Hunting by Amanda Kramer

It was a drizzly and white late afternoon but the clouds showed signs of retreating and unveiling a calm dusk sky. He stepped up over a jagged rock and scuffed the toe of his boot on some crumbling debris. Placing his right hand down on the shrubby slab of rock, he used the ball of his palm to secure himself so he could dust off his boot quietly and, using his left shoulder, adjusted the strap so the rifle lay across his chest, like a seatbelt. The muzzle pointed up towards his lower ear and when he turned his head to the left he could smell the old residue from last week's hunt. He was never frightened at the closeness of the muzzle to his brain and the fact that only a few millimeters of bone lay between him and his fate. His expertise was paramount. He'd been hunting for a long time now.


The lonely wind blew a vacuum around his head but he could hear himself panting. Like clockwork, he assumed his position. Now crouched low like a python, he wriggled his body beneath some thick bushes, nestled amongst sharp sticks and ragged branches. Already the sky was clearing to a seamless milky grey and the wind retreated slightly. He lifted a finger and felt the direction of the air against his wet print. He took a pretend shot into the distance just slightly cocking the rifle, making a faux-explosion sound with his mouth. The immaturity of the act relaxed him and he smiled to himself and wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. He was pleased now. Perfect view, perfect aim. Now he needed the gold. He waited, picking something from his teeth using a thin piece of dried shrub. All was still. Then he saw it. Not one but two beasts, one behind the other, making their way around the base of the outback hill. They were completely unaware of him. This repulsed him. They were so clumsy and lumbering, their breathing heaving noises and sounds into the quiet. They had a lot of meat between them; he would certainly be proud of himself if he could mark both of them from here. He thought about how to tie the bloodied carcasses to his Hilux and remembered he brought with him some winch straps from the yard.



He waited until the beasts were stationary. They sniffed the air and grunted at each other hungrily. He drew a sharp intake of breath as the leader turned to his stumpy sidekick. Then the beasts were moving again. Slower this time. Perhaps they had sensed a predator. Not likely, he thought. The only thing they could sense was the arse of another of their kind. He felt disgust, the familiar precursor to the blind hate that drove him away from his family and to places like this. Places cold and lonely, where he cramped for hours in disguise, waiting and waiting for a chance to slaughter even one of this obtuse species.


They halted again and he cocked his rifle gently, one finger slowly easing itself onto the trigger. The only sound was the slowing whoosh of the wind and the rustle of the eucalyptus up above. He squinted, they stood still and dumb. Not moving, positioned in their own predatory formation, crude and offensive. Up ahead, a male kangaroo held its paws together and sniffed the wind, while a joey scuffled in the cracks behind him for some greenery amongst the dirt.


He fired two shots, like drum beats. The first hit the hunter in the head, sending him flat down into the crud. The second hit his sidekick, but in the ribs. The two men lay there, one dead, one dying, neither killing.



He got up, right hand on the rocks, left hand steadying the rifle behind him this time. His anger retreated from him like the rain had from the dusk. He smiled and walked away, leaving them bleeding into the dirt with no choice but to stare straight ahead at the roo and the joey retreating, shocked, but alive.