Wendy Ogilvie
a mug of green tea
There he is. I see him. The mountain foliage cannot conceal
his large frame. Holding binoculars to his eyes he searches for his target. Does
he know that I’m just ten feet behind him I wonder? — No, he has no idea. He may
be a trained killer, but then so am I.
I sit perfectly still,
hidden by sub alpine trees and moist liverwort. A small branch brushes my neck
as it waves in the breeze; it tickles but I dare not move to scratch as any
movement could give me away.
His rancid breath - a mixture of
tobacco and strong coffee - has hitchhiked on the breeze and polluted the air to
my nostrils. Men like him being paid for murder is sickening. Anger rises within
me like bile and clutches the back of my throat. But I need to keep my hatred in
check. I need calm, clear thoughts if I am to get the job done.
He shifts position and
turns up the collar of his jacket. The breeze is stronger now. I saw his red
truck parked at the top of the ravine. I know it’s his, I’ve seen it drive past
on his way back from the mountain; heavy with the bodies of innocent victims. He
has been sent by Mr Davenport to do the job, but looking at him I can’t think
why he was chosen. He must be sixty years old with a ruddy complexion and two
days’ worth of whiskers. Not exactly sniper material.
I can hear him snorting. He spits
into the bushes and slowly lifts his rifle as he surveys the woodland in search
of his target; looking only forward, never behind.
I have an image of what his face
will look like when I shoot him. I picture a Krummholz: a tiny tree high in
these mountains gnarled and twisted from being sculptured by the wind. I smile.
It amuses me to think of what thoughts will be crashing through his mind. Don’t
assume I’m not scared, I have a family who relies on me, but for now, I need to
concentrate; there’s a sniper on the move.
Holding his rifle butted against his
shoulder, the hunter evacuates the safety of the bushes and carefully moves
forward. Each step is exaggerated as he lifts his boots over the thick
undergrowth. Slowly I rise from my hiding place. The hunter is in my rifle
sight. He is still scouring the woodland before him. How foolish he is.
Crack! A branch snaps
underfoot. The hunter turns sharply. His face resembles that of a deer caught in
headlights. How ironic. I smile and pull the trigger. Bang!
The bullet penetrates his right
shoulder, which he clasps with his left hand as his rifle drops to the ground.
He looks at me, his eyes wide.
“Why are
you …? He manages before I raise my aim once again. I step forward. He steps
back, quickly checking the ground behind him but not wanting to take his eyes
off me. He turns and runs. Just two steps on, he stumbles over some protruding
tree roots and struggles to keep upright.
“Please!” he shouts
between breaths. “I don’t know what…”
Still holding his wound, he tries to run faster but trips
over a log. I can smell gunpowder and fear — his and mine. His face is now
purple as he struggles to breathe.
Bang! I hit his left leg
just below his buttocks. Just a flesh wound. I feel a little guilty as his back
was turned but I’ll get over it. Adrenaline pumps through my veins like a
semi-automatic. The hunter is being hunted.
Slowing my pace enough
to reload, I see him. He is thirty feet away, leaning on a tree stump. Time to
end this now — I’m not cruel after all.
He looks up to see me moving towards him. “What do you want?”
His face is red and contorted. “Please don’t shoot.”
My heart is beating so loudly I hardly hear his pleas for
mercy. I don’t think mercy is a word he understands. The hunter pushes himself
away from the tree stump still clutching his shoulder and stands squarely before
me. Is he daring me to shoot?
Bang! The final
shot hits him in the chest. The hunter is knocked back off his feet. I feel a
twinge of sadness... killing should never be the answer but sometimes it’s
necessary. Still holding my rifle I carefully check his pulse. The hunter is
dead. Justice has been served.
I sling my rifle over my
shoulder and lay a tarp on the ground. Grabbing the lapels of his blood- soaked
jacket, I haul him onto it. He is incredibly heavy, probably 230 pounds, but I’m
strong and running on adrenaline. I can feel the cool air catch in my throat as
I stop for a second to rest. The rope I attached to the end of the tarp is
helpful as I drag my kill through the trees.
By the time I reach the
top of the ravine, I have discarded my jacket and grab the hem of my T-shirt to
release it from my sweat–soaked body. The breeze has dropped and the early
evening sun is filtering through the now steady leaves on the trees.
There it is, his truck, ‘Davenport Venison Meat Co’ is signed in black
along the cabin doors.
As I open the truck
door, the smell of warm body odour escapes. I move away quickly and look down at
my kill. This is going to be hard work.
Heaving the carcass inch by inch
into the driver seat, I stop to wipe my brow with his shirtsleeve. There, he’s
in. Now it’s time to dispose of the body. I lean across and release the
handbrake.
The truck is already parked on a slope and begins to move
easily towards the edge of the ravine, picking up speed on its way. Just as the
front of the truck tips over the edge, there is a crash, which echoes around the
space below. The truck bounces off the ravine wall all the way to the bottom,
about 1000 feet.
I stand with my hands on
my hips watching with a satisfied smile. The truck is on fire. A job well done I
think. As I walk away, I hear the explosion of the fuel tank finishing the job I
started.
On the drive home, there
is a rock song on the radio, which I can’t help but sing along to. As I pull
into my yard, my youngest son Tommy runs to greet me.
“Hey, Ma, we’ve been
playing in the tree house. What’s for dinner I’m starving?”
“We’re having your
favourite,” I reply, scooping him up into my arms. “Nut roast with home-made
coleslaw and cornbread.”
“I’ll get started, Ma,”
says my eldest daughter Suzie, who makes her way back to the house. As she
reaches the front porch, Suzie turns and looks me in the eye.
“How was the hunting?”
She mouths quietly.
About the author
Wendy has been a Personal Trainer for twenty years but has
always made time for writing. She is currently editing the sequel to her Chick
Lit novel Wandering on the Treadmill and completing her first thriller.
No comments:
Post a Comment