• Scent of Death


    It was early morning, and the sun had yet to rise. Father and I had decided to go huntion bright and early. We drove down to a dark forest, which was bound to have at least one King of the Woods type of buck.
    We sneaked through the woods in our blaze orange vests, searching for any signs of life. After about a half hour of stalking the unknown, we found fresh scat beside a tree with it's bark scraped off.
    "I'll go on ahead," father whispered.
    "Okay, I'll stake out here, just in case." I answered.
    Father disappeared into a sudden fog. As I was waiting, I was thinking about how big the buck might be. I was picturing a three-foot wide rack, and about 350 lbs of fresh meat, until a close-range shot split my imaginations. The wind blew a breeze my way, and I could pick up a distinctive smell that I knew oh so well. The scent of death drafted my way and excited my senses. The scent of death, that could easily excite me, smelled faintly rotten and somehow, warm and disgusting but fresh.
    "Did'ja get 'im good?" I wailed.
    No answer.
    I had figured he was taking pictures or hauling it somewhere to gut it. I ran to see it for myselff, but then I froze where I stood the moment I saw a big, bloody heap, that wasn't a deer.
    "DAD!" I screamed, tears in my eyes. I was panicking. There my father lay, dead and hollow, with several shot pellets in his chest. I screeched at the top of my lungs as I realized that his stomach had been cut open and his entrails ripped out like he had been gutted, as if he were the big catch. The only difference were his eyelids, that had been cut off, and he had a horrifying look on his terribly pale face. I stopped screaming, but couldn't stop the tears, as I noticed how much danger I was in.

    *BAM*
    A gunshot echoed in the forest.