Open Season

by Latomus

Rating: teen
Tags: Dark, Human
Length: 1812

A hunter in the forests of New Hampshire suddenly finds himself in the Everfree Forest.

A native who hunts in the White Mountains National Forest of New Hampshire suddenly finds himself in desperate need of a buck before the weekend is out. When he is transported to Equestria by unknown means, he tracks a new quarry, and realizes the gravity of his actions.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-12-15 07:30:46 UTC

Open Season

The White Mountains National Forest was like a second home to Richard. He knew it just as he did the back of his hand. He could seek out all its nooks and crannies, the real good spots to poke around at. He’d been coming up here from his home down in southern New Hampshire, near Manchester, since he was a real scrawny seven year old who could barely even lift his father’s hunting rifle, let alone fire it.

His father was an outdoorsman, and so was Richard. In many ways, he was very much like his father. He had the same tall, lean character to him, with a remarkable sense of stoicism. Both were dead silent, never bothering themselves with simple small talk that went nowhere and meant nothing. Richard had a thirst for the wilderness, a primal, animalistic longing towards his roots. Every open season he had made it here to hunt, and in recent years without the companionship of his father.

Richard parked up at the trailhead, which was lined with all manner of cars. Most of them weren’t even pickup trucks, like the one he owned. He wondered how they could even bring their catch back home. Most of them bore Massachusetts plates. They all had rushed up here, racing to quell their itchy trigger fingers. And quite so- these fools would shoot at anything that even dared twitch in the forest. With his bright orange safety vest, Richard would still have to be careful around them. They were just as wild and unpredictable as the animals they attempted to hunt.

He entered the forest, began the yearly route off the trail and up the ridgelines, to scout out the bowls and gorges that formed the foothills of the Presidentials, the tallest mountains in New England. But he was in no rush, like his fellow hunters. He brought his sleeping hammock with him. The forecast looked good- no rain for the entire weekend, and so far it had been right. He knew he had to be patient, as his father had taught him, to bag a buck. When he needed a rest, he rested. There was no push to push on.  In fact, he simply wanted to savor the moment.

The White Mountains, Richard had always contended, was the prettiest place in all of New England. Granted, he had only made occasional forays into Maine’s vast stretches of uninhabited wild but here he felt at home, more so than he did near Manchester. Here, the autumn air was crisp and sharp, and he took long breaths to take it all in. The forest was a realm of many colors and smells, the deciduous trees had turned to their shades of red and orange and yellow, while the pines still gave off their heavenly scent. When he got up on the ridgelines, he could peer through the trees and see the rocky peaks north of him- Washington and Adams were the most prominent. So far, there were no inklings of deer- no tracks or scat to trace. Still, this didn’t faze him. He had the whole weekend up here to himself, alone, to collect his thoughts. Bagging a buck was only a portion of his annual pilgrimage.

When the sun finally had fallen low in the sky, he decided it was time to stop for today and continue the trek tomorrow. So, in no hurry, he pitched his camp- assembling his hammock between two young birches, unfurling his sleeping bag, and preparing his compact water heater for dinner. Dinner was a small bowl of chicken noodle soup, modest and nutritious. The water he used was purified with iodine tablets from a brook he had found. He sipped the steaming liquid, as he did most of these things, in silence, in quiet awe of nature’s world around him. He took several pictures of the sunset, though in retrospect, he thought he would never even print them out anyway. Why bother when he could simply come back another weekend? And besides, a picture could never capture his attention as simply as this assault on his senses had.

After cleaning up supper, Richard threw his rations in a smaller bag he had stowed in his hiking pack and slung that high in a tree, to keep away from the bears that had wandered into camps before looking for nightly snacks. He tucked himself into the sleeping bag that sat in the hammock, and he let the starry night lull him to sleep.

The next morning had been uneventful. There were no disturbances during the night, it didn’t even get cold enough to bother him. Richard had struck camp, packed his things and lowered the bear bag and continued the voyage into the wilderness. However, he was frustrated. Though he felt as there was no rush the day before, now there was. He had to be back in the truck by tonight for his classes in the morning. If he wanted to bag a buck, he had to do it now. And so far, the signs, or lack thereof, had bothered him.

