Chapter Twenty-Nine

Part II

The little elephant tries not to cry.

Although he cannot understand what they’re saying, he knows that they’re arguing about him, over something he’s done.

One of the chipmunks, the taller one with the dark nose, chatters furiously. His squeaks and shrieks have attracted a small crowd to this particular oak tree. They stare up greedily with their vacant eyes, and their fingertips are broken and ripped from trying to climb the hard, ungiving bark.

Every now and then the angry chipmunk jumps up and down to relay a particular point, and occasionally he points toward the hole in the tree trunk, the hole that had contained all those delicious peanuts.

The smaller chipmunk, the one with the sleepy eyes, nods shamefully. He cannot bear to look at his companion. He isn’t saying much, either, though when he’d first crossed the elephant’s path, his voice was so soothing and silly that it was clear he was a friend.

But that had been before. Now that the elephant’s done Something Very Bad, they’re sure to turn him out, much like he’d been turned out, so long ago, by the other citizens of the circus.

“I’m sorry!” the elephant would say if he knew how to speak. He didn’t realize the peanuts were for all of them. He’d only known that he was hungry, hungry and lost, after finding himself in the midst of this unfamiliar park.

And surely he’d have perished if the friendly chipmunk hadn’t been come along and comforted him and led him to this sturdy, tall, isolated sanctuary.

And how had the little elephant repaid such a kindness? By eating all their food, that’s how. That’s what has angered the chief chipmunk so. Who knows how long those peanuts would’ve fed two chipmunks? Forever, perhaps. But with an elephant, even a tiny baby, eating from the trove, their treasure is almost depleted.

And now the taller chipmunk points its accusing paw down toward the dead ones. For now they’re just harmless people, but what will they do when a cat comes? Or a bird?

At least the two chipmunks have some camouflage amidst the leaves and in the knot of this oak, but an elephant sitting on a branch, especially one dressed absurdly as a clown, how long before the entire park of corpses is clustered around this tree? What then?

And still, the sleepy-eyed chipmunk has no answer. Feebly, he tries to explain, and brings his arms to his ears to demonstrate the elephant’s wondrous abilities, but his companion is unfazed and unbelieving. What use is such a curiosity in a harsh world like this?

And still, the little elephant tries not to cry.

Now the chipmunk waves an angry paw to the east, and the little elephant sees an overturned peanut cart, painted in the gay colors of red and white. Circus colors.

Far away, such a far and treacherous journey for a chipmunk in a hostile and threatening park. How many journeys had it taken, perhaps two or three peanuts at a time, to build up their supply. And how many are even left?

The chipmunk points once more at the ever-growing mob of people. How can they continue to scavenge with all those hungry eyes watching them? How will they survive now that the little elephant’s ruined everything?

And then the oak tree creaks heavily, as its most solid branch is relieved of such a ponderous weight. With his ears flapping slowly, solidly, the little elephant lifts himself into the air, and flies away to the east.

As one, the crowd turns their attention toward the fleeing prey. Arms and hands skyward, they stumble after the elephant.

But he’s already reached the peanut cart. It is heavy, perhaps as heavy as him, and though his trunk is strong and nimble, it isn’t used to carrying such a weight, let alone while flying.

He sinks to the ground, trunk entwined in the spokes of a wheel, and he flaps his ears, harder and harder, as the mob comes ever closer and closer.

The chipmunks stop in the midst of their argument and stare, dumbfounded, at the little elephant’s suicidal flight.

His billowing ears catch and push at the wind relentlessly. The people’s hands reach and grab and rip in anticipation, moments away from the gray living flesh. And then the elephant is in the air once more, the peanut cart pulling painfully at his trunk. The creatures reach helplessly, but their battered fingers cannot find a hold on the smooth cart.

There is a peculiar crash of metal on wood as the little elephant drops the peanut cart on the stout oak branch.

The chipmunks are still speechless. They hop toward him, but he does not land, he continues flying, flying away from the park, back over the dead ones so they will follow him, and only when he is out of sight of the chipmunks does he allow himself to cry, his tears falling, unseen and unheard, upon the uncaring dead.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The army of the Wildlands is surrounded, a tiny island amidst a sea of rotting, hungry death.

“Steady on, old boy,” mutters Owl, though his words are drowned out by the steady shuffling of the invaders.

They draw ever closer, patiently, patiently. And with them comes the fear.

Owl tells himself he should be used to this feeling by now, yet it still buzzes and ripples through his body. Worse, he can see it spread throughout his army. Unused to combat, they tremble and hop from foot to foot. One little spark could ignite a fatal panic.

