A short story originally written in 2007, reimagined in 2024. Entitled “Shoot,” it is about 2 hunters and their dog in the final days of what seems to be a somewhat long trip in the wilderness that the two old men enjoy…
Shoot. (A Short Story)
Thick boots, flannel coats, rough hair stuck out form underneath hunting caps. Bill held a shotgun up to take aim. Fred ignored the deathly cold, knowing out here only the wilderness spoke. The two men were out here to escape those parts of life that required speaking. Nothing was left to be said now. Kill the birds.
The hawk’s corpse hit the ground and the dog ran after it. The hound eventually bounced back with tail wagging; the night’s dinner clutched in jaws. “Yup,” said Bill.
“Alright,” replied Fred.
Dry foliage lightly snapped as they walked through the forest. Back at the campsite, one of the men stayed with the dog to prepare the night’s meat while the other went right off again to collect firewood. He got maybe four logs, the bird cooked juicy, and the dog was chewing on the animal’s decapitated head. A modest reward for collecting their kill. After eating their meal, Bill asked, “What you need?”
“Matches,” his friend answered. They each lit up a cigar.
“That’s good,” one of them remarked a few more minutes later as the flames roared, eating the dry chunks of raw lumber. The dog slept beside their feet, belly full enough. Before falling asleep, the two hunters shared a few swigs of whiskey.
The canine went missing that night. “Terry gone?”
“Seems,” answered Fred. “Sure he’ll show up, stupid mutt.” He gave a whistle then shouted, “Terr!”
Several minutes sifted by the two men for a moment there as they listened for the rustling of a dog or any other clue. “Let’s get our poles,” Bill eventually said. “Sure he’ll show up.”
Murky water rippled under the dock resting on the shore of a lake in this wilderness of the eastern US. There were very little words said as the flask of alcohol was passed between them and they stood there, reloading worms on their hooks. “Something’s eating these goddamn crawlers.”
“It’s hot today,” Bill said minutes later, still standing there fishing.
They eventually caught one and Fred nodded, saying, “Let’s go back and cook it already.”
“You don’t want to try and catch one?”
“That bastard’s big enough.”
“Alright.”
An hour or so later, they were cooking the catfish. Bill looked up at the sky. “Think a storm’s coming?”
Fred shifted his weight. “Don’t look good, do it?”
“Nope.”
“I need a drink. How much of that whiskey left?”
Bill handed over the flask. “Let get hunting for dinner soon. Maybe we’ll find Terry.”
The wind picked up speed when Fred felt the beautiful burn in his belly from the straight bourbon.
“Going to head home soon, you think?” Bill asked later. “One more night.”
“Yeah. Hopefully Terry’s smart enough to find his way back by morning. If not…” The aged man’s raspy voice trailed off…
“Shit, look. It’s a deer, I think.” The other man pointed through the trees.
Fred lifted his weapon. “I see her.” A flash of lightning and a sudden crack of thunder made the animal jump and the shot missed. Rain broke, it became torrential fast. A black bear launched itself out of the shadows, attacking the doe, which released a haunting scream into the downpour as the predator hunkered down atop its prey. “What the hell?”
Bill then shouted, “Terry!” The hound barked and ran for the dying deer, not noticing that the meat had been claimed by a much larger animal. There was another flash of lightning and another close explosion of thunder.
The intelligence of most bears rivals that of the great apes, dolphins, and elephants. Dogs are much further down the list of mammals when ranking a brain’s capacity for behavior to demonstrate any semblance to intellectual thought. Fred, one of the supposedly smarter creatures in this situation, was paralyzed when it came to what course of action to pursue. Bill pulled a loaded .41 magnum out of his jeans, cocked the thing, and took a shot. BAM!
“The bear would’ve gotten pissed,” Bill explained later. “Fred, I’m sorry that’s the way it went down. Even with a shoulder shot or if I got it’s lung, it still could’ve attacked Terry. And you heard the way the deer was hollering, I couldn’t stand to hear old Terr yipping like that in his final hour, he was too good of a dog for that.”
The man opposing him took a swig of whiskey and lifted his rifle. “You chose that bear over my Terry just like my wife picked a bear over me….”
“Now Fred, goddamn it, you put that gun down.”
“And we both know what happened to her.”
“Don’t you shoot –
Written by BW Derge, All Rights Reserved 2024
© USA
This was a short story composed in 2024 called "Shoot" reacting to the "pick the bear" gimmick going around
-
For more writing by BW Derge, check out the store.
