Lucian Carver
I lean back in my camp chair; legs and arms extending in an exaggerated stretch, like a cat in the morning sun. Several loud pops from my spine bring a welcome sensation to replace the leg and back ache.
‘Seventeen and a half kilometres, as the crow flies,’ Gavin groans without looking up from his phone.
I fill my lungs with the evening forest air and return to a normal seated position. ‘Pardon?’ I lean forward to pull a cold cider from the cooler.
‘That doesn’t even account for the hills and gullies.’ He knows I heard him just fine. ‘Is this where you said you saw them on the cameras?’
Our first annual deer hunt together isn’t off to a great start. Up at 5am for a marathon hike in wet, slippery countryside and all we see are kangaroos and incredible views of rolling hills and moss-covered trees. Not a single deer. Not even a croak. Just silence, and the padding of bounding kangaroos.
‘Yeah,’ I point at the dirt road that borders the campsite, ‘I’ve seen them crossing that road, and had a good handful more on the cameras where we were hunting today.’
Gavin pulls the tab on his own can and sips his jack. ‘It’s so quiet out here. No missus gossiping on the phone to her friends, the young fellow isn’t talking smack with his friends playing games online. It’s just… quiet.’ Another sip. ‘Thanks for bringing me out here, man.’
***
Several drinks, jokes and a canned dinner pass and the fire has died down. Thin clouds cross the bright, waning moon as it drifts across the night sky. We decide to turn in. Gavin checks his blood sugars as I carefully stack a few more blocks of wood onto the fire, cradled in an almost two-foot-high ring of slate and volcanic rock; my wife’s beliefs are rubbing off on me. Don’t let the fire go out, that’s how the bush monsters get you.
We retire to our sleeping setups; Gavin in his super king swag, and me to my sky-blue ‘two-person’ tent from Big W with a nest of four doonas and two sleeping bags inside for warmth.
I lay there, cocooned in a meticulously constructed bed of synthetic poly-gosh-knows-what and spare room blankets and watch my breath fill the small tent. I am a dragon in a freezing world of darkness and condensation, and close my eyes. My mind is filled with imaginings of the perfect buck walking into a clearing, or a doe that wanders too far away from the group. I think about shot placement and a quick, ethical harvest. I think about having to get up at 5am again; the frozen ground and a lukewarm coffee because I didn’t know the difference between propane and iso-propane. My eyes stay closed.
Gavin gets up three times to relieve himself before he finally settles in for sleep, the sound of his swag zipper pulling me away from the birds, bats and wallabies that make the night chorus of the forest. But still I’m glad he’s agreed to come along; I wouldn’t come here alone again for an overnight hunt, not after last year.
I continue to lay in my nest, listening to the forest as it falls into silence. Sleep eludes me, and I listen harder; hoping for the high-pitched giggle of the flying foxes.
Footsteps. Gavin hasn’t left his swag; he’s still snoring.
I open my eyes and look in the direction of the sound.
Is that a deer? The footsteps are across the dried creek bed. I hear a twig snap, then the soft grinding noise of river stones as it picks its way across, toward camp. I hear leaves under its hooves as it climbs our side of the bank.
A grin materialises as I look, imagining the majestic animal poking through our camp under the watchful gaze of the moon. The firelight against my tent fades suddenly, and the footsteps come closer.
It’s not on four legs.
Confusion and anger fill my chest as a myriad of possibilities pour through my mind. But I listen. Silently.
The fire has died to almost nothing, and I lay in near perfect darkness. The soft footsteps move through camp. Past the fire now, by my tent. I hear a gentle scraping against my ute. I remember I’ve leaned a rake, shovel and axe against the tray. There’s a metallic clang and a soft thud as the shovel falls to the ground.
I’m going to get axe murdered in my tent. I ease my hand across the cold, empty space to my boots and beside them I find my jack knife. Silently I open it, listening intently for any sound that could indicate where he is. I think about cutting the tent and exploding out to attack, angry and desperate.
But I can’t hear anything.
Wondering if I’m so fear stricken that I’ve been robbed of the very sense that alerted me to this danger, I drag my toe against the bottom of my tent.
Okay, I can hear.
The firelight brightens again and after a time, I hear the sounds of nocturnal wildlife again. Eventually, sleep takes me into her warm embrace and my mind returns to imaginings of Fallow antlers, warm home cooked venison stews and a full freezer.
***
The following day’s hunt is a wasted day. Lost in distraction and wonderings as I wander behind Gavin, over steep hills and choked gully alike. I don’t see any of the deer that I bump. Just simple fright as they crash through the brush away from us.
The evening is spent in silent disappointment. Gavin turns in early, and though I don’t want to, I do also.
I hear him climb out of his swag twice to relieve his bladder before deep sleep takes him. I struggle against the cold air, and worry that whoever was in camp last night might come back. Eventually, finally, sleep takes me into her arms again.
***
I am awakened by a shifting weight on my legs. I realise a few seconds later, an eternity later. Just too late. That someone is on top of me. But, it is too dark. I’d let the fire go out.
The weight bores down on me, squeezing the air from my lungs. I cannot scream, and slowly it moves toward my face.
I hear Gavin’s swag zipper open. His headlamp flits around camp and across my tent wall.
And I see it.
Its thin, twisted inhuman smile and dark glistening eyes as it opens its mouth over me. My silent, airless scream escapes into that black, fanged maw that will, moments later, be my fate.
I should not have brought you here, Gavin. I’m sorry.
Lucian Carver is in love with all things irksome and creepy and thoroughly enjoys finding his inspiration while exploring or lurking in the dark fringes of life. He lives in Central Victoria with his wife and children. He is currently writing a horror novel and fantasy series while querying agents for representation with his debut novel, ‘A Boy, A Man and Death’. Check him out on Instagram.
More inredible stories are waiting you… Return to Issue 7!