds already fired from his 12-gauge and his ammunition box floating somewhere down a river - along with the rest of his pack - he's more than aware that he can't see. He can occasionally make out the silhouettes of the top of the trees, but most of the forest is too thick to navigate reliably via the stars. There was a brief consideration of staying put and walking out in the morning, but whatever is hunting him is clearly maneuvering him deeper into the woods.

Had he more ammunition, he'd fight such a manipulation. But he doesn't. And now he can't see.

He can, however, hear it growling. It seems to know the forest well, so well that it knows when sounds will bounce off of slight elevations in the terrain, almost random rock formations, and thickenings in the woods, making tracking by ear impossible. This is no surprise to him. Why wouldn't it, after all? This is its home. The old cliché applies here: the man is alien and intruder.

The river, he knows, is somewhere behind him. That he can barely hear the rushing water is good news. Without the ability to safely cross the rapids, the river is nothing more than a wall to be backed in to, and with one round left, being cornered is not something that appeals.

An owl somewhere reminds him that he's going to die.

***

All Hunting Permits Are Revoked Until Further Notice. The sign was hastily scrawled, probably by some young deputy whose usual job is answering telephones at the sheriff's station. It was placed underneath a professional sign that read No Hunting. One of those flip signs that forest rangers would drive around and open up when the season started.

His sister and her boyfriend had gone camping the week before hunting season would officially open. She was a bit of a nature lover and it was theorized that she might have confronted an early hunter, and such confrontation had turned ugly. But the blood and tissue that was found at her campsite suggested something else. A bear, maybe, or a mountain lion. Still, though local law enforcement has yet to release their findings publicly, something about the way they tried to describe the scene to him hinted that this was no animal, either.

He felt that they were being honest with him and was fine - as fine as he could have been - with letting the sheriff handle the search. But their cancellation of it changed his mind.

***

Sneaking past the rangers and the deputies was easy. There is just way too much land for a small sheriff's department and an even smaller forestry service detachment to cordon off. Finding the camp site had been easy, too. Investigators and rescuers had tramped their way to the tent and back out again. Plenty of foliage had been broken and stomped through. Indeed, finding the trail of the animal that might not be an animal was just as easy. Easier, probably. It had left sign everywhere.

It never even occurred to him that whatever it is had done so on purpose.

***

Its growl is terrifying. He's heard similar creatures, including wolves, but one can typically follow a wolf growl as it encircles a position. This one goes silent and reappears elsewhere, often behind him. There's been a few times that he swears he heard it coming from the trees above. Only a few hours ago, such a notion would have been silly to him, but now he's not so sure. He's not sure of anything. Including the wind.

Is it moving branches? Or is that a gentle breeze?

Were there more light he could've seen the shadow move, as innocuous or malicious at it is, but he's blind. There's only the sound of the shotgun blast. Then nothing, save an owl. The same one?

Another hoot again reminds him that he's going to die. He can only hope that the thing doesn't know his gun is empty.

***

Had he not succumbed to a heart attack in the middle of the night, he'd have discovered that he hit it. And that it isn't the only one out there. Had he made it back to his truck and checked his voicemail, he'd have learned that his other sister is on her way out to the woods. And is unarmed.

The Blinking Moon

The full moon stares at him. It seems larger than normal, its glow filling even his peripheral vision. He could be imagining things, fighting sleep as he is, lying on his back in the middle of some forgotten wood. Crickets vibrate their song in music halls among the trees, their melody a calming tune under a chilly breeze. This could be paradise, except that he is alone. He has no lover to steal an apple from a tree, not that there were any apple trees around. Just a beautiful moon and noisy crickets and sounds of a nearby river. Perhaps, in retrospect, that's why his back is wet. He knows it hadn't been raining and hadn't rained for some time, but his shirt bunches uncomfortably on his back the way wet clothes do. Is he on the riverbank? No, the sounds of water are too far away and he can't feel the bites of any mosquitoes. He can't feel or hear any bugs, save the crickets, for that matter. He is alone. Otherwise, this could be paradise.

***

It stares at the moon, so far away, with eyes of hate. If the moon were closer, it would knock it out of the sky. Pitch black was its domain, and light - the moon in particular - irritates it. Its prey had split up, irritating it further, and it chased the one with the stronger scent. Proud of itself, it prepares the body of the dead female for preservation, for it would not eat tonight. The Winter will be cold, it knows, for the wind had told it so. No water had fallen from the sky for many days and nights, but it knows that the wet was up there in the sky, just waiting. The wet would come down softly and brightly, which would infuriate it, but at least there would be something to drink through the frozen season. It licks its claws clean, tasting two different shades of blood. Had it struck the other? Memory is not its strongest suit, but one of the tastes clearly does not belong to the female. Dragging her back to its lair, it reminds itself that the hunt is not yet over.

***

He hadn't been alone, or so he is thinking. Wasn't she with him just a few hours ago? He closes his eyes, his gaze no longer transfixed on the moon that seemed to be watching over him. In its place he sees her smile, that special smile that somehow glowed in the dark. Yes, yes. She had definitely been with him. But where did she go? His mind is sluggish and he struggles to force it to remember what has happened since the Sun went down beyond the trees and the horizon. It was all planned out... the camping trip, the wine, the seduction... everything was going according to plan until she informed him that she was on her period. She had been embarrassed, but this was supposed to be their first time, and he wanted to go through with it anyway. Still, she hesitated, despite his aggressive advances and gentle embraces. He tried to blame it on her perfume, his lack of control. Yes, that was it. She was wearing too much perfume. The scent distracted him. Distracted him from protecting her.

***

Satisfied with the storage of the female's body, it heads back out into the woods, creeping more closely to the ground than it usually would do. It has lived long enough to know that the bright moon casts its shadow far enough to warn its prey of its approach. This is only one of the myriad of reasons that it hates the moon. Darkness is a comforting blanket to it, and the freedom that lack of light affords it is a drug that only primal instinct appreciates properly. With its nose to the ground, and then to the air, it decides to head to where the wet races the ground.

***

The moon is so giving, and yet asks nothing, only to watch as events below unfold in all their insignificant glory. He briefly considers a staring contest with it, wondering if the moon ever blinks. Laughing to himself, he shakes off his childish wonder and returns to listening to the crickets and the running water. But something isn't right... the water continues to rush, but where were the crickets? Reflexively, he turns his head to the side, hoping to spy some of the elusive insects, and sees nothing but the puddle of water he is lying in. More childish wonder as he ponders why the white moonlight makes the puddle appear red. This time, he laughs aloud, and decides to have that staring contest after all. He gazes intently, determined to prove once and for all that the moon does indeed blink. To his surprise, it does. The bright mirror of light replaced by a foul stench and two glowing, inhuman eyes. The celebration of victory that begins never finishes, as his Adam's apple is torn from his throat.

But at least he was not alone.