Demons in the Jungle

Chapter 8

  I found a tree with a deep fork in the center, and climbed it, settling into the curve of the branch. I kept the bow and an arrow in hand, waiting in silence, my eyes scanning the trees. After a time, I heard the echoing, back-and-forth calling of some sort of wild dog, so I froze up and waited cautiously. I didn't want to go after them. Too many, and I was still so goddamn sore. So I waited, and the dogs moved on, leaving me in silence again. However, after a time, my patience paid off. Some kind of tall, golden-furred deer, a pair of them, stalked carefully through the creek. I aimed my bow slowly, drawing an arrow back and inhaling deep. There was a lot of throbbing in my left arm as I tried to hold the string steady. I aimed carefully, exhaled cautiously, and let the arrow fly.

It was a hit. The arrow struck one of the deer right through its neck, high, near the head. It bucked and let out a loud cry, legs immediately making it lurch into motion and hop in the other direction. I couldn't believe it hadn't just dropped on the spot.

"Fuck." I hissed, and then dashed after it.

It turned out to be easy to follow. It was dying, I concluded quickly, taking stumbling steps and breaths that were filled with a gurgling quality that could only be bad for it. It could barely keep ahead of me. The other deer was gone, but the one I'd hit was only fifty yards ahead, tromping loudly through the trees, tripping up every few steps.

I don't know how long I followed him, but after a while I couldn't hear his frantic steps ahead of me anymore. I started following a trail of blood, and after several more minutes, the trail led me to the body. The arrow was still stuck through the deer's neck, and it was laying on the ground with its head against a tree. I took a quick look around, realizing that this was a fairly ideal place to make camp for the night. It was dense with vegetation for cover, fresh water was a short jog away, and nearby were a lot of tall trees I could climb in order to get a vantage point and maintain my sense of direction in the morning.

But first, the deer. This part was easy, as I'd done it dozens of times with my old man. First, I ripped apart the other arm of my jacket to wrap up my hands and fingers, protecting them from the animal's bodily fluids. Next, I laid the deer on its back, got out the kukri, and cut around the anus – yes, the anus – in order to free the anal tract from the hide and pelvic bone. I removed the anal tract and urethra, then I cut up from above the genitals to near the rib cage, careful not to cut into the intestines. I laid the deer on its side, letting the guts slip out down a small slope. Once it had drained, I plunged my already-bloody hands into the cavity and severed the fat that held the intestines, making sure I kept clear of the bladder. You do not want to poke a hole in a deer's bladder. I cut out the esophagus, bringing the heart and lungs with it.

Next, came skinning. I wished I could hang the deer to make it easier, but I had nothing to do it with. I managed, though, careful to cut the sinews holding the hide to the carcass, so as not to get any hair in the meat. It was a long process, but by the time the sun was starting to get low in the sky, it was done.

I stood up, wiping the kukri blade on some leaves and examining the dead deer. I wondered, for a moment, what exactly was so different about this kill I had just made, and the one I had paid $120,000 to make. By the logic of an animal rights activists, I was already a murderer, several times over. But something was different about this. Killing the deer didn't feel like murder to me. Was it because the deer couldn't talk? Because, as far as we knew, it had no hopes and dreams, no knowledge of the world outside it? Was it simply because people were smart enough to do things like question their existence, or become depressed, or fall in love? Maybe I had simply been desensitized by the hunting trips with my father. It almost seemed like the charge of murder was the result of ending a life that could have potential, and nothing more. It didn't make any sense to me anymore. Charlie just seemed like another deer now. What was more, he was a deer that had no life that I could confirm. Was he an innocent man? A criminal? Did he have a family? I didn't know, and that was probably for the best.