The Hunter
by Michael Valentour

It was hard to believe the rest of the world used to be just like this. Miles of forest, regardless of the direction you looked. Of course, there were still places like this, places you could go and get lost among the trees and the rest of nature. Forget that a world outside of it exists with its rules and laws and ethics.

It was simpler out here. You either ate, or you were eaten. If someone wronged you, you settled the score. No lawyers. No judge. No due process. Just blood and bare knuckles and teeth.

It was dark; the campfire crackled, spitting black smoke and the occasional piece of ash that threatened to burn the forest down, and probably would’ve if everything wasn’t wet from the rain. That was living in Washington.

I was close enough to see it, to smell it, but not feel its heat or bask in its light. That was for the man who had built it. I’d been watching him for days now, following him as he made his way south, waiting for the right time.

The next morning, after he’d cleaned up his campsite and started along a well-worn hiker’s trail, I decided that time was now. I outpaced him and circled back, walking the same trail in the opposite direction until he came into view. I saw him first but pretended not to notice until we were right up on one another. He waved first. I returned one in kind. He didn’t recognize me, and that’s the way I wanted it.

“Nice morning out, isn’t it?” I asked.

He nodded, his body rigid. I imagined that was in part from sleeping on the forest floor for five nights; I felt the same way. But he was also probably suspicious. I would’ve been if I were him.

“Haven’t seen anyone else out here,” he said, a statement with an implied underlying question.

“Yeah, I know. Rainy season. Only the dedicated tough it out. Name’s Teddy,” I lied, extending a hand.

He hesitated for a moment and then shook it. His grip was firm, but his hands were soft without a single callous. They were the type of hands I had expected. The type that were capable but rarely put to work. The hands of a coward.

“Steven,” he said, but I knew damn well that was a lie, too.

“Good to meet you, Steven. Heading south?”

He nodded.

“Whereabouts you from?” I asked.

His entire demeanor changed. It was subtle, but very real. A nervousness. He didn’t like me asking questions, prying. Part of me knew this, but I couldn’t help the urge to push it. Boding him, daring him to try. I could promise it wouldn’t go the way he expected. Not with me.

“Well,” I said, taking his failure to answer as a social cue to move on. “Don’t let me keep you—” I stumbled on my way past him, landing awkwardly. I immediately grabbed at my ankle, pulling my knee to my chest and wincing. I really had to sell it.

“Shit, you okay?” he asked, seemingly genuinely concerned.

“Yeah,” I said, which was the truth, but I didn’t want him to know that. I held out my hand, asking him to help me to my feet. I tried to put pressure on it. It felt fine, but I tumbled over again, acting like it was the worst pain I’d ever experienced, cursing up a storm.

“It’s fine. Go on. I’ll be okay,” I said.

“We’re miles from anywhere out here. You won’t make it on a bum ankle. Let me help you,” Steve said.

So, I let him. He braced my ankle with sticks and twine and shouldered me as we hiked the trail. We did this all day. I slowed him down tremendously; I even felt him getting agitated, but my continuous praise kept him from leaving me behind.

That night, we set up camp a few miles south of where I fell. Another fire. Only, this time, I could feel its warmth on my skin. See the images of those long gone, dancing in the flames reflected in his eyes. See his shadow sway, the movements mirroring the violence that his own body could do, wanted to do.

He slept on a sleeping bag, on his back, arms folded across his chest, hat down over his face. When the rise and fall of his chest told me he was asleep, I crept over to him, looking down at him. For a second, I reconsidered my choice. But only for a second. The next, I was on top of him, hands wrapping around his throat, the way I was sure his had wrapped around hers, around my sweet girl’s.

He awoke suddenly, eyes bulging, confusion and panic inside of them, his arms flailing, attempting to fight back and free himself, but it was useless. My hands were hard, callouses aplenty. Once I had ahold, there was no escaping.

Finally, his body shuddered and then went still. I released him, feeling a weight lift from me. A relief. Not just knowing the man who was out here searching for me, trying to get justice for what I did to his daughter, would no longer be a concern, but the same temporary relief I always felt after strangling the life out of someone. The itch freshly scratched. It wouldn’t last, I’d have to scratch it again, but for now, I was at peace.

I don’t know why he thought he was the good guy here. Before I took his daughter away from him forever, she’d told me about the times he’d strangled her. Abuse tends to drive girls like that into the arms of a stranger more easily than any lies or promises I can offer. Maybe it just depends on how you look at it. After all, she ran away from him and to me. Either way, there was no going back for any of us.

BIO

Michael Valentour is a proud IVF dad and a dog dad who enjoys dog walks, bookstores, too much coffee, and cherishing moments with his partner. He writes fantasy, horror, and thriller novels. He was born and raised in rural Tennessee in poverty. He currently lives in Indiana with his legally blind wife. He is honing his craft while being a stay-at-home dad and advocating for mental health awareness, having struggled with his own.