[Part One: Fulbright]

One: Ankle Deep

Steel capped boots on a dusty path, warmth in the distance blurring the air; reality was simmering in the arid swamp. Fletcher enjoyed the way it felt to walk on the soil, a slight thud sounding to each one of his steps. It felt good to be out in the world. His father walked ahead, rifle slung over one shoulder, the dirty wood and chrome chassis catching little glimpses of sun as it shook with his movements. The air tasted damp and soft, the amount of moisture in the air almost offering resistance; a doughy immaterial wall that sapped at the trio's energy reserves. Thume strolled lazily at Fletcher's right, the old goat's weird sideways eyes watching between the widely spaced trees, keeping an eye out for any sign of their prey. Out in the bayou sat large rusted chunks of metal, teeth of the Dead World, moments from a time long ago, calcified to the point they no longer held meaning beyond their raw shape.

“You enjoy hunting much, boy? Done much?" Thume asked, licking his lips. Fletcher had the natural quietness and grace of a coyote; it was difficult to imagine the lumbering – though admittedly poised – old goat that was Thume hunting anything of substance, much less a feral Orikabu.

Fletcher's right paw drifted back and nudged the butt of his own bolt-action rifle. “Yeah, some. Father likes the idea of me doing it, he brings me along sometimes." He shrugged, unsure what Thume wanted exactly. Thume knew how he got dragged along on his father's hunts. He didn't enjoy the older coyote's company, but it was one of the few times he was allowed outside of Gallentry, so he wasn't about to start kicking up a fuss at the excursions. The old goat eyed him, then spat to the side, looking around.

“Hell Fletch, not like that. I'm-I don't mean sittin' in some dusty blind waitin' for a feral duck too far tumoured to even think of eating to come waddling along." He paused, sniffing the air. “I mean stalking, reading the environment, tracking, killing. It's best with a bow, but that-there rifle, that'll do it too."

“Thume!" The Baron Mason Fulbright called over one shoulder, glancing back at them both. “You ain't puttin' more sadistic shit into my son's head?"

“No sir. Just 'kabu advice." Thume called back respectfully, though he slowed his pace a little, letting the older Fulbright get ever so slightly farther from them. Despite the fact, his father continued to call out.

“Fletch, 'bout…thirty percent a-what Thume says is any use. The real skill is sifting through his crap to find it. You mind your ears lad, and he'll mind his tongue!"

“Yessir." Fletcher said back. Thume was a tad queer in the head, and while they were close, the two had an interesting relationship. The goat had weird ideas if nothing else; weird ideas from weird dead books, though he was articulate and Fletcher respected him. He was easy to mistake as slow, but if one spent enough time with him they came to realise he simply liked to hold things close to the chest.

“There's honour in stalking you know." Thume mused, pulling a cigarette from his satchel and striking it. He inhaled it deeply, sighing. Fletcher waited patiently for him to speak again. When he did, he used his hands to emphasise the point. “Most folk, you ask 'em, they'll say that to stalk is sick. But people delude 'emselves Fletch, you know that. They tell you the lies they want to believe themselves, and they want to think there's…respect, hidin' in some invisible spot waiting for random alignment to grant them the right of murder. I don't subscribe to that; no, in fact I am diametrically opposed to throwing my lot in with natural chaos. If you're about to end something, you should know what it is, and why it is, s'all any of us could ask for. You stalk a creature, even some half-mad bayou feral, you're gonna learn every damn secret it holds." His voice was low and raspy, and as he stopped to inhale again, smoke drifted out his nostrils. He looked otherworldly in that moment, and Fletcher couldn't help feel a slight trickle of fear. He liked Thume, but the goat scared him too. He tossed around dangerous ideas, big concepts in a small-concept world.

“I see." Fletcher said eventually. More than a full minute passed, and Thume laughed, dropping his cigarette in the dust.

“No you don't, but you will." He picked up his pace, closing the distance to Baron Fulbright. “Mason, tracks are gettin' deeper. Look up ahead there." The three men slowed, coming to a stop at a seemingly random place on the endlessly straight trail. Fletcher dropped into a crouch, noting the deeper patterns, seeing where the faded greygrass had been trampled down.

“Ya see it boy?" Baron Mason asked, pulling his rifle down and racking the slide.

Unnecessary.

