There are a multitude of sounds that can be heard in any given forest, if you’re quiet enough to listen to them. This forest sounded mainly like the loud buzz of crickets. If there were birds, they couldn’t—or wouldn’t—compete with the pervasive drone of a million singing insects.

“This is way more peaceful than I thought it’d be.” Neil whispered, cradling his crossbow like a newborn.

“You’re not supposed to talk on a hunt.” Ernest whispered back.

“Yeah, Neil, you’re not supposed to talk on a hunt.” Thomas added, creeping behind with all the grace of two children stacked on top of one another, and wrapped in a trench coat.

He forgot how large Thomas was. Sure, he was doughy—increasingly so, these last few weeks—but he broke six feet in height with inches to spare. He didn’t carry himself like a giant. There was a meekness about him that made him appear nearly half a foot shorter than he actually was. He slouched, he slumped, and he dragged his feet wherever Neil saw him.

“Shush.” Ernest hissed at the galumphing man.

“Yeah, Thomas, shush.” Neil echoed, smirking.

After learning that they both got Basic Exercises from Argus, he and Thomas slipped into a casual sort of rivalry. A competition, instigated and perpetuated—in its entirety—by Thomas.

Strangely, this was the most Neil ever liked him.

“If all three of you don’t shut it, you’re not getting any meat for the rest of the trip.” Malcolm, the caravan’s hunter, informed all three of them, in a voice like clouds scraping together.

Malcolm was an older man with a fuzzy white head and a history of smoking. Neil never actually saw the man do it, but his vocal cords sounded like they’d been ripped out and replaced with shoe laces.

The man rasped.

Thomas glared at Neil, and Neil stuck his tongue out at him. Ernest said nothing, and he could feel regret radiating off the kid in waves. He reeled his tongue back into his mouth—smile melting from his face. They crept onward, pace eating through green foliage as they delved into the forest.

Neil didn’t mean to get the kid in trouble. He was the reason Neil was allowed out here in the first place. He was Malcolm’s nephew—or something similar, Neil got the feeling the kid’s parents weren’t in the picture and didn’t want to pry—and when the offer of teaching Neil how to hunt came up, he jumped on it.

Not that he really wanted to, or thought that he thought he might enjoy it. He didn’t—and wouldn’t—hunt for sport. This was hunting for dinner, which would hopefully feed an entire camp of people.

No, what Neil wanted was to pick up some of the basic survival skills that these people learned—if Ernest was any indication—when they were ten years old.

Thomas, on seeing Neil go off into the woods with the grizzled old hunter and a kid, promptly invited himself along.

Neil found it mildly annoying that Thomas’s main goal of the trip was, in his words, ‘to get better at killing stuff,’ but Malcolm didn’t seem to mind, and Ernest nodded like that was a perfectly reasonable thing to want.

The four trekked onwards.

…

…

Cool darkness melted over the forest. Every snap of every twig rang in his ears like the crack of a rifle, and the forest floor took increasing portions of Neil’s attention as it became harder to see.

“Stop,” The hunter commanded. “We’re here.”

All obeyed.

“What do you mean, here?” Neil whispered, grip tightening on his crossbow. “What’s here? Where’s here?”

The hunter’s eyes shined like twin crescent moons, lighting on Neil and looking him up and down. “You know how to use that?” He asked, nodding at the weapon in Neil’s hands.

“Yeah.”

Malcolm didn’t look like the kind of guy that appreciated the words ‘technically,’ or ‘theoretically,’ or ‘sure?’—though they might have been more accurate. June showed him how to shoot and reload, but Neil wasn’t confident he could hit anything smaller than the broadside of a barn.

“You know how to use it well?” The old hunter sounded dubious, like he already knew the answer.

“Define ‘well?’” Neil tilted his head to one side.

“No,” Thomas interjected, squinting. “He doesn’t. Where’d you even get a crossbow?”

“Found it.” Neil shrugged, taking a page out of June’s book.

Malcolm shook his head tiredly, unslinging his bow.

“Trinkets like that,” he started, planting one end of the bow into the ground and flexing it downwards. “Are the reason the world’s going to shit, young man.”

Neil could only watch, eyes wide, as the old man bent his bow into shape with a single hand, stringing it with the other in a few expert motions. In his—admittedly limited—experience, what a bow like Malcolm’s lacked in user-friendliness, it made up for in utter devastation.

“Not accurate enough to hit most beasts,” he continued, grunting as he finished tending to his bow. “Not strong enough to punch through most armor. What you’ve got there, lad is a tool best suited for murdering peasants, not hunting animals.”

Neil remembered, vividly, a wooden bolt sprouting between the eyes of the barrow-ghoul, going limp in Pete’s arms. And he remembered what the barrow-ghoul was before it was a monster. He blinked away the memory.

“Duly noted,” he said, in a flat voice. “But I think I’ll stick with it for a while longer.”

