The receding flood had left a trail of muddy destruction throughout the swamp. The ruts of erosion exposed thick roots running between the trees mixed with fireflies lighting dark corners of the thicket. The humid air filled with mosquitoes swarming above filthy waters bubbling with activity below the surface.
The heavy mist was scented with dirty smoke pouring from a camp sitting on a hill. Above everything else five wooden cabins. The front porches faced a clear cut parcel of hunting ground. Inside the bunk beds were filled with snoring bodies watched over by their trophies of previous hunts that lined the walls, windows, and mantle.
The log cabin exteriors are decorated with game tags, hooves, and a professional painting of hunters sticking it to a fallen mammoth. All of a sudden a man barged inside shaking a cowbell amid a frenzy of ear ringing decimals.
“I’ve spotted the King of humans,” screeched the man sounding the alarm in his red union suit.
“Yeehaw it's payday boys,” hollered another, jumping from the top of a three story bunk in his underwear.
The alarm bell continued ringing outback outside to announce himself in the next hut in the same manner. Here the air was thick with funny smelling smoke. The men had been playing a game with a knife, and their fingers.
“Aww shucks It's king killing time,” screamed a guy over the alarm, before it returned to piercing eardrums.
The noisemaker was chased out the exit by others pushing, shoving, and beating him with glass bottles.
“I wanna ride shotgun, just as soon as I find my glasses,” declared a hunter, frantically fumbling through clothes in an opened trunk.
“Ah yeah i’m an action star,” said a nearby burly huntsman dressed in tanned skin flexing.
He strained muscles showing off a tattoo resembling a mechanics name patch reading: “Hi my name is Feral”. He removed his big knife from thick cracks on a dinner plate while he licked his greasy finger clean of leftovers. Later he slicked back his receding hairline with a comb before trading it in his pocket with a wanted poster. There was a 1 million crystal reward for Edward.
“My trophy in the mansion underneath my queen size bed hahaha,” Feral cackled at the thought.
They were interrupted as outside the lifted pickup trucks roared to life one after the other like a pack of animals. The air was thick with pollution due the shooting of soot from a dozen smoke stacks while a loudness war erupted between aux cables to sound-systems.
Every single Killin Hood company vehicle housed grill bar lights, roof mounted rotatable search lights, and dash mounted blinders. The crystal lights cut through the thick armor of mud layered thick. The cabs were filled with loaded weapons. More men climbed into the bed or held onto the floorboards. The last straggler burst from an outhouse with his pants down panicking to not be left behind stirring laughter.
“Giva sum,” screamed Feral, twitching for action behind the wheel.
He finished packing a fat lip of crystal powder and passed the container.
“I’m edging to slaughter time, cruelty gets me high,” giggled the hyena-like man, rubbing his hands together in glee all over the leather steering wheel.
The lifted truck roared in front of the rest of the pack rumbling downhill. Feral had the largest vehicle out of everyone. It was covered in traps, trophies, and custom welding that included sharp spikes. He dominated the roads, and thus other men driving it. It was the perfect tool for a modern highwayman to ram, and rob the nobles with. Many a Prince or Princess was terrorized by his bumper grinding against their carriage. Feral often looked down on his victims from a lifted cab when the chase was finished. He was addicted to the violent motor move and the ritual of slowly mounting the stalled vehicle with his monster tires. The victim’s final moments before being crushed spent screaming at his massive truck nuts dangling in their faces.
“I think it’s time to alert the boss man we got the main man he's after,” said the alarm, gripping the royal band receiver.
“Where did you see him anyway?” demanded Feral.
“Base camp we got a King Edward sighting in zone number five of Killin Wood. I saw him with my own eyes splashing through the swamp below our cabins before zipping off quickly with some kind of contraption, over and out,” he finished.
There was an uncomfortable awkward silence in the cab. The rumble of the off road terrain underneath and snapping branches pushed aside.
“Good intel, but don’t kill Edward under any circumstances, I’ll be there in 15 minutes to help ensure he is captured alive,” announced the calm crackling voice of Killin Hood.
“And what should we do in the meantime to play with our dinks?” yelled Farel, downshifting to and switching to four wheel drive in order to climb.
“Hold on dude I have to push the talk button before he can hear,” said Alarm. “Go again,”.
“And what do we do for now boss, play with ourselves?” asked Farel, shifting up a gear, and voice pitch.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“Drive him into a bear trap, net him, use any wrestling moves to pin him or imagine something according to the situation,, over and out,” said Killin Hood.
“Ten-Four, over and out, roger that boss,” said Alarm.
The convoy splashed through swamp waters leaking across the gravel. They pack slowed to bump over logs shoved into a washout, then they rumbled over a makeshift bridge composed of the same materials. Finally they stopped at a gate meant to keep competing hunters out. Nearby a dock filled with skiffs, airboats, and pontoons sat.
“Yeehaw gang it’s time to kill something,” yelled a mass of voices dashing to the dock.
“Let’s profit off this handsomely without losing anybody,” said Feral, unlocking the gate to the docks.
A boardwalk led down a rickety ramp to floats leading deeping out. They bounced quickly to the tied outboards that soon roared to life just like the trucks before. Loud boogie riffs of ear splitting masculine rock n roll accompanied the well oiled machines blasting out into the swamp waters.