“The tracks veer off here, yeah." Fletcher said, pointing into the swamp. He was amazed how just a few metres off the trail it seemed so dark and gloomy, whilst out here on the trail it was hot and bright, the sun broken only by the far-apart swamp trees. Just beyond the tree line the ground sunk a little, giving way to murky ankle deep swamp water. It looked like soup with herbs floating on top. The younger coyote glanced up to the old goat. “How you figure we'll track 'im through the water?" Thume shrugged and began trekking forward, the swamp swallowing his foot as he shoved through the brush, mud slurping and smacking as it sucked and lapped at his legs. Fletcher followed expecting it to smell, and while it didn't, he could taste their sweat on the air.

They kept like that, plodding in relative silence until eventually Thume stopped by a knobbly and stunted tree, his stubby gloved fingers running over a fresh-looking gash in the bark. “In water, you just get an eye for different signs. Orikabu have much wider antler spans than yer typical feral buck. Plus, they're higher up."

“Whaddya think Thume?" Mason asked. He claimed to enjoy hunting, yet typically experienced it the blind-awaiting-chaos way the goat had described earlier. But an Orikabu had to be tracked, followed back to its nest; the beasts were far too strong and wily – not to mention rare - to have hope of killing at random. The only reason they were even out this far was that the 'kabu had been getting steadily more aggressive, and farmers nearby kept pestering the Baron to do something about it. Why on the old earth his father had decided this was the hunt to not only do himself, but to also bring both Thume and his eldest (and only) son on, Fletcher had no idea.

The goat cleared his throat. “Oh yeah, this boy's nest is close by alright. He's marking his borders, keeping the others out. Doesn't mean there's any 'kabu close by enough to worry about, but it's the instinct. I say we keep this way, should have it within the day."

“Would he really put his nest in the middle of a bog like this?" Fletcher asked, swatting at some giant insect that was sucking at his neck. Mason shrugged.

“We'll probably find it dryer again further in. You'll see." Fletcher glanced to Thume, who nodded.

The trio began hiking in once again, Thume pointing out more Orikabu signs as they went, with Fletcher taking studious note. Mason paid attention, but he always acted like it was something he already knew – despite having never hunted an Orikabu before. It was just how the older coyote was; an insufferable ass with pride to dwarf his tall stature. Fletcher wished he would give them some distance again, so he could hear more of what Thume had to say. It had taken Fletcher years to gain the goat's trust, and despite spending little time together the two were close. He knew Thume would not speak his ideas on the world unless he felt safe to do so, and Fletcher often wondered if he'd been punished for them before, it did seem like something his father would do.

Eventually the muck and wet gave way to dryer land, dead trees littering the ground, the occasional tiny rabbit scurrying across the bark and twigs.

“We must be getting close by now, gods around." Mason scoffed, sipping from his canteen as they took a short rest stop. “Been walking for hours…why'd we leave the buggy so damn far behind?" From his position cross legged on the ground, Fletcher watched Thume's gaze slide over to the coyote.

“Can't risk spooking 'im Baron. Haven't you noticed the wildlife's been declining? Critters are scared to tread here, we're close." He spoke in a slow drawl, pulling each word out as he said it. “A 'kabu, it's the top of the killing board. Ain't gonna be nothing else within a mile or so it's nest."

“Still, we should have seen something by now." Mason said, a slight whine to his voice. “The bastard was seen nearer the road, maybe you could be going the wrong way?" Thume shrugged, lighting another cigarette, leaning back against a tree. His horns scratched at the bark as he stretched his neck.

“Could be." He said slowly, inhaling. “You care to take over Baron?" He glanced at Mason, then at Fletcher. Thume had a knack for insulting people in such a way they couldn't help but agree with him.

Mason balked, looking away. “Bah. Don't get smart with me Thume, it doesn't suit you." He ran a paw slowly through the fur on his head, sighing dramatically. “We keep going then." Thume gestured to the sky.

“It's getting' late boss. I don't know about you; I don't fancy meeting this thing in the dark."

“Think we should camp?" Fletcher asked. Mason waved a paw dismissively.

“What, stop now? We're hot on his trail! We press forward another hour or two at least, make sure you keep that rifle handy boy." He ordered, pulling his own weapon into paw and once again cocking it. Fletcher nodded, picking himself up and dusting his jeans, slinging his weapon forward. He didn't rack it, no need just yet, but he held onto it for show, reluctantly following after his father. Mason was eager to move, and he didn't notice as Thume once again sidled up next to Fletcher, voice low and conspiratorial. He waited a few minutes, before leaning in, gesturing with his hands.

