a short story by Ben Sloan

Nervous, yet full of anticipation, David made his last preparations. He had everything he needed loaded into the truck: his rifle (with the new, expensive scope -- he'd get that buck this year, by God), his twelve-gauge shotgun, four rounds for the rifle, and four slugs for the shotgun. He had considered replacing the latter with blanks, in case the plan should go in some way awry, but had decided against it. Not only would he have to go through the trouble of ordering them through the internet, but the presence of blanks in his "friend's" gun would almost certainly be noticed later -- a detail that could very easily ruin his best efforts at perfection.

The drive over to Kevin's house was about fifteen minutes long, and gave him plenty of time to stew in the emotions he had been stewing in for the past four weeks -- four weeks full of sleepless nights and false smiles, acid indigestion so bad he thought his insides must have been burning away completely. About three days after he had found out about It, he had started developing stomach ulcers. It, the event that had not happened once but thrice, was steadily wearing away inside his brain to the point where he was balancing on the brink of madness.

Not after today, though, he thought as he took one last drag on his cigarette and tossed it out the window. No, after today it'll all be better. He reached to pull another out of the pack in his shirt pocket, but it was empty. No surprise there, he had been smoking eight packs a day since he had found out. Thinking about that, how she had sounded when she told him about It, like It was something small and forgivable, almost insignificant, made him squeeze the steering wheel so hard his nails bit into the leather. The nail on his left ring finger tore completely off, leaving a bloody window into his open flesh. He didn't feel it; the pain he felt in his mind over saturated any he might feel physically.

He coughed hard as he pulled into the driveway and stopped. Leaning over, he spit a mouthful of blood into Kevin's yard. When he looked up, Kevin was coming out of his house. Covered head to foot in newly-bought camouflage, Kevin looked every bit like the yuppie he was at heart.

David smiled his best salesman's smile.

"You ready to kill your first deer, Kevin?"

"You bet I am!"

Kevin jumped into the passenger seat just as happy and naive as a newborn pup. David noted that Kevin was wearing a hunter's orange cap. That was a complication David hadn't counted on, but not one entirely unfixable. He shifted the truck into drive.

"I've been really excited about this whole thing," Kevin said. "How many did you get last year?"

David took out the cigarette he was smoking -- he had opened another pack -- and snubbed it out on the dash.

"Two." He said. But what he thought was two doe. Just like every other year: he shot his limit, but in females. He had never, in all his years of hunting, fulfilled his lifelong dream of getting a buck. There had been a time, when he was seventeen, that he had caught a glimpse of one -- what he thought was one, anyway. Sometimes he dreamed of that buck. Except in his dreams it wasn't anything normal; it was a massive beast of an animal that stood eight feet tall and looked at him with bright red eyes, daring him to try to shoot it. He'd wake from these covered in a cold sweat, gripping his pillow like a life raft. He wanted that buck, all right. Wanted it so bad he could taste it.

"It's the county limit." He added.

Kevin's eyes widened. "Hey, you don't think I'll get two this year, do you?"

David shrugged. "Anything's possible, I guess. Odds are you only get one, there aren't many around here any more. One thing I know for sure, though: If you get one, it'll be a doe. You can take that to the bank."

"Why is that?"

After lighting another cigarette, Dave responded. "Don't know exactly. What I do know is you wont see a buck around here. No one has in...oh, about ten years. But, like I said...this afternoon's rife with possibilities." With that last sentence, David's eyes lit up. Kevin didn't notice.

They drove in silence for a few minutes. David noticed his knuckles had turned white from squeezing the steering wheel; he forced himself to let up. He found his mind kept turning toward the guns in the backseat. Finally, just to get away from the steady throbbing inside his own head, he broke the silence.

"What do you say after we get done here, we head back to my place and have Sarah cook us up some dinner?" David eyed Kevin carefully, watching his response.

"Sure, sounds good."

Yeah, I bet it does, David thought. Then, on top of that: You sure are good, aren't you? Yeah...you play it nice and cool. David's knuckles had turned white again. They still were when he pulled into the grass next to the woods. It wasn't a very large piece of land, but it had been in his family for several generations now and David loved it. He couldn't think of a more appropriate place for this afternoon's festivities.

He stepped out of the vehicle and handed Kevin the shotgun. Holding it up to where Kevin could see, he showed him how to load and unload it. Pull the action back, drop the shell in, push the action forward and load the rest. So easy a preschooler could do it.

