Posted by Moore on April 18, 2004 at 12:13:28:
I arrived at the check-in for the Hunt well before dawn. A staff member gave me an introductory package of information. I looked it over. The does got an one hour head start, then we hunters had three hours to bag them before returning with our kill for the feast. All standard rules. The package had a doe tag to identify the hunter's meat, and a map of the area with the hunt boundaries.
I did wonder about the quality of this year's does. The does were all slaves. The does had either gotten too old, too boring, or had in some other way displaced their masters, so they had been donated for the Hunt. Slave does were unpredictable; some would even stand at the starting area and stupidly, docilely wait to be slaughtered.
I adjusted my gear. I strung my bow and strapped on my knife. I got my quiver, and put in nine blue fletched, blunt practice arrows and three red fletched, razor sharp broad heads. Another hunter came over to me. The woman was wearing a tight black tank top and cameo pants. She was carrying a pistol grip crossbow, and her hair was pulled back with a scrunchy. She scrutinized my arrows and made a face.
"Why the fuck are you bring blunts into the field?" she asked shrilly.
I tried to explain to her the thrill of the hunt, the outsmarting of thinking prey, and of how the final ultimate power of life and death need not be actually consummated. I tried to explain how I could "count coup" with a blunt arrow and leave an interesting doe alive for the next Hunt. I don't think she understood, she was more the torture cats with cigarettes to see it suffer type.
The Hunt organizers trotted the does out in front of us. For the most part, they were wide eyed, terrified, stupid animals. Only one looked interesting. She was shorter, with dark hair, about twenty five years old, old for a slave. She wore only knee high, soft leather boots and her slave collar like the rest of the does. But she walked in front of the group of hunters, then bent over to fix her boots, showing us her "white tail." She gave us an over the shoulder look that told me she knew exactly what she was doing. I laughed at her playfulness.
The does were released after we had gotten a look at them. The dumb ones waited or ran to the edges of the Hunt area. The smarter ones hid. The most challenging does would often double back; after letting the hunters rush out past them, they would hide near the starting area.
We waited for an hour until the horn sounded, starting the Hunt. The sun was just rising when we headed into the woods. The rest of the hunters, Miss tank top included, raced off. I took my time. I enjoyed being in the woods, the sunlight streaming through the trees, the scampering of squirrels. I started to walk quicker, my breath coming faster. I felt a rising anticipation and excitement. I feel most intensely alive, most fully awake during a hunt. All of my senses were aware in this life and death struggle.
It wasn't long before I saw signs of passage the other hunters had rushed past and missed, which headed back toward the start area. I wanted a challenging doe, so I followed the tracks. Soon I saw her in a rocky area, looking for some natural cleft in which to hide herself, no doubt. It was the same doe that had flashed us, of course. She hadn't spotted me yet; she was resting against a large pine tree.
I drew a red fletched arrow and drew back the bowstring. I sighted down the arrow to the doe's throat, her heaving chest, then her shapely stomach. I aimed at the tree trunk next to her head and breathed the arrow to its target. The impact knocked a piece of bark off as the arrow thumped next to her. The signal to start the chase had been delivered, red and trembling as a wound.
The doe screamed and bolted. She ran gracefully, leaping over logs and rocks, and ignoring branches scraping her thighs. It was magnificent to watch her leap and scamper; her pale skin contrasting with the greens and browns. I had to pick my path carefully as I raced after her. She ran through a small stream, splashing water everywhere. She slipped and almost fell on some leaves, but was up again in a flash. The doe zigzagged to be a difficult target to catch. I enjoyed chasing her, and wished it could last forever.
But her luck ran out. The doe ran to a clearing, and unwisely sprinted for the far end. I had an easy shot since she didn't have any cover. I launched a blue fletched arrow; blue to recognize her worth as prey. The blunt arrow hit her in the small of her back. The doe screamed, more from surprise then pain, and fell down in a lovely tangle of limbs in the sunny meadow.
The doe was stunned for a moment. But then she picked up my arrow and clasped it to her back where it had bounced off, acting as if it had actually pierced her. She staggered upright, with the arrow in-between her fingers to hold it in place, and moaned loudly, as if she had been wounded. She fell to her knees and one hand, and coughed loudly, then moaned, as if in pain. I approached, slightly dumbfounded. She rolled onto her side, and stretched out a leg in the emerald grass as she whimpered. Her free hand started rubbing her breast.
I got closer, but scanned the area before leaving my own cover; old habits die hard. Still, watching her writhe and begin to pleasure herself was distracting me. With considerable enthusiasm, she had moved her hand off her breast, and placed it between her legs, like her last act in the world before her death was to get herself pleased. Even as I approached her obliquely from the ten o'clock position she continued to frantically finger herself.
It was so entertaining I almost didn't see a blur of movement across the clearing. I saw briefly another hunter aiming at MY doe. Miss black tank top was drawing a bead on my doe with her crossbow. I drew an arrow, nocked it, and fired a blunt arrow in one smooth motion to ruin Miss black tank top's aim so I could reach the doe and put my tag on her.
There is a theory that there are no accidents, just unrealized desires. My red fletched broad head arrow, not a blunt blue fletched arrow, made Miss black tank top grunt as it drove in between her ribs and into her lung. Miss black tank top gasped for air, her diaphragm in shock. She couldn't scream if she wanted to.
The doe rose slowly to her feet as Miss black tank top swayed and staggered drunkenly. The doe looked between the two of us, uncertain of what to do.
"Want to take her place?" I asked the doe. I elaborated as she looked at me without comprehension. "You could take her place. Pretend to be one of the hunters. You put on her clothes. We kill her, bloody up her face. When the staff does a head count, they see that everyone, hunter and doe alike, have been accounted for. After the feast, after everyone else has left, you take the last car in the parking lot and drive on off."
The doe nodded her agreement with great enthusiasm.
"Your not out of the woods yet," I joked. "We have a lot to do if this is going to work. What is your name?"
"Bambi," she said sheepishly. "My former master thought it would be funny to have a Bambi in the hunt. He thinks I'm too old. Can we have sex? I'm scared and I would really like to be held."
"Lets take care of her, first," I said, indicating Miss black tank top.
Miss black tank top shook her head no as I approached. Pink foam was coming out of her mouth. Miss black tank top tried to draw her own knife as I drew mine, but I slapped her hand away. I thrust my knife into Miss black tank top belly, just below her namesake. I jerked the blade up, feeling it cut and slice her innards, even as Miss black tank top threw up a gout of blood. I cut into Miss black tank top's heart, and let her fall down.
We stripped her and hung her upside down by her ankles. I cut her throat to bleed her out. Miss ex-black tank top's blood got in her eyes, up her nose, and all over her face. I field dressed her while Bambi threw up. Where did Bambi think meat came from, anyway?
I had just about changed my mind about Bambi when she sauntered on over, swinging her hips.
"Which did you like more; hitting her with an arrow, or driving the blade into her?" she asked in a purring voice.
"Blade is better. Face to face. Get to look in her eyes," I said. My sentences were short because of what her hands were doing.
"I think if you had a knife pointed at me, I would try to convince you not to stab me," she said provocatively. She did amazing things with me. Her former master was a fool to get rid of her. When we were dressed again, I put my doe tag on Miss ex-black tank top, and we hauled her back to the camp for the feast.