“Steady on!” he calls. His voice, low and sonorous, carries across the plain. Perhaps that is why he was chosen to lead.

The dead approach. Now the soldiers can recognize the familiar, half-eaten faces, and the fear grows stronger. Some begin to cry as they see their friends and family. Only Owl is spared this pain - they’re strangers to him, after all. Perhaps that is why he was chosen by the King of Lions.

It’s difficult to breathe. They stink. Hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, fermenting in the sun. It takes every bit of willpower to simply endure the smell. And the dust, they’ve kicked up a dust cloud that seems to span forever.

Blinking the specks from his eyes, Owl keeps his gaze steady. Keen eyesight, he thinks. Another feather in his cap.

They stumble closer. The soldiers look to Owl desperately, but he shakes his head. The time is not right. “Use your judgment,” the King of Lions had said, and Owl had smugly smiled, for he considers his judgment very accurate, indeed.

Surely the soldiers – volunteers all - would flee if they could, but there is nowhere to go. Instead, they are pressed back, step by step, against the edge of the cliff. Mowgli’s Cliff, as it is already being called. And it is no coincidence that Owl had been the witness to the boy’s death.

That’s why he decided to volunteer. He’d seen another child die in the Great Wood. And yes, though he has an orphan of his own to protect, the tiny kangaroo is much safer with that gray sloth bear. And after having been given refuge in these lands, as a scholar and a gentleman he simply could not have stood back and refused to help the king.

A movement from the dust cloud shakes Owl from his reverie. A ragged panther rears back on its twisted legs. It’s ready to attack.

But so is the army.

“Now!” bellows Owl, and he spreads his wings.

And the army of the Wildlands takes to the air.

The young king, in his wisdom, realized that the enemy could never be defeated by strength. And so he’d asked for volunteers, but only amongst the birds.

The sky darkens, dust whipped into a storm by the many beating wings. They shriek and caw and fly over the edge of the cliff, and the invaders blindly follow.

The dead do not hesitate, they leap and pounce, calmly trying to catch a mouthful of feathers and flesh. Two or three are successful (and those poor birds will be remembered, promises Owl), but the rest fall empty-handed.

Like a waterfall, the broken bodies of the invaders flood over the cliff. They fall hundreds and hundreds of feet to the sharp, unforgiving rocks below. The flock watches them die.

For hours, the slaughter continues. Soaring on the updraft, the army flies over the cliff, agonizingly close, and the enemy is content to follow and fall.

Their silence, though, is most disturbing, and Owl joins in the celebratory caws and shrieks of his troops, if only to drown out the lack of noise caused by the invaders as they die for a final time.

END PART I


Part II will begin on Wednesday, July 15, 2009.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Pinocchio swings his legs over the edge of his footstool. "Are you done yet?" he asks for the seventh time. His reedy voice echoes about the great chamber.

"No," says the Little Pig. He isn't taking any chances.

They stand within the Castle of the Door, right in front of the Doorway leading to the Lands Beyond.

And this little pig is in the process of walling it up.

Not entirely, of course, but just so that the barrier reaches a little higher than his head. It will be a tight squeeze for most people bigger than a pig or a puppet, but it should be enough to deter any but the cleverest of the walking dead.

And from the Little Pig’s experience, the dead aren’t very clever.

“What do you think happened here?” asks Pinocchio.

“I don’t know,” says the Pig, but upon seeing the carnage, he’d decided it would be best to secure the Doorway.

They’d found the castle’s drawbridge closed. Someone had tied a long rope ladder from one of the turrets to a nearby oak tree. Whoever had done so remained a mystery, but the Pig had to admire their wisdom – the dead weren’t able to climb in.

Yet the castle was empty except for a few abandoned weapons, tattered clothing and a ghastly stain on the staircase. Whatever had been killed in here - and done the killing - had since moved on.

A worrying idea, because how did they breach the castle’s walls? And how did they get out?

There was only one answer: the Doorway.

And that is very bad, indeed.

After scrounging about the ramparts for usable stone, the Little Pig has spent the better part of the afternoon blocking off the Doorway.

Pinocchio stops swinging his legs. “Do you think my father is on the other side?”

“I think so,” says the Little Pig. “I hope so.” He doesn’t have the heart to tell the truth. Dead things might dwell in the Lands Beyond, but there’s no need to worry the child just yet.

“Will you be finished soon?” the puppet asks again.