“So can ya taste it?" He asked, looking around. “It's like copper, that salty aftertaste. There's blood in the psychosphere, waitin' to pool. Oh, we're close alright, can't ya hear the noise in the air? Shortwave static that…nature can feel our murderous intent." He waved a hand, and as Fletcher looked forward he saw his father looking back at them with an incredulous expression. The older coyote groaned, shaking his head and facing the front again.

“Thume, can you do me a favour and not go spouting weird shit for like…ten minutes? We're trying to focus here, I don't wanna hear about 'shortwave static', or the 'psychosphere, whatever that even fuckin' means." He called over a shoulder. Fletcher gave the old goat a look, but they both fell silent.

The group kept walking for another forty minutes, before one of Mason's paw's shot up in a hold sign.

“You hear that?" He stage-whispered, dropping into a wider stance and raising his weapon to his shoulder. His tail swayed gently side to side, ears on swivel as he gestured to a particularly dense thicket of leaves and underbrush up ahead.

“Fletch." Thume said softly, motioning to the rifle. The younger coyote nodded, racking his bolt and chambering a round. Thume had a scattergun, a big round thing with four barrels, perfect for closer gunfights. It was in his arms now, ready to go just in case. They grouped up, and then Fletcher heard it; a scraping accompanied by an echoic kind of mooing. It was like gargantuan strips of carrot being peeled off the body, a deep wail of warning, all amidst the rustle of trees, the thud of a great moving weight.

“Fletcher, you go up to the right with Thume, I'll take round the left." Mason said, and all complied. The Orikabu - if that's what they were indeed hearing – sighed heavily, branches crunching beneath it's presumably giant hooves. Their visibility was shot in the density of the trees, and Fletcher could make out little more than shadows and after-images. To hear it moving made it sound even larger than he knew it to be. He pushed the rifle stock deeper into his shoulder, keeping his snout and eye along the top rail and leaning into the tree he was crouched behind.

Then he caught the first glimpse; a shred of hindquarter, thick matted brown fur caked with mud, situated just above his eye-level, shifting inside the thicket.

“There." He whispered to Thume, who nodded.

“Yeah that's him alright – now, wait till we've got a clear shot. I'm gonna try and flank him, spook the bastard into moving forward. Aim for the eyes if you can." Fletcher nodded, taking a knee to steady himself.

“I see him!" Mason cried, squeezing his trigger. The weapon cracked in the near-silent swamp, tiny birds scattering in a panic as his shot blew through bark and leaves. The Orikabu reacted immediately, screaming a kind of furious whinny and storming off to the sound of thunder in the earth. Mason started to run after the noise but Thume stopped him;

“Don't waste your breath Baron, you ain't getting' anywhere. He'll be long gone for now." He called, slinging his scattergun to a shoulder. Fletcher sighed, sliding his bolt forward and making the weapon safe, relaxing his tense muscles. Even despite what he'd read, he couldn't believe the size of the thing – and he'd only caught the back outlines as it stormed deeper into the thickest parts of the marsh.

“Bastard!" Mason cried into the void. He turned to Thume, a snarl on his maw, his tail rigid and hackles up. “I just want to kill the thing and be done with this filthy swamp. Now we'll be here at least until tomorrow!" They were still well within the Fulbright borders, but it was a poorly kept secret that the good Baron Fulbright hated his own land.

“Well, I think you hit him good enough, he's long gone. We ain't gonna catch anything today, and it's dry enough here to sleep." Thume said, studying the ground. “Fletch, get over here and put down the roll mats, I don't think we'll need canvas but I'll set it up anyway." Fletcher scurried to obey, trying to ignore his father's seething as he organised their sleeping mats on the flattest and driest parts of the ground. He then helped the old goat set up the tent-like canvas frame, giving the mats an emergency roof from rain. They then covered it all in a thin netting, a vain attempt to keep insects out. If the weather held, Fletcher would just sleep under the stars, a roll of the fly-net pulled over him like a blanket.  

“Thume; Fletch and I'll kick up a fire. Can you go snare a rabbit or something fer us t'eat?"

“I've got cans Baron." Thume said, pulling three from his pack." Mason looked up sharply.

“But I said a rabbit. If we end up stuck out here, you'd be sorry we ate those cans, huh?" Thume's eyes darted to Fletcher, and after a tense pause, he shrugged.

“Have it your way boss. Can I lend your rifle boy?" Fletcher passed his weapon over, albeit a little hesitantly. “Well. Guess I'll be 'bout an hour or three." And then he was gone.

