Jennifer Alexander

The Hunter’s Prey

 

 

The leaves rustled as the man’s weathered face peeked from behind the tropical bush. Everything here seemed more vibrant as if even the air was heavy with living organisms. The swamp rippled as if something just dove into it from one of the towering trees that grew throughout the lazy bed of water. Hank looked up through the tangles of Spanish moss to the broad boughs of the bone-colored trees.

 

He heard a scraping sound just above him. His rifle followed his crystal-blue eyes up to high branches of the tree he crouched under. An alligator inched across the nearest bough. The amber orbs of its eyes blinked down at Hank. Then the beast turned to stare ahead as if the man was nothing compared to the horror inside the swamp.

 

The alligators clung to the branches, staring down as if they were waiting for something to happen. He could see at least a dozen from where he hid. Hank got excited. He started hunting alligators at the age of thirteen and hadirteen and had g nk him and the  sting of his father' and seemed to speak to him and he understoonly saw this phenomenon once before about three years ago. The experience haunted him and he supposed it should. He watched a man drown that day. Hank caught a glimpse of something else too, something unbelievable, a creature of myth. As soon as he saw it, he wanted to kill it. This would be his greatest triumph. Hell, it would make him a god damn legend.

 

The surface of the muddy water billowed, stirring the layer of lime-colored algae that shrouded the swamp. For a moment the woods seemed to go silent as if even the trees were waiting with bated breath. Then a shrieking sound echoed through the surrounding forest and the limp body of an enormous alligator broke the surface of the milky, brown, water. As if they were outraged, all of the alligators leapt into the swamp.

 

There was a riotous commotion of splashing. Hank watched, not even daring to blink. He saw a human-like arm pierce the surface of the water. Then there were a series of screams, each one louder and more furious than the one before. The alligators floated to the top one by one. Their lifeless carcasses bobbed along like empty barrels down a river until an unnatural stillness fell over the swamp.

 

Hank could sense her even before he saw her. Her body barely caused a ripple as her head peeked out from beneath the veil of the blood-stained water. She could sense him too. Her pale eyes fixed on him. Her dark-green lips parted and the rich, sultry, sound that came out of them made him want to drop his gun. Him, of all people, he mused.

 

He never had a real job. Hank was always just the hunter, had been ever since childhood. He had the nerve to stare at bears and lions and still saw himself as the predator. The simple act of shooting his prey gave him a sense of peace like he was a part of something much bigger. He often said that “killin’ things was a heck of a lot like givin’ birth,” which is why folk usually left Hank to his own business.

 

Hank almost laughed as he felt the smooth, wooden, handle of his shotgun slip from his grasp. He never considered himself a terribly clever man but he never thought he would do something this stupid.  Try as he might, he could not help it. His will and his body seemed to have come to some sort of cataclysmic conflict, each one acting independent of the other.

 

Without any sort of permission from his brain, his body marched towards the creature. His foot sunk into the mud as soon as it pierced the water. Hank felt his leg tug upwards so vehemently that his feet slipped out of his alligator-skin boots. Slippery muck squished beneath his toes and gave way like a sponge sucking him in.

 

All the while, she swam towards him. He could see her sludgy black hair, slimy green skin, and pale golden eyes like something out of a nightmare. He caught sporadic glimpses of her spiny fins and massive tail. These were not the things scaring Hank right now. He was usually brave in the face of dangerous beasts but the way his feet were moving without his consent terrified him. He looked at the mangled bodies of the alligators and snakes and wanted to run the other way but her voice beckoned him nearer, as if she were actually saying, “Come to me.”

 

As they got closer, Hank could not decide whether the mermaid smelled like the swamp or the swamp smelled like her.  The air was humid and musty, ripe with the rich scents of minerals and decay. He saw the long outline of her piranha-like fangs as she closed in on him. This was it, the moment he had been waiting for. He should shoot her now but his gun lay on the shore. Besides, he felt overwhelmed by the desire to kiss her. In fact, he could not resist her. Hank convinced himself that it had something to do with the hypnotic tremor of her voice as if she were weaving magic with her music.

 

The mermaid’s slimy mouth was four inches away from him now. Her tail entwined around his legs like a giant snake. Hank felt her lips brush against his and he tumbled into ecstasy as his head sunk beneath the water.

 

His body did not return to his control but his will surrendered. He did not mind if the world ended here in this creature’s arms. He did not worry about the wife he was about to leave behind or the seven children he had fathered. He did not even care that he was drowning. None of it meant a thing when compared to the contentment locked within these few writhing moments.

 

He remembered scoring the winning touchdown and shooting his first deer. He thought about when he used to beat up kids for their lunch money. Hank remembered his childhood dreams and the bitter disappointments of reality. He thought of the sting when his father used to spank him and the bliss of his mother’s warm kisses. He tried to recall all the women he ever made love to and found he could not. He supposed he never really loved any of them.

 

It felt as if the mermaid was sucking these things out of him. A deep sense of relief swelled through him. He would be free of all of it in a moment: the past, the future, even the present.

 

At last, he searched for one last glimpse of her. She smiled. Her wide yellow eyes blinked and seemed to speak to him. He understood. He had not been hunting her for the past three years. He never stopped thinking of the first glimpse he caught of her. She hovered like a ghost on the edge of his thoughts. She was the being he whispered to whenever he was alone.

 

As he died, he understood his place in things. All this time, it was she who hunted him. It seemed so simple and logical. He did not happen to catch a glimpse of her that day. She chose him.

 

 

 

Jennifer Alexander is a fiction author with short stories published in Foliate Oak, Quail Bell, Fickle Muses, and Indigo Rising. She holds a Bachelor’s Degree in Psychology from the University of Houston.