Second Category

Hunting season had just opened its hostilities.

His cap jammed down on his head, his hair sticking out from every side as though trying to flee the skull that housed it, his ruddy nose far too visible for his liking, but what could he do about it, really, and anyone who had something to say about it could go to hell. Mark filled his pockets with ammunition with particular care, picked up his rifle, and set off at a steady pace toward the vast expanse that opened before him.

It was cold that day.

He was shaking quite a bit, which was obviously because of the cold and his worn-out gloves.

He missed his first shot a few minutes later. The animal had moved at the wrong moment, that was all. He missed his second shot shortly after. The sun had blinded him, these things happen and you’d have to be acting in real bad faith not to admit it. The third went so wide that Mark decided not to count it. The shot had simply gone off on its own, a plain mechanical accident.

After several hours of combat against the cold, the light, the laws of physics, and a thirst that was settling in, Mark managed to bring down a deer. Cleanly, he told himself. As family tradition dictated, he took, with great care, only a portion for himself. He chose a section of the flank, carefully avoiding the impact sites, too much hassle and above all too crunchy under the tooth, and left the rest of the carcass where it lay, as his father had always done. “We leave to nature what belongs to her”, he’d always said. And his grandfather before him. Maybe someday he himself would have the chance to pass that legacy on to someone who deserved to hear it.

Tired and hungry, it was time to rest a while. He drank his beer almost in one go, then pulled out the sandwich the old lady had made him that very morning and started eating, sitting on the edge of a fallen trunk, back to the wind, looking satisfied. His hand searched automatically through his bag for another can, without luck.

Sigh.

High above him, something was circling in the sky. He glanced up for a moment, saw nothing but a large dark blur, shrugged, he’d forgotten his glasses again, and lowered his eyes back to his sandwich, which he finished off in a few bites, his mouth dry.

After he’d stuffed his face, Mark made his way slowly back to his red Dentside, or what was left of it under the rust, whose doors had been groaning something awful every time they opened for at least fifteen years, minimum. He tossed his catch into the cooler, set his rifle on the dashboard, right where it belonged, settled his weight into the driver’s seat, and turned the key to coax the engine into life.

On the way back, the dark shape briefly crossed his mind. A vulture, probably, or an eagle, who could say, and anyway he didn’t know the first thing about birds. He had only two categories for them. What he could shoot, and everything else. That was plenty. He let it go, turned up the radio, which hissed with static, and pressed down on the gas.

Pulling into the driveway, Mark saw the light on. The smell of chowder reached him before he’d even opened the door.

“You get anything?” the old lady called from the kitchen.

“Just a deer,” Mark answered, dropping the cut into the chest freezer in the garage.

Then, without another word, he grabbed a beer from the fridge, felt the liquid slide down his throat, grabbed a second, and sank into the couch to watch the news.

A few days later, back out on the plain, Mark took the same path he always took, knew too well, moving at a steady pace and sweeping the horizon with his eyes for something that warranted a round or two. His hands were trembling slightly, which he put down to the fatigue that had been building these last few days.

A sound came from his left. Mark turned quickly, rifle already raised, ready to fire. A large bird stood there on the ground, its white head swaying in a way that wasn’t natural. Mark shrugged. Probably some damn itch or some other nonsense like that. He lowered his rifle. Second category. The bird beat its wings, lifted off in a clumsy zigzag, bumped into a few branches, and disappeared into the trees.

Mark shook his head. He’d never seen anything like it, but that didn’t mean much. After all, he never paid attention to how they behaved. The bird was probably injured. These things happen to every creature, after all. He straightened his cap and kept walking, eyes still scanning.

From the smell drifting on the air, he could tell he was getting close to the deer he’d left to nature. When he reached the spot, the carcass had been almost entirely stripped of its flesh. Bears, raptors, and other opportunists had done their work. Mark nodded slowly. At least nothing had gone to waste. Good thing.

He tried to pick off a few squirrels that came through, for lack of anything more interesting to shoot at, but the area was too thick with trees to get a clean line. The minutes passed, shots followed shots, and yet he had nothing to collect. He sighed and kept moving, sweeping the surroundings with a weary eye.

Mark gave up his post in the middle of the afternoon.

“Goddamn birds!” he muttered.

An enormous vibrant green mess was spread across the middle of his windshield. He fished an old rag from the door pocket.

“It’s sickening,” he grumbled, scrubbing hard.

He set his rifle in its usual spot, switched on the radio, and took off at full speed.

A speech he was half-listening to was being broadcast.

“...unleash hell...”

Just as he was about to change the radio station, a jolt shook the Dentside. Without so much as slowing down, Mark glanced briefly in the rearview mirror and saw black feathers scattering in every direction.

That bird just shouldn’t have been there.

But after a moment, he grumbled.

“Shit… we killed it.”