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But finally even that was too much. She lay on the cold wood floor staring up at her bed, at the motionless ceiling fan. With the last of her strength she pulled the mess of dirty sheets and blankets down on top of herself.
She coughed into the once-soft quilt she’d taken from her mother’s room long ago.
The thing on Hunter’s shoulder didn’t hurt. But it did distract him. And he couldn’t be distracted when he was hunting Old Lion.
The mountain lion never bothered Hunter. The mountain lion didn’t want to eat Hunter. Or maybe it did, but it had never tried.
But Hunter had to kill the mountain lion because Old Lion had stolen too many of Hunter’s own kills. Old Lion crept around behind Hunter after he had taken a deer. Hunter was off chasing other prey and Old Lion had snuck around and dragged off Hunter’s deer.
Old Lion was just doing what he had to do. It wasn’t personal. Hunter didn’t hate Old Lion. But just the same he couldn’t have the mountain lion running off with the food for the kids.
Hunter hunted for the kids. That’s what he did. That’s who he was. He was Hunter the hunter. For the kids.
Old Lion was out of the woods now, over the hill, over where the dry lands started and the rocks grew big. Old Lion was heading home for the night. He had eaten well. Now he was heading back to his lair. He would spend the day lying out on the sun-baked rocks and toasting his bones.
Hunter walked carefully, weight balanced, light on his feet, quick but not rushing. Dangerous to rush about with nothing but moonlight to show the way.
He had learned a lot about hunting. The killing power from his hands didn’t reach very far. He had to get close to make it work. That meant he had to really concentrate, which was hard ever since his brain had gotten hurt. He couldn’t concentrate enough to read or remember lots of words. And words still came out of his mouth all messed up. But he could concentrate on this: on swift and quiet walking, on weaving through the red rocks while keeping his eyes peeled for the cat’s faint star-silvered tracks in the little deposits of sand.
And he had to look out for Old Lion changing his mind and deciding he would like him a tasty boy after all. Old Lion didn’t just steal food, he killed it, too. Hunter had seen him once, his tail flicking, his whiskered jaw juddering, quivering with anticipation as Old Lion watched a stray dog.
Old Lion had exploded out of cover and crossed one hundred feet in about one second. Like a bullet out of a gun. His big paws had caught the dog before the dog could even flinch. Long, curved claws, fur, blood, a desperate whine from the dog and then, almost leisurely, taking his time, Old Lion had delivered the killing bite to the back of the dog’s neck.
Old Lion was already a hunter back when Hunter was just a regular kid sitting in class, raising his hand to answer questions and reading and understanding and being smart.
Old Lion knew all about hunting. But he didn’t know that Hunter was coming after him.
Hunter smelled the cat. He was close. He smelled of dead meat. Dried blood.
Hunter was below a tall boulder. He froze, realizing suddenly that Old Lion was right above him. He wanted to run, but he knew that if he backed up, the cat would drop on him. He was safer closer to the rock. Old Lion couldn’t drop straight down.
Hunter pressed his back against the rock. He stilled his own breathing and heard the big cat’s instead. But Old Lion wasn’t fooled. Old Lion could probably hear the heart pounding in Hunter’s chest.
The thing on Hunter’s shoulder squirmed. It was growing. Moving. Hunter glanced and could see it move beneath the fabric of his shirt. It seemed almost to be trying to chew a hole through Hunter’s shirt.
Hunter had no word for the thing. It had grown over the last day. It had started out as a bump, a swelling. But then the skin had split apart and gnashing insect mouthparts had been revealed. Like a spider. Or a bug. Like the bugs that crawled on Hunter as he slept.
But this thing on his shoulder wasn’t a regular bug. It was too big for that. And it had grown right where the flying snake, the greenie, had dropped its goo on him.
Hunter strained to think of the word for the thing. It was a word he used to know. Like worms on a dead animal. What was the word? He leaned forward, hands to his head, so mad at himself for not being able to find the word.
He had lost focus for just a few seconds but it was enough for Old Lion.
The cat dropped like mercury, liquid.
Hunter was knocked to the
ground. His head banged against the rock. Old Lion had missed his grip, though, and he had to scramble in the narrow space. The cat spun, bared his yellow teeth and leaped, claws outstretched.
Hunter dodged, but not fast enough. One big paw hit him in the chest and knocked him back against the rock, knocked the wind from him.
Old Lion was on him, claws on his shoulders, snarling face just inches from Hunter’s vulnerable neck.
Then, suddenly, the mountain lion hissed and leaped back, like it had landed on a hot stove.
The lion shook its paw and flung droplets of blood. One claw toe had been badly bitten. It hung by a thread.
The thing on Hunter’s shoulder had bitten Old Lion.