“Patience is a virtue,” says the Pig. He steps back and surveys his handiwork. It isn’t bad – not perfectly straight and level, but once the wall dries, it’ll be as sturdy a wall as any.

"I'm done," he says, and starts packing up his tools.

"Yippy!" cheers Pinocchio. He jumps to his feet. "I'll go first."

"Wait, wait, wait," says the Little Pig. "I should go first."

"But what if there’s danger?” The boy’s feigned concern is no match for the enthusiasm coursing through his body. “The monsters won't hurt me. If I go first and there's trouble, I can warn you."

The Pig nods. It's a good point. “But you come right back, you understand?”

He places the footstool in front of the wall and helps Pinocchio climb over. “Careful, now,” says the Pig. “It’s still wet.” It doesn’t matter if the top layer topples over, he knows, but it’s the principle of the thing, and he can’t help but take pride in his work.

In a moment, Pinocchio is through the Doorway and into the Lands Beyond. The Pig takes a moment to enjoy the silence and reflect on a job well done. This wall will be a fitting farewell to his homeland, he decides. Then, with a contented sigh, he closes his toolbox and steps onto the footstool.

The heavy chamber door swings open.

"Knock-knock, Piggy." The lanky form of the Big Bad Wolf sidles into the room. One of his cheeks is swollen and blackened.

"What are you doing here?" says the Little Pig. Even standing on the stool, he is still much shorter than the Wolf.

The Wolf winces with each step. One paw goes unconsciously to his broken rib – a result of his last encounter with Pinocchio.

"Not bad," says the Wolf, examining the makeshift barrier. "Not bad at all."

"What are you doing here?" the Pig repeats. He calmly removes the hammer from his belt loop.

"Same thing as you," says the Wolf. "I'm leavin’. There's gotta be something good out there in the great wide somewhere for a lordly nobleman like myself."

The Pig can't help but scoff – in his ragged, filthy trousers, the Big Bad Wolf is anything but noble. "What are you talking about?"

"You didn't look around the castle, Piggy?” The Wolf wipes some saliva from his lips. “There's a huge treasure trove in here. Unlocked, unguarded, and now it’s mine. It’s all mine.”

"It’s not yours,” says the Pig. His heart races, he knows he should just leave, escape, but he’s always stood up to the Wolf before.

"Prove it," says the Wolf, and he produces some pieces of parchment from under his hat. “Here’s some titles of property and nobility. Mine now.”

"You're stealing!"

The Wolf starts to laugh, but he winces as his chest flares in pain. He won't be huffing and puffing any time soon. "Yeah,” he admits. “Maybe I am, but it doesn't matter. You're not gonna tell anyone."

"Oh, yes, I will!" sputters the Little Pig. "You've always been nothing but a no-good scoundrel, and when I get to..."

"No, you won't," says the Wolf, and his smug tone silences the Pig. "You're not going anywhere. You're not so tough without your little rock-throwing friend.”

Leaning in closer – yet still more than an arm’s length away from the Pig’s hammer – the Wolf snickers. “You've got nowhere to run, Piggy. And you know what happens when you let the Wolf inside your home, don't you?"

He grins widely, revealing yellow, rotting fangs, and he enjoys his first meal in oh, so very long.

Chapter Twenty-Six

“We witnessed their fall,” concludes the foreigner in his sorrowful, lofty tone, “and we alone were left to tell the tale.”

The air around Council Rock titters with the busy translation of the Mynas, then rumbles as the other animals consider the speech they just heard.

Shere Khan’s soft purr compels them all into silence. “So you are telling us,” prods the great tiger, “that the Man and the Man-cub are dead.”

“I’m afraid so,” says the speaker, very small and alone in the center of Council Rock. In the shadows beyond, Baloo weeps.

Everyone watches, but does not speak, as Shere Khan circles the perimeter of the wide, flat stone. It is forbidden to shed blood on Council Rock. That is the Law, and it is upheld by all animals. But there is more than one form of combat in the Wildlands.

“They failed,” says the tiger. His voice has dropped to a whisper, and the animals must cringe forward to hear his words. They know he is ready to attack.

“They failed,” he repeats, louder. “And now the Wildlands are burning. And you,” he bares his fangs toward the King of Lions, “were the one who allowed those pathetic Men to gather red fire and bring doom upon us all.”

With a triumphant snarl, the tiger finishes, “The Wildlands are burning because of you... your highness.”

The King of Lions remains poised throughout these accusations, regally ignoring the murmurs and grunts from the shadows. He will uphold the Law. But in his heart he knows Shere Khan will only be silenced in death.

