Hunting Season

By Bryan Fagan

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The leaves were losing their grip on the large maple tree in Eddie Brim’s backyard. They could feel a shift in the breeze, warning them it was time to go. The wind bit with a razor's edge while heavy clouds stubbornly moved in. 

"Hunting season is here," Eddie whispered.

No more laundry out on the line, no more open windows. Smoke drifted from chimneys, while other homes relied on electric heat. Some people wore jackets, others their thick wool shirts. Fall had returned right on time, never late.

"Let me know if you need any help, John," Eric Stresslet called to his neighbor. "Margie told me your back was still sore. Wouldn't want you to aggravate it."

John Bjornson hoisted a small box of tools into his pickup’s trunk. The clock read 4:30, and if all went well, he and his family would be out of town within half an hour.

"Thanks, Eric." John waved back. "I think I've got everything under control."

Renee Parker glanced out her window for the second time in five minutes. The clouds had begun to lift off the nearby mountains. It may last longer this year, she worried.

Herbert Ross called out to his wife again. She knew he wanted to be out by five—hunting season started at six, and he liked being the first one out. This would be his seventy-eighth season, and if the doctors had their way, it would be his last.

"They want to put me in the hospital," Herbert told his barber that morning. "Said they want to burn it out of me with chemo. But I don’t buy it. I saw what that chemo did to the Anderson boy—all his hair fell out, and he was sick all the time." Herbert paused to light his pipe, ignoring the "No Smoking" sign. "I told my doctor, 'Hell no.' And I told him to say hi to his pretty wife. If I’m going to die, Billy, I’m going to die in my home—not in some damn hospital full of strangers."

Four-year-old Emily O’Rielly ran to the end of her driveway, her ears picking up the same rumble that had caused her cat to run and hide. The sound reverberated through her ears and the ground beneath her. Emily lay down and pressed her ear to the road. Her grandpa had taught her this trick and told her it was what John Wayne did in all the cowboy movies.

"They’re getting closer!" she said, giggling.

"Emily!" her mother called. "Get your head off that filthy road."

Emily’s mother shook her head with a smile. She knew her father had taught Emily this nifty trick. It was only a matter of time before her little cowgirl imitated Grandpa.

"I can hear them, Mama!" Emily said, laughing.

"I’m sure you can, sweetie. Now go inside and call Grandpa. He’d love to hear about it."

Linda O’Rielly watched as Emily dashed past her father toward the phone. Linda shared a look with her husband, Jim, and they both broke out laughing.

"Am I right or am I right?" Linda said, laughing.

"You’re right," Jim said, kissing his wife’s cheek. "I was sure she’d forget all about it."

Renee Parker sat by her front door, keys in hand, purse by her side. She’d told her daughter she’d leave at five to avoid the heavy traffic that came with hunting season’s six o’clock start. Too early, and she’d be the only one on the road; too late, and she’d be stuck in gridlock.

"Relax, Mom," her daughter had assured her. "We checked the car—it’s running fine. Just leave at five, and we’ll see you soon."

Always so reassuring, Renee thought. No worries in that girl's head. She glanced at her watch—4:45. She looked back to the mountains. The clouds were gone. They won’t be late this year, she feared.

Chester Abnercrombie sat outside on his rocking chair, cleaning his nails. Seeing the little girl with her head to the road stirred memories of his own childhood. Eighty years ago, when he was her age, his daddy had taught him the same thing. Dad knew when it began, he thought. He could tell, without a watch or a calendar, he knew when hunting season started. Dad had an ear.

"Mr. Abnercrombie, do you need a hand packing?”

Stan Knutzon stood at the edge of Chester’s driveway, a suitcase at his feet and a worried look in his eyes. Chester knew that boy was itching to leave, and that was fine by him.

"It’s almost five, sir, and pretty soon everyone will be gone." The boy had an earnest look, the kind only the young could wear. Was he that young at one time? Sometimes it’s easy to forget.

Chester flicked a tiny bit of skin into his flower garden before he answered. He liked the Knutzon boy, but he did not like being told what to do—especially during hunting season. That was his business and a business he knew more than that boy would ever know.