“Suit yourself,” The Hunter shrugged, his voice like sandpaper. “You’ll get the first shot, then. Try not to miss.”

Before he had a chance to ask any silly questions—like ‘what?’ Or ‘where?’ Or even ‘who?’—Malcolm gestured for them to follow.

…

…

The crickets were silent.

That was the first thing Neil noticed, as the old hunter led them forward. He strained his senses for any amount of useful information, even going so far as to dip into advice from Basic Exercises, and still he heard nothing. Saw nothing. Smelled—

Neil sniffed, frowned, and sniffed again.

What was that?

“Shh,” Malcolm shushed in a tone that could have been mistaken for wind, blowing through the trees. “Here.”

And Neil saw it.

From jaw to groin, every muscle in Neil’s body clenched.

He looked from the creature, to the guide, and back to the creature. The urge to turn and walk in the opposite direction tingled its way up Neil’s spine, sending a cold, electric sensation down to his fingertips.

“Well?” Whispered the hunter, gesturing at the beast. “Think you can hit it from here?”

“That,” said Neil, in volume so low it barely registered as a conscious thought. “Is a very large bear.”

And it was. Its lower half lay burrowed in the dirt, head and forepaws, lying peacefully in the disturbed earth of the clearing.

“Technically,” whispered the hunter. “It’s a marmot. I call him Gristle Pig.”

Neil blinked at the hunter, then at Gristle Pig.

Whatever it was, it was big. Not as long as the average-sized school bus, but otherwise roughly that size. It lay curled on its belly in the forest clearing, and it—

Neil blinked again.

—it was snoring. Not loudly, but deeply, like a volcanic eruption drowned under an ocean.

“Don’t worry, it’s sleeping,” Malcolm said. “If it knew we were here, we’d already be dead.”

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“In what universe would that make me less worried?” Neil said back, horror in his voice. “I thought we were hunting deer.”

“Deer woulda heard you coming,” the hunter shrugged. “I’ve had my eye on this fella for about eight months now. His body’s too big for his stomach, so he goes into hibernation every couple of weeks. You’ve got to time everything right just to get to him. I reckon we’ve got till sunup to kill the fat bastard.”

“Awesome,” breathed Thomas, his eyes lit with wonder. “How does a marmot even get that big?”

“Dark times?” The hunter shrugged. “It’s mutated, but definitely a marmot. Smells like sour milk and bad gas from thirty yards.”

That was the smell. Neil’s lips pressed into a thin line on recognizing it.

“Marmot of unusual size,” he muttered. “It’s a fucking MOUS.”

“Closer to a squirrel, actually,” Malcolm commented. “Just a really big one. Now, get ready to shoot it in its godsdamn face.”

“I—” Neil looked down at his crossbow, held tight in his grip, and up at the giant beast. “I kinda get the feeling that would be a really stupid thing to do.”

“If I weren’t here, it would be,” Malcolm allowed. “But I am, so here’s what’s gonna happen.”

And Malcolm told him.

Neil stared.

“Um…” He slowly shook his head, choosing his next words carefully. “No, I… don’t think I’ll be doing that, actually.”

“You’re a Hero,” the hunter frowned. “Isn’t this your whole job?”

“You know, technically I think we’re just volunteers.”

“The hell you are,” the hunter planted his bow back in the dirt and crossed his arms. “You are a Hero. That is a monster. What’s the problem?”

Neil pursed his lips and turned his attention to Thomas.

“It’s a good thing we’ve got a spare, then,” he said in a dry voice. “How ‘bout it, Thomas, feel like doing something heroic tonight?”

“Um,” the larger Hero blinked, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “We might be a little… under-leveled for this encounter, I think.”

“Uh-huh,” Neil nodded. “Yeah. My thoughts exactly.”

He turned back to Malcolm. “We might be ‘Heroes,’ but we’re not crazy. Find someone else to play lunch-meat with.”

“I’ll do it.” A small voice piped up, and Ernest stepped out from behind Thomas.

“That’s not what I—” Neil scoffed, shaking his head. “No, you won’t. We’re leaving, guys. Let’s go.”

“The kid’s my responsibility, and he’s not leaving my side tonight,” The hunter folded his arms. “If he wants to help, I’ll let him. It’s a good plan, and I don’t miss.”

“If he’s your responsibility, why the hell would you—”

“I don’t miss,” The hunter repeated, eyes glinting in the darkness. “And I wish you boys the best of luck getting back to camp without my help. You’ll need it.”

Neil squinted at the older man. Then at Ernest, stern resolve printed across his face. And finally at Thomas, whose large eyebrows knitted together like a scarf of worry.

“Well, shit.”

…

…

“I didn’t sign up for this.” Neil muttered, staring down the sights of his crossbow.

The marmot snored soundly in its clearing. Honestly, he was surprised all their talking hadn’t woken it up.

“Shut up, man,” Thomas whispered. “That’s exactly what people say before they die in horror movies.”

