My Books > Secrets > The Pack hunts

We run.

The smell of the trees is all around us. Thick and close. I breathe in the musty smell of fungi and the damp freshness of moss. Smell the small mammals that hide in their burrows as we run past. Smell the sharp acrid odor of beetles. Taste the comforting, familiar smell of my brothers. And, sharp and exciting, the smell of our prey.

I cannot see him. The forest is dense. But I can hear him, stumbling over sticks and plants in his path, banging into branches, his lungs heaving with the exertion and most of all, the fear. I can hear his fear. I can smell it.

I can taste it.

My mouth stretches wide in a grin that displays my sharp, tearing teeth. My tongue flickers in and out, tasting the air, tasting the prey’s terror. We run at a steady, slow lope. We can run like this all night. We are in no hurry to catch our prey. We enjoy his terror.

We run stretched out in a wide half-circle, keeping our prey within the circle. We run silently, but from time to time we call to each other. Deep, growling howls that have no purpose other than to ensure that our prey knows we are there.

His terror grows through the night.

So does our pleasure.

Eventually, he can run no more. We tighten our circle, calling to each other, letting him hear us coming. Closing in on him.

He is backed up against one of the giants of the forest. A good choice. We note it with approval. It is more exciting when they fight back. He glares at us. He knows he will die. The knowledge is in his eyes. And the determination to sell his life as dearly as he can. We grin at him, our teeth sharp and white in the moonlight, our tongues flickering in and out.

He grasps his weapon tighter and watches us with grim determination.

We wait patiently, breathing as one, our hearts beating in unison, our faces and bodies identical as we face our prey. Perhaps he thinks nothing of this. It takes practice to recognize individuals of another species, and we make sure they have no chance to practice. None of his people see us more than once. Perhaps he doesn’t realize that we are the same.

His nerve breaks eventually. It always does.

He swings his heavy stick around in front of him, shouting out loud in the strange sounds of his people. The brother closest to him steps forward, into the sweep of his stick, and stops it with his body. We absorb the impact. He grasps the prey’s arm, and holds it motionless.

I can see the veins stand out on the prey’s arm as he strains to move it. How amazing, to be able to see the tracks of blood through the skin. How do they bear it, knowing they are so vulnerable? Despite myself I feel a sudden sharp admiration for a species that are so fragile, yet are as dangerous as ourselves.

My brother throws away the stick.

We close in upon our prey.