"Now," he instructed Kevin, "stay in the tree stand until the sun starts to set, then climb down, unload, and make your way over to the far corner, where I'll be in my stand. You got it?"

"Yep." Kevin didn't think to ask why they didn't just meet at the vehicle. How could David have ever befriended such an idiot?

"One more thing." David pulled a camouflage sock hat from his truck and handed it to Dave.

"Put that on instead of the orange hat. It gets cold up there."

Kevin wrinkled his nose. "But aren't I supposed to wear hunter's orange -- I mean, strictly, legally speaking?" Maybe he wasn't as stupid as David thought.

"Well, strictly yes, but no one really does. It's one of these stupid laws no one really cares about or enforces." Of course, this was completely wrong, but Kevin had no way of knowing.

"Oh, ok." He took the sock hat.

As the two men parted ways, David realized something that made him chuckle. I guess he really is an idiot after all, he thought. Didn't even notice I was wearing hunter's orange myself. His chuckle turned to outright laughter, and as he neared his tree stand, that laughter turned to a lunatic's cackle.

At the foot of the ladder, he unloaded his rounds from his weapon. Wouldn't want any accidents, now would we? The irony of the statement lead to another loud cackle, and he continued to laugh as he climbed up the ladder. Once there, he reached into his pocket for the bullets. Only one was there.

His heart stopped. One round? He must have dropped the others. Setting his gun on the seat of the tree stand, he climbed back down and searched the ground for his lost ammunition. He couldn't find anything. Cursing himself, he climbed back up the ladder. Once there, he loaded the one cartridge he had left into the rifle.

Doesn't matter anyway, he thought. I only need one shot to do what I need to do. The thought calmed him down, and he smiled as he lit a cigarette and waited for evening to fall.

The sun had just begun to set, and sure enough he heard footsteps. Peering through the scope, he spotted him. Kevin, looking tired and thoughtful, making his way though the brush. He was only about thirty-five yards away, and easily within shouting distance.

"Stop!" David yelled. Kevin stopped. He looked confused.

"Huh?"

David smiled. Something about the tone of his voice must've finally revealed what he was thinking, because Kevin looked more than confused, he looked downright scared.

"I said stop. Take another step and I blow you away." Kevin swallowed -- David could see it clearly through the scope. That swallow made him feel great.

"Let me tell you a little story, Kevin. It involves two people -- two very bad people. Do you know who those people are?"

Kevin tried to say something, but couldn't.

"I said DO YOU KNOW WHO THOSE PEOPLE ARE!"

Kevin took a step back. "N -- No."

"Speak up Kevin, I can't hardly hear you."

"I said no, I don't!" But the look on his face said he did. "Look David, it seems you're upset but --"

David's laughter cut him off. "Oh, Kevin, upset doesn't even begin to describe it. Do you have any idea what its like to have someone tear your whole world away, and smile in your face as they do it? You were my best friend Kevin. More than that, you were my only friend, aside from Sarah. But with that one act -- well, maybe I shouldn't say one, because who knows how many nights you kept my bed warm? -- you stripped both from me. You left me with no one, Kevin. No one, and no thing. Except for the rage...oh yes, the rage has kept me company quite well. And now, Kevin," David said as he let out another bray of insane laughter, "now I'll introduce it to you! We're gonna have a little hunting accident here, Kevin ... just another idiot who thought his friend was a deer!"

But oddly enough, Kevin wasn't paying a lot of attention to David. His mouth hung open, and he was looking somewhere off to the left. Confused, David turned his attention in that direction. His heart stopped. There, standing on the peak of a hill, was a buck. Not just any buck, the buck. The one from his dreams. The exact one from his dreams. Its rack stood atop its head like a pale tree that had set root in its skull, stretching lazily toward the sky. Its albino coat was brilliant in the failing sunlight, and sure enough its eyes were bright red, staring at him. Staring into his soul. The deer stood perfectly still, watching him with eerie calm.

Suddenly, David realized the agony of the situation. With only one shell, he had to make a choice. He could make himself forgive Kevin and take down that beautiful animal, or he could give in to the rage, that ever present rage he had felt since he learned of It, and get his vengeance on Kevin. All the while scaring away the most beautiful thing he'd ever see in his life.

After a moment's reflection, the answer came to him. Recognizing it immediately, he clicked his safety off, found his target, and fired.

Copyright 2007 Ben Sloan

Ben Sloan is a young writer who has accumulated a small (but growing) pile of rejection letters. He was recently published in an anthology called A Celebration of Young Poets. Contact him at christianninja =at= gmail.com.