The Hunter

Two A.M. He was hungry. He needed to hunt.

A cat’s silent grace was employed as he rose, dressed in the dark, and collected his gun and pocketed it. Lights off, he poured and drank water. Hood up, he slipped out of his place, down the steps and into the city night.

The city was never completely quiet, but on nights like this, pockets of sounds and silence drifted through the streets. He enjoyed these sounds. They were his compass. He didn’t want silence; he wanted sound. So he walked, his long legs carrying him silently forward, following the pockets of sounds with his head down, avoiding the cones of light buildings and streetlights threw down.

After he’d walked long enough, a period announced as acceptable by an internal clock, he stopped in the middle of a sidewalk a short distance from a corner. This would do. Hands in pockets, he slipped back until his back gently leaned against the building behind him, and waited.

It didn’t take long. A man came by. He didn’t where the man was going, nor anything else. Still until the other was almost upon him, he said, “Hey,” as he slipped the gun out of the pocket. The man looked at him, but the gun didn’t registered until he’d fired three shots. He was experienced – it was his third time – and the man was unprepared. His prey want down, mortally wounded. A fourth shot into the other’s head finished the deal.

Returning the weapon to his pocket, he put his hood down and walked off. As he found orientation and direction, he pulled a wet towel package out of a pocket and cleaned his hands. He was hungry. Now that he’d hunted, he needed to eat.


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