Fletcher was the one to set up the fire, while Mason kicked and complained about the Orikabu getting away, chewing loudly on a packet of salted nuts. His father's grumbling aside, it was a nice place to spend the night. Fletcher was rarely allowed to leave Gallentry, and when he did get the chance he always tried to enjoy the visceral feel of nature. He wasn't sure about shortwave static, or the taste of copper in the psychosphere, but he understood what reality felt like. Away from the walls, close to the ground…it felt good. The world his father had constructed in the heart of their home city, it felt so false and distant, almost like a dream sometimes; a fantasy where he was always right, and others existed only to serve him and his whims.

The silence was awkward, but Fletcher had never been able to speak easily with his father. Everything felt like a test, each sentence weighed and judged. Mason Fulbright was a man who operated first and foremost on feeling, with logic and common sense coming into his decision making only when forced to.

“Listen to me." The Baron said eventually, staring listlessly into the crackling flames. “Thume, he's a good advisor - good at his job. But he's got strange ideas Fletch, always has spent too much time looking through those old books of his, and not enough living with the rest of us. I don't want you takin' too much of what he spouts to heart, ya hear? He gets…well he gets impulsive, makes rash decisions, it's unbecoming of a leader, I wouldn't want you to take that on."

“Yes sir." Fletcher murmured, grimacing as he dumped more kindling into the flames. Meeting his father's eyes always felt uncomfortable, and he did his best to avoid the old coyote's stare. They seemed to have an unusual effect on him, peeling away his confidences and ideals, stripping him down to the bone, to his basest self; nothing but instinct and anxieties.

“Good. You know I've never seen him with a woman for more than a month? I know he visits…ah, don't matter none. You know better." Mason said, struggling to light a cigarette without letting his fur get singed. “We're gonna kill that bastard tomorrow. Just you wait. How many're ya friends can say they brought down a 'kabu?" Fletcher shrugged, trying to ignore the expectantly smug grin on Mason's muzzle.

“None prolly." He said truthfully.

“That's right. I could've paid someone for this, y'know that? But I…I wanted to…" He stopped, exhaling sharply. An awkward silence passed, a gunshot cracking the silence in the far distance, as Thume presumably killed them a tiny feral. “Any of them girls got your eye Fletch?" Mason finally blurted. The younger coyote blushed instantly, looking away as his face grew hot.

“Er, not really." He muttered.

“There's some real lookers in Gallentry. Figured, with your old dog's looks in they'd be hangin' off you. You got a woman? A steady girl, that it?" Fletcher's paws were shaking. Is this why Mason sent Thume away? He wanted to talk about girls? He bit his lip, and tried not to let it show just how badly he wanted to curl his tail into his lap.

“Er, no. I don't sir." He laughed in a forced kind of way.

“But there are some pretty one's back home, right?"

“Yeah I guess." He fidgeted, trying to strip kindling for the fire. It didn't need it, but he didn't want his father to see how red and flustered he was.

Why girls? Why now?!

“You seen the Finance Ministers daughter? I know I know, she's a cat…but we're living in progressive times son! She's got a real look to her that one, my word if I wasn't so damn old…" The coyote chuckled loudly, leaning back on his seat. When he'd calmed, he studied Fletcher, his eyes orange from the flames. “Or how 'bout that Ablish girl? The doe? She's a looker some say, I know you seen her walkin' around his manor when we've dined there." Fletcher couldn't help but look back at that one. His father stared at him earnestly.

Does he mean Neremiah Ablish's daughter? He wondered. Neremiah was Baron to a province that neighboured the Fulbright land. They were similar sizes and biomes, but Ablish land was for oil, and Fulbright land was for iron. The two patriarchs didn't much like one another, but they traded well enough as required – Ablish was forced to, if he wanted to get his hands on the money flowing in through Gaerus. Fletcher hadn't spoken more than six words to the daughter, though it was true he'd seen her walking around during parties and socials.

“What…Dessica Ablish? She ain't married?" Fletcher asked.

“Don't what me boy. And no, she ain't. Watch your tone, that's a lady worth yer respect now." Mason said, flicking his cigarette into the fire, his eyes lost somewhere faraway. “No…she is quite single boy; I've even seen her about during my own visits to Sacarvin, waltzing about, wiggling them hips…you would've noticed for certain huh?"

“Yeah I guess." Fletcher said hesitantly. “How…could you not?" He felt so stupid saying it. “Isn't she somethin' like, thirty though?"

