Murderers

He waits.

He watches.

He listens.

The forest is filled with sounds, and he alone is silent.

They’re after him.

He knows they’re coming when the birds stop singing, and the squirrels stop chattering, and even the brook seems to hush.

He flees.

His feet falter on the rocks, but he doesn’t notice.  He takes to the water; they have dogs, and he must throw off the scent, if he wishes to live.

The forest begins to thin, and he sees the mountains.  He knows they mean safety, and freedom, and home.  His family waits for him; to join them, he must take the pass through the mountains.

To get to the pass, he must cross the meadow.

Open space.

Danger.

Death.

He is more than halfway across when he hears the crack, like thunder, like when lightning strikes the trees.

“You get him?”

“Yup.  That flea-bitten bastard won’t be bothering the deer now; that’s for sure.  We’ll skin him up and sell the hide, but the meat’s no good.”

“We’ll have to bury it so we don’t draw more of ‘em in, right, Pa?”

“No, boy.  Give it to the hogs.  Hogs’ll eat damn near everything.”

The man and the boy are halfway to the body when the boy gasps. “Look, Pa.”

A she-wolf stands on the hillside.  She lets out one mournful howl, and she is gone.

“She sounded…sad, Pa.”

“It’s a wolf, boy.  Bastards don’t feel anything but hungry.”

The man skins the wolf, and the boy dumps the body for the pigs.