Excerpt from “The Kill Trophy”
Rueger reached out and grabbed the fat man by the arm to get his attention. “From that king stone they can see far. And what they see, they rule."
But the hunters moved right to the edge of the clearing, and Rueger spotted Jafee as she slept.
"There, Davenport, see? We’ve caught a break. Look across the clearing at the edge of the tall grass."
"I don't see . . . yeah, I see it now. It's a sleeping lion."
"Lioness. There's no mane. But, she's a beauty, anyway. Something to appreciate before the kill."
"Is it okay to kill her as she sleeps? I mean, there's no law against it, is there?" asked Davenport.
You fat bastard, thought Rueger. "Well, we don't generally do that. It's not considered sporting to . . . but sure, why not? The results will be the same any way you do it. Only thing is . . . she's probably pregnant. Spring is the time of year for it. Pull the trigger on her and you'll be killing four or five of them."
"What's the difference? Hey, shit happens even in the jungle, don't it?"
Rueger wondered if he could shoot him and get away with it. After all, though he had never killed a lion, he had killed a human being. They always say it's easier the second time. A .30 caliber through the skull would straighten Davenport out, and it would straighten out a lot of things in Rueger's life, too. It was an accident, he would say. I tripped on a tree root, and the damned thing just went off, he would say. Shit happens, even in the jungle, he would say. But he took a deep breath and managed to push away the dark thoughts.
"Yeah, I guess. I guess so. But, you'd better get a little closer unless you're a much better shot than I am."
Davenport was dry, parched. His mouth felt like cotton. He took a swig of gin from his belt flask. Not his first one today either, Rueger noticed.
"After all the money, the time, and the preparation, survival of the fittest is the name of the game. We're better than they are, smarter, better killers. This is what it's all about, isn't it, Rueger?"
"What it's all about," mimicked Rueger dutifully, trying hard not to think of this fat slob's survival.
They moved in for the kill.
Simba was almost on them. The two-legs made sounds every time they moved and their scent was sometimes overpowering in the shifting breeze. He knew now that there were only two of them. The bigger two-leg made a lot of noise. The other was smooth and quiet, a creature of the jungle like himself. Simba wanted the fat one's neck, could feel that throat in his slashing fangs, snapping and crunching the bone, tearing the tasty flesh, the warm blood a flowing red river in his mouth. He would hold him by the throat until he stopped thrashing and flailing. Patiently, stealthily, he crept closer.
|