“The Wildlands have burned before and will burn again,” says the King. He draws himself up to his full, majestic height. “It is the Circle.”

“Oh, stop spouting philosophy, boy,” sneers the tiger. “We’re surrounded by a circle of red fire. And beyond that, a circle of death.”

The King’s eyes flash at the insult, but he refuses to be provoked. Nor is he foolish enough to step into whatever trap the striped killer has prepared. “What would you have us do, then?” he asks.

An unexpected move, and Shere Khan considers for a moment before answering. “What would you have us do?” he asks back, but then answers for the King. “Flee to the Lands Beyond?”

The tiger shifts his head toward the visitor, and Owl realizes he’s been given a cue.

“That wouldn’t be wise, ah, your highness,” he says, and the Mynas immediately begin to translate his odd, formal language. “We - that is, my young ward and myself - come from the Lands Beyond. Far beyond, in fact. We’ve been through many Doorways, and... the dead are already there.”

“Where?” says Shere Khan.

“Everywhere,” says Owl.

As this piece of news is translated, the tiger controls his cruel smile. It was quite a bit of luck to come across this foreign bird and his young rat-like companion, and very wise to not eat them outright. Their tale has proven ever so useful.

“So if we have nowhere to run,” says the tiger, loftily, regally, in the voice of the true leader of the Wildlands, “we must fight!”

“Is that truly what you want, Khan?” says the King amidst the roars, for and against, the tiger’s proposal. “You cannot kill them. This is madness.”

“Oh, quit being such a coward,” retorts Shere Khan. He no longer plays the game of diplomacy. “You may stay and hide, if you wish, whelp, but no corpse will ever defeat me. I will bring us all to victory.”

The King of Lions reminds himself of the Law, and he will not shed blood. Not here. Not now.

Instead, he looks toward the visitor. “You’ve seen them in the Lands Beyond? You swear it?” he asks.

“I do,” says Owl. He begins to wish he’d never come to this savage land, or at least never crossed paths with that foul tiger.

“And the Man and young Mowgli? You swear that you witnessed their death at the hands of the invaders?”

Shere Khan looks bemused at this repeated questioning, though it concerns him that he cannot tell what the young King is thinking.

“No, your majesty. They died in the fall,” says Owl. He cannot help but elaborate. “They were surrounded. They tried to descend, to escape, but... they fell from the cliff. I’m proud to say they took many with them, though. It was a... most noble end.” The great apes grunt in somber agreement.

The King presses forward before the Mynas can finish translating. “There was an army of them,” he says, “all hunting the Man and the Man-cub. How did you survive?”

“Your majesty?”

“How were you able to escape?”

Confused at the obvious answer, Owl spreads his wings and says, “Why, I flew, your majesty.”

Satisfied, the King nods. “Thank you,” he says, and Owl bows humbly.

To the assembled animals, the King of Lions announces, “We will attack at dawn.” Without another word, ignoring the outraged cries, he leads his procession from the stone and disappears into the night’s darkness.

Still debating, the other animals disperse, leaving Shere Khan alone on the great stone, his moment of triumph somehow stolen.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“What about the winter?” asks Pinocchio. “Do you like winter?”

“Not really,” sighs the Little Pig. “There’s too much snow.” He squints against the afternoon sun. They’ll have to camp soon.

“I’ve never seen snow,” says the wooden boy. His eyes brighten at the prospect. “Is it nice?”

“No. I told you, it’s very cold... what was that?” Something in the brush, an unexpected rustling. The Little Pig whirls around, a hammer clutched in his tiny hand.

He oinks in dismay at the dark specter rising from the grass. A trifle embarrassed at having been heard, the Big Bad Wolf grins slyly.

“Hello, Piggy.” He theatrically brushes a grass stem from his scraggly shoulder. ”Fancy meeting you here.”

“We don’t want any trouble,” says the Pig.

The Wolf darts his yellow eyes to the hammer, notes the Pig’s trembling arms, and his toothy smile widens. “But trouble always seems to come knock-knock-knocking at your door, doesn’t it?”

He strolls closer, one long stride, and the two skitter backward a few steps.

“Speaking of which,” says the Wolf, “what are you doing outside your nice, safe house?”

“We, we’re going to the Castle of the Door,” stammers the little puppet. To Pinocchio, the skeletal, stinking wolf is as tall as a giant. A fanged, clawed giant.

The Wolf pretends to notice the wooden boy for the first time. “Oh, really? And who might you be?”