“Twenty-nine, and I said watch that mouth, I won't take no disrespect to her, she's a decent lady." Mason said harshly. Twenty-nine. Eight years senior to Fletcher. What was his Dad even talking about this for? A miserable attempt at male bonding? If his goal was to get closer to Fletcher, he couldn't bark up a more wrong tree. “But trust me when I say Fletch, most men…they want them a girl, some little bitty thing far younger'n 'em. A girl gets bragging rights with the boys, you'd know…but I'm telling you son; a real woman, like the Ablish girl, she's gonna know things. Thing's you ain't never even considered." A shiver ran up Fletcher's spine.

Only respect for the lady around this campfire, of course. He thought.

“Ah, right." He said, just to say something aloud.

“Plus, she knows how to keep a man, both in bed and out of it, I'm sure. Naw, I think…you should keep a good one of those young eyes on dear Dessica. You could do far worse. Far worse." Fletcher just nodded. Sure, he'd pretended to gawk with his friends, acted like sneaking around the back of the ladies bathing house to where the wall had a crack was exciting; but while his friends had their paws slipping into their pants, drooling over the curvaceous wolves and vixens, he'd just seen bodies. That's all it was, someone's furry body; muscles and fat strung together over bone. His eyes had been drawn to his male friends, and especially towards those paws fumbling around in their slacks…

No. That wasn't a memory for right now, not with his father about.

Mercifully Thume soon returned, two feral rabbits slung over a shoulder. He didn't say much, giving Fletcher a suspect look. The old goat dressed the meat, skewering it up on sticks and placing it over the fire without so much as a single word.

“What'd ya see?" Fletcher asked later, after they'd eaten. He was cleaning his rifle; a habit his old shooting master had instilled religiously. Thume shrugged.

“Went east, didn't see any new signs of that 'kabu. His nest must be deeper north. Loads more game 'bout a half-hour from here though."

“Good, at least we know not to go that way." Mason said, dumping dirt onto the fire and stamping it out. Fletcher felt a pang of disappointment as it was snuffed, but he knew better than to complain. “Get to bed, I want to be torn down and moving by dawn."

“Yes sir." Fletcher said, scurrying and finding his mat. There was one canvas roof, but only Mason was beneath it; the other two had elected to have a little more privacy, considering it was clear sky above them. Fletcher quickly undressed to his boxers, wiggling to get comfy on the mat, his eyes searching the infinite darkness above him. It took him some time to fall asleep, but eventually he was gone, drifting.

He woke to screaming.

He opened his eyes, sitting bolt upright and looking about. Thume was already on his feet and dressed (did he sleep in his clothes?), cocking his scattergun. Mason was crying out as the canvas roof whipped chaotically in the air. In a flash Fletcher was up, nearly naked, rifle in paw and clip in, his fingers deftly racking the slide in a practiced motion. It was still dark, and behind the flapping canvas tent was a behemoth of a shadow, huge hooves slamming into the earth like drum beats. Mason dove free of the tangle, squealing, and Thume pulled a shot. His buckshot blew apart a large chunk of the canvas, and it was torn free from the Orikabu's antlers.

“What on earth…" Fletcher heard himself mutter, weapon held limply as he stared at the monster. He'd seen pictures before, and even a one-to-one stone statue in Eleckton once, but they couldn't hope to prepare someone for this. Towering at nine feet tall, it looked like a nightmare interpretation of a feral moose, sent straight out of hell. The antlers were gargantuan wings, two massive branches jutting from either side of the thing's colossal head, the different pathways all tapering out to sharp pointed ends; one nick from those could easily gut a man. Fletcher felt his stomach wobble as he saw a decrepit severed arm hanging from the left antler, it's blood long dry and the fur thick and mangy with rot. The Orikabu had six large eyes, and flared nostrils, thick saliva dripping from its open maw. They didn't have sharp teeth, but the sheer pressure the jaw could manifest was enough to shatter bone with ease. On all four of its tree-trunk legs, spine like growths spiralled up from the thing's knee joints. It had no tail, and the thickest, heaviest coat Fletcher had ever seen on a beast.

It also stunk, like an open wound.

“Fletcher move!" Thume cried, dancing forward and firing another shot. The Orikabu twisted, and the shot slammed into his hindquarters. It let out a deep bray, kicking up a massive spray of mud and filth as it charged off yet again, galloping into the spiralling darkness.

“Why would it come back!?" Fletcher cried, his voice cracking. To his left Mason checked himself over for wounds, seemingly unhurt. If it hadn't been for the canvas distracting the monster, he'd likely be dead. In the distance the massive hooves crashed like war drums, thudding against the ground with a deep earthly rhythm.

