40

 

It lay in a clump of bushes, listening to the sound of its own breathing, and to the sounds of life in the surrounding woods.  It received the sounds and separated them, storing them for later identification.

It was tuning its senses.

Ever since it had emerged from the water, changes had been taking place within the creature, changes it could feel but not understand.  The longer its vascular system, its heart and its brain were infused and nourished with the blend of oxygen and nitrogen that was air, instead of hydrogen-dominated water, the more it seemed to comprehend and remember, and the greater were its abilities to innovate.

As its chemistry altered, so did its life.

It knew, for example, what it had once been.  Its mind could put names to various objects and animals, though its voice could not yet articulate them.  Words of all kinds caromed around in its brain, words that generated memories of emotions as diverse as anger, hatred, pride and elation.

It sensed the magnitude of its own strength, and recalled — however dimly — the pleasure it had derived from using that strength.  It recalled other pleasures, too, from wielding power, inflicting pain and causing death.

It had build itself a shelter by digging a shallow trench and covering it with leaves and branches.  So far, it had remained undetected, except by a curious dog, which it had killed and eaten.

It had learned that it could not pursue and catch most of the animals with which it shared the wild, but it was beginning to teach itself how to trap them.  Still, it was not able to feed itself enough to satisfy its enormous, and growing, need for energy.  As its strength grew, so did its demands:  the more energy it expended, the more it needed; the more it needed, the more it had to expend to fill the need.

It had become acutely actively, not reflexively, cautious, knowing what to avoid and what to confront, what was harmless and what dangerous.

Though past and future remained fog-bound landscapes, patches of the fog had begun to lift, and it now had a goal: to fulfill its mission of annihilation.

It rested now, hearing the calls of birds and squirrels, footfalls of foxes and deer, the rustle of wind through the trees, the slur of little waves on the nearby gravel strand.

Suddenly, new sounds:  clumsy treads, heavy and careless, through the underbrush.  And voices.

It rolled to its knees, then onto the balls of its feet, and looked through the bushes toward the sounds.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

"Hells bells!" shouted a young man named Chester, rubbing his leg.  "I like to broke my foot in the chuckhole."

"Then look where you're walkin’" said his friend Toby.

"I still don't see why we hadda come alla way out here."

"Like I told you:  it's where the critters are."

"It's private property, too."

"I been here a million times, they don't give a shit."

"Yeah, then why's all them ‘No hunting, get your ass outta here’ signs?"

"Insurance," said Toby, who had already turned seventeen and thus possessed two months more wisdom than Chester.  "They gotta have ‘em."

"Well, they sic the cops on us, it's you stole that friggin’ thing, not me...  don't think I won't tell ‘em."

"You helped."

"I watched."

"Same difference."

"Anyhow," Chester said, "I don't know what makes you think you can hit a friggin’ raccoon with a friggin’ crossbow."

"It said on the box:  accurate to fifty yards.  ‘Sides, maybe we'll see a deer instead."

"Oh, no, you don't.  You shoot a deer, it's outta season and I'm outta here."

"Don't be an asshole."

They walked on for a few more yards, until they came to a big tree growing amid a tangle of thick foliage.

"Perfect," Toby said, and he stepped into the foliage and made his way around to the far side of the tree.

"That's poison ivy," said Chester.

"You got long pants on."

"What's perfect about it?"

"Chestnut tree.  They'll come right to it, they love chestnuts."

"What does?"

"Critters... all kinds."

"A lot you know."

"Shut up."

They knelt behind the tree.  From a quiver at his waist Toby took a steel-pointed graphite bolt, eighteen inches long.  He set the butt of the crossbow on the ground, pulled back the drawstring, cocked it and fitted the bolt into its slot.

"How's that thing fly true with no feathers?" asked Chester.

"The slot here makes it spin like it's rifled."

"The tip's not even barbed."

"Neither's a bullet, shithead.  A thing's got enough force behind it, it'd prob’ly kill a rhino."

"Or a jogger.  That'd be a fine one to explain to the—"

"Shut up, I tell ya!"

Chester stayed silent for a moment, then whispered, "So, whadda we do now?"

"Whadda hunters always do?  We wait."

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

There were two of them, one fatter than the other, both slow and vulnerable.... but apparently armed, though with what it did not know.  it watched, waiting to see what they would do.

They did nothing, only squatted in the bushes.

The bird noises had stopped, and the squirrel sounds.

It moved slowly to its left, until it had a clear path toward them.  It would take them easily, first one then the other, and drag them back to its den.

The fat one first.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

"What was that?" Chester said.

"What was what?"

"A noise, back of us."

Toby turned and looked, but saw only bushes.  "Forget it," he said.  "We're the hunters here, you think something's gonna sneak up on us?"

"I hate woods," Chester said.  "I... Toby!"

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

The fat one had seen it, was looking at it, pointing at it, making a noise.

It sprang from the underbrush, took two swift strides and was upon the fat one.  It dug one set of claws deep into the fat one's chest, the other into his scalp and eyes, bent his head back and, with its teeth, ripped at its throat.

The fat one died quickly.

It turned to the other.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

"Oh God... oh Jesus... oh God... oh Jesus..."

Toby staggered backward.  Something had Chester, something huge and grayish white, and blood was flying everywhere because... oh God, oh Jesus... the thing was eating him!

Toby's back struck the trunk of the tree.

Now the thing was turning toward him.  It had yellowish hair and steel teeth and eyes as white as cue balls, and it was bigger than Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Toby jerked the crossbow up and held it in front of him, and he tried to say something but no words came out.  He pulled the trigger.

The crossbow bucked as the graphite bolt flew from its slot.  He saw the bolt hit the thing and sink in, and there was a little squirt of what looked like blood.

But the thing kept coming.

Moaning in terror, Toby dropped the crossbow, wheeled around the tree trunk and ran.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

It felt a burning sensation in its side, below its ribs, and it looked down and saw something protruding from its flesh.  It wrapped a hand around the thing, pulled it from its flesh and cast it away.

It was not badly wounded, none of its vital functions were impaired, but the pain slowed and distracted it.  It stopped and watched the human blunder away through the bushes.  It returned to the fat one, intent on dragging him back to its den.

Then, for the first time, it experienced foresight:  the other human might come back, return to hunt it.  With others.  It was in danger, it would have to make a plan.

It sat down against the big tree, willing its brain to work, to project, to sort, to innovate.

Its main priorities were clear:  to staunch the flow of blood, to survive.  From the floor of the forest it gathered leaves, and moss from the trunk of the tree, and it crushed them and packed them into the wound.

To nourish itself, it used its claws to cut strips of flesh from the fat one; it consumed them.  It ate as much as it felt it needed, then forced itself to eat more, until it sensed that another bite would trigger regurgitation.

Now, it knew, it must escape, and find a different, safer place.

It arose and walked to where the trees ended at the shoreline.  It stood in the shelter of the trees, to be sure it was alone, then it entered the water.

It could not submerge, but it could swim; it could not feed in the sea any longer, but it could survive until it reached different land.

As it had become aware of its past, now it was beginning to fathom a future.