“I’m Pinocchio... sir.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Pinocchio.” He holds out a massive paw, and the puppet is obliged to take it. The Wolf doesn’t let go. There’s something about the boy - the buzzing, tingling smell of fairy magic - that he instinctively dislikes.

Bending low to Pinocchio’s level, the Wolf finishes his introduction. “You might’ve heard of me, kid. I’m the Big Bad Wolf. I’m 'trouble,' you could say.”

“Oh, yes, sir, I’ve heard all about you.” Pinocchio struggles to remove his hand from the Wolf’s unyielding grip.

“I bet you have.” With a black-lipped leer, the Wolf quickly releases Pinocchio, forcing the boy to fall backward. He rubs his paw on the leg of his ragged trousers.

The Little Pig’s icy glare goes ignored by the wolf. Still holding his hammer, he rushes to Pinocchio’s side.

Unfolding to his full height, the Wolf slowly circles the two, casually kicking up dust from the road. “So, leaving the kingdom, huh? Pretty good idea.” The Pig has to constantly shuffle around to face the Wolf, lest his back be exposed.

“But then again, you were always one for good ideas, weren’t you, Piggy?”

“It isn’t safe here anymore,” coughs the Little Pig.

Nodding wisely, the Wolf says, “Yeah, you never know what trouble you might run into out here.” He leans forward and smiles, all teeth.

“It isn’t safe for any of us,” says the Pig pathetically. “Even you.”

The Wolf starts to roll his eyes, but then he thinks better of it. “Maybe you’re right,” he says in a syrupy voice. “It’s dangerous out here. Maybe I should go with you,” he offers grandly, and lounges a long arm around the Pig’s shoulders. “Safety in numbers and all that.”

“I, uh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” begins the Pig, but once the Wolf’s arm begins to tighten painfully, he adds, “but you’re more than welcome to join us.”

“Yeah,” says the Wolf. “Yeah.” He smells the Pig, and a drop of saliva drips from his dirty muzzle. “After I’ve eaten, of course.”

“We’ve got food,” squeals the Little Pig quickly, and the Wolf laughs.

“You are food, Piggy. First I’ve seen in weeks.” He leans forward.

There is a meaty thud, and the Wolf falls backward. The Pig ducks beneath his flailing paw and scuttles away.

The Wolf touches his stinging cheek, and is astonished to find he’s bleeding. He stares, wide-eyed, at the defiant puppet below.

Pinocchio already has another rock in his hand, ready to throw. “You leave us alone,” he says, in a low voice quite different than his usual lilting tone. “Or you’ll be sorry.”

Shocked that someone so small would dare stand up to someone so big, the Wolf decides to take a different approach.

He huffs and he puffs, and the stone flies into his sunken chest with a rib-splitting crack. The impact knocks the Wolf to the ground, and for a stunned moment he sits there, unsure what to do.

The Little Pig looks down at the familiar sight of a defeated Wolf. Slack-jawed and dazed, his old enemy can’t bring himself to meet the Pig’s gaze.

“Be careful,” says the Pig coldly. “It’s dangerous out here.” He turns toward the dirt road and begins walking. Pinocchio, after picking up another rock, follows his friend, though he continues to glance back distrustfully at the Wolf.

Chapter Twenty-Four

At first, it wasn’t so bad. He and Junior had kept to the forests throughout the entire mess. There weren’t many of the dead back then, and the corpses that entered the forest were easy to avoid – their stink always gave them away.

The pickings were lush in those days, as well. With the hopeless battles waged throughout the countryside, some people thought the woods, dark and deep, might be a safe haven. They were wrong. Poorly guarded travelers, unused to the mysteries of the forest, made for many an easy meal. But as the seasons changed, the swell of people dried up, shepherded to the safety of Sherwood Forest.

Even the animals were disappearing. Most had fled into the heart of the Great Woods, over the seven jeweled hills, beyond the seven waterfalls, to a place of safety. Though he wanted to follow after them, nastier things than him lurked in the Great Woods - ogres, witches, black magicks. Perhaps it was because of his dark heart that he couldn’t hear the call of Snow White’s resting place, and like all wicked things, he instinctively shunned her hallowed glade.

And still he needed to eat. Moss and lichen, abandoned beehives, even the occasional frog came too few and far between for his and Junior’s appetites.

It happened one night, when he awoke from a particularly delicious dream about a banquet table to realize the dead had finally gotten the drop on them.

In the old days, he would have heard them, would have smelled them, would have snapped out of that delightful dream, but he was so weak and hungry!