Killin Wood had many different zones over its massive area. They had a lot of ground to cover to find the trophy. Nearby lilies began to move, bubbles intensified, and an alligator got out of the way of trouble. A rusted hook moved through the water like the fin of a shark towards where the remaining boats were tied. King Edward breathed through a reed hidden underneath.
“VROOM,”.
Feral shot out of the gate first with his toy blasting maximum volume. The convoy followed with the remaining boats racing beside them while a boat on the dock filled with panic, and liquid. It began sinking as an outboard took off with the crews bailing for life. A man fell screaming overboard, and was pulled under.
“What’s happening?” yelled a hunter aiming a shotgun.
“Quick boys get over here,” another finished crouching on the edge of the dock with a hand extended.
Three hunters swam towards safety as fast as they could struggle. A flying hook shot from the water like a fly fishing line, and impaled the man on the dock before dragging him into the waters. The survivors changed directions as the waters grew in color.
A speeding boat's crew was so focused on bailing out their pontoon they missed the incoming rocky shore splintering them into pieces. Those onboard were minced by the outboards. In the background the men overboard frantically swam for shore as their bow of a small skiff slowly sucked into the depths. The hook was free again, and racing toward the slowest straggler. A gray bearded old man in a yellow captain's hat was doggy paddling. He was yanked under, leaving his cap floating. The trucks stopped with the boats. Feral was looking on in his binoculars.
“REEEEEEEEEEE he's gone under don’t let him escape,” he screamed in rage.
The outburst was cut off while the rest of Killin Company started blindly shooting the swamp. The liquid absorbed the shooting gallery splashing from hundreds of impacts. On a nearby beach of an island a line shot into the trees, and a shadow flung itself into the dark treeline.
“We drive that point right now,” screamed Feral, slamming the door, and revving his engine with frustration.
Like an unruly mob the rest of the men slowly stopped shooting one by one, and joined him aboard. Feral was already in four wheel drive, slamming over a barrier of rocks onto mud flats. The tire chains slinging a stream of soil on the driver behind them.
“Stay focused boys, let’s torture that sissy for embarrassing us,” he screamed into the receiver.
The others had stopped speaking to keep laser focused on scanning the surroundings for clues. They stopped beside a large trunk of driftwood outside the island. A group of boats patrolled towards them. The captain of a pontoon waved a greeting, and cupped an ear for information. On the stern a man mounted a swiveling harpoon gun.
“Go around back and kill him if tries to swim, we are going to drive this point like he's a deer,” commanded Feral, climbing outside, and slamming the door.
“Yes sir,” said a captain over the radio, as the boats sped away.
Feral shot into the treeline, reloaded his baby a semi auto with no royal serial numbers, and filled his lip with fresh cracked crystals. He jogged forward leading the charge like the tip of a spear. He imagined himself as the sheepdog culling the big bad wolf.
“Stay and cover Earl, and your boys,” called Feral
A sawn-off loudly slammed shut filled with fresh buckshot. The hunters charged up the beachhead and into the forest screaming. Feral charged ahead of them, ignoring the thorns tearing into his chest, and coloring the hair red. His eyes became the same color as they scanned for the prize. Somebody behind held a searching light that darted through the trees clearing out shadows. A man jumped as cold hands grabbed him behind. Alarm gulped face to face with a shotgun.
“Watch your step,” he said, pointing to a tripwire between the trees.
The other man nodded, and turned attention forward again. They charged further into the darkness. It was eerily silent except the occasional twig breaking underfoot. The last straggler of the group gurgled, and sputtered, unable to find air with a hook sticking out the other side of his cheek. He was hauled upwards like a lobster trap. Above them Edward crouched hidden in the limbs of a spruce tree.
“Shhhh,” he whispered, covering the dead man's last gasps for life as he removed his red hook.
The carcass lay across two branches to rest Edward jumped to the next tree, and then another, before hooking and zipping to the third.
“What was that?” asked Alarm, looking around as fear overtook his body.
Nearby Feral's adrenaline surged into overdrive as he burst onto a rocky beach where the boats were waiting for them. The crews aboard waved a greeting, while a captain shrugged.
“Ain’t seen nothing,” said the captain through a megaphone.
Feral screamed in frustration, and turned towards the hunt. He ran deeper, and deeper into the dark, but couldn’t make out anyone. He struggled to work through a thick of little furs clumped into a wall of green. He saw the light of his fellow men on the other side. Finally emerging he spotted Alarm hung from a tree by his bootstraps, while his light lit up his corpse from below. Blood dripped from the body hung like a pig waiting for further butchering.
“Shit,” gulped Feral.
Interrupted by nearby screams, and gunshots he madly sprinting forward widely waving his weapon in the dark. Branches, and mushrooms snapped like necks under his feet. He jumped over a fallen spruce that had begun to rot, and almost slipped. Then he barely cleared a stagnant stream.
In a clearing the surviving five stood back to back searching for the predator. Their weapons drawn ready as the tension slowly built toward the final showdown. A loud whining noise of rapidly extending wires made them all jump in panic.
A gunshot started a hail of bullets until a man flew towards them at high speed hauled by a hook that was blasting full of lead. The body impacted the group striking them all like bowling pins. They scattered limply through clearing. A hunter panicked in fear with the dead body of Feral smiling on top of him.