"Season don’t start till seven," he said patiently. "Got plenty of time."

"But sir," Stan said, "the season starts at six. Everyone likes to get an early start. And…"

Chester lowered his glasses and gave the boy a long, hard look until the boy shifted, uncomfortable. Chester knew people saw him as a crusty, stubborn old fool, and that suited him fine.

"Season starts at seven," he corrected. “Understand?’

Stan took a step forward, ready to argue, but he hesitated and fell silent.

"Get a move on, boy. I’m not in a hurry like the rest of you. Got all the time I need. Season starts at seven."

Eddie Brim gave his wife directions to follow him in her car. This was the first year they’d take both vehicles, and Eddie was a little nervous. Rhonda saw through his tight smile; she knew he was anxious. Eddie had a lousy sense of direction—one reason Rhonda usually rode with him. But with the kids restless, they’d agreed that a second car might not be a bad idea.

"You can take the kids hiking while I go fishing," he’d suggested. After last year, when Eddie Jr. fell out of the boat trying to catch a water bug, a day of hiking sounded ideal.

"Now be sure to follow close behind," Eddie reminded her. "Keep your phone handy, in case you get lost."

Rhonda smiled, ushering the kids into the car. She knew Eddie would be calling for directions within the hour. But that’s my Eddie, she thought.

Renee Parker waited as the little bird in her cuckoo clock chirped five times. Time to go. A small, anxious voice inside whispered that she’d forgotten something. Her books? Her knitting? Her sweater? Gifts for the kids? All checked and accounted for, she reassured herself.

How long this time? Renee wondered. How long before the season ends? She thought of little Emily O’Rielly, her head to the road, laughing. Oh, to be young and unaware, she thought. To have the world as your playground and not a worry in your bones.

Renee pulled away from her house, joining the procession of her neighbors. Some had left early, but most were leaving at the same time. Reassured, she drove away, thinking this year’s journey would be safe and smooth.

Chester Abnercrombie tipped his hat to Mrs. Parker as she passed. A nosy neighbor but a good one. He liked her, even if she did keep her eye on everyone’s business. He reached inside his pocket and checked his old watch. Five-fifteen. Hunting season starts at seven, and they all have to leave so early.

"Everyone’s in a hurry these days," he said. "No time to talk anymore. Always on the go."

Chester unlocked his workshop door and brought out a five-gallon gas drum. He took his time packing his truck with clothes, labeled tools, and sandwiches, just in case. He went inside for a final time and took his final pee. Once outside he double-bolted his front door, activated the sensor lights, and took a final lap around his property, giving his home a long look before leaving. 

His watch read six o’clock.

The vision of Emily O’Rielly with her ear to the road returned to him. He saw his father’s face, old and tired, teaching him the trick. Clear your mind, son, his father explained. Cover one ear and listen with the other. You’ll hear it, and when you do, you’ll know hunting season has begun.

Chester moved to the exact spot where little Emily stood. He crouched down and pressed his ear firmly to the ground. His father was right. You could feel the ground shake, you could count their steps and measure the herd’s size. In fact, you could almost hear their bellies rumbling. But most of all...

...you could feel their hunger.

"Oh, my God! It’s happening!"

Chester stumbled to his feet but fell to his knees as his legs buckled with fear. He tried running to the house or maybe his truck, but his clumsy fingers were worse than his knees. No matter how hard he tried, those fingers wanted nothing to do with the truck or house keys. But in that panic moment of trying to stay alive, a single question refused to go away. 

“When did they change the time? Why didn’t anybody tell me!”

The rumbling grew, the bellies growled, and the sound of hooves rose in a deadly crescendo. Chester no longer needed his ear to the ground. He didn’t need memories of his father explaining how to listen. All he needed was to look up. They were here. They arrived. Right on time, and now it was time to feed.

"No!" he begged. "Seven! It doesn’t start till seven!"

But Chester was wrong. Hunting season began at six that year, and the herd, starved and ravenous, were here to feed. They began their feeding with Chester Abnercrombie.