“Get yer boots on Fletch, right now." Thume snapped. Moving in a crouch he swept the area, trying to discern exactly where the 'kabu had gone. “He's circlin' us, watching in the darkness." The goat said quietly, almost to himself. Fletcher started tugging his boots on, fumbling as he tried to be quick. “C'mon pick an angle." Thume whispered.

“Why'd he come back?" Mason asked, his voice wavering. It was unusual behaviour; Orikabu were an apex predator, but like any other feral, getting shot in the flank was usually enough to scare them from an area for at least a day or two.

Unless it has some reason to be here, why wouldn't it flee to the nest? Hunker down where it's safe? Fletcher wondered, the air still. He kept his rifle up, determined not to be scared stiff again when the thing came charging back.

“Damn it. Stupid, stupid." Thume exclaimed from a few metres away, picking up what looked like jagged sticks and examining them. “These aren't just sticks over here boss, they're bits of old antler."

“What?" Mason asked, still reeling. Fletcher paled as his sleep-addled brain slowly made the connections.

“We're in the fucking nest." Thume exclaimed, shooting a hateful glare at Mason. “Get your gun, he'll be comin' back."

“We should start running. Circle back around tomorrow, in the daylight." Mason suggested. Thume shook his head.

“We run now, that thing'll just chase, it'll run us down till we're too tired to fight, and tear us apart. No…we invaded his home, that's a personal attack, an insult, we won't get let off so easy. He's too smart for that."

“It's just a feral Thume."

“Yeah well so are you. Yet here we are." The goat whispered, too low for the Baron to hear.

“I'm ready now." Fletcher said with a nod, affirming it more to himself than Thume or his father. Thume hurried to his side, dropping to a crouch as Fletcher went to one knee. The old goat pointed into the darkness.

“Can ya hear 'im boy? He's out there, stalking us, waiting. He's gonna ram through with another charge any second, hope to catch one of us on those knees." In the darkness a harrowing bray sounded, bouncing off the thick trees, seeming to come from every direction.

“He's loud." Fletcher said, shutting one eye and looking down his sight.

“You've got the highest calibre rifle, the most range, and the best eye. 'Kabus, they're weakest just behind the eyes on either side. You're gonna have to hit that, and you can't miss, understand?"

“Thume!" Mason hissed. “Now isn't the time for a rotting lesson! Just take the shot yourself!" The goat shook his head.

“Nah, your son's the better shot by far Baron." He said offhandedly. “You best get behind a tree, keep yourself loaded, if Fletch misses he's gonna dive to the side, and you an' I'll blow it's head off as he tries to run him down." Fletcher shook slightly at the thought of being bait.

“You keep my boy safe, goat. His wounds will be yours." Mason warned. Thume nodded.

“But he ain't gonna miss, are you kid?" He whispered, patting Fletcher lightly on the shoulder. In the distance the hoof beats stopped suddenly. Thume pulled back, taking cover behind a tree and whistling loudly, two fingers in his mouth.

“I don't know if I can…" Fletcher said nervously. So much pressure.

“You can." Thume promised. “If you miss, wait as long as you can stand, then jump for your fuckin' life. But you won't miss." He inhaled quickly. “It's quiet, he's gonna charge."

“You need--" Mason started, but the goat hushed him. The three sat in silence. In the distance, another demonic bray ricocheted in the empty swamplands. Thume whistled loudly again, the pitch so high it almost hurt Fletcher's sensitive canine ears.

“C'mon little rebel." Thume muttered. Fletcher tried to relax, imagining a wave sliding over him from head to toe, each muscle releasing in time, un-tensing himself piece-by-piece. He listened to his heartbeat thudding in his chest, willing it to slow just a little.

In the darkness, the thunder started up again. He saw nothing, eyes still adjusting to the darkness.

One bullet mentality. He thought, as conscious thought slipped away. The hooves began to beat louder and louder, so fast now, slamming again and again on the ground, a war beat, a murder tempo for the swamp's greatest killer.

First the broadest shape of the monster appeared, a hulking mass of dark shaking as it barrelled, dirt and rocks spraying up from beneath it. Then, in a series of instants, the thing gained definition. It was maybe twenty metres away when what little moonlight there was caught the edges of the antlers and face, the white light snared on those bulbous, raging eyes.

It was so close now.

Fletcher exhaled once.

And then he fired.