He gritted his teeth when he came across a game trail with no fresh prints. Muttered a curse when he slipped on a rock. Clenched the rifle tightly when he found blood from another’s kill. Probably an ass from Massachusetts who had gotten lucky. He tried to think of something his father would’ve said about this, but in his blind fury he could barely even think.

The forest was now, very suddenly, foreign to him. There were no longer pines and bent birches, no, now there was short and stubby deciduous trees, with dark green leaves, thick trunks, and sweeping canopies. It reminded him of the jungle- the brush was much denser now than it had before. Richard felt, for the first time, lost. He didn’t even know if he was in the White Mountains National Forest anymore. Everything felt alien. His eyes were suspended in disbelief- the sky was a hazy twilight, with stars twinkling overhead. According to his watch, it was still supposedly 12:39 PM. Now he gripped his rifle not out of anger, but out of fear of the unknown.

He followed an apparent game trail through the uncomfortable wilderness. These were hoofprints, fresh in the mud, almost like deer but hard to say. Still, it was a better lead than nothing. He followed them, hustling along towards his quarry. His hiking pack bounced wildly on his back as he navigated the brush, leaping over rocks and thorn patches.

He had sustained this wild hunt for several minutes, when at last with his labored breathing he heard it. Leaves crinkling on the ground. Twigs snapping. Christ, it must be only ten or twenty yards away! He moved in behind one of the thick trees, and attempted to line up a shot. All angles of fire seemed obscured by the foliage- he could hear its movements, but not it itself. Richard moved again, and at last he could see something moving, lifting and lowering its neck as if it was picking something up. His heart rate quickened, despite his attempts to breath slow and calm down. He took one deep breath in, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger in a perfectly executed motion.

The piercing sound rang out for miles. Birds flocked from the trees, shaking leaves from their branches, squawking in terror. Through the scope he watched the beast drop immediately. It didn’t make an adrenaline-frenzied run away. At last, he had bagged his kill for the weekend. For a moment, he relished his success. Now was time to get it and get out of this odd part of the forest. He began to approach the target.

But soon, he realized, this was no buck. No, this was something much more terrifying. As he approached, he came to a stop. It was something not of this earth. It was maybe the same size as a doe or a small buck, barely making it to his waist. But it wasn’t as stringy, no, it did have some stature to it, as well as a pair of… wings? It had bright yellow fur, like a cartoon, and pink flowing hair draped over its head. The shot had landed perfectly through its chest and exploded out the other side. A lot of blood began to pour out from underneath it, the dark crimson ebbing out in all directions and into the pores of the muddied dirt. Richard dropped the gun, and cautiously made a few steps and drew in close to it. Its breathing was heavy. It was a fatal wound, no doubt about it.

He brushed away the locks of pink hair, noting their softness, to find a giant eye staring back at him. He leaped back in surprise. The animal struggled, opening and closing its mouth several times. It hoarsely moaned its death call to the forest, signaling it was nearing its end. Its wings fluttered. Near its head, a basket had fallen- evidently it was carrying it in its mouth. The basket was full of daffodils, spilled out like the blood he had spilled out of the horse-like creature.

The creature eyed him, moaning and whimpering in its cruel mortal pain, watching its own blood trickle out of its chest and mouth into thick red pools. He turned, and went to retrieve his gun that he dropped. It was time to put the poor thing out of its terrible misery, whatever it was. He grabbed the gun off the ground, wiping the mud from the bolt, and strolled back over. Tears welled in the animal's eyes.

Before he could aim again, though, the creature croaked a single word to him.

“Why?”

The creature finally was silent, before he could pull the trigger. Its chest had ceased to move. The blood loss was too much for it. The massive eyes were sealed shut. Richard sat down on the ground, looking at the body. He flung his rifle again off to the side. The rush of emotion had caught up to him. He shoved his face into his hands and let it all run out- tears upon tears flooded the ground, mixing with the pony’s own blood and suffering.

He had become the very man he held as inferior. He had rushed, made too many mistakes, pulled the trigger before even bothering to identify. Now, in an alien forest with a dead alien creature- no, it was more than just a creature. It could speak, it could think. This was not hunting deer; this was committing murder. He had killed something with thoughts, with feelings, with a soul. Something that truly suffered in its death.

Richard got up and trudged back into the forest, leaving the pony and his gun, wishing he’d put the bullet in his own chest instead.