Though he could still huff and puff and blow them away, that would leave him breathless for minutes, unable to run or flee. If even one got ahold of him, that would be the end of his tale. So huffing and puffing was not an option, not for a survivor like him.

He tried to wake his son, who only started crying and mewling. Junior refused to uncurl from his ball, too exhausted, too tired to run anymore.

He thought, briefly, about carrying the small cub, but he didn't know how long he might have to run, or how many of the dead would follow, or even where he'd go, and so he decided that Junior was old enough to take care of himself.

And ever since Junior had been taken, he’d traveled alone.

Until now, finally, he’s laid eyes and nose and ears on living, breathing meat.

He creeps along beside the road, under the cover of the trees, skulking through the high-growing grasses. Neither of them have any idea that he is close by, and little wonder – they’re more concerned with the dead. They don’t expect to be hunted by someone who remembers how to hunt.

Finally, when he can hear what they’re talking about, the Big Bad Wolf decides he’s close enough to break from his hiding place and attack.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Wildlands are no place for men, but the Hunter has adapted himself well. He’s gone several days without shaving and he hasn’t eaten since he chanced upon that papaya tree, but he’s never felt better.

These creatures, whatever they may be, are easy to hunt. They make no pretense of camouflage or deception, so he always hears them coming. Most are slow and clumsy, no longer a match for a predator such as himself.

But, he reminds himself, they’re far from harmless. The damn things never sleep, never give up chasing him. And he’s fairly certain that more and more are following after him every day. He hears them crashing through the woods, sees the footprints, even catches glimpses of them from time to time during his steady retreat to the Doorway.

It’d be a simple matter to settle into the fork of a tree and blast them back to Hell, but the Hunter doesn’t care for such a strategy. It isn’t a matter of bullets – he has hundreds left – but he’s quite sure that the sound will attract the rest. Shooting one, though satisfying, would guarantee that dozens more would take up the hunt.

It’s quite strange, being both predator and prey at the same time.

Thank heavens for the machete. It’s made cutting a path to the Doorway ever so much easier, and these stupid monsters don’t ever realize they’re being attacked.

They always come towards him, hoping to eat, some of them performing a parody of their own hunting methods, but even that panther was no match for the Hunter. That had been a bullet well worth firing, though – it still seemed too agile to take on in hand-to-hand combat.

He stops short at the wet banks of the river and regrets that the canoe was left behind at the camp. Had to be done, unfortunately. Not much time to pack when you’re running for your life.

Crossing the river is a risk - it won’t do to get his rifle or bullets wet, and who knows what threats lurk in those dark waters - but the Hunter decides it’s one worth taking. The water might mask his scent, and if he can cross over - which shouldn’t be too hard, this being the dry season - his pursuers should turn back once his smell fades away. He is quite sure they don’t have the wits to investigate both riverbanks.

It’s a well-played move, and the Hunter is right. Nothing crosses the river, and that night is the first time he finds himself alone in the Wildlands in quite some time. There aren’t even any birds anymore. Probably driven away by a brushfire, he supposes. There is smoke in the air, after all.

It takes another three days for him to finally reach the Doorway, carved into the side of a great, ancient tree. Beyond it lies the civilized world. Safety.

Only, and this is odd, there’s a hyena standing in front of the Doorway. It pants and giggles to itself, behavior not unlike normal hyenas, and it’s a welcome change from the somber monsters that have trailed him for so long.

The Hunter wonders what it’s doing there, but decides it’s easier to just put the thing out of its misery – if it isn’t dead now, it will be eventually. He’s slightly disappointed that the first real animal he’s seen in ages is one without a valuable pelt. Still, a bullet to the brain is the easiest way to go, what with times being the way they are.

As he brings the rifle to his shoulder, the Hunter doesn’t notice the silent creature stepping behind him, the one that’s been watching him for a few hours now, following him to this great and special Doorway.

Unlike the monsters, this lion is very much alive. And hungry. And stealthy. He decides to wait until the man uses his gun to kill the hyena, so he won’t have to share the meal.

The Hunter fires and feels that momentary satisfaction that comes with a bullet well shot, but his victory is short-lived. He senses the lion as it pounces upon him, forcing all its great weight upon his back and neck, and the Hunter is dead before he hits the ground.

For the first time, the Lion eats the flesh of man. He finds it to be a most exquisite delicacy, if lacking in quantity. Much better, he decides later as he crosses through the Doorway, than the taste of his loyal hyena.