“And we were this close to retirement,” Neil said, voice monotone. “And I just proposed to my girlfriend. And she’s pregnant. Too bad, huh?”

“I mean it, Neil,” Thomas insisted. “Taunting fate is a bad idea.”

“You’re being superstitious.” Neil muttered, focusing his aim.

Malcolm wanted him to shoot the monster in the face? He’d shoot it in the face. The creature’s eyes were closed, its chest slowly rising and falling with a rumble like a distant avalanche.

“Yeah, I am,” Thomas agreed, pulling Neil’s attention from the giant so he could glare at the larger man. “Why aren’t you? Fate—the Pentarchy’s literal goddess of fate—is well known for having a weird sense of humor, and you’re literally taunting her.”

“That’s…” Neil frowned.

Thomas was the sort of person that used the word ‘literally,’ to describe everything he could. Neil heard the word leave the man’s mouth literally at least a dozen times in the last three days. It—figuratively—drove him crazy, especially when Thomas was wrong.

‘Am I literally taunting fate?’ Neil almost said. ‘Is a literal goddess going to literally strike me down for my literal hubris?’

He thought better of it.

“Just get ready to run.” Neil muttered, stretching his shoulders back in a vain attempt to relieve the knot growing in his neck. He aimed.

“You want a countdown, or what?” He asked—his voice low—his breathing steady.

“I want to get this the hell over with,” Thomas said, quickly and quietly. “Just do it already.”

“Alright,” Neil shrugged, a strange calm wrapping around him even as his heart hammered in his chest.

His hands were steady.

“On your mark…” his aim was trained on the monster’s nose. Not a good target, but big enough that Neil was confident he might actually hit it. The goal here wasn’t to kill it. The goal wasn’t even to hurt it.

“Get set…” soft were the snores of the great beast, like an avalanche of cotton.

Cold adrenaline shot through Neil’s spine, sending a tingling surge of energy through his limbs and down his fingers. He was numb with strength and cold with anticipation as the rush of power hit his stomach like a bomb.

“Go.”

He pulled the trigger.

He couldn’t see the bolt shoot forth. There was a blur in the darkness, an impression of motion, and the release of tension as the crossbow jumped playfully back into his hands.

He heard it, though. An acoustic *twang* rang out into the darkness, followed by a high whistle—though that might have been the blood singing in Neil’s ears—cut short by a dull *thud,* like a pebble being thrown against a doormat.

The beast's eyes opened, glittering like stars in the night.

“Run away!” Thomas screamed, springing into the forest from his runner's lunge.

Neil’s vision skipped, and he found himself running beside the other Hero, stride eating distance over the forest floor like a—

The beast roared behind them, wrath reverberating through Neil’s bones as if his very spine were a tuning fork.

Neil’s legs pumped in tune with his heartbeat—that is to say, fast—keeping his knees high and his contact with the ground minimal as he flew through the forest. He passed Thomas, the larger man fading into his peripheral as—

His foot snagged on a root, and all Neil could see for half of one dreadful second was dirt.

He was still alive, though, which he took to be a good sign. There were leaves in his mouth, but Neil wasn’t bothering himself with anything as trivial as breathing at that second.

Behind him, a twig snapped, sending a jolt of panic shooting through Neil’s arms—entirely circumventing his brain—straightening his elbows and propelling him to his feet.

“I think we’re fine,” Thomas wheezed behind him, hands on his knees. “Listen.”

Neil recognized the other man as the source of the snapping twig, and his legs—locked in a battle of fight and flight—seized, twisting his body to stumble backward against a tree, on which he leaned for a single heaving moment.

He shook his head as Thomas’s words filtered their way through his brain.

He listened.

No roaring followed them. Better yet, there wasn’t any screaming in the distance.

“Sounds like Malcolm’s plan worked,” Neil said, once he’d found his breath. “Let’s go Team Lunchmeat, eh?”

“Next time, I want the crossbow,” Thomas said, collapsing onto the ground with a heavy groan. “How long do you think we were running for?”

“Might have been five seconds, might have been five minutes. Might have blacked out, honestly.” Neil shook his head, pushing off the tree supporting him.

Thomas heaved a breath in response.

He walked over to the larger man, offering him his hand.

“Just a minute,” said Thomas. “I think I might be having a heart attack.”

His dirty-blonde hair was damp with sweat, plastering his cow-lick to his forehead, and his cheeks were flushed red. Neil shrugged, retracting the hand.

His fingers were still, without so much as a tremor. His jaw, though, felt like it was made of ice, and buzzed with adrenaline. He bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from chattering.

He made and unmade a fist, staring at it.

“You know what’s kinda fucked up about this?” Neil asked, still examining his hand.

He didn’t wait for Thomas to respond. He still lay breathing on the ground, chest rising and falling with some urgency.

“I think that’s the most fun I’ve had in years.”

Thomas groaned, and it was some time before they moved